The Tapestries (3 page)

Ven ran her hand over the bars that protected the window. She knew it was dangerous to linger, but the voices from the other side of the parchment stirred her curiosity. “What could they possibly be talking about that would last all night? Surely it can't just be business.”

Song's eyes took on a conspiratorial sparkle. “Do you want to find out?” Without waiting for an answer, she put a finger in her mouth and moistened it, then used it to poke a small hole through the parchment. Ven stepped closer and put her eye to the opening.

From her oblique angle, she could not see Master Nguyen's face. It was hidden behind a lantern, but she recognized his dark-blue robe with the sphere-shaped embroidered pattern. He was reading something to his guest out of a notebook. She had a direct view of the other man, who appeared to be in his early thirties. He had thick hair and wore thin-rimmed glasses. His delicate lips tightened to form a straight line across the lower half of his face. He appeared to be listening intently to Master Nguyen.

Song leaned close to Ven's ear. “Can you make out what they are saying, Mistress?” she murmured.

“Only a little,” said Ven. “They seem to be discussing politics, not business.”

“It's possible,” the girl said. “Master Nguyen is passionate about political affairs. The royal palace once offered him a position, but he declined.”

“Why?” To Ven, the idea of refusing the fame and fortune that came with a royal assignment was inconceivable.

“I don't know,” Song said. “I once heard Third Mistress say that he isn't happy with the influence that the French government has over the court at Hue.” The maid looked over her shoulder and seemed to grow worried. “Let's go,” she said, pulling at Ven's arm. “Before someone sees us. Besides, I'm getting chilly, aren't you?”

Ven pulled herself away from the window and followed Song to the kitchen, a small building next to the living quarters. It was the dirtiest place she had ever seen. The original color of its walls had long been buried under a greasy coating of sticky black soot. A bitter smell of burned pork fat, mixed with the stench of singed feathers, formed a dark cloud under the low ceiling. Oversized pots and pans, some big enough to hold an entire potbellied pig, lay scattered on the damp cement floor. Ven could see the food encrusted around their edges. None of this surprised her.

Like most Vietnamese, her in-laws apparently believed that the kitchen was a place that generated fortune. The dirtier it got, the richer the owner would be. Anyone foolish enough to clean up his kitchen would soon find his fortunes wiped out. Ven's origins were humble. She never had a reason to follow this ancient custom.

“Where should I begin?” she asked, trying to hide her queasiness.

Song pointed to a small door behind the wooden cabinets. “All the dried food is in that pantry. First Mistress always has sweet rice with red beans wrapped in bamboo leaves and a bowl of sparrow's nest in shark-fin soup for breakfast. Second and Third Mistresses prefer black beans, not red ones. The master likes his sticky rice coated in mung-bean starch and steamed in coconut milk. The rest of the servants will have regular white rice and grilled chicken in lemongrass. Do you know how to make sparrow's nest soup?”

Ven nodded uncertainly. At home, her grandmother had taught her how to make many exotic and expensive meals in preparation for her married life. Yet she could learn only the principles of those recipes, for her family was too poor to buy the ingredients. But bird's nest soup was not her main dilemma. She was preoccupied with unanswered questions and impossible chores. She looked at the saucepans, cleared her throat, and asked Song, “How many people do I have to cook for?”

The maid replied, “It all depends. Today, because Master Nguyen and his crew are here, we will prepare food for everyone in the household, plus thirty fishermen. But usually, there are just the five of us. That includes you, the young master, Third Mistress, the gardener, and me. Today the matchmaker is also here.”

“I was under the impression that there are lots of servants in this house. I saw so many at the riverbank yesterday.”

Song laughed. “Those are Master Nguyen's crew. They were the ones who orchestrated your wedding yesterday. I am the only servant in this house.”

“Who usually does the cooking?”

“Old Che was the cook until yesterday. First Mistress fired her just before the wedding.”

Ven pushed up her sleeves. She regarded the young maid's ample curves and said, “You are very young and pretty. Why didn't the master marry his son to you?”

Song's cheek turned as red as the skin of a ripe Chinese plum. “Please, Mistress. Do not joke with me. A chicken cannot grow a peacock tail. I was a widow long before I came to work in this house. My husband was a fisherman who worked for Master Nguyen. He died from dysentery while at sea two years ago this full moon.”

“I am sorry,” Ven said, feeling foolish. “You look so young. Please forgive me.”

Song waved her hands in front of her face. “It is quite all right, Mistress,” she said. “Now you must hurry. There isn't much time left. You don't want to upset your in-laws on your first day.”

“Will you help me make breakfast?” Ven asked.

Song nodded. “I am the kitchen assistant. Let me soak the bird's nest while you cook the sticky rice.”

V
en added the last threads of shark fin to the sparrow's nest soup just as the time-teller came around for his last trip. Song tasted the soup base and gave her approval. Outside, the sun sent golden rays into the dark kitchen to heat the cool air.

Song handed Ven a set of china soup bowls that were as thin and delicate as a sheet of paper, and just as white. The dishes nestled into her hand as though designed for it. To Ven's amazement, when she poured the soup into the bowls, they instantly turned a bright shade of jade green. There was no table in the kitchen, so Ven arranged everything on the ground. She placed the bowls gently on an ebony tray, where they glowed against the dull cement floor like four magnificent pieces of jewelry.

“Be careful when you handle them,” the maid said to her. “They are very expensive. They change color in response to heat. Why don't you take the soup to the main living room and serve the mistresses? I will bring the rest of the breakfast as soon as it is ready. After they dine, we will provide food for the staff.”

“Where is the main living room?” Ven asked.

“It is the first and largest room in the house, facing the entrance that we passed earlier this morning,” Song said. “But you are not yet allowed to use the front door. Your astrological sign is in opposition to that of Third Mistress, and Master Nguyen fears you might cause her great harm if you don't take precautions. Follow this path to the back door.”

Song placed the lids over the exposed soup bowls and pointed to a narrow lane of bricks that led to the rear of the great house. Like magic, the bowl covers also took on the glistening hue of emeralds, as though light shone through them from inside.

Stepping from the kitchen, Ven was dismayed to see that the path forked into three separate routes. All led into the house, but through different doors. After a moment's hesitation, she drew a deep breath and chose the path that led to the entrance nearest her. Finding the door unlocked, she turned the knob with her free hand and pulled it open. The rusty hinges groaned.

She found herself in a dark and damp room filled with half-naked men sprawled on tatami mats. At least thirty, maybe forty of them were crowded into the confined space. They roused lazily as the bright, crisp air from outside poured in. Some muttered curses under their breath. Others burst out laughing when they saw the frightened look on Ven's face. She took several steps back, her hands gripping her tray. She turned around and hurried back to the second path.

But fate seemed to toy with her that morning. As she approached the house for the second time, the corroded metal door before her sprang open, and a man stormed out, colliding with her. Though she was normally not a graceful woman, she spun around, using her back to absorb the impact of the blow while she balanced the precious load. She recognized the angry face of Master Long, just inches from her own. He had the smoothest skin she had ever seen on a man.

“Watch where you are going,” he snapped. Adjusting his robe, he sauntered past her and disappeared behind a clump of taro plants.

With her heart throbbing, Ven pushed the third door open with her elbow. The first face she saw in the room was her husband's. He grinned at her, showing the same toothless smile she had seen the night before when he had removed her wedding veil.

V
en lowered her glance and kept her eyes glued to the floor, which was overlaid with beautiful blue-and-white tiles. Its surface was so highly polished that she could see her reflection as clearly as if she had been gazing into the river. The room occupied a large portion of the main house, an expanse of roughly thirty by seventy feet. The sturdy walls were made of cement mixed with peppercorns. As the temperature outside dropped, the heat from the peppercorns would help keep the room's temperature at a comfortable level. Ven knew that this system of construction was a luxury that only the rich could afford.

Her husband stood at the foot of a spiral staircase, once again dressed in his groom's outfit. His head was shaved except for three little spots: one above his forehead and two at the sides, above his ears. For the first time, Ven noticed that the haircut made him look like one of the fairies' servants who carried the peach of immortality at the gate of Heaven, a scene often depicted inside Confucian temples.

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.”