The Porcelain Moon

DedicationTo T.K. and C.H., who have always looked out for their little sister EpigraphEuropeans understand the logics of matter and by using the logics of the human spirit are able to transform a pitch-dark battlefield to a clear morning sky. But suppose they tried to reach the logics of Heaven through the logics of matter, now that would be real civilization. —Sun Gan, student worker, after seeing flares light up the night sky over No Man’s Land Contents CoverTitle PageDedicationEpigraphChapter 1: Saturday, November 2, 1918Chapter 2: Noyelles-sur-Mer 1906Chapter 3: Shanghai 1907Chapter 4: Sunday, November 3, 1918Chapter 5: Monday, November 4, 1918Chapter 6: Paris 1917Chapter 7: Letters from TheoChapter 8: Noyelles 1917Chapter 9: Letters from TheoChapter 10: Noyelles, April 1918Chapter 11: Tuesday, November 5, 1918Chapter 12: Letters from TheoChapter 13: Noyelles, August 1918Chapter 14: Wednesday, November 6, 1918Chapter 15: Thursday, November 7, 1918Chapter 16: Thursday, November 7, 1918Chapter 17: Friday, November 8, 1918Chapter 18: Saturday, November 9, 1918Chapter 19: Sunday, November 10, 1918Chapter 20: Monday, November 11, 1918Chapter 21: Tuesday, November 12, 1918Chapter 22: Thursday, November 21, 1918Chapter 23: April 30, 1937Author’s NoteAcknowledgmentsAbout the AuthorAlso by Janie ChangCopyrightAbout the Publisher Chapter 1Saturday, November 2, 1918PaulineBut I don’t want to get married, she thought. The letter fell from her hand and fluttered to the floor of the study, the neat precision of her uncle’s brushstroked Chinese writing at odds with the chaos that churned her insides. Pauline didn’t reach down to retrieve it, just stared at the sheet of paper as though it were some malevolent creature, a serpent or venomous spider lying on the wooden parquet. Her uncle’s first wife was now in control of her fate.First Wife, who had never wanted her in their household. First Wife, whose expression visibly curdled whenever she looked at Pauline. Her uncle had murmured occasionally about writing to First Wife in Shanghai about arranging a match for Pauline, but in his absentminded way he’d never followed through. Not until now. Now, because he was back in China for Grandfather Deng’s funeral. Now, because while he was there he had remembered to ask First Wife to hire a matchmaker for Pauline, his dead brother’s illegitimate daughter. Pauline’s gaze fell on a tall vase in the corner, its glazed surface painted with a folktale she knew well: the Lady Ch’ang O escaping from a cruel husband, her robes streaming in the wind as she ascends the night sky toward a full moon. Her right hand is raised, pointing to her destination. A porcelain woman reaching for a porcelain moon. The air in Pauline’s lungs felt chokingly thick. She threw open the study window, oblivious to the frigid November wind that slashed at her throat and swept papers off the desk. She leaned out as far as the wrought-iron window guards allowed and let the familiar noises of life on the Rue de Lisbonne seep into her consciousness. Impatient delivery trucks sounding their horns, two women laughing as they strolled together, their children trailing behind them, chattering like sparrows. The streetlamps that gave Paris its nickname, the City of Light, glimmered brightly as the sun sank lower. When Pauline finally took a deep breath, she drew in aromas of baking, the bistro on the corner preparing its evening menu. She retreated to the chair, ran one fingertip over the polished surface of the rosewood desk, and rearranged her uncle’s writing brushes on the lacquered stand. She waited for her heartbeat to calm. Then she gathered up the papers the wind had blown about on the floor and stacked them under a marble paperweight. There had to be a way to avoid the fate outlined for her in that letter.Her dowry was meager, her prospects equally so. She knew what sort of match to expect. She might end up a shopkeeper’s second wife, worked to death and at the mercy of a resentful first wife. Or First Wife might pair her with an elderly widower who wanted an unpaid nursemaid. But worse than anything, whatever future First Wife was arranging for her right now, it would send Pauline back to China, far away from everything she loved. She didn’t want to leave Paris. Not this apartment with its tall French doors and high ceilings, or the neighbors along the Rue de Lisbonne. Not La Pagode, the store her uncle owned and all its beautiful antiques. She hurried down to the ground floor and along the corridor that led to the back of La Pagode. The store was closed most of the time now; few wanted to buy antiques while a war was going on. Once inside, she looked around as if to assure herself everything was as she’d left it that morning. There wasn’t a single object in this store Pauline hadn’t cleaned and polished, no display she hadn’t arranged, composing pieces into enticing vignettes. She paused by an elmwood table where she had placed ivory statuettes between bright porcelain vases. On another table, densely patterned cloisonné enamelware contrasted with austere celadon bowls. After all these years at La Pagode, she could tell the difference between an ancient jade disc from the Han dynasty and an imitation one carved only three hundred years ago. She knew what every antique cost her uncle and how to price it. If only Theo were here. Theo, her cousin who was like a brother to her. His Chinese name, Deng Taoling, made foreign tongues stumble, so it didn’t take long for their Parisian neighbors to call him Theo instead. Just as she became Pauline Deng instead of Deng Baoling. Just as her uncle gave himself a French name when he printed up La Pagode’s business cards: Louis Deng, Proprietor. At twenty-three, Pauline was housekeeper and cook, bookkeeper and clerk. It was an agreeable little household: Pauline and Theo, her uncle and his mistress. If Louis was prepared to disrupt this harmonious arrangement it meant other factors were at play, undercurrents of family politics to which she was not privy. She pulled a