Lisa See - Snow Flower And The Secret Fan

Baba and Uncle took pity on us. They knew more than we did how cruel the weather was. They worked in it every day under the brutal sun. But we were poor. We didn’t have an inner courtyard to lounge in, or land where we could be carried by bearers to sit under the shade of a tree, or any place where we would be completely shielded from the eyes of strangers. Instead, Baba took some of Mama’s cloth and with Uncle’s help strung a canopy for us on the north side of the house. Then they laid some padded winter quilts on the ground so we might have something soft to sit on.

“The men are in the fields during the day,” Baba said. “They will not see you. Until the weather changes, you girls may do your work here. Just don’t tell your mothers.”

Beautiful Moon was accustomed to walking to her sworn sisters’ houses for embroidery sessions and the like, but I had not been outdoors in Puwei like this since my milk years. Sure, I had stepped from our threshold into Madame Wang’s palanquin and had picked vegetables in our home garden. But beyond that, I was allowed only to look down from the lattice window to the alley that passed by our house. I had not felt the rhythm of the village for too long.

We were gloriously happy—still hot, but happy. As we sat in the shade, actually catching a cool breeze as the festival promised, we embroidered the tops of shoes or did final construction. Beautiful Moon’s stitches were concentrated on her red wedding slippers, the most precious of all shoes. Pink and white lotus flowers bloomed, symbolizing her purity and fruitfulness. Snow Flower had just finished a pair in sky-blue silk with a cloud pattern for her mother-in-law, and they sat next to us on the quilt looking dainty and elegant, a gentle reminder of the high-quality work we should insist on for all our projects. They filled me with happiness, bringing to mind the jacket that Snow Flower had worn on the first day we’d met. But nostalgic thoughts didn’t seem to interest Snow Flower; she had simply moved on to a pair for herself, which employed purple silk trimmed with white. When the characters for purple and white were written together they meant a lot of children. As was so common with Snow Flower, her embroidery embellishments called upon the sky for inspiration. This time birds and other flying creatures twisted and soared on the tiny swatches. Meanwhile, I was finishing a pair of shoes for my mother-in-law. Her shoe size was slightly larger than my own, and it filled me with pride to know that, based solely on my feet, she would have to consider me worthy of her son. I had not yet met my mother-in-law, so I did not know her likes and dislikes, but during the heat of those days I thought of nothing but coolness. My design wrapped around the shoe, creating a landscape of women taking their ease under willow trees beside a stream. It was a fantasy, but no more so than the mythical birds that adorned Snow Flower’s shoes.

We made a pretty picture sitting there on those quilts with our legs tucked under us just so: three young maidens, all betrothed to good families, cheerfully working on our dowries, showing our good manners to those who visited. Small boys stopped to talk to us as they set out to collect firewood or took the family water buffalo to the river. Little girls in charge of their siblings let us hold their baby brothers or sisters. We imagined what it would be like to care for babies of our own. Old widows, whose status and comportment were secure, swayed up to us to gossip, examine our embroidery, and remark on our pale skin.

On the fifth day, Madame Gao paid a visit. She had just returned from Getan Village, where she was negotiating a match. While she was there, she had delivered a set of letters from us to Elder Sister and had picked up a letter from Elder Sister to us. None of us liked Madame Gao, but we had been raised to respect our elders. We offered tea, but she declined. Since there was no money to be made from us, she handed the letter to me and got back into her palanquin. We watched until it turned the corner; then I used my embroidery needle to slice open the rice-paste seal. Because of what happened later that day, and because Elder Sister used so many standard nu shu phrases, I think I can reconstruct most of what she wrote:

bq. Family,

Today I pick up a brush, and my heart flies away home.

To my family I write—regards to dear parents, aunt, and uncle.

When I think of past days, my tears cannot stop falling down.

I still feel sad to have left home.

My stomach is big with baby and I am so hot in this weather.

My in-laws are spiteful.

I do all the household work.

In this heat it is impossible to please.

Sister, cousin, take care of Mama and Baba.

We women can only hope that our parents will live many years.

That way we will have a place to return for festivals.

In our natal home, we will always have people who treasure us.

Please be good to our parents.

Your daughter, sister, and cousin

I finished reading the letter and closed my eyes. I was thinking, So many tears for Elder Sister, so much joy for me. I was grateful that we followed the custom of not falling into your husband’s house until just before the birth of your first child. I still had two years before my marriage and possibly three years after that before I joined my in-laws permanently.

I was interrupted from these thoughts by something that sounded like a sob. I opened my eyes and looked at Snow Flower. A puzzled expression spread across her face as she stared at something to her right. I followed her gaze to Beautiful Moon, who was brushing at her neck and taking great breaths.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Beautiful Moon’s chest heaved with the effort of drawing in air —uuuu, uuuu, uuuu— sounds I will never forget.

She looked at me with her lovely eyes. Her hand stopped brushing and clasped the side of her neck. She did not try to stand. She sat with her legs tucked under her, still looking like a young lady sitting in the shade of a hot afternoon, her needlework in her lap, but I could see that beneath her hand her neck had begun to swell.

“Snow Flower, find help,” I said urgently. “Get Baba, get Uncle. Quick!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Snow Flower try as best she could to run on her tiny feet. Her voice—unused to being raised—came out unsteady and high-pitched. “Help! Help!”

I crawled across the quilt to Beautiful Moon’s side. I saw on her embroidery a bee struggling for life. The stinger had to be in my cousin’s neck. I took her other hand and held it in my own. Her mouth opened. Inside, her tongue was growing, engorging.

“What can I do?” I asked. “Do you want me to try to get the stinger out?”

We both knew it was already too late for that.

“Do you want water?” I asked.

Beautiful Moon couldn’t answer. She breathed only through her nostrils now, and each breath was more of an effort.

Somewhere in the village I heard Snow Flower. “Baba! Uncle! Elder Brother! Anyone! Help us!”

Those same children who had visited us the last few days gathered around our quilt, their mouths agape as they watched Beautiful Moon’s neck, tongue, eyelids, and hands swell. Her skin went from the paleness of the moon she was named for to pink, to red, to purple, to blue. She looked like a creature from a ghost story. A few of Puwei’s widows arrived. They shook their heads sympathetically.

Beautiful Moon’s eyes locked with mine. Her hand had blown up so much that her fingers were like sausages in my palm, the skin so shiny and taut it looked ready to split. I cradled the monstrous paw in my hand.

“Beautiful Moon, listen to me,” I pleaded. “Your baba is coming. Wait for him. He loves you so much. We all love you, Beautiful Moon. Do you hear me?”