The Tapestries Read online

  Behind the young Master Nguyen was a massive black-lacquered divan decorated with a mother-of-pearl mosaic illustrating the life story of Kuan Yin, the goddess of mercy. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, and Ven could not help admiring its beauty. She paused, temporarily confused.

  “Come in and close the door behind you,” a harsh voice said.

  She lifted her head and saw that the voice belonged to a woman in her sixties, the oldest person in the room besides the matchmaker. The dowager lay on the couch, reclining. Her face was cocked upward to study Ven, and she wore an expression of undisguised disapproval, as though she were regarding a piece of spoiled meat. One of her arms stretched over the back of the divan, and in her hand she loosely held a long, ivory opium pipe. Her other hand held the mouthpiece of the pipe a few inches away from her mouth. She wore a black robe, which hung on her flat chest like a scarecrow's rags. Its severe color accentuated the pallor of her skin, and her purple lips, discolored from opium, pressed together like oily earthworms. She wore no jewelry except for a bright gold collar, which encircled her neck like a brace.

  “Move closer. Meet your second and third mothers,” she said, pointing to the other two women.

  The matchmaker seized the opportunity to make herself useful. She reeled toward Ven, her back curved torturously to the ground. “Come over here, girl. Pay your respects to your mothers-in-law. Bow and offer them the soup.”

  Ven moved toward the divan, keeping her eyes on the immaculate floor. She could see the women's reflections in the tiles as they studied her. The matchmaker tapped on her legs and whispered to her, “Kneel down.”

  Like a puppet, Ven fell to her knees. She raised the ebony tray to her brow, so that all she could see was the side panel of the couch. “First Mother,” she said to the goddess of mercy's inlay, “please have some sparrow's nest soup.”

  First Mistress ignored her. Instead, she waved the pipe to Second Mistress, who sat across from her on a burgundy velvet pillow. The gesture promptly animated the woman. She reached into her blouse for a silver pillbox the size of a betel nut. From the corner of her eye, Ven watched her spoon out a brownish, rubbery substance, using a gold pin. She roasted this resin over the flame of an oil lantern for a few seconds, checked its consistency with her thumb and forefinger, then rolled it into a small round capsule and placed it in the older woman's pipe.

  A few feet away, a younger woman slouched in an oversized armchair, holding a lute against her chest. This, Ven deduced, must be the beloved Third Mistress. Her tiny bare feet were stretched out on top of an ottoman. Ven saw that her feet had been bound in the Chinese way when she was a child, so that they were now no larger than those of her seven-year-old son. But she was not an entirely traditional woman—her teeth, instead of being stained with the lacquered juice as was customary, were pearly white.

  A shirtless young man in his mid-twenties knelt beside Third Mistress's stool. He massaged her delicate feet with coconut oil. Each movement of his hands made his muscles ripple under his tanned skin, like the stout cords of a fisherman's ropes.

  Just as Song had said, Third Mistress was an exceptionally beautiful young woman. She did not seem to be a day older than twenty-three. Her luxurious jet-black hair was parted perfectly in the middle and twisted into a tight chignon. A few strands fell down the sides of her face, caressing her flawless skin like streaks of dark ink on white canvas. She leaned her cheek against the fretted neck of the lute while her fingers plucked at the strings and made a lazy, melancholy tune. A red crepe-de-Chine breast band across her bosom accentuated the elegance of her long neck.

  Second Mistress rose to fetch an ornamental screen embroidered with a pheasant and placed it in front of the older woman. The device protected First Mistress's pipe from the draft so its flame could stay lit. And, of course, she liked to keep her activities from prying eyes. Next, Second Mistress removed a transparent shade from an oil lantern. Through the partition, Ven could hear the loud sucking noise the old woman made with her pipe and the gurgling sound of the liquid being churned in the bowl.

  Suddenly everything stopped, including the music that wept from beneath Third Mistress's slender fingers. First Mistress dropped her pipe and fell back. Her eyes closed. Her lips tightened. Her chest seemed to stop moving. For several seconds, no one made a sound.

  Then the music resumed. Second Mistress turned to Ven and said, “It is time to offer First Mother her soup. It will help to keep her opium down.”

  First Mistress sat up and opened her eyes, still holding her breath. She grabbed a bowl of soup from Ven's hands and took a sip. With a scowl, she put the bowl back on the tray and spat the soup into a copper urn on the floor.

  “It's cold,” she snarled.

  Ven looked at the soup bowls. Their emerald glow had vanished, leaving the outer shells pale. Beside her, the matchmaker uttered a cry of dismay.

  “What kind of miserable cook are you?” the older woman went on. “When did you prepare this soup, last night? You wasted a perfectly good dose of opium that could have helped relieve my arthritis—not to mention my valuable sparrow's nest. Didn't your mother teach you anything?”

  Ven tried to speak, but only incoherent sounds came from her throat. She stuttered, “I am so—so very sorry, First Mother.”

  “Sorry?” The older woman scowled. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “Control your anger, Lady Nan,” came a man's voice. “It is her first day in this house. She is allowed a few mistakes.” From the top of the spiral staircase, Master Nguyen descended, holding a fan in his hand. He moved down the steps with the grace and ease of a lion emerging from its lair. His relaxed movements softened the tension in the room. All of his wives sat up straight in their seats, eager anticipation on their faces.

  “This miserable girl dared to disrespect me on the very first day of her wifely duties,” First Mistress told her husband. “If I don't correct her now, she will never give me the respect I deserve.”

  “Of course she will,” Master Nguyen replied. “After all, you are her first mother. Remember when you were in her shoes, Lady Nan? Have some pity on the poor girl.” He walked over to Ven and picked up a soup bowl. After sniffing its aroma, he took a small sip. Ven kept her eyes on the ground, taking in the complicated craftsmanship of his shoes. Master Nguyen replaced the cup on the tray, then patted her head with the handle of his fan.

  “Good flavor,” he told her. “Next time, tell Song to carry a clay stove with her and enough hot coals to heat it up. You don't serve soup or tea to us unless we are ready to receive them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Good,” he said, turning to Third Mistress.

  “Have a good morning, sir,” Ven said. “May the gods in Heaven bless you with a thousand years of happiness.”

  But Master Nguyen didn't hear her. His attention was riveted on his youngest wife. Scowling at the young masseur on the floor, Master Nguyen grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him from his kneeling position to sprawl on his side. “Get out,” he told the man. “Your job is finished in here. Go back to the garden and tend to your duties.”

  The young man withdrew without a word.

  Master Nguyen knelt beside the footstool facing Third Mistress. Taking a satin handkerchief from his sleeve, he wiped her feet clean of the coconut oil, then laid them back on the ottoman. Looking at her tenderly, he said, “There, all done. Tell Song to rebind your feet before they begin to hurt you.”

  Third Mistress smiled, showing her teeth. She cooed, “Thank you, dear husband.”

  Ven abhorred the look of those awful white teeth, which reminded her of perfectly aligned kernels on a corncob. Clearly they had never been exposed to the bitterness of black lacquered dye. Yet secretly she admired her young mother-in-law's courage in being a modern woman, despite her bound feet. Ven would never have dreamed of being so bold.

  Third Mistress shifted her gaze to Ven. “You can get up now, daughter-in-law. If the master l
ikes your soup, your job here is done. Take my son back to your wedding chamber and watch over him.”

  “Not yet,” First Mistress interrupted. “Since there is nothing more for you to do here, you should work in the rice field. There is plenty to be done there. Then come back at noon to cook lunch. As you may have found out from that gossip Song, we are short of servants in this house. You will have to do your part.”

  “I am not a servant,” Ven said. Her throat was dry.

  “True, you are not a servant,” First Mistress snapped. “You are much lower than that. You are a daughter-in-law. It is known under Heaven's laws that you owe us your servitude. Do you think I came easily to the position I hold today? Do you have any idea how hard I had to work and how many years I spent under my mother-in-law's rule so I could earn my place in this household? You are the first wife. Someday you will have the same privileges I have. But until then, you are a slave here. One more word from you and I will send you back to your parents' home. And I will personally cut off the ears of a barbecued pig head and send it back with you, so I can tell the whole world what a disgrace you were.”

  Ven swallowed with difficulty. To be sent back home was unthinkable, especially with the earless head of a pig. That was the common punishment for a licentious woman who failed to save her virginity for her wedding night. She could not bear to live with the shame, even though it was a lie. After all, her husband would not reach puberty for at least another six years. Bowing low, Ven left the living room through the back door.

  On the brick path, she met Song, who was carrying a large tray covered by a copper lid. A few bamboo wrappers peeked from under its rim. Hearing the last words of First Mistress's scolding and seeing the nervous look on Ven's face, the servant girl paused. But the door opened, and the little boy, seeing Song, cried out, “Breakfast, breakfast,” jumping up and down in excitement.

  First Mistress called to Ven as the women laughed together. “Don't forget your husband. Come back after your work is done in the kitchen. For now, leave him to eat with us. Later, you can take him to the rice field.”

  chapter three

  The Messenger

  MAY 5, 1916

  In his later years, Dan Nguyen would recall little about his wedding at the age of seven to Ven, his first wife. He would always remember, though, the long hours that he spent riding on her back while she worked in the fields. At that time in Thua Thien Province, growing rice was strictly a human enterprise, requiring long hours of backbreaking labor. Unlike the other farmers in the Cam Le Village, Ven always worked alone.

  Each night, at about the same time the chickens nestled down in their cages, she took her young husband to bed with her. In the dim lantern light, he watched her undress until only a single layer of cloth covered her golden skin. Dan developed a habit of falling asleep against the soft cushion of her breasts. Redolent of fresh mud mixed with mint oil, the scent soothed his active mind and sent him to a world of dreams.

  Each morning, he woke to find himself curled up inside a basket, woven from sheaves of wild bamboo, rocking to her rhythmic motion. He never recalled being lifted from his bed. He only woke when the sunlight was strong enough to hurt his eyes, despite the straw hat that Ven placed over his head. When she sensed him stirring, she would pause from her chores to attend him.

  On the rock-strewn ground under the shade of a star-fruit tree, she fed him breakfast. Dan loved those tiny banana pies in sticky rice, which she steamed in coconut milk. She knew how to make the rich vapor seep inside the bamboo wrappers, just enough to turn the heart of the pie tender. After breakfast, he would return to the basket for another ride on her back. Sometimes he chose to sit under the tree and play with his toys—a group of hand puppets she had made for him from old clothes. The figurines' eyes, noses, and ears, even their hair, were embroidered over the faded fabric. With his eyes closed, he could feel the threads that formed their little faces, rough against the tips of his fingers. As she worked, Ven would watch him and wave from time to time. Her eyes were slender like the leaves of willow. Each time she looked at him, Dan knew he was safe.

  In mid-March, his father and first two mothers had gone out to sea. For six weeks now the house had been hollow without their lively company. As far back as Dan could remember, this was the longest period of time his parents had ever been away. Even his third mother, Lady Yen, had begun to worry. After dinner each night, instead of watching him play puppets with Ven, she sat on the veranda in her favorite armchair. As she waited for his father, her fingers strayed over the strings of her lute, creating music sad enough to make the Heavens cry.

  His father owned a large ship, the Lady Yen, which he used for his fishing expeditions. Dan had never seen the ship, but he knew that she was docked far away, on the other side of the mountain. His father had told him stories about the lush green jungles that bordered deep saltwater lagoons and the thousand-mile coastline where his ship roamed free.

  Dan wondered if one day he, too, would be a sailor. He wished to see with his own eyes the incredible sea, which according to his father was a hundred times larger than the Perfume River. He also liked the idea of traveling to distant places. But he did not want the influence and responsibility that the Lady Yen gave his father over the other men in the village. The very fact that the crew preferred to remain for a few days in their captain's house after a long trip at sea, instead of reuniting immediately with their wives and children, attested to the power of his father's command.

  One morning in early May, after she fed him breakfast, Ven returned to work in the rice paddy, leaving Dan on the ground with his toys. The hours dragged by. From where he stood, Dan could see the back of his house across a lean path and numerous terraced fields. A smell of rice alcohol soiled the sunny morning. Dan recognized with a chill the sight of the time-teller, Big Con, lurching toward him. He knew the scarred face, the staggering walk, and the sound of wine guzzling down his throat. Now and then, the man stopped, mumbling something, probably a curse, under his breath. From his spot in the shade, Dan watched Ven impatiently, waiting for her eyes to meet his. He wanted her to take him away.

  Like other children of this village, Dan was familiar with Big Con. The time-teller had become a monster that mothers used to scare their children at bedtime. No one knew where he came from or who his parents were. Dan was convinced that one late evening, the gate of Hell was left unattended and several creatures had slipped into Earth to haunt the children. Among them was the time-teller. On his hands and knees, Dan crept away until he was concealed behind the trunk of the star-fruit tree, away from the man's view.

  Thirty paces away, Ven was engrossed in her work. Her knees were deep in the mud, and her back bent parallel to the earth. Out of the corner of her eye, she also noticed the drunk. But she thought he was too far from them to cause any harm. If anything happened, she could get to the boy before the man did. Judging from the way he was trampling around in an ivory bamboo thicket, she believed that he was just searching for a shaded place to nap.

  Ven had little fear of the time-teller. To her, Big Con was merely an enigma. The story she had heard about him began when he was an infant. A fishmonger found him at the riverbank at the break of dawn one day. He was naked and gray like the color of dead grass, and every orifice of his head was covered in leeches. She wrapped him in two panels of banana leaves and later that day sold him to a blind fortune-teller who had no husband or children. The price she asked from the old woman was twenty copper pennies. The psychic paid the price and took the infant under her roof as if he were her own son, naming him Con.

  The child's new name generated little ambition in him, if any, as it literally meant a boy. The fortune-teller gave him the name for a reason. Besides the happiness of having a son, the woman was consumed with fear, mostly because of her unexpected fortune. The earth was filled with malignant spirits who were jealous of the prosperity of the living. By calling her son Con, she was hoping the simple name would help the boy escape the en
vy of the underworld.

  When Con was old enough, the soothsayer sent him to school to learn the ABCs—a new writing method that had taken root with the French presence in Vietnam, replacing the old vernacular language with its demotic characters. Little Con was a gentle soul, so fragile that during the Harvest Moon Festival it was difficult for him to play the popular game known as “catch the chicken.” As hard as he tried, he could never lasso a fowl. In all of his childhood years, never once did he raise his voice, nor did he cause any trouble to anyone in the town.

  When he was eighteen, Con went to work for Magistrate Toan, then the town's mayor, as a tutor to the young children of his third and fourth mistresses in their private mansion. Fourth Mistress was a young, rosy-cheeked woman who enjoyed a midday rest on a hammock strung between two rambutan trees. She liked Con to stand at the foot of her swinging bed and read her long chapters from the famous novel Kim Van Kieu by the poet Nguyen Du. This was an adventure story of a young girl who turned to prostitution in order to save her family from poverty, leaving behind the love of her life. The tale had a happy ending, as the lovers were reunited after many sorrows. Each time Con came to the final verses, Fourth Mistress would press her hands above her generous breasts to express the buoyancy of her feelings. Sometimes, she even pulled her pants up past her knees and had him massage her legs.

  One afternoon, Magistrate Toan brought home a dozen policemen. In front of several shocked witnesses, Con was handcuffed and sent to jail. What happened in that moment, and why, was known only to the Heavens above and the parties involved. No one dared to question the magistrate's decision. Con had no relatives, except for his adoptive mother, and so his arrest was not a matter of concern to many.

  The poor fortune-teller, however, was grief-stricken over the unfortunate incident. She remained in her little cottage on top of the hill, overlooking a tiny garden, which she had planned to sell one day in order to get Con a wife. Forgotten by the rest of the world, she waited for her son to come back. Shortly after Con's imprisonment, a farmer found the body of Magistrate Toan's fourth wife, badly beaten and strangled, buried underneath a haystack. Her hands were clasped over her breasts. Her face wore a shocked expression.