“I’m just a helper,” I replied.
“Not her niece?” He tracked me with his eyes, wearing a leering look that made me glad I had a cleaver nearby. “I’ve heard that Yan took in a girl about your age, very pretty with round eyes like coins.”
It was a rare time that I was grateful for Susu appearing. The old maid barged into the kitchen, about to reproach me for dawdling, when she noticed the man at the window. “Mr. Zhou!” She took a step back, looking clearly alarmed. “Madam Chan is waiting for you in the parlor, sir.”
“Thank you.” He tipped his hat the way the Americans did and sent me a half smile before he disappeared into the house.
Susu yanked on my braid. “Don’t you go around talking to strangers. If your aunt finds out, she’ll have you whipped.”
“Why?” I asked. “Who was that?”
“Zhou Hin Kong. One of Mister Chan’s former associates.”
It was the first and only time I’d heard my uncle’s name spoken, yet I was mostly struck by Susu’s worried tone. She made it clear that no more questions were to be asked, and after a while I stopped dwelling on it.
Life was too short to be apprehensive of everything.
. . .
Guests began arriving at six o’clock. From the kitchen window, I had a partial view of the courtyard. Sai Ma’s friends were locked around a Eurasian lady dripping with diamonds while Gu Ma cruised about, toasting her guests with shandy. My brassy aunt was drunker than usual, and I briefly wondered what had happened with the mysterious Mr. Zhou, who wasn’t on the guest list and was nowhere to be seen. Baba was under the bauhinia tree smoking a cigar, and Sai Ma was ushering people into the banquet room and collecting red envelopes while she showed off her new baby. Even Lily was enjoying herself. I wished I could be with her, sipping on grape juice and watching the guests all try to impress one another. I waved, but she wasn’t wearing her spectacles and didn’t see me.
At eight-thirty the dirty plates were replaced with clean ones and the longevity noodles were served, a sign that the party had reached its midpoint. While the guests ate, someone unlocked the piano. Its keys tinkled like bells, slightly out of tune, and Sai Ma sang.
I’d heard my stepmother sing before, during her parties in the parlor. Her voice made me think of an underripe mango, green and stiff and a little sour on the high notes. At its best it was pretty, but it wasn’t strong enough to cut through the party’s din. Even by the window, I had to strain to hear her.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The cook Gu Ma had hired for tonight was asleep on the bench, and Susu and Tingtingwere washing dishes or refilling teapots. I alone was in the kitchen, swatting away mosquitoes as I decorated Richard’s cake with fresh fruits and cream.
Sai Ma had told me to stay inside, but with the guests listening to her performance, who would notice if I stepped away?
It was a beautiful night. The moon was yolky and bright, hanging in the sky like a pearl. As I stood by the bauhinia tree, my back pressed to the trunk, wind tousled its branches, and violet petals snowed gently upon my head, making me look up.
“Still looking for birds at this hour?” spoke a familiar voice.
My heart skipped a beat. It was the boy who’d nearly killed me with his bicycle.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted.
“I’m a guest.”
That was when I remembered that Iwasn’t.“I have to go.”
I scrambled back into the kitchen, hoping he wouldn’t follow.
He did. “A seamstress by day at Chan Kiu Factory, and a cook by night at Madam Chan’s residence,” he mused, entering without permission. “I marvel at you, little hwamei, do you even have time to breathe?”
“Guests aren’t allowed in the kitchen.” I picked up a large cleaver and waved it at him.
“I’m looking for soymilk,” he said.
“We don’t have any.”
“No soymilk!” He pretended to be scandalized. “I thought this was a children’s party.”
“How many children do you see?” I said, pointing at the party with my cleaver. I halved three oranges in quick succession. “Now would you kindly go away?”
He wouldn’t. He leaned against the wall where two spatchcocked ducks were hanging, slowly being wind-cured.
“A bit late in the season for laap aap,” he remarked, flicking a glance at the ducks. “Don’t you find it too salty?”
