A Cold Season In Shanghai. S.P. Hozy
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his ancestors. It was considered a waste to invest too much in a daughter. Baby boys, on the other hand, were highly prized and necessary to continue the family line. Boys and men had rights and privileges girls and women could never have. A rich man could have several wives, as well as concubines, but they did not have the right to make decisions for themselves. Households were complicated little fiefdoms filled with intrigue and conflict, hierarchies and political manoeuvring. Rarely were they happy and harmonious arrangements. There were many things about China that Tatiana would never understand.
Her father lived in a household of women and knew that to insist on certain things was pointless. Katarina argued with him if she disagreed and frequently got her way, especially when she cried or persuaded one or both of her daughters to agree with her. He would usually just walk away, muttering something from Tolstoy, until everybody cooled down. Although he was the nominal head of the family and made all the important decisions, he depended on his wife's approval and support. There was never talk of obedience between her parents. Tatiana knew they loved each other and that love was the foundation of their family, but sometimes she worried that love might have its limits. Once, when her parents had been arguing for days over plans to expand the summer kitchen at the back of the house (Katarina wanted it but Sergei knew he would be the one who would have the headache of supervising the workmen) Tatiana had gone to her father and asked him if this meant they would be getting a divorce.
“A divorce, Tatushka? Your mother and I? No, no, never, my child. You mustn't concern yourself about such things.” Sergei knew his clever second daughter was prone to fret about some things. She was already developing fine worry lines on her forehead from trying to fathom the ways of adults. He would often catch her squinting into space, as some troubling thought absorbed her.
“Who would Olga and I live with if there was a divorce?” she asked. She still was not convinced. This had been a louder argument than most, and her mother hadn't cried, as she usually did to get her way. A bad sign.
“Tatushka, Tatushka, there will never be a divorce. I promise you.” Why was she so insecure? Sergei wondered. He could see she wasn't reassured by his words. This child, he feared, would want to seek certainty through experience, a route that could lead down many roads, some of them dangerous.
“Go and tell your mother I agree to the summer kitchen,” he said. It was a small price to pay for his family's happiness.
Lily's family, Tatiana knew, was very modern. Her father had only one wife and, as far as Tatiana knew, no concubines. Luckily, Lily's mother had borne him three sons, so the ancestors would be well taken care of. Lily was their only daughter.
Tatiana's friendship with Lily grew and transcended culture, race and language. They were able to talk using their two common languages, French and English, but they also communicated through laughter and gesture. They liked the same things and found humour in similar places. When they were younger, they would laugh until the tears came to their eyes. Anything could set them off. They would look at pictures and make up crazy stories about what was happening in them. If it was a picture of a warrior on horseback and the horse was rearing on its hind legs, one of them would say, “The stable master fed the horse hot chilli peppers so that he would run faster, but now the horse is running all over the battlefield looking for water, and the soldier can't control him.” They thought this was hysterically funny and laughed until their sides hurt. Olga thought them infantile, but Olga didn't have a friend like Lily to laugh and be a fool with, so perhaps she was jealous. As the girls got older, they made up love stories about a beautiful Chinese girl forced to marry an older man, even though she was in love with a handsome young man whose heart was breaking with love for her.
Despite their different natures, Tatiana bold and adventurous, Lily sweet and passive, neither of them would be able to control the events that shaped their lives. Both of them would live to regret the choices they made.
Chapter Four
Olga came to visit me today. It has stopped snowing, so she had my niece Anastasia drive her over in the car. Once a week, weather permitting, Anastasia takes her mother out shopping in the car so she can buy her meat from the butcher, her fruit and vegetables from the greengrocer, and her bread from the baker. Olga says she will never shop in those grocery stores where they sell everything “from canned soup to canned nuts.” She always buys the best and brings me some because I don't have a car. Anastasia, who has two children of her own now, is the perfect daughter and niece. She seems genuinely pleased to see me whenever she comes, and she takes the time to have a real conversation with me. Unlike her mother. Olga spends our time together grilling me about my bad habits. How many cigarettes have I smoked today? How much have I had to drink? Am I eating properly? She's still the older, wiser, and in her mind, more experienced sister.
“I had a letter from Lily today,” I tell her.
“Lily Tang?”
“Yes. Lily Tang. From Shanghai.”
“You're kidding,” Olga said. “I thought she was dead.”
“I didn't know she was still alive either. I haven't heard from her in years,” I said. “But she is alive, and she's been living in a village, working in an orphanage. When the Communists took over, she was too old to be of much use, I suppose, except to look after children.”
“But how can she afford to come here?”
“Her youngest brother has sponsored her. Apparently he owns a restaurant in Toronto. Isn't that amazing? And he's applied to have her come as a nursemaid for his grandchildren. She wants to stay with me for a few days before she goes to live with him.”
“You mean Lily's going to be an amah?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sad, isn't it?”
“So many terrible things,” said Olga. “I mean, to have her child taken away from her and everything.” Olga was putting away the groceries she'd brought me, even though I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. It's her way of letting me know she thinks I'm incompetent. One of the ways, because there are many. Olga thinks that because I never had children, I don't know anything about keeping house. But she's wrong; I know enough to do what I have to do.
“I know. I don't imagine she ever got over that,” I said, watching her.
“How could anyone?” my sister said. “And he was such a talented little boy.”
“I know. I wonder whatever happened to him?”
“Maybe she'll be able to tell you. She must have had some contact with him.” Olga sighs and looks around when she's done. “Everything's so shabby,” she says. She's looking at my old sofa and matching chair, upholstered in green fabric with large cabbage roses on it. “It's depressing.”
I've never cared much about domestic things. In Shanghai, I used to have a maid who came in every day to tidy up and do my laundry. Here a maid would be unthinkable, not to mention beyond my means. I live in an apartment over a hardware store on Gerrard Street in the east end of the city, and it suits me just fine. I have to climb a steep set of stairs to get up here, but for now that's not a problem. Someday I'll have to think about moving. Olga thinks it's low class.
“Only poor people live in apartments,” she tells me. “Especially apartments over stores. Respectable people live in houses.”
“Well, I'm not exactly rich,” I remind her. I'm treading a fine line here, because Olga and Jean Paul have offered to give me money many times, and I have always refused. “And besides, the hardware store has a quiet clientele, it closes at five o'clock every afternoon, and there are no cooking smells or cockroaches, no screaming neighbours and plenty of hot water. I never have to cut the grass or shovel snow. I'm quite content with my three rooms and kitchen.”
“For God's sake, Mother,” Anastasia says in exasperation, “leave Aunt Tati alone. She doesn't come into your house and criticize everything.” Olga gives me a look that says, You wouldn't dare. There's nothing in my house to criticize. But she remains silent. She knows she's crossed a line, and she's embarrassed that her daughter has seen it. It's a pattern