Her husband said with a laugh that was somewhere between mockery and joviality, ‘You know, without me, you wouldn’t be wearing those ear-rings!’ His eyes roamed the various parts of her body and settled, with satisfaction, on each item that had been part of the continuing husbandly largesse over the eight years of their marriage. ‘Or the rings. The necklace. The jade bangle.’ His eyes rested longer on the bangle, circling her delicate wrist, for it had cost more than the rest of the items combined, being the Imperial variety of jade with its rare translucence. The gold anklets resting on her small dainty feet in their embroidered slippers did not escape his attention. He said, ‘You know, I saw Old Wu’s second wife look at those anklets with special interest because they’re of better quality gold than hers!’

It was the incessant competition between two vain old men to see whose wife or mistress wore the more expensive jewellery, badge of their husbands’ social standing. Like Old Wu’s second wife, she was also Number Two and very young; unlike her, though, she would have given back—flung back, rather—all those glittering ornaments if she could, and say, before walking out of the house, ‘Take them back! I don’t want them for they’re poisoned with the venom of your words, and of your touch!’

But of course she couldn’t do that. She was trapped in a world that she daily cried to be free from. ‘What are you crying about?’ said her mother impatiently, once catching sight of the tears in your eyes. ‘Every young woman would die to be in your position!’

It was his jealousy that unleashed all the mean comments, the special jealousy of an old man when he sees his young, beautiful wife attracting the attention of other men, in particular the younger ones. The resentful feelings would rise to the surface, like a dark, malevolent current in a stagnant pool, right in the middle of his making love to her, in the darkness, on their silken bed. It was then that all the insecurities harboured in that proud seventy-five-year-old body with its weakened flesh and sagging skin burst forth, like a suppurating wound, overwhelming her.

They could take on the crudest forms: ‘Why was he looking at you all the time? You must have given him some encouragement. Do you fancy him? Did you say to yourself, ‘It must be much bigger and longer and stronger than my husband’s!’ Well, go ahead, go ahead and take him for your lover!’

Sometimes it took the whole night to calm him down, and get him back to sleep. She wished that the calming down needed just the cup of expensive ginseng from China that her mother had bought for her.

But it was his jealousy of the trishaw pedaller that drove her to the breaking point. Ah Huat who at forty had been at the same occupation as his father for twenty years, had been taking her mother regularly to the temple in his trishaw for as long as she could remember. As a young girl, she had sometimes accompanied her mother to make her offerings to the temple gods, and to the wet market on festival days, when Ah Huat, always good-natured and helpful, would help carry the heavily laden shopping baskets right into the kitchen.

Some years after her marriage, she heard that Ah Huat’s family was in a bad financial state. She managed to persuade her husband to allow her to make use of his services whenever she and her maidservants needed to go on short trips to the shops or market. He agreed, but she had no idea about the growing jealousy until one evening, when he suddenly turned to her while they were in bed and said pointedly, ‘Well, how is your Ah Huat today?’ She stiffened, waiting for his next words which came in a torrent: ‘Why are you so friendly to him? I heard you both laughing together! You looked so happy together!’ She had a recollection of the offending laughter, but not the cause: her maid, dumb as usual, must have said something stupid, and they had all burst out laughing together.

‘So you enjoy his company, eh? So you are flirting with him behind my back?’ She could only say quietly, restraining her rage, ‘I don’t know why you are angry. Surely you don’t think…’

The accusations escalated fearfully, even after, upon his insistence, she had dismissed Ah Huat who promptly avoided their part of the town, fearing to cause any more trouble. He began accusing her of meeting him secretly: why else did she look so guilty when he came back one evening? Then, in a burst of self-pity, he accused her of despising him for his old man’s unworthy performance. Finally, in a crescendo of rage that made him splutter and choke, he accused her of ruining his reputation forever: having an affair with a trishawman, mere scum on the face of the earth, and making her husband, the town’s most wealthy and eminent resident a laughing stock! In a display of the strange illogical twists and turns that jealousy sometimes takes, he said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded if it were some respectable man, but a trishaw pedaller!’ He spat out the word.

This is a true story, embellished only in the details by the fiction writer for greater narrative impact. It was told to me by a friend whose mother had told it to her, as it had happened to a relative, so many years ago.

The story’s end was so astonishing that even my fervid writer’s imagination could not have thought of anything like it. It was really the classic tale of a woman’s ultimate revenge, when she feels she has been robbed of all sense of self-worth.

The old man, about a year after his outburst of jealousy, had a stroke. It was severe enough to keep him bedridden for the remaining two years of his life, his mind sharp and alert while the rest of his faculties were gone, including speech. And his young wife? For the first time in her life, she was happy. She deliberately sought out the trishaw pedaller and had an affair with him. Moreover, she chose to conduct the affair in the room next to the old man’s, so he could hear the joyous sounds of their love-making. He probably died from an apoplexy of rage. The love affair with the trishaw man lasted till then.

It is the most terrifying story I have ever heard about a woman’s revenge. Other similar stories I have read or been told, have provoked this question about my gender: what is it about a woman that the vengeance she is capable of, once she gets the chance, is more powerful, more purposeful, more ingenious, than a man’s could ever be?

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...