Chapter Eight
Despite Papa’s disapproval, or perhaps because of it, Addie and I agreed to meet the twins again a few days later at the Thompsons’
abandoned farm. They planned to teach us the quadrille, a dance they’d learned in Paris.
The waning sun bathed the yard in a golden glow as Chang gestured for us to form a square. “You stand there, Sallie,” he said,
pointing to the patch of grass in front of his brother. “And Adelaide, you face me.”
Sunlight caught the swish of her pink skirts as she moved into place.
Eng took my hand, his palm cool and firm. “Hold yourself like this,” he said, lifting his shoulders and steadying his chin,
“as if you’re wearing a crown.”
I mimicked his stance. My shoulders felt stiff and unnatural.
“The first step is simple.” He demonstrated a small glide backward, then forward. “Think of it as a conversation, with steps
instead of words. Retreat—like a question—and then step toward me, like an answer.”
Dancing had never come naturally to me, and my first attempt nearly sent me sideways into the bushes. Eng caught me with a
steady hand, his fingers lingering just long enough to anchor me before letting go.
“It’s a quadrille, not a march, Sallie,” Chang chided. “Stay in step. Glide, don’t stomp.”
Addie laughed, her voice teasing. “Gliding may be easier for some than others.”
“It appears easy enough for you, sweet Adelaide,” Chang said.
Eng squeezed my hand. “Side step, then together.”
Back and forth. Question, answer. Side step, then together. The repetition steadied me. I was aware of the squeak of my slippers against the grass as I found the rhythm. “Show me that
turn again.”
Eng’s hand brushed Chang’s as they turned us with a flick of their wrists, spinning us into place.
After rehearsing the opening gesture—a curtsy, then a step back—Eng gestured for Addie and me to exchange places, crossing
the center of the imaginary square. “It’s a four-part sequence,” he said as we moved. “Forward and back, cross over, hands
around, then promenade.” He demonstrated the steps with a fluid, economical grace.
We attempted the crossover: a quick pass, shoulder to shoulder, then back to position.
“You have to anticipate the shift,” Eng said. “Each move builds on the last.”
We exchanged places once more, this time pairing with the opposite twin.
Chang’s lower center of gravity and broader hands made the movements heavier, more deliberate, and he carried himself with
an air of indulgence, as if he were doing me a favor. I struggled to keep up under his critical eye. Returning to Eng a few
minutes later was a welcome relief.
When the melody began, Eng hummed along, accompanied by the steady tap of Chang’s foot. I was close enough to Eng that I could
feel his beating heart.
The final movement brought us into a circle, hands linked—Addie on Chang’s left, I on Eng’s right. Side step, together, side step, close. We wove a spiral, the ground beneath us like the axis of a spinning world.
Eng gave me an approving smile. “You’ve got it now. Quick and light.” Releasing my hand, he said, “It’s really just a matter
of timing.”
“I’m afraid that if you compare me to Adelaide, you’ll find me wanting,” I said.
“I do not compare you,” he said.
“But your brother—”
“People assume that Chang and I are the same. That we have the same opinions and want the same things. But we are not. And
we do not.”
Chang had been looking away, pretending not to listen, but at this, he nodded. “That is true,” he said.
The shadows on the lawn grew indistinct as the sky turned lavender. A cicada buzzed, then fell silent. We sat on the rickety
porch, under the crumbling eaves, sipping lemonade the brothers had brought in a flask.
“So, what is Paris like?” Addie asked.
“It’s the best city in the world,” Chang said, taking a sip and passing the flask to Addie. “The cafés stay open all night.
People sit at little tables outside, sipping champagne and discussing poetry.”
“Eating oysters with mignonette sauce,” Eng added. “And some ladies wear their skirts above the ankle.”
“How scandalous,” Addie said.
Chang laughed. “That’s part of what makes it special.”
I’d never had the urge to taste an oyster. Or drink champagne. Or stay up all night discussing poetry. But now I wanted to.
Eng turned to me. “A book of poems by Victor Hugo was translated into English recently, Odes et Ballades. It’s one of my favorites. We have it in our library.” He paused, watching me. Then, with a half smile, he said, “Ce n’est pas ma faute, hélas! si je vous aime.”
I blinked. “And what does that mean?”
“It isn’t my fault, alas, that I love you.”
Though he said it lightly, teasingly, I felt my face flush.
Chang let out a low whistle. “Careful, Sallie. Bet you didn’t know Eng was such a charmer.”
Addie gave a small, amused shrug. “Heavens. Neither did I.”
“Next thing you know, he’ll be sweeping you off to Paris.”
“Will you?” I asked Eng.
“Why not?” For a moment, the air seemed to still around us. I was surprised by the warmth in his gaze. Then he asked, “So
do you have a favorite poet?”
I shook my head. “Honestly, I’ve never read much poetry. Unless the Bible counts.”
“You’re religious, then?” Chang asked.
I exchanged a glance with Addie. It was a complicated question.
Though Papa was a Quaker, he’d stopped going to services years ago—probably when the conflict between Quaker theology and
owning slaves became impossible to ignore. Mama was Baptist, like most of our neighbors, and when we went to church as a family,
we went to hers. She seldom attended now, and didn’t insist that we go without her.
Truthfully, I had given little real thought to what I believed. The hymns and verses I’d learned as a child were etched into
my memory, but I rarely paused to consider what they meant. Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Heaven’s joys are ever bright, but hell’s a burning lake.
“Not very,” I admitted. “And you’re . . . Buddhist?”
“Siam is a Buddhist country,” Eng said. “We were raised that way, insofar as we were raised in any particular faith.”
“What is Buddhism exactly?” Addie asked.
“Buddhists believe that when we die, our spirits move into other bodies—a hog, a horse, a deer. Each life is a chance to atone
for what went wrong in the last.”
“Do you believe that?”
Chang shrugged. “It’s what we knew as children.”
“Life has a way of reshaping belief,” Eng said. “We attend church now.”
“What if one of you wanted to be Buddhist and the other Christian?”
“We’ve always found ways to live with our differences,” Chang said.
Eng gave a faint smile. “And anyway, sometimes it’s just simpler to follow the customs of the place you live.”
Addie tilted her head, her curiosity clearly not satisfied. “Does it feel strange, sharing everything? Your lives are so intertwined.”
The old house creaked behind us.
“You joked about it the other day,” she went on, “but do you ever actually wish you were separate?”
“Ah, that question,” Eng said.
“You don’t have to—” I started.
“Sometimes, yes, of course,” Chang said. “It would be nice to have privacy, to go through life without being gawked at.”
“Of course,” Addie said, then pressed on: “But I meant, do you wish you didn’t have to be together all the time?”
He offered a thin smile. “I know what you meant.”
“It must get—”
“It’s a bit like asking a zebra if it would rather be a horse,” Chang interrupted. “A zebra can do all the things a horse
can do; it just looks different.”
“Wouldn’t it be more like . . . two horses joined together?” I ventured.
“No. It’s not like that,” Chang said with an edge.
Eng tilted his head at me. “Do you know the story of Castor and Pollux?”
I shook my head.
“They were twins,” he said, “born to the same mother at the same time. But Pollux was a god, the son of Zeus, and Castor was
a mortal. They grew up side by side, hunting, playing games, getting in trouble. You know, typical brothers. One day, Castor
was mortally wounded in a fight. Pollux couldn’t bear the idea of losing him, and begged Zeus to let Castor share his immortality.”
“And did Zeus agree?” I asked.
“With one condition,” Eng said. “He told Pollux, ‘Then you will share half of Castor’s death. Is that what you want?’ Pollux
said yes; he could not live without his brother. So Zeus transformed them both into the constellation Gemini.” He gestured
toward the sky. “They are still together to this day.”
I nodded slowly, trying to follow. “So what you’re saying is—”
Chang broke in. “My brother is saying he would choose to sacrifice himself, like Pollux. But I think his allegorical talk
is just a way to cope with something we can’t change.”
“What’s your view?” Addie asked him.
Shaking his head, Chang said, “Our bond is just a fact. Something to be endured without complaint. Or poetry.”
Dusk had settled over the porch. The air was cooler; the wind was picking up. In the distance, the clinking of the horses’
bridles mingled with the rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze.
“My brother and I have been bachelors for a long time,” Chang said with characteristic candor. “We’ve enjoyed our freedom.
But momentary pleasures no longer interest us.”
“We are getting old,” Eng said.
“You’re not—” I started.
“We’re thirty-one.”
Eleven years older than me. Twelve years older than Addie.
“We’ve saved a tidy sum and built a good house,” Chang said. “We have everything we need except wives and children.”
Addie cocked her head. “My goodness. You are direct.”
He smiled. “No one has ever given us anything. We’ve learned to ask for what we want.”
“Down here, people tend to be more . . . circumspect.”
“Well,” Chang said, “in this instance we think it best to speak frankly. Why should we be denied marital happiness because
of a quirk of nature? Our physical condition, through no fault of our own, should not keep us from fulfilling lives.”
I felt breathless, as if I were walking across a rope high in the trees. It was the first time they’d spoken so directly.