The Tapestries (34 page)

She was terrified. Her pose was difficult to maintain, and her sweaty palms kept sliding off the metal handgrips. But her husband was valiant. He seemed to foresee her every movement, cradling her in his arms to ensure her safety. While the vehicle rolled along the dirt road, she could feel him edging closer from behind. His warm breath burned the nape of her neck, and she could feel his heart thumping against her spine, as though a wild sparrow, trapped inside his breast cage, were flapping its wings.

They reached an empty field outside the citadel. The late-afternoon sun burned a red hole in the blue sky. Before them spread the hills, rolling and submissive, smooth as camel humps and covered with green grass. They were heading toward a mountain. Her husband's legs pedaled continuously as they climbed a soft path that seemed to lead them directly into the waiting sun. Then, before she could prepare herself, the ground dropped and she was looking down at a valley.

The wheels began to spin, slowly at first and then gaining speed. For a second she believed she was falling through a crack in the earth. It seemed so undignified to scream, but she did not care. Her shout escaped in large invisible bubbles, instantly stolen by the rushing wind. When her husband reached out and closed his hands over hers, massaging each white knuckle, she started to relax. Motionless, she savored his presence and the way the bicycle was purring against her thighs. Everything else evaporated, the sky, the earth, the green slopes that reached out to infinity. She was soaring like a kite.

His reflection in the mirror blushed. He clasped his hand around her waist and drew her closer to his lower body, his eyes closing. At the burning moment when the feverish sun came to meet the green earth, the bicycle came to a stop at the foot of the hill.

To this day, she was certain that Bui was conceived on that unforgettable afternoon, when she had learned how extraordinary it was to fly.

N
ow, almost twenty-five years later, she could again feel the wind tugging at her hair as she floated along the river. The river! She had forgotten its name, the same way she did her own. Through the trees she could see the punctured sun, with its light leaking onto the nearby clouds.

Across from her, the embroiderer sat plying an oar. Even though her eyes were half-closed, she could see him moving steadily on the wooden bench. He was bare-chested. The muscles of his arms rippled like bronze waves saturated with sunlight, so healthy and beautiful that the sight of him reduced the ache in her eyes to a soothing pulsation. The splash of water under the boat grew louder until it covered her like a blanket.

Long ago on that bicycle, she remembered being absorbed by the tranquility of green hills and the specks of magpies that formed black freckles in the blue sky, and she recalled the feeling of ripeness in her body on that summer afternoon. There had been a place of sheer happiness in her then; no memory of fear even registered. If she could only go back there, into a world that held such vivid colors and details, if she could remember what it was like to love and live freely, she could find a way to enjoy this smooth tranquility now. Of one thing she was certain: She was once again flying.

E
arly that morning, when her dear Ung had brought the embroiderer to her room in the Apartments of Peace, she had been overwhelmed by the young man's earnest face and the fervor of his words. He promised her that if she came with him to the ill-fated village of Cam Le, he would show her the answers to the mystery of her loved ones' deaths and unveil the identity of their murderer. Sick though she was, how could she resist such an invitation? In an instant she had agreed to join him.

In the boat, he had strapped her in a palanquin; her ankles rested against its wooden legs, and silk handkerchiefs bound her wrists in place. “The wind is strong,” he had explained to her. “Since there are only the two of us on this journey, it is urgent that you are secured to your seat while I row.”

Over her head and attached to the sedan twirled a blue parasol—a round slice of Heaven, which had followed her since early dawn. Pink and purple satin pillows packed and supported her bony body, so that she could sit up and watch the scenery as the boat glided atop the water. In her hand she held her son's anklet, the talisman of her mission. The outrage of her family's massacre tore at her. She longed for the knowledge that would help her erase the hatred, and for that opportunity, she must keep herself alive.

She could see that the embroiderer was watching her between the strokes of his oar. Could he be the killer that she had been looking for all these years? The thought made her dizzy with suspicion. If he was, she would exact her revenge. Beneath her blank expression, her mind was ablaze. She knew she would not live long enough to witness his end, but she had set in motion a plan to make sure that he would pay. At the end of this journey, she would no longer have anything to fear or regret. A few more hurdles and she could die an emancipated soul.

T
he boat came to a small dock full of people. The embroiderer crouched in his seat, scanning his surroundings with the alertness of a disturbed cobra. For the first time, she could see the hatred on his face. Slowly he composed himself, dropping the paddle on the floorboard.

Turning to her, he said, “We are here at last, madam. Soon, you will meet your true enemy, who murdered your husband and son. I must warn you about his nature. Unlike anyone you have ever met, this man is extremely cruel and dangerous. If in fact death has not claimed him, then we may have just put ourselves into a tiger's lair. You are about to see the truth, in its ugliest form.”

She said, “You do not need to tell me this. I am ready.”

He cast a glance downward, avoiding her eyes. “I am a coward, madam. I am partially responsible for your son's death, and I know it is in your power to judge me. I realize by taking you here to meet the true killer, I will also be facing my own trial for the role I played in the crime.”

“What role did you play in this tragedy?” she demanded.

“I was the one who should have been killed, not your son or husband. They should never have come to the Cam Le Village. But I must ask for your patience. I'll take you to the killer, and you will hear the truth from his mouth.”

“How can you make a man confess his sins?”

“I cannot promise that he will speak,” he said. “However, even the devil himself will not reject the final wish of a dying woman. I was hoping that you could plead for the truth from him.”

She managed a tiny smile. “Will you be there, by my side, to protect me against the menace of this person?”

He nodded. The earnest look returned to his face.

“Sir! Over here!”

“No, let me!”

She became aware of the voices of the unemployed porters and beggars on the dock, looking to be hired by the rich merchants who brought their goods to the market in town. Their ragged clothes clung to their thin torsos, as if made out of river kelp, and smelled just as strong. Some of the men, the stronger ones, stepped into the water and with their skillful hands guided the boat to shore. She realized that the expensive garments on her body had attracted their attention, and now her vessel was surrounded with callused hands and sunburned faces. A few grimy fingers brushed at her skin, desperate to be chosen. The word
silver
was upon the tips of their tongues as they named their wages loudly.

Her companion leaped over the taffrail and landed on his feet among the strangers on the wharf. Wasting no time, the young man chose four men from the crowd. Ignoring the protests from the rest of the laborers, he stationed his employees at both sides of the boat and directed them as they hoisted her chair to their shoulders. Her parasol tilted, and sunlight poured down on her, bright and sudden like a slap.

Lady Chin saw the naked backs beneath her feet, marveling to think that after so many years, she was no longer inside the citadel. The embroiderer led her porters through a flotsam of rickshas, past wheelbarrows filled with fresh fruits and green vegetables. A few steps ahead, a pair of guards stood at the opening to the village's main road. Their faces, weathered from the harsh sun, looked dully at the newcomers.

“Identifications, please,” one of them said. Dan produced the ivory passes from the royal palace, and the guards, though seeming unimpressed, stepped aside.

C
am Le was a village of white houses and thatched roofs, or houses that would have been white if the dust had not caked on their outer surfaces. Doors were open, and children ran naked in the streets. The women sat on the ground in groups of three and four, picking head lice from each other's hair and sewing rags together to make coverings for their bare bosoms. Cattle lived among the humans, eating the same grains from the fields as their owners, sleeping on the same tatami mats, until it came time for them to be slaughtered to complete the cycle of life. The sweet smell of roasted sesame filled the cool morning air.

There was so much simplicity in what she saw; it all seemed like a work of art—or Heaven, in its plainest form. She wondered if she had just died and crossed over into the peaceful world that she had spent her whole life looking for. Where had she gone wrong? She could have had this life. Happiness, anger, love, and jealousy—the basic human emotions were so simple in this idyllic context.

They emerged from a bamboo forest. Had she just dozed off without realizing it? She saw a grove of mango trees and heard sparrows singing in their branches. Fruits by the score dangled from thin stalks, their fat little bellies warmed by the sun. Never in her life had she seen so many mangoes in one tree. Their skins shone with a rich, glossy shade of green that made her mouth water.

The porters set her palanquin on a mound of wild grass. An abandoned field opened before her; the green was abundant and infinite, hurting her eyes with its shimmering brightness. In the middle of the meadow, she saw the remains of a crumbling, ivy-covered wall, lonely as a single mah-jongg tile. She looked up and saw the young man's face against the backdrop of a piercing blue sky.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Madam, you are standing on the ground that was once my childhood home.” He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. His arms extended outward, palms opened as if he were embracing the ghost of his past. “Over here was the living room with mosaic divans and bookshelves full of knowledge. The rich marble tiles were so well polished that you could comb your hair looking at the reflection on the floor. Rare and antique paintings by well-known artists decorated the walls. I remember every detail, the fantastic colors, exquisite designs, and gentle aromas of my home.” He turned and gestured, then continued.

“Look at that remaining wall! And those mango trees; they were among the few living things that survived a dreadful fire. Do they not seem to recite the horrors they have seen to anyone that would listen? Just hear their muffled voices.” The wind wandered through a clutch of leaves, moaning an endless dirge of suffering. He continued in a toneless voice, “How can I find the courage to return to the very spot where my father and his wives were beheaded? They died at the hands of the same person who killed your husband and son. Look at this place! This is where your family was massacred.”

Lady Chin rose from the chair with sudden strength. She recognized the sincerity in his voice, which seemed too youthful to be filled with so much misery. She wanted to speak, but the words died in her throat.

“Over there,” he said, walking across a white-bricked path toward the front entrance. The gates had been broken from their hinges, leaving a large opening beneath a vinery awning. “This was my family's burial site!” he exclaimed. “I have not been able to pay respects to the dead in several years. With your permission, I would like to spend a few moments—”

His mouth dropped open as he noticed three lumps of dirt along the tree line. At first, she did not notice anything out of the ordinary. However, her second glance took in the explanation for his shocked expression: on top of the stone surfaces of the grave markers, fresh carnations lay in bunches, their petals still clinging to a few drops of morning dew. Somebody must have been in the cemetery prior to their arrival, paying homage to the deceased. Dan turned around, crossing the yard at a quick pace as if he were late for an important gathering. “Who has been here?” he shouted. “Can anyone hear me? Ven? Song? Are you listening to me? It is I, Dan Nguyen. Will you come out and see me again? “

His voice was lost into the limitless blue sky. No one replied, except for the birds flapping their wings. The porters looked at one another. The embroiderer squatted and leaned against a stone pillar. He touched the flowers, as if to make certain they were real. Curiosity and sympathy flickered on the laborers' faces as they waited, huddled together like a pack of mules.

Lady Chin looked at the young man's face, taking in his dark eyes, full lips, and muscular frame. She saw the softness of his character, the strength of his body, and the vulnerability of his emotions. For the first time in their relationship, she truly realized that he was not her own son, no matter how much her mind had played tricks on her. Her son was timid, arrogant, and cruel. Her son bit his nails. Her son raped the servants whenever there was no one else around. Finally she understood her own reasons for embarking on this journey: she was not here because of the embroiderer's promise to reveal the truth about her loved ones' deaths. She had come for the trip that she should have made, along with them, seven years ago. She, too, should have perished in this remote village, along with her husband and son, together as a family in death as in life. Now it was time for her to complete her destiny. “Dan,” she called. Her voice was no longer a whisper. “We must be going.”

But it was too late. Her words were drowned by a buzzing sound, which grew louder. She recognized the noise made by a car engine. The dark rooftop of an automobile appeared at the end of the road.

“We cannot leave yet, madam,” the embroiderer said, standing up. “We are about to have company.”