in front of me and cleared away the rest of my scribbles. “Since you seem to spend most of your time imagining conversations with Yen Hanchin, pretend you’re writing him a letter explaining why it matters so much for women to seek higher education and careers.”
After that, the speech writing went much better.
***
“Where is Tongyin? Is he still in bed?” Father asked. We were having lunch and Stepmother had just placed slices of fish and tofu on Father’s plate. Then she rotated the circular inner table so that the dish rested in front of Changyin and his wife, Geeling, who had made a rare effort to walk over and dine with us.
“I was in the garden when Second Brother left the house this morning,” said my sister-in-law in her tiny voice. “It was eight o’clock.” And she ducked her head to stare into her rice bowl, as though waiting to be scolded for speaking.
Geeling had been betrothed to Changyin since childhood, but it was not until Changyin was older that he had declared he would never marry a woman with tiny feet. Her parents had to loosen her bindings after they had been set. Sometimes the letting-loose process resulted in painfully deformed bones. Geeling carried herself with a shyness that seemed equally painful. My sister-in-law barely spoke, and when she did, it was in a whispery, hesitant voice. She seemed comfortable only with her children and rarely left their house.
A servant was dispatched to speak to our gatekeeper and returned with the news that Tongyin had taken a rickshaw to the China Millennium office.
“I have no idea what would inspire him to get up early, but if he has gone to see Yen Hanchin, I have no objections.” Father helped himself to some pickled radish.
“Father, I’m a little worried,” Changyin said. “Tongyin is very impressionable. Yen Hanchin is from a good family, but he leans to the left since his return from Russia.”
“First Son, don’t be too concerned,” Father went on. “Yen Hanchin is probably just interested in the philosophy behind socialism and other political systems. He is an intellectual. When he gains more recognition for his fine poetry, he will forget about politics.”
I glowed at Father’s praise for Hanchin’s poetry. When the time came, I would appeal to Father’s soft spot for poets.
***
That evening, Tongyin arrived home shortly after supper, flushed and talkative. I was reading a translation of Eugene Onegin, one of the books Hanchin had recommended to me the night of the party. Father and Changyin were reading newspapers, and Stepmother and Sueyin sat on the sofa, gathered under a pool of light from the floor lamp behind them. They were embroidering bags of red silk to give to the most honoured wedding guests. Sueyin didn’t need my second-rate embroidery skills.
Tongyin waved off Stepmother’s attempts to order him a supper tray.
“No need, no need at all. I ate at China Millennium ’soffices. We had noodles sent up from a street vendor. Delicious.”
I couldn’t believe that my brother, who scorned all but the smartest cafés, would eat street food. But apparently Hanchin’s company had influenced him. I felt a twinge of envy. I imagined the camaraderie at China Millennium to be like that of the officers’ quarters in Vronsky’s regiment.
“Father, I’m going to be Yen Hanchin’s assistant.” He looked ridiculously happy. “A magazine is a busy place, and he says I can be useful just running his errands.”
Tongyin had never spoken of any ambitions. For him, university was no more than a place where he could meet his friends every day. By some miracle, Hanchin had inspired Tongyin to take on responsibility.
“Is he paying you to be his assistant?” I asked. My pang of resentment was now a full, aching jealousy.
“Not at all. No. I’m not staff, I’m just a volunteer. An apprentice of sorts.”
“Second Son, I am pleased that you want to help Yen Hanchin,” Father said. “I am less pleased,