Читать книгу White Jade Tiger - Julie Lawson - Страница 11

For the first time in her life, Jasmine hated every second of the forty-five minute drive to Victoria. She maintained a stony silence, nurturing the hostility she felt towards her father. For awhile he rambled on about China, and how they could explore it together when she flew out next month— but only if she wanted to, he added hastily. Then he switched to questions: had she packed everything, had she remembered the pieces for her quilt, was there anything she needed, anything she wanted.... She continued to ignore him. Finally he stopped talking and turned on the radio. For once, Jasmine didn’t complain about his choice of stations.

Along the winding road, past the rush-hour traffic inching its way through the suburbs, onto the highway. Past service stations, car lots, sprawling shopping centres. Flashing lights, howling sirens, screeching brakes. Jasmine winced. Why had she ever wanted to take the bus into Victoria? ’Cause it would have been fun, her inner voice said. Fun, with her friends. Not like now. Not like getting dumped by her father.

“Do you want to do any shopping?” he asked. “We could stop at a mall.”

Silence.

“Well, we are stopping for supper. Any requests? The sky’s the limit.”

Jasmine shrugged. When he pulled into her favourite fast-food restaurant she refused to show the slightest interest.

“What? No cheeseburger? Milkshake? You’ve got to eat something.”

She shook her head, and picked at the fries and onion rings.

After supper they crept along Douglas Street, crowded with pedestrians and traffic. People swept in and out of stores and restaurants, hurrying to finish their shopping, hurrying to grab a bite before heading home, hurrying to rent a video for the evening.

“Thought we’d go through Chinatown,” her father said, “since you’re going there tomorrow.”

An Oriental gate arched across Fisgard Street, shining an invitation to enter. As they drove down the block Jasmine felt her pulse quicken, stirred by the lights, colour, movement and sound. But she remained silent.

Then they were crossing the Johnson Street Bridge, the lift bridge that was raised like a drawbridge whenever boats passed through the Inner Harbour. Her father made his usual remark about its odd shade of blue but Jasmine did not respond. Finally, they were turning into the parking lot of Val’s condominium. “Straight up to the ninth floor,” he said.

“My lucky number,” Jasmine muttered. “Some luck.”

They stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hallway to 927. “The door number even adds up to nine,” her father said cheerfully. “Eighteen, actually, but add those two digits and you get nine. What do you think of that!”

Val was waiting at the door. “Hi, Martin,” she said, giving him a hug. “Come on in. And Jasmine! Welcome to the double lucky condo. Pretty auspicious, don’t you think?”

“Auspicious?” Great. She couldn’t even understand her aunt’s language.

“Favourable. A good omen. Nine’s my lucky number, you see. And you were born in 1976, weren’t you? The Year of the Dragon, a very lucky sign. But I could babble on and on about auspicious symbols. Martin, how about some coffee?” The whole time she was talking, Val was bustling about the kitchen, setting up the coffee maker, slicing Nanaimo bars, arranging butter tarts on plates. “Jasmine, you probably feel a bit strange about being here, so why don’t I show you your room and you can get settled.” She caught her eyeing the Nanaimo bars and laughed. “Don’t worry, we’ll save you some.”

Jasmine followed her down the hall. “Here you are. Fill up the drawers and closet with your things. Read any of the books you want. Enjoy the view.”

“Wow!” The exclamation slipped out, in spite of her vow to be miserable. “So many lights!”

The scene was magical, so different from home where there wasn’t even a streetlight. Across the Inner Harbour, the Legislative Buildings shimmered like a fairyland, lit by thousands of lights. The posh Empress Hotel, where her mother had once taken her for tea, glowed like a castle, with lights shining from its arches and turrets. The streets were lit with round white globes set on old-fashioned lampposts. Lights from boats were reflected in the water, and lights from highrises shone across the harbour. She couldn’t deny it, the view was a perfect ten.

“Help yourself,” Valsaid when she returned to the kitchen. “Here’s a glass of milk.”

“Thanks. It’s a great view.”

Her father beamed. “What did I tell you?”

“Good Nanaimo bars.” Jasmine smiled at her aunt and pointedly ignored him.

“Well,” he said after an awkward silence, “I’ve got to rush off. Anything you want to say before I go?”

Jasmine took a butter tart and remained silent. Don’t look at him, she told herself firmly. Look at him and you’ll start to cry. So don’t look She tried to swallow but the pastry stuck in her throat. What’s he waiting for? she wondered impatiently. Why doesn’t he just go?

After another awkward silence, he said, “Good luck then, honey.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek and gently wiped the tear that was starting to fall. “Γ11 phone when I arrive and write two minutes later. Thanks for everything, Val. Take care.”

Then he was gone.

“Can I work on my quilt?” Jasmine asked.

Her aunt looked surprised. “There’s nothing on TV you want to watch? No homework?”

Jasmine shook her head.

“There’s a sewing machine in the spare room,” Val said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Within minutes, Jasmine had set up her cutting board and emptied the bag of scraps. “A memory quilt,” her mother had said when she started the project. “Every bit of fabric will remind you of something, a time or a place or a person. With any luck I’ll have it finished for your birthday.”

“Can I help?”

“Why not? Here, sort these pieces into lights and darks.”

Later, her mother showed her how to cut four triangles at once. Before long there were hundreds of triangles, from pale blues to deep forest greens, from flowery pastels to wild fluorescent pinks. “Is this enough?”

Her mother laughed. “This quilt has to cover your bed, you know. We’re not even half-way there.”

Two months later they celebrated the halfway mark by drinking raspberry ginger ale and listening to the summer rain. The night before the accident.

“That’s all she wants to do, Val.” Surrounded by fabric scraps in her aunt’s spare room, Jasmine remembered her father’s words, that horrible Wednesday evening. The phone was down the hall and he was trying to speak softly, but she could hear every word. “Since Heather’s death she’s lost interest in everything, even tai chi. Never sees her friends, except at school. Just stays in her room, reads or works on that quilt. Maybe a change of scenery.... Seems happy enough, but...always been independent, but now so reclusive....” On and on and on. Analyzing her. Arranging her life.

She stroked her cheek with a piece of red velvet, remembering her first special Christmas dress. A flash of metallic silver brought back a wizard’s cape and a party for Halloween. “That’s all she wants to do.” It was true. She felt safe, leafing through the fragments of her past. As if putting the pieces together would bring back something that was gone, and make her feel whole again. Even though the configuration could never again be the same.

Lights and darks, like the yin and yang she learned about in tai chi class. Yin—Earth, Female, Moon, Darkness. Yang— Heaven, Male, Sun, Light. Together, a balance in the universe. Harmony.

Triangles into squares, small squares into larger squares. Fitting together to make a whole. Everything ordered, the way it was supposed to be. Clean, straight lines. Clear, sharp edges. Perfect points. Mom would be pleased it’s getting finished, she thought. Pleased that we’re almost there.

When Val came to say good night, Jasmine remembered. “We’re going on a field trip to Chinatown tomorrow, so I’ll meet my class there and you won’t have to drive me to school. Did Dad tell you?”

Her aunt nodded. “I’ll drop you off at eleven.”

“We can wear something Chinese if we like, but I don’t have anything.”

Val grinned. “I’ve got just the thing.”

In a minute she was back holding a dark bundle and a wide-brimmed hat. “What do you think?” she asked, placing the hat on Jasmine’s head.

Jasmine looked in the mirror. “Great!”

“Now this.” She held a jacket against Jasmine’s chest. “Looks like it might even fit. Try it on.”

The jacket was lined inside, heavily padded with cottoa It had wide sleeves and hung loosely over her jeans. Jasmine did up the frog fastenings, closing herself in from neck to hem. “It fits perfectly.”

“It’s what the Chinese coolies wore when they came to work on the railroad. Try on the pants.”

Jasmine slipped them on. “A bit long.”

“That’s OK. We’ll just roll them up, like so. Now, the shoes.” She handed her a pair of black cotton shoes.

“These fit too.”

Val smiled. “You’ve certainly got the hair for it. One long pigtail, like the Chinese had in those days.”

The clothes felt good, well-worn and comfortable. Jasmine grinned at her reflection. “I look just like a Chinese coolie.”

Val’s face suddenly fell. “What’s wrong?” Jasmine asked, surprised at her aunt’s reaction.

“Nothing,” Val said, laughing it off. “It’s the way you looked just then, as if—have you ever had the feeling that something has happened before? Déjà vu, it’s called. When your mom was about your age, she went to a Halloween party. She didn’t know what to wear, so I suggested the coolie clothes. She put them on, stood in front of the mirror and said exactly what you said.”

“Did she wear them to the party?”

“Yes, and had a horrible time. The kids teased her and called her names. She came home in tears, tore off the clothes and kicked them out of the room. This is the first time they’ve been worn since then.” Seeing the look on Jasmine’s face, Val said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure the kids in your class are more enlightened.”

For a long time Jasmine couldn’t sleep. Night sounds hummed outside the window, and in spite of the closed curtains, city light crept in. She buried her face in the pillow, willing her mind to bring Bright Jade and the sanctuary of the garden.

But this time, there was no garden. The dream was a ragbag of images. Mist rising above a swollen river, like a dragon’s breath. Flood waters, flashes of white. Bright Jade, weeping. And mud! Grains of yellow sand, turning to mud. The claws of a tiger, sinking in mud. A river, churning with mud. Then turning to waves, blue-black and clear, whipped into spray by the wind.

A ship, crowded with hundreds of bodies. A boy about her age, standing alone, head bowed, sick with anxiety. All of a sudden he looked up and locked his gaze into hers. For one brief moment she felt a tug, as if some force were trying to pull her in.

She moaned, reeling with the lurching motion of the ship, nauseated by the stench that permeated the quarters. She woke with a start, certain she was going to be sick.

The instant she opened her eyes she felt better. Too many Nanaimo bars? Or just muddled thinking? She groaned at the awful pun, rolled over, and tried to get back to sleep.

But the strange assortment of images would not go away. Like her scraps of fabric, they were fragments of light and dark. But somehow they were related. Somehow they fit together, if only she could discover how.