The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers by Anton Piatigorsky

putrid odour of the old matchmaker, who has entered the room behind the couple and now lingers by the front door, awaiting the festive meal. The couple bows to the tablets of the Mao clan’s ancestors, to heaven and Earth, and again to the altar of the Kitchen God, Tsao-Chün. All as prescribed. All as expected.
    Now unnamed woman Luo shuffles into the kitchen. The perspiring boy’s parents pull out their chairs and sit beside each other, near the ancestral wall. The bride boils water and prepares the cups. When Luo re-enters with the formal tray and ceremonial tea, Tse-tung concentrates on remaining motionless, on keeping his legs from trembling, his teeth from grinding.
    Woman Luo performs the tea ceremony impeccably. Tse-tung can see she’s been well trained. She doesn’t have to sacrifice her dainty steps for additional stability. She executes a
k’ou-t’ou
before his parents in one smooth movement. Her wrists, as she hands them tea, bend at a pleasing angle. Tse-tung observes his father’s wide grin at the success of this wedding, and although he’s partly enraged by Jen-sheng’s ownership of the event, he’s also proud of his bride. The tea is sweet, perfectly saturated with lotus seeds and red dates. Both parents lick their lips. It’s true, this Luo woman will make a perfect wife. Tse-tung can’t help but regard the half moon of her behind through her tight-fitting dress.
    Tse-tung has been entitled to expose her face since the moment she entered their home, but only now, as the brideand groom bow to each other, ending the ceremony, does he recall his right. He watches his trembling hands lift the phoenix crown off her head, the veil rising with it. The metal decorations along the crown’s fringes tinkle and ring; Tse-tung can’t keep his arms still. Unnamed woman Luo stares demurely at the ground. She’s a beautiful girl—a small mouth, wide-set eyes, full cheeks with high bones, smooth and unblemished skin—but the deadness in her expression astonishes Tse-tung. She’s blinking, but otherwise shows no sign of life. The groom places the wedding crown on the table.
    She’s like a statue. Nothing there.
    The sun is setting outside. The farmhouse, though still scorching, is slowly growing dark. Unnamed woman Luo returns to the kitchen to prepare the festive meal as Wen Ch’i-mei lights a lantern. Jen-sheng pulls out a chair at the table for the village go-between. Jen-sheng ventures into the kitchen and returns, grumbling curses, carrying several bowls of rice. He goes into the courtyard and pays the sedan carriers and his labourer Wu with the simple dinner. He’s about to come back inside, but then changes his mind and offers each man a single tael without meeting their eyes. They
k’ou-t’ou
gratefully, puffs of dust rising when their foreheads touch the dry earth. Woman Luo brings out bowls of noodles, an earthenware jug of water, and, for a treat, a glutinous rice egg-cake.
    But for the clicking of chopsticks and the occasional slurp from the patriarch, the newly expanded Mao family eats in silence. Tse-tung doesn’t look at his bride, nor does sheregard him. Jen-sheng, however, glances under the table at unnamed woman Luo’s magnificent bound feet, his eyes bright with the pride of being able to afford a wife of such limited mobility. The matchmaker, as expected, eats her portion in large mouthfuls and taps her chopsticks on her bowl in a blunt request for more. Woman Luo is quick to stand and give her a refill. No one else dares to take seconds. Other than the sweetened egg-cake, consumed at the end, their meal is squalid, gone in minutes.
    Wen Ch’i-mei clears the bowls and takes them into the kitchen. “Tse-min,” calls Jen-sheng, snorting. He spits on the ground.
    The groom’s heart thuds.
    Tse-min enters the central room holding the small hand of his younger brother.
    “It’s time for
yuan fang
,” says Jen-sheng.
    The two younger boys skip out of the room, Tse-min almost