The local official, smoking his pipe, examined their identity documents, then looked back and forth at the faces of this newly married couple, showing an expression of utter bewilderment.
“Born in 1846, twenty-six years old this year?”
The official asked suspiciously.
Lin Yuchan laughed, taking out a stack of document copies from her bag—all things she’d brought to America for contingencies.
Including a 1861 copy of the customs work certificate signed by Hede, a 1863 contract for Shanghai property transfer, 1865 records of opening an account at HSBC, a 1866 group photo as an orphanage sponsor…
The official took several puffs, marveling: “What’s the secret to eternal youth, madam? Tell me, and I can waive your one-dollar twenty-five cents documentation fee.”
“It’s always harboring hope,” Lin Yuchan smiled as she took the pen to sign the documents, “and quitting smoking.”
The official was startled, then burst into laughter, actually extinguishing his pipe and lowering his head to check the information on the documents.
The mayor of Hartford also rushed over from his office upon hearing the news. He had always thought this young couple was acting impulsively in the heat of the moment. God as his witness, though he was an enthusiastic matchmaking uncle, getting married in Connecticut was disadvantageous!
They couldn’t be dissuaded. These two Romeo and Juliets were determined to complete the proceedings in America, as if they couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
“Uh, I did some more homework yesterday. Please allow me to emphasize once more,” the mayor had to say. “If you want these states to recognize your marriage, you need to do this and that. If you want to be legal in those states, you need to do such and such… If you want the Qing government to recognize this marriage, it’s best to first… then… and then… Anyway, the procedures are very complicated and will cost quite a bit of money. But if you don’t do this, I’m afraid you’ll face criticism when you return home, or even lawsuits… I’ve had my secretary write down the specifics for you to keep.”
A thick stack of legal advice, copied in beautiful script, had taken several hours of his office time. Given the friendship between China and America, it was a gift.
Su Minguan sincerely thanked him, then, without looking, put it in his leather bag.
The official also distributed several booklets similar to newlywed guides. One was about marriage life chicken soup proverbs, one about housewife domestic tips, one was property advertisements, and another was legal requirements, specifically noting some laws unique to Connecticut: for instance, in this state, married women could independently enjoy patent rights and inheritance rights, and seriously beating one’s wife could result in prosecution… reminding the newlyweds to take note.
“Also,” the mayor reminded with what he thought was wit, “I trust I needn’t remind you that, unlike China, in our America we practice monogamy…”
Good news doesn’t travel far, but bad reputations spread a thousand miles. Americans had long heard about the cultural tradition in China where wealthy men had multiple wives and concubines while women submissively endured, so he kindly reminded them to avoid future legal disputes.
Su Minguan’s face darkened, a trace of mockery floating at the corner of his mouth.
Ignorant arrogance, even when well-intentioned, was offensive.
The mayor was an old politician and immediately knew he’d misspoken upon seeing his reaction, awkwardly touching his nose: “Cough, cough, I mean…”
Lin Yuchan quickly grasped Su Minguan’s hand, preventing him from speaking sarcastically. On such a joyous day, these things weren’t worth arguing about.
“Monogamy, huh?” she feigned disappointment. “I was planning to bring another one tomorrow.”
Everyone was stunned. Then Mark Twain sympathetically sighed.
The mayor and local official breathed sighs of relief, laughing heartily and looking at Lin Yuchan gratefully.
This was their first deep interaction with Chinese people. They’d be more careful in the future, not daring to speak so carelessly.
The secretary timely brought coffee. Su Minguan accepted it, indicating this matter was dropped, and smiled at Lin Yuchan.
No wonder this girl was loved by all who met her.
But… it was also very taxing.
The mayor continued: “If you need a church and pastor, you’ll need to open these certificates…”
Lin Yuchan and Su Minguan exchanged glances, smiling and shaking their heads.
Neither of them was sincere in faith, so they wouldn’t trouble the poor pastor to work overtime.
The official knew Chinese people generally weren’t religious and said accommodatingly: “Then I can also stamp it here, but we need another witness, preferably local…”
He put down his pipe, turning to look at the grinning Mark Twain beside him.
“I guess this writer gentleman came to witness?”
“Oh, not at all,” Mark Twain blew smoke rings, “I came to find material for my next satirical novel.”
The official and mayor laughed in unison: “We’d be greatly honored to be written into your book.”
“You won’t think so after you’ve seen my description.”
Mark Twain grinned as he pulled out his pen, signing his real name in the witness column: Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
“Well then, all procedures complete,” the mayor congratulated. “Now the bride can put on her ring… if there is one.”
Remembering their different cultural customs, he quickly added the last sentence.
Nineteenth-century Western culture didn’t yet have the custom of exchanging rings—usually, only the bride wore a wedding ring.
For Lin Yuchan, it naturally didn’t matter. She smiled: “No need…”
She didn’t finish. Su Minguan suddenly pressed her hand, slowly taking something from his coat pocket.
She looked in surprise at the octagonal leather box he handed her, opening the delicate brass clasp.
Su Minguan stared at her intently, saying in a deliberately casual tone: “Might as well do the full performance.”
The several onlookers cheered exaggeratedly.
Lin Yuchan held her breath, carefully pinching the ring from the box. Gold as the base, though Western in style, was inlaid with light-colored jade, completely Chinese in style.
The jade quality was warm and delicate, obviously having been worn close to the body for many years, its color and patterns vaguely familiar.
Lin Yuchan immediately recognized it—it was the gold-inlaid jade longevity lock Su Minguan had always worn on his chest. His mother had hung it on him in childhood; it was the only valuable item he’d brought from that wealthy household. During his days alone, this lock had blocked bullets for him, endured beatings with him, gradually becoming unrecognizable until it completely shattered.
His life had been full of ups and downs. Several times, he’d ruthlessly let go, abandoning everything he had. Only this scarred lock piece, whose touch and warmth he’d grown accustomed to, he’d never removed.
Until today.
She suddenly felt her nose sting, lowering her head to carefully slide the ring onto her left hand, cool at first. With a gentle squeeze, the soft, pure gold band fitted her finger, becoming one with her.
The small piece of intact jade at the center had been crafted by a Jewish artisan using gem-cutting techniques into a teardrop-shaped green at the ring’s center, surrounded by a circle of fine gold. On her fair finger, it was like starlight on a moonlit night, radiating long-lost brilliance.
“Time was short, and I don’t like those cheap, ready-made products,” Su Minguan said softly. “I found a goldsmith—the remaining portion was just enough to make a ring. Not valuable… just satisfying a whim anyway. Does it look good?”
She nodded, suddenly thinking—yesterday, with heavy snow blocking roads, he’d gone out to find a goldsmith?
She lifted her face, smiled brilliantly, and generously kissed his cheek.
“Tsk tsk, how touching,” Mark Twain exaggeratedly sniffled. “Believe me, only after I married Livy did I realize I’d simply wasted thirty years of my life before. I should have married her the moment I was born, instead of wasting time sucking my thumb and wetting diapers…”
The great writer had an obsession with diapers. Lin Yuchan laughed: “Not going back to see little Susy?”
“Oh, right! Well then, bye-bye.”
Lin Yuchan laughed heartily, thanked everyone present, and left City Hall arm-in-arm with Su Minguan.
“Certificate.”
The mayor reminded with a dark expression.
She blushed to her neck, hastily sealing the ornate paper wedding certificate in an envelope and putting it in her bag.
A newlywed who forgot her marriage certificate on the office desk—she was probably the first since this city hall was built…
Su Minguan generously extended his arm for her to take. The fresh north wind ruffled her hair.
Soft winter sunlight cast a warm hue over the unmelted snow by the roadside. Church bells dissolved in the air. Someone in a roadside house was playing an accordion, performing colonial-era folk songs.
Brightly colored Western-style buildings were scattered along the road, with mailboxes painted yellow or green at their gates. The plump bakery owner hawked freshly baked bagels, while chairs in the Irish pub were turned upside down with two kittens playing among the chair legs. The small bookstore’s windowsill was filled with blue flowerpots, and “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was displayed in the window. Several campaign advertisements were posted on the walls of the local courthouse, but were overshadowed by a crudely printed giant poster beside them. The poster had no flourishes, just two huge handwritten words:
WOMAN SUFFRAGE!
Lin Yuchan loved this small town.
Being Christmas holidays, the public coach had few passengers—they practically had the entire car to themselves.
Su Minguan called her softly: “Mrs. Su.”
She smiled and responded.
“Wife.”
She responded.
“Madam.”
“…”
“Lady wife.”
This was too embarrassing! Lin Yuchan refused to make a sound.
But his brows held laughter as he stared at her slowly reddening cheeks with his beautifully curved eyes, calling again with deep affection:
“Lady wife—”
Lin Yuchan gritted her teeth, roughened her voice, and imitated northern tones.
“Father of my child! Old man!”
I’ll call you once—do you dare respond!
Su Minguan took a silent blow, turning his head in frustrated defeat to observe the thick snow outside the window.
Lin Yuchan laughed silently. Compete with her in shamelessness? Practice for another hundred years first.
She made a fist, not quite used to wearing a ring—there was an unfamiliar foreign sensation in her palm.
“How does it feel?”
She leaned against his shoulder, interviewing him.
Su Minguan ignored her. After she nudged him repeatedly for encouragement, he finally smiled quietly after a long while: “When I was little, I imagined marriage would be noisy celebrations, choking cigarette smoke from social obligations, bowing to elders and ancestral shrines, kowtowing until dizzy, and finally being tormented all night by boring people… not like this.”
“Because today you didn’t get married,” Lin Yuchan corrected him. “You got wed.”
He laughed again, not feeling much difference. His raven-black eyelashes swayed gently with the coach’s rhythm.
“Don’t you feel we should have done this long ago?” he asked back.
Now it was Lin Yuchan’s turn to be embarrassed. After a long while, she said, “Now is just right.”
Psychologically, she didn’t feel the ceremonial sense of “I’m married.” She wouldn’t undergo a complete transformation, becoming proper and well-behaved—she’d still be scandalous when she should be, still dropping jaws worldwide.
The man beside her was still her paramour, that business partner who made money with her, that secret lover who made her blush and her heart race.
Su Minguan took out the stack of papers the mayor had personally entrusted from his bag.
Being mayor of Hartford must be leisurely. He’d probably gotten addicted to researching, writing over ten pages on how to turn this Connecticut-only marriage into globally valid documentation.
“This is quite heavy,” he complained.
“But the handwriting is beautiful,” she said, “and he wrote for several hours.”
Su Minguan thought about it, then dismissed the idea of throwing it away, putting it back in his bag.
He suddenly asked again: “What’s today’s date?”
The day after Christmas. But following his train of thought, he was asking about the lunar calendar. That couldn’t be answered off the cuff—having been in America for several months using the Western calendar, she’d long forgotten the old calendar.
Lin Yuchan was too lazy to calculate, so she replied: “No need to remember.”
Hopefully, she’d forget their wedding anniversary in the future and not have him catch her by the pigtails.
The coach turned onto another road. A dark stone emerged from the snow—the boundary marker between Connecticut and Massachusetts. Someone had placed a Christmas wreath on top, half buried in snow.
Su Minguan breathed out gently, lifted Lin Yuchan’s hand, and kissed that ring.
“You can take it off now, A’Mei.”