Twenty-Seven (Twenty-Five) Kun Table

Late in the afternoon, just before school let out, Tan Yang once again spotted Bi Qingtang’s car parked by the school gate. At the sound of the bell, she eagerly packed up her things and rushed outside, only to find that Bi Qingtang was not inside the car. The driver greeted her with a smile as he opened the door. Tan Yang, a little disappointed, climbed in.

“Madam, the boss had business to attend to this afternoon and asked me to bring you home,” the driver explained. Tan Yang gently stroked her braided pigtails, the pale-yellow ribbon at the ends slipping through her fingers. The title “Madam” still felt unfamiliar, but hearing it called out filled her heart with a quiet sweetness. She nodded with a smile. “Thank you for making a special trip for me.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” the driver replied cheerily. “By the way, Mr. Bi has sent you something. He ordered it at the start of the year while in Hong Kong, and it just arrived this afternoon—something very fine!” With that, he handed her a small red velvet box trimmed with gold, then started the car.

Inside the box was a sleek, exquisitely crafted gold ladies’ wristwatch. On the dial, the name “Vacheron Constantin” gleamed—the same brand as Bi Qingtang’s pocket watch. On the back, her name was engraved in elegant script: “Tan Yang.” Her Chinese name, rendered in such a foreign hand, suddenly seemed to have acquired an entirely Western air. She slipped the watch onto her wrist and fastened the clasp with a crisp “click” that was pleasing to the ear. The watch was a bit large, gliding coolly on her wrist—just like the jade bangle on her other hand, cold yet fitting.

She glanced again at the box and found a small folded note inside. Unfolding it, she read: “To share the rest of our days, let each second bear witness. —Tang, Republic Year Seventeen, September 10th.” The handwriting was bold and lively, unrestrained yet never careless. Tan Yang pondered over the words: why “share” and not “spend” our lives together? Though pronounced the same, the meanings diverged. “Spend” was what she yearned for—a sweet, ordinary life. But the character for “share” carried the sense of journeying through hardships, traversing mountains and rivers.

That evening, Bi Qingtang returned after seven o’clock. Tan Yang was waiting for him to dine together. He apologized, promising that if he couldn’t make it home for dinner next time, he would be sure to call. Tan Yang replied with a teasing smile, “Next time, I’ll remember not to wait for you, call or no call.” Bi Qingtang patted his thigh. “Such nerve. I’ll have to find a way to teach you a lesson.”

As Tan Yang ate, Bi Qingtang sat beside her with his chopsticks, serving her food and chatting.

“Little sister, I’m planning to open a big department store. All the decent ones in Shanghai are run by foreigners, and their prices are outrageous. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and now I finally have the funds. I’ll probably be busy with this for some time.”

“You’re starting this business, big brother? No more opium trade?” she asked.

“If the department store makes money, I’ll leave the guild and the opium business for good.”

Tan Yang propped her chopsticks against her bowl, nodding happily. “That’s wonderful, truly wonderful!”

Bi Qingtang patted her head. “Silly girl, eat up.”

Later that night, after reviewing her lessons, Tan Yang looked up and was startled to find it was already past ten. Returning to her bedroom, she opened the door to find Bi Qingtang, already in his pajamas, yawning and slumped in a chair.

“Big brother, if you’re tired, you should go to sleep first!” she chided, feeling a little guilty.

He pouted. “If I sleep first, I’ll miss out. Was that your plan all along?”

Tan Yang rolled her eyes and sat on the bed. “What are you talking about?”

He sat beside her, smiling. “Alright, I’m being petty. Fair enough?” He picked up her left hand, gazing at her new watch. His tone softened: “Do you like it?”

Tan Yang nodded with a bright smile. “Of course! You picked it out for me.”

He hooked her chin with a finger, leaning in with a playful grin. “You’re so good at flattering men. Tell me, where did you learn that?”

She turned away, brushing his hand aside. “I’m not flattering you. If anything, you’re the one who’s always coaxing me.”

Bi Qingtang frowned slightly and pulled her into his arms, murmuring, “I do try to win you over, but before you could believe it, I’d already convinced myself. So, tell me, which of us is the bigger fool?”

Tan Yang didn’t answer. Smiling, Bi Qingtang removed her watch and wound it, explaining, “It’s a mechanical watch—very precise, but you have to wind it every day. If you forget, it’ll just stop working.”

Leaning against his chest, Tan Yang said softly, “Then remind me, big brother.”

He tucked the wound watch beneath her pillow. “No need for you to worry about that!” Then, winding his own pocket watch, he opened the case to reveal the inside: next to Tan Yang’s photograph, he had added another—of the two of them together, their wedding portrait.

Seeing this, Tan Yang squinted and grinned. “Big brother, do you have a solo photo of yourself?”

“I do.”

“Then put it here!” She pointed to the empty spot at the far right inside the cover.

Bi Qingtang laughed heartily. “No, that’s for a family portrait!” He leaned close to her ear, laughter in his voice. “Do you understand now?”

The pale-yellow ribbon slipped from her hair as his hand traced the end of one braid, undoing it with a gentle tug. His fingers glided as though across the surface of a tranquil lake, but instead of ripples, they set loose a cascade of black silk and a thousand tangled threads of longing. On the soft bed, they sank into each other, entwined. Bi Qingtang held her by the shoulders, burying his face in her neck, his voice low and husky. “Little sister, help me with my robe.”

Tan Yang shook her head, refusing. Bi Qingtang, feigning nonchalance, blew gently in her ear and whispered with a smile, “Please?”

She hesitated, and in that moment, he pressed his lips to her neck. The tickling sensation, tinged with a sweet ache, seemed to unravel her spirit thread by thread. He guided her hand to the knot of his robe. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with it, finally loosening the garment. Bi Qingtang impatiently shrugged off his robe, the edge of it inadvertently covering Tan Yang’s eyes as the world spun and his faint scent of tobacco mingled with the intimate darkness.

The next morning, Tan Yang slipped quietly from bed. After brushing her hair at the dressing table, she noticed the red mark on her neck—a kiss—leaving her both embarrassed and secretly delighted. She found a white silk scarf in the wardrobe and wrapped it about her neck, just as she was about to leave. Suddenly, the alarm clock on the nightstand rang loudly. She rushed to silence it, but her hand was caught.

Bi Qingtang opened his sleepy eyes and looked at her. She grumbled, “Why did you set the alarm? It’s still early!”

He yawned, smiling lazily. “I set it last night after you fell asleep.”

“Afraid I’d be late for school?”

He gave no answer, just pulled her into his arms, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and, with a smile and closed eyes, said, “Go on, then.”

Tan Yang touched her cheek, smiling, and left the room. As she opened the door, she heard Bi Qingtang muttering behind her, “It doesn’t matter if you’re early or late, I just don’t want to wake up to find you gone.”

Unhappy days are full of unexpected upheavals, each one feeling endless; but happiness settles into a pattern, flowing gently like water through the years. Bi Qingtang and Tan Yang lived in such happiness—both clever enough to recognize it and wise enough to be content.

Autumn gave way to winter, and the Western calendar had already ushered in the new year in haste, while the lunar New Year was only just approaching. Bi Qingtang joked with Tan Yang, “You lost out, little sister. I have a wife to spend the New Year with, but you don’t have a sister-in-law to give you lucky money!”

During the first month of the year, Mr. Zou hosted a small gathering at his house. Bi Qingtang brought Tan Yang along. The event was held in a garden villa in the Shanghai suburbs, its very name in Italian—a foreign air in every detail. Tan Yang recalled Mr. Zou in his traditional Chinese gown and smiled to herself, thinking, “Who would have thought Mr. Zou was such a modern man?”

In the car, Bi Qingtang lounged with his legs crossed, glancing at the villa. “This is the old man’s private residence—where his fourth concubine lives.”

Though Bi Qingtang seemed unconcerned, Tan Yang felt as though a wad of cotton had lodged in her chest—not suffocating, but far from comfortable.

The fourth concubine was a modern woman, educated at Western schools, in her thirties and strikingly beautiful. She wore a velvet cheongsam with a black background and red flowers, a ruby brooch, black pearl earrings and necklace—perfectly balancing grace and allure. She carried herself with the dignity of a proper lady, yet at a glance, she seemed, above all, weary. Everything in her life was calculated—others, her household, her future. She dared not slacken, not even to grow old. It was a life spent treading carefully, scheming at every turn.

Also present were a dozen gentlemen—wealthy or distinguished figures of Shanghai. Except for one Mr. Zheng, who had returned from abroad with his own wife, the others had brought either concubines or lovers. The house was filled with the fragrance of perfumes and the sound of laughter.

After dinner, the men gathered in the parlor for conversation while the women played mahjong in the sitting room. Tan Yang had only recently learned the game from Fang Ya, and now she was drawn in to make up the numbers as three tables were set up. Mahjong loosened tongues—the women chattered about clothes, jewelry, makeup, household anecdotes. These topics weren’t Tan Yang’s favorites, so she simply listened, smiling. Her skills and luck at mahjong were lacking; after just a couple of hands, she’d lost everything. She never carried much money, but Bi Qingtang thoughtfully sent his wallet over, just in time—his care for her left her delighted.

Directly across from her sat the fourth concubine, who glanced at Tan Yang with a shake of her head and a light laugh. Drawing a tile, she glanced at it and tossed it aside. “Six bamboo!” No one claimed her tile, and the table fell briefly silent. The fourth concubine turned to the lady beside her. “I’d say, among us wives, Mrs. Bi is the most well-behaved—she even gets her mahjong money from Mr. Bi.”

Tan Yang arranged her tiles, smiling. “I hardly ever need money, so there’s no point carrying it around.”

Another lady cracked some melon seeds and added with a sigh, “She’s the official wife; her husband’s money is hers. It’s not the same as for the rest of us.”

The fourth concubine sighed. “That’s not the whole truth. Once you’ve given your heart to a man—even if he lines you up as first, second, third, fourth, or fifth—he’s still the only one you have. If you want to keep his favor, to have someone to rely on for life, then no matter your rank, the methods are the same, and so is the logic!”

“A woman’s life revolves around men. In your teens and twenties, all you need is a pretty face to win them over. In your thirties, you need wits to keep them. In your forties, you must have a good temper to endure it all. But by your fifties, beauty, brains, and patience count for nothing—all that matters is money, and plenty of it. That money is what you’ve traded your looks, your wits, and your forbearance for, over a lifetime. For a woman, a man is only the starting line; money is the finish.”

The other lady nodded vigorously and advised Tan Yang kindly, “You’re young and inexperienced, so take a sister’s advice: while your marriage is still fresh and warm, find ways to ask for things—houses, gold bars. He’s planning to open that department store, isn’t he? Ask for shares! You’re young, giving your youth to him, so you shouldn’t do it for nothing. It’s only fair you get something in return, right?”

The fourth concubine tried to catch her eye and wink, but the lady was too caught up in her own words to notice. Bi Qingtang, having listened at the door, finally interjected with a helpless smile, “You women—always leading good girls astray.” The lady flushed with embarrassment, but the fourth concubine only scoffed, teasing, “Who invited you to eavesdrop on women’s talk?”

For some reason, Bi Qingtang was provoked, a hint of anger on his face, though he held it in. Tan Yang quickly pushed her tiles forward with a laugh. “I win! Look, I’ve finally beaten you all for once!”

Looking at the women before her, Tan Yang thought: for them, nothing mattered but men. They staked everything on that gamble, and in the end, they lost it all. She vowed never to become such a woman. She loved him, but her life could not revolve around him alone.

That night, as they left Mr. Zou’s villa, Tan Yang looked back through the car window at the Western-style mansion. Tilting her head, she remarked, “That’s quite a little residence!”

Bi Qingtang grunted in agreement. She frowned, asking softly, “Big brother, will you ever have a little residence like this?”

He burst out laughing. “Of course! If you hadn’t asked, I would have forgotten!”

Tan Yang, exasperated, punched his shoulder. “How can you joke about such things?”

He pulled her into his arms. “If you think it’s a joke, why are you this angry?”

“I don’t care. If you dare leave me, I’ll leave you first!” she retorted stubbornly.

The story continues.