Lisa See - Snow Flower And The Secret Fan

Snow Flower came up with a plan. “A flower tower must be made,” she said one morning. A flower tower was exactly what was needed to appease Beautiful Moon’s spirit. If we provided her with a good flower tower, she would have a place to wander in and entertain herself. If she were happy, Snow Flower and I would be protected.

Some people—those with more money—go to a professional flower tower builder, but Snow Flower and I decided to make our own. We envisioned a tower of many levels, like a seven-tiered pagoda. We put a pair of foo dogs at the entrance. Inside, we painted poems on the walls in our secret writing. We made one level for dancing, another for floating. We made a sleeping room with stars and the moon painted on the ceiling. On another level, we made a women’s chamber, with lattice windows done in intricate paper cutouts that provided views in every direction. We constructed a table on which we laid out bits of our favorite threads, some ink, paper, and a brush, so Beautiful Moon might embroider or write letters in nu shu to her new ghost friends. We made servants and entertainers out of twisted colored paper and set them about the tower so that every level would provide company, distraction, and amusements. When we weren’t working on the flower tower, we composed a lament we would sing to calm my cousin. If the flower tower was for Beautiful Moon’s pleasure for all eternity, our words would be a final farewell from the world of the living.

On the day the weather finally broke, Snow Flower and I asked and received permission to go to Beautiful Moon’s grave. It was not a long walk to the burial mound, far less than when Snow Flower had gone to the fields to bring back Baba and Uncle when Beautiful Moon died. We sat at the grave for a few minutes. Then Snow Flower set the flower tower on fire. We watched it burn, imagining it being transported to the afterworld and Beautiful Moon drifting through the rooms in delight. Then I pulled out the paper on which we’d written to Beautiful Moon in our secret writing and we began to sing.

“Beautiful Moon, we hope the flower tower brings you peace.

We hope you forget about us, but we will never forget you.

We will honor you. We will clean your grave at Spring Festival.

Do not let your thoughts run wild.

Live in your flower tower and be happy.”

Snow Flower and I walked home and went upstairs to the women’s chamber. Sitting side by side, we took turns writing the lament onto the folds of our special fan. When we were done, I added to the garland at the top a crescent-shaped moon, as slender and unobtrusive as Beautiful Moon herself.

The flower tower helped protect Snow Flower and me, and it placated Beautiful Moon’s restless spirit, but it did nothing for Aunt and Uncle, who could not be consoled. All that was meant to be. We were at the mercy of powerful elements and could do nothing but follow our fates. This can be explained by yin and yang: There are women and men, dark and light, sorrow and happiness. These things create balance. You take a moment of supreme happiness like Snow Flower and I felt at the beginning of the Catching Cool Breezes Festival, then sweep it away in the cruelest way with Beautiful Moon’s death. You take two happy people like Aunt and Uncle, then turn them in an instant into two end-of-the-liners with nothing to live for, who, when my father died, would have to rely on Elder Brother’s kindness to care for them and not throw them out. You take a family like mine that is not so well off, then add the pressure of too many weddings in one household. . . . All these things disrupted the balance of the universe, so the gods set things right by striking down a kind-hearted girl. There is no life without death. This is the true meaning of yin and yang.

The Flower-Sitting Chair

TWO YEARS AFTER BEAUTIFUL MOON DIED, MY HAIR — WHICH had already been pinned when I was fifteen—was combed into the dragon style befitting a young woman about to marry. My in-laws sent more cloth, cash so that I might have my own purse, and jewelry—earrings, rings, necklaces—all in silver and jade. They also gave my parents thirty bundles of glutinous rice—enough to feed family and friends who would visit in the days to come—and a side of pork, which Baba sliced and my brothers delivered to people in Puwei Village to let them know that the monthlong wedding celebration had officially begun. But what surprised and pleased Baba most of all—and what showed that our family’s hard work in preparing me for my special future had paid off—was the arrival of a new water buffalo. With this single gift, my father became one of the three most prosperous men in our village.

Snow Flower came for the entire month of Sitting and Singing in the Upstairs Chamber. During those last four weeks as I finished my dowry, she helped me in many ways and we became even closer. We both had foolish ideas about what marriage would be, but Snow Flower and I believed nothing would ever come close to the comfort we felt in each other’s arms—the warmth of our bodies, the softness of our skin, the delicate smells. Nothing would ever alter our love, and when we looked ahead we thought we would have only more to share.

To us, Sitting and Singing in the Upstairs Chamber was the beginning of a deeper commitment between us. After ten years together, our relationship was about to move to new and far more profound levels. Two or three years from now, once I moved to my husband’s home permanently and Snow Flower had gone to her husband’s home in Jintian, we would visit often. Surely our husbands—both men of wealth and high esteem—would hire palanquins for this purpose.

Since I didn’t have sworn sisters to join me during these festivities, my mother, my aunt, my sister-in-law, Elder Sister—who came home, pregnant again—and a few unwed girls from Puwei Village all came to celebrate my good fortune. Madame Wang joined us periodically too. Sometimes we recited favorite stories, or one person would choose a chant that we all followed. Other times we sang of our own lives. My mother—who was satisfied with her fate—recounted “The Tale of the Flower Girl,” while Aunt, still in mourning, made us all weep as her words came out in a sorrowful dirge.

One afternoon, as I embroidered the belt to cinch my wedding costume, Madame Wang came to entertain us with “The Tale of Wife Wang.” She took a stool next to Snow Flower, who was deep in thought, composing my third-day wedding book and searching for the right words to tell my in-laws about me. The two of them spoke very softly to each other. Every once in a while, I heard Snow Flower’s voice saying, “Yes, Auntie” and “No, Auntie.” Snow Flower had always shown a kind heart to the matchmaker. I had tried—with only moderate success—to emulate her in this.

When Madame Wang saw we were all waiting, she wiggled her bottom on the stool to get comfortable and began the saga. “There once was a pious woman with few prospects.” She had grown quite plump in recent years, which made her slower and more deliberate in her storytelling and in her movements. “Her family married her to a butcher—the lowest possible match for a woman devoted to the Buddhist way. As devout as she was, she was a woman first and gave birth to sons and daughters. Still, Wife Wang did not eat fish or meat. She recited sutras for hours each day, especially the Diamond Sutra. When she wasn’t reciting, she begged her husband not to slaughter animals. She warned him of the bad karma that would come to him in the next life if he continued his profession.”

The matchmaker put a hand on Snow Flower’s thigh in a comforting gesture. I would have found that old woman’s hand oppressive, but Snow Flower didn’t push it away.