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Just when I thought my devastation could go no deeper, I realized that the three sworn sisters she had written about had to be the ones from her village whom we’d met in themountains. In my mind, I replayed everything that had happened last winter. Had they been conspiring to steal her away from me from that first night with their singing? Hadshe been attracted to them, like a husband to new concubines who are younger, prettier,and more adoring than a loyal wife? Were the beds of those women warmer, their bodies firmer, their stories fresher? Did she look at their faces and see no expectations and no responsibilities?

This pain was unlike anything I had felt before—plunging, searing, excruciating, far worse than childbirth. Then something shifted in me. I began to react not as the little girl whohad fallen in love with Snow Flower but as Lady Lu, the woman who believed that rules and conventions could provide peace of mind. It was easier for me to begin picking atSnow Flower’s faults than to feel the emotions raging inside of me. I had always madeallowances for Snow Flower out of love. But once I began to focus on her weaknesses, apattern of deceit, deception, and betrayal began to emerge. I thought about all the times Snow Flower had lied to me—about her family, about her married life, even about her beatings. Not only had she not been a faithful laotong, she had not even been a very goodfriend. A friend would have been honest and forthright. If all this were not enough, I letmemories of the recent weeks wash over me. Snow Flower had taken advantage of my money and position to gain better clothes, better food, and a better situation for her daughter, while ignoring all my help and suggestions. I felt duped and immensely foolish.

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And then the strangest thing happened. An image of my mother came to my mind. Iremembered that as a child I’d wanted her to love me. I’d thought if I did everything sheasked during my footbinding, I would earn her affection. I believed I’d won it, but she hadno feeling for me at all. Just like Snow Flower, she had looked out only for her own selfishinterests. My first reaction to my mother’s lies and lack of regard for me had been anger,and I never forgave her, but over time I gradually stepped farther and farther away fromher until she no longer had an emotional hold over me. To protect my heart, this waswhat I would have to do with Snow Flower. I couldn’t let anyone know I was dying fromanguish that she no longer loved me. I also had to hide my anger and distress, becausethese were not good qualities for a proper woman.

I folded the fan and put it away. Snow Flower had asked me to write back. I didn’t. A weekwent by. I did not start my daughter’s footbinding on our agreed-upon date. Anotherweek passed. Lotus came to my door again, this time delivering a letter, which Yonggangbrought to me in the upstairs chamber. I unfolded the paper and stared at the characters.Always those strokes had seemed like caresses. Now I read them as daggers.

Why have you not written? Are you ill or has good fortune smiled on your door again? Ibegan my daughter’s binding on the twenty-fourth day, just as you and I began ours. Didyou begin on that date too? I look out my lattice window to yours. My heart soars out toyou, singing happiness for our daughters.

I read it once, then set one corner of the paper into the flame of the oil lamp. I watchedthe edges curl and the words become smoke. In the coming days—as the weather cooledand I began my daughter’s footbinding— more letters arrived. I burned them too.

I was thirty-three years old. I would be lucky to live another seven years, luckier still toget seventeen. I could not endure the sick feeling in my stomach for another minute, letalone a year or more. My torment was great, but I summoned the same discipline that hadgotten me through my footbinding, the epidemic, and the winter in the mountains to helpme. I began what I called Cutting a Disease from My Heart. Anytime a memory came intomy mind, I painted over it with black ink. If my sight fell upon a memor , I drove it awayby closing my eyes. If a memory came in the form of a scent, I buried my

yy nose in the petalsof a flower, threw extra garlic in the wok, or conjured up the smell of starvation in themountains. If a memory grazed my skin—in the form of my daughter’s touch against myhand, my husband’s breath against my ear at night, or the feel of a limp breeze across mybreasts as I bathed—I scratched or rubbed or pounded it away. I was as ruthless as afarmer after harvest, yanking out every last remnant of what last season had been hismost prized crop. I tried to clear everything down to bare earth, knowing this was theonly way I could protect my damaged heart.

When memories of Snow Flower’s love continued to torment me, I constructed a flowertower like the one we had built to ward off Beautiful Moon’s spirit. I had to excise thisnew ghost, prevent her from ever again preying on my mind or tormenting me with

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broken promises of deepheart love. I purged my baskets, trunks, drawers, and shelves ofgifts Snow Flower had made for me over the years. I sought every letter she had writtenin our lifetime together. I had a hard time finding everything. I couldn’t find our fan. Icouldn’t find . . . let’s just say many things were missing. But what I found I pasted orplaced in the flower tower; then I composed a letter:

You who once knew my heart, now know nothing of me. I burn all your words, hopingthey will disappear into the clouds. You, who betrayed and abandoned me, are gone frommy heart forever. Please, please leave me alone.

I folded the paper and slipped it through the tiny lattice window and into the upstairschamber of the flower tower. Then I set fire to the foundation, adding oil when necessaryto burn through the handkerchiefs, weavings, and embroideries.

But Snow Flower was persistent in her haunting. When I bound my daughter’s feet, it wasas if Snow Flower were in the room with me, a hand on my shoulder, whispering in myear, “Make sure there are no folds in the bindings. Show your daughter your mother love.” I sang to drown out her words. Sometimes at night I felt her imagined hand resting uponmy cheek and I could not fall asleep. I lay there awake, furious with myself and with her,thinking, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. You broke your promise to be true. Youbetrayed me.

Two people bore the brunt of my suffering. The first, I’m ashamed to admit, was mydaughter. The second, I’m sorry to sa , was old Madame Wang. My mother love was verystrong, and when I bound Jade’s feet y

yyou will never know just how careful I was,remembering not only what had happened to Third Sister but also all the lessons mymother-in-law had instilled in me about how to do this job properly, with the least chanceof infection, deformity, or death. But I also transferred the pain I felt about Snow Flowerout of my body and into my daughter’s feet. Weren’t my lily feet the source of all my painsand gains?

Though my daughter’s bones and disposition were pliant, she wept piteously. I could notstand it, though we had only just begun. I took my feelings and harnessed them, drivingmy daughter back and forth across the floor of our u stairs room, wrapping her bindi sever tighter on those days that her feet were rewrapp

pped, and chastising her—no, crying

ngngbitterly at her—with what my mother had drilled into me. “A true lady lets no uglinessinto her life. Only through pain will you have beauty. Only through suffering will you findpeace. I wrap, I bind, but you will have the reward.” I hoped that through my actions Imight reap a little of that reward and find the peace my mother had promised.

Under the guise of wanting the best for Jade, I spoke with other women in Tongkou whowere binding their daughters’ feet. “We all live here,” I said. “We all have good families.Shouldn’t our daughters become sworn sisters?”

My daughter’s feet came out nearly as small as my own. But before I knew the final

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outcome of that, Madame Wang paid me a call in the fifth month of the new lunar year. Inmy mind, she had never changed. She had always been an old woman, but on this day Ilooked at her with a more critical eye. She was far younger than I am now, which meantthat when I’d first met her all those years ago, she was forty years old at most. But then my mother and Snow Flower’s mother were dead by that age—give or take—and hadbeen considered long-lived. Thinking back on it, I believe that Madame Wang, as a widow,did not want to die or go to another man’s home. She chose to live and fend for herself.She would not have succeeded if she had not been exceedingly smart and business-minded. But she still had her body to contend with. She let people know she was unassailable by wearing powder to cover what beauty may have lain in her face and dressing in gaudy clothes to set her apart from the married women in our county. Now, inwhat I guessed must have been her late sixties, she no longer had to hide behind powder and garish silk. She was an old woman—still smart, still business-minded, but with one flaw that I knew too well. She loved her niece.

ame Wang paid me a call in the fifth month of the new lunar year. Inmy mind, she had never changed. She had always been an old woman, but on this day Ilooked at her with a more critical eye. She was far younger than I am now, which meantthat when I’d first met her all those years ago, she was forty years old at most. But then my mother and Snow Flower’s mother were dead by that age—give or take—and hadbeen considered long-lived. Thinking back on it, I believe that Madame Wang, as a widow,did not want to die or go to another man’s home. She chose to live and fend for herself.She would not have succeeded if she had not been exceedingly smart and business-minded. But she still had her body to contend with. She let people know she was unassailable by wearing powder to cover what beauty may have lain in her face and dressing in gaudy clothes to set her apart from the married women in our county. Now, inwhat I guessed must have been her late sixties, she no longer had to hide behind powder and garish silk. She was an old woman—still smart, still business-minded, but with one flaw that I knew too well. She loved her niece.

“Lady Lu, it’s been too long,” she said, as she plopped down in a chair in the main room.When I did not offer tea, she looked around anxiously. “Is your husband here?”

“Master Lu will be home later, but you get ahead of yourself. My daughter is too young for him to negotiate a marriage match.”

Madame Wang slapped her thigh and chortled. When I didn’t join in, she sobered. “You know I am not here for that. I have come to discuss a laotong match. This business is for women only.”

I slowly began to tap the nail of my index finger against the teak arm of my chair. The sound was loud and unnerving even to me, but I did not stop.

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a fan. “I brought this for your daughter.Perhaps I can give it to her.”

“My daughter is upstairs, but Master Lu would not consider it proper for her to see something that he has not examined first.”

“But, Lady Lu,” Madame Wang confided, “this is in our women’s writing.” “Then give it tome.” I reached out my hand.

The old matchmaker saw my hand shaking and hesitated. “Snow Flower—”

“No!” The syllable came out harsher than I intended, but I could not bear to hear thatname spoken. I calmed myself, then said, “The fan, please.”

She reluctantly gave it to me. Inside my head I had an army of brushes with black ink,obliterating the thoughts and memories that kept popping up. I called upon the hardness of the bronzes in the ancestral temple, the hardness of ice in winter, and the hardness ofbones dried out under an unrelenting sun to give me strength. In one swift movement I第 166 页 共 189 页

opened the fan.

I understand there is a girl of good character and women’s learning in your home. These were the first characters Snow Flower had written to me so many years ago. I looked up and saw Madame Wang’s gaze upon me, watching for my reaction, but I kept my features as placid as the surface of a pond on a still night. Our two families plant gardens. Two flowers bloom. They are ready to meet. You and I are of the same year. Shall we not be oldsames? Together we will soar above the clouds.

I heard Snow Flower’s voice in every carefully drawn character. I snapped the fan shutand held it out to Madame Wang. She did not take it from my outstretched hand.

“I think, Madame Wang, there has been a mistake. The eight characters of these two girlsdo not match. They were born on different days in different months. More importantly,their feet did not match before binding began, and I doubt they will match when they are done. And”—I waved my hand idly to take in the main room—“family circumstances donot match. All of this is common knowledge.”

Madame Wang’s eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know the truth of these things?” Shesnorted. “Let me tell you what I know. You have severed your bond with no explanation. A woman—your laotong—weeps in confusion—”

“Confusion? Do you know what she did?”

“Speak to her,” Madame Wang went on. “Don’t disrupt a plan that was agreed upon bytwo loving mothers. Two girls have a bright future together. They can be as happy as theirmothers.”

I couldn’t possibly agree to the matchmaker’s suggestion. I was weak with sorrow, andtoo many times in the past I’d let myself be taken in— diverted, influenced, convinced—by Snow Flower. I also couldn’t risk seeing Snow Flower with her sworn sisters. My mindwas already tormented enough imagining their whispered secrets and physicalintimacies. “Madame Wang,” I said, “I would not bring my daughter so low as to matchher to the spawn of a butcher.”

I was intentionally spiteful, hoping the matchmaker would abandon the subject, but itwas as though she hadn’t heard me, because she said, “I remember the two of you together. Crossing a bridge, you were mirrored in the water below—same height, same size feet, same courage. You pledged fidelity. You promised you would never be a step apart, that you would be together forever, never separated, never distant—” I’d done allof those things with an open heart, but what about Snow Flower?

“You do not know of what you speak,” I said. “On the day your niece and I signed our contract, you said, ‘No concubines allowed.’ Do you remember that, old woman? Now go ask your niece what she has done.”

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I tossed the fan into the ma’tchmakers lap and turned my face away, my heart as chilledas the river water that used to run over my feet. I felt that old woman’s eyes on me,weighing, wondering, questioning, but she did not have the will to go on. I heard her riseunsteadily. Her eyes continued to bore into me, but I did not waver in my steadfastness.

“I will relay your message,” she said at last, her voice filled with kindness and a deepunderstanding that agitated me, “but know this. You are a rare person. I saw that longago. Ever one in our county envies your good luck. Everyone wishes you longevity andprosperity