The Language of Threads (32 page)

Something else had bothered Pei in Li's first letter, but she had dismissed it in all her happiness. The shaky, awkward handwriting obviously wasn't her sister's but had probably been dictated to a letter writer. Ma Ma had taught them to keep their characters neatly spaced and in straight lines. Li had always been the diligent one, who did what she was told. Even when she was a girl, her characters were uniform and exact.

Li's words turned over and over in her mind, always short and to the point. Pei was reminded of the quick, careful edge her father's words had had.

Yes, I'm fine. I have two sons, Kaige and Yuan. They are grown and have found lives of their own. I live a simple life, with few needs. I am happy that your life has turned out so well. Yes, I, too, hope that we will see each other again
.

Pei's worries multiplied. Li's letters never mentioned anything about coming to Hong Kong. Could the letter writer be trusted? How could Pei tell Li where to go and what to do, once all the plans were made to bring her to Hong Kong?

Pei pushed all the unanswered questions out of her mind. She had to trust that Li wanted to see her with the same urgency that she felt, the same strong pulse that wouldn't allow her to give up.

Rising into the cool night Pei checked on Gong, then realized what she needed to do. She crept down the stairs and back to her workroom. During the day, her life was abuzz with running the Invisible Thread and Gong's endless chatter. “What's that for?” or “Can we go out now?” He was already daring and inquisitive, and a constant reminder that Ji Shen was still close by.

Now with Gong and Song Lee asleep and the house quiet, Pei
unfolded a piece of red silk satin from her crowded worktable. It was three feet by five feet long, and divided into five panels. At first, months ago, she had planned on following a traditional embroidery pattern—evenly spaced lotus flowers or an iris-and-butterfly design like one she'd seen in the Chen household.

But something had happened when she sat down, facing the smooth red surface like an empty canvas, threading the needle and pushing it through the material. Pei had realized that a wall hanging of lotus flowers or butterflies would mean very little to her. It wouldn't tell a story or answer any questions. She suddenly thought of her mother's silk painting of five white birds, two of them in flight. As a child she'd stared at it for hours, never realizing that she and Li would be those two birds.

Pei had begun the first panel with two fishes, the symbol of abundance and harmony. Green and blue threads, with a touch of yellow and black. Night by night, the embroidery had evolved slowly, as if she were in a trance. The quiet embraced her. And even though it wasn't customary to embroider people and places, she wanted to leave Gong and his children something to remember her by. Before long, Pei had added the fish ponds, the mulberry trees, and the farmhouse, filling the first panel of the silk material.

Now, Pei flipped open the second panel, where she had pictured her life in Yung Kee. The girls' house, the silk factory, the sisters' house, and two girls watching it all, one taller than the other, with single black braids hanging down their backs. Each step had come to her like walking, a life history she saw slowly materialize with each careful stitch.

Pei fingered the two embroidered black braids, and smiled to think what Lin would have been like now, at forty-five. Pei imagined her thin and graceful, with a touch of gray coming in like Ho Yung's. She would still move softly and swiftly, so as not to disturb anyone. Her fair skin might have the wrinkles that came with time, but her eyes would remain the same—kind and full of spirit, as if to say, “Yes, tell me more.”

Pei sighed, and touched her own graying hair. She'd lost weight and gotten old in the past year. It was Lin who wouldn't recognize her when the time came for them to meet again.

Pei looked down and smiled again. She had stopped working on the embroidery halfway through the third panel, just about the time Chen Ling's letter arrived and Li had suddenly returned to her life. Since then, there'd been so little time and energy to continue. Ma-ling's boardinghouse, Quan's rickshaw, the house on Conduit Road, and Mrs. Finch's Victrola awaited completion. Pei looked closely at what she'd already sewn, satisfied with her handiwork. Now it was as if she needed more than ever to tell the entire story.

She had six months to wait until she saw her sister Li again. That gave her the perfect opportunity to finish the panel. Pei sighed, unfolded the rest of the material, threaded a needle, and quietly began to sew.

1951

Li awoke before dawn and lay on the hard bed, staring into the darkness. Ever since she'd received the letter from Pei explaining how she would get to Hong Kong, Li hadn't been able to sleep well. Everything had been arranged by Pei; all Li had to do was make her way to Macau, where a boat would be waiting to take her across the sea to Hong Kong. She shivered at the thought of being surrounded by nothing but water, confined and unable to plant her feet on solid ground. Li couldn't think of a greater abandonment then being set adrift, rising and falling on the unpredictable waves.

When the letter first arrived, Li had tried in vain to make out the quick, neat rows of characters on her own. The short and long lines, dots and dashes, caught and held with familiarity, though there were too many characters she didn't quite grasp. She knew she was taking a chance bringing the letter to old man Sai, but his eyes told her that she could trust him. Finally, she had brought Pei's letter to him to read. He had laughed and said, “Another one? Your younger sister has more words than I have gray hair!”

But he stopped smiling once he began to read. His pipe bobbed up and down between his crooked teeth as he glanced up at her,
and he lowered his voice for fear that someone in the village might hear. “Do you know what danger leaving involves?”

Li nodded. “Just read it once; I'll remember all the details,” she whispered back. “I don't want to cause you any trouble.”

Old man Sai shook his head and sucked on his pipe. “It's too late, you've already brought me into your schemes.”

Li stood up and reached for the letter. “Then I'll find someone else—”

“Where do you think you'll find someone who'll read this letter to you and not turn you in to the authorities?” He waved his pipe and motioned for her to sit back down.

“You're the last one I would want to get into trouble,” Li said softly. “You have helped me in more ways than you could know.”

Old man Sai smiled sadly. “You deserve a better life than the one given you so far.” He held the letter gently between his big knobby fingers. “Now, you must listen carefully to what I read to you, than return home and burn the letter. From that moment on, I will no longer be any part of this.”

Li nodded. Because of Sai, she would have a chance for a new life in Hong Kong with Pei. He'd always been kind to her, even when she was married and only came into the village once or twice a month with her husband and sons to go to the market. Every time she hurried by his letter-writing stall, old man Sai smiled and told her, “Slow down, there's no one chasing you.”

She used to smile shyly, but didn't dare say anything back to him, just pushed her two boys along. The farmer hated to be kept waiting. He gave her just enough money to buy the same supplies month after month—rice, salt, pickled turnips, and sometimes a bag of litchis if they were in season and he was in a good mood.

After a while, Li looked forward to the simple words that came from old man Sai; she made sure to pass his stall every time she was in the village. She longed for the sound of a calm, kind voice that she didn't fear.

Later, after the farmer had died, Li worked the farm and went into the village once a week on her own, taking her time—touching the smooth and bumpy skins of fruits and vegetables, seeing the small details she'd never before had the luxury to experience: the loud screeching voices buying and selling, the multicolored display of candy and paper kites, and the salty-sour scent of the bodies that pushed and pulled against her in the crowd.

The first time she'd dared to enter the ancestral hall at the end of the village, the cool darkness and the sweet smell of incense that curled into the air had filled her with joy. Li had stood in front of the burning incense and prayed for Kaige and Yuan. And just before she turned to leave, she prayed that some day she might be reunited with Pei.

Then, back outside in the bright sunlight, she walked directly to old man Sai's letter-writing stall and spoke to him for the first time. “How are you?” The words had sounded strange and foreign coming from her mouth.

Li watched as the dawn light slowly filtered into the spare room, staring hard to see everything in it for one last time. She had to remember, now, in order to forget—in order, finally, to let the cold harshness of her years here fade from her memory.

There was a dingy, tired look to everything, from the worn kitchen table to the threadbare blankets that covered Li's bed. It was as if the house itself had suffered some great illness, which lingered and festered in every piece of furniture, in the thin muslin curtains, in every crack between the boards. For twenty-seven years, Li had lived within it, willing herself not to die from it.

Li had come to the old farmer with virtually nothing, and she planned to leave that way, too. All she would take with her was what she could carry on her back. She felt a sudden sinking in her stomach. Again she heard old man Sai's voice reading
Pei's letter over and over, glancing up at her to make sure she remembered the date and time. Li could hear the seriousness of Pei's words, accentuated by old man Sai's own concern.

You will have to make your way across the Chinese border and into Macau. Follow the map enclosed to a small cove on the north side not far from the border; a fishing boat will be there at midnight. He'll wait for ten minutes past the hour, and if you're not there, he won't be able to wait. Please, Li, be there
.

When he was certain that she had the letter memorized, he wrote a quick response from Li to Pei. Then, old man Sai sat back and inhaled long and hard on his pipe.

“And once you have reached Hong Kong,” he said in a low voice, “no one will ever chase you again.”

Li leaned closer, smelled the sweet tobacco from his pipe. “Thank you for everything.” She swallowed. “When you receive my letter, you'll know that I'm with my sister again.”

“I look forward to that glorious day.” He folded Pei's letter and map back into its envelope and handed it back to Li, his hand covering hers and squeezing it for a moment. “Don't forget to burn the letter.”

When Li left the village that day, it was with a heavy heart. She was leaving the only friend she had, for a world she knew nothing about. She could already smell the letter as it burned, at first comforting and then frightening. The singed thin edges burning inward, the characters she had memorized disappearing and turning to ash.

Li started a fire under the iron pot for jook, just as she did every morning. When she'd eaten her fill and the fire burned hot and low, she unfolded and looked at Pei's letters one more time before placing them into the flames. Li walked away rather than watch, though she heard the crackle-pop as they flamed.

She looked at the map Pei had sent. According to Sai, it was a day and a half's journey by foot to the border. There'd been rumors, village gossip, about those who had tried to cross the border and failed. “They're interrogated for hours and hours, slapped and tortured by the Red Guards, until they confess to things they hadn't even done.” Li folded the map and tucked it into her pocket. “Then they're paraded around the village with a sign hanging from their necks, telling of their shameless crime.” As far as Li was concerned, worse things could happen.

On the kitchen table were her food and water. She hurried to pack them in a cloth bag. Enough for two days, and some to spare, just in case something went wrong. Li tried not to think of that. She grabbed Kaige and Yuan's letters, tied together in a small bundle. For a moment she stopped at the thought of leaving behind her sons, the two little boys she had always pushed ahead of herself. “Faster, faster,” she whispered. “Baba gets so angry when we're late.” She had kept them out of harm's way, so that the slaps and punches that came hard and frequent would fall on her body and not theirs.

Li smiled to herself. They were both grown men now and no longer needed her protection. She had prayed they would fly high and away from the pale, lifeless world she'd known all of her adult life. And they had, with wings she had managed to keep safe and strong. It was all the happiness she had thought she'd find in this lifetime.

Slowly and meticulously Li began to dress, one layer after another, three tunics in all, the entirety of her summer and winter wardrobe. She'd thought about buying something new to wear for when she finally saw Pei, somehow thinking that a new tunic might help to distract from the years and scars. But in the village that day, her reflection caught in a piece of glass told her another story. It would take more than a new tunic to cover the years of sorrow. Li stuffed her savings back into the pocket of her worn trousers.