The Tapestries (37 page)

Lady Chin saw the embroiderer straighten. Throwing a dark look at the mayor, he said, “I don't want your assistance. In fact, I would rather see you leave this place.”

Sai stopped laughing. “What is the matter? If I didn't know better, I would think you were frightened at the thought of entering this house. Will you come inside? I cannot blame you if you won't. No, in fact I expect that you are not going to join our little reunion party. But I myself will not leave, not until I find what I have come for.” He turned and walked into the adjoining room.

Dan turned to the time-teller. “Where is Song?” he asked.

“She died many years ago,” the tutor replied. “They found her body hanging in her room one morning. Some said it was a suicide. Others thought she was murdered.”

Ven approached. “You take Ven,” the embroiderer said to Con, trying to smile. “I will carry Lady Chin. Let the porters wait here. We are going to meet Magistrate Toan.”

L
ady Chin found herself in the living room of her enemy. It must have been elegant at one time, with its wide floor and high roof. But now rows of ebony pillars and painted black beams framed the dim space. Through her fluttering lashes the ceiling spun gently, and she could see tiny sparkles of stars peering through clusters of fluffy clouds; or was it a random pattern of stains, caused by dampness that had discolored the paint? At the highest point hung three metal poles in an upside-down tripod. Suspended from each rusty, crooked hook was a cluster of oil lanterns; their red bull-eyed flames sputtered ghostly images on the walls.

In the arms of the embroiderer, she lay still. There was an invisible wire running inside her, and her womb felt as though it were being hung at both ends with two iron clothespins and left to dry. The gnawing pain made her visualize the inner world of her body. Slowly, unwillingly, Lady Chin searched inside herself until her eyes met those of the monster that preyed on her flesh—the cancer that would eventually kill her. For a moment she held its steady, burning glare. Then the monster resolved itself into the wrinkled face of an old man, hunched in an armchair ten paces away. A steady, thin, yellow trail of saliva dripped from a corner of his quivering mouth. His fingers wiggled aimlessly. Immediately she knew who he was.

The devil's messenger!

She would never forget a face, especially this man's. He had come into her life one morning and suddenly, with his cold hard presence, made her a widow. The same oversized headdress and loose-fitting garments encased his now shrunken body. But what she locked eyes with made her shudder with fear. The mayor's voice drew her back to her companions.

“I am sorry to tell you this, Sir Dan,” Sai said, fixing his eyes on the frail body of Magistrate Toan. “I take full credit for tending the magistrate in these past few years. I have sacrificed everything in my power to keep him alive, in hope that he would disclose to me the secret that I, in all fairness, am entitled to know. Just think, I have spent more than two decades of my life by his side, serving him as a slave and a confidant. I deserve a fair share of compensation for my servitude.

“But look at him! The magistrate is no longer in full possession of his mental faculties. His limbs have become completely useless. He has lost the ability to think or to act appropriately. He is not your enemy any longer. What you see before you is a living corpse, following the same ill fate as the ancient one, his own mother. How can I demand anything from a body with no spirit? I have tried, but no technique could retrieve any meaning out of his behavior. I am hoping that with the combination of our strength and wisdom, you and I can help each other interpret the signs and gestures that the old man may use to convey his thoughts. It is, after all, my last chance to locate the missing map. In return for your cooperation, I am willing to divide the treasure in equal halves once we find it together. And if this wealth was indeed buried by pirates as the old legend says, you, sir, will be one of the two richest men in Hue City.”

Dan, his face whitened by the anemic lights, approached the old man. Magistrate Toan sat on a carved mahogany chair in the center of the room, his golden tunic spread around him like a spider's web. Staring as if petrified into the distance, he was animated only by the jerking motions of his hands. The fire in the old man's eyes had died to gray ashes, and he moved his lower jaw in a wobbly, grinding rhythm, as if he were working on a large wad of tobacco. The mighty enemy Dan had envisioned had become as dried-up as the heart of a betel nut. Without turning, he could feel Ven drawing near. Her plain, earthy scent rose above the room's mixture of sandalwood incense and opium smoke. He reached for her hand.

“How did he reach this state?” he asked. His eyes never left the old man's face.

“He made himself that way,” the mayor replied. “Too much opium, I am afraid. A French physician I hired two years ago made that diagnosis. He also declared that the magistrate's nervous system was permanently damaged. There isn't much that anyone can do for him. It seems that Heaven has decided to condemn the wicked one for the crimes that he committed.”

From the back of the room, the time-teller snickered at Sai's comment. He raised his voice and said, “If that was true, why were you spared? My wife was made a mute by your filthy hands.”

At the doorway, the dim-witted maid stopped still, hands over her mouth as if in surprise. The mayor, slowly recovering from the effects of opium, flared his nostrils like an angry bull. He turned his sharpest, most indignant scrutiny at the time-teller, cleared his throat, and spat on the floor. “I only did what I was ordered to do,” he said. “I was like the Thunder Spirit. Where the gods send me, that will be the spot I strike.”

On a small bench near the magistrate's chair, next to an oil lamp, a copper urn was burning. Through the cracks of its covering, Dan saw strings of incense cloud wafting out, carrying the aroma of sandalwood. The old man's hands, misshapen with arthritis, cut through the sultry darkness, crushing the smoke into particles of dust. Those hands had once held a scimitar…the ghost of its blade still seemed to glint in his vacant eyes. Dan remembered the green mound of grass beneath his father's feet and the way it had turned red when the blood poured. He thought of his mother standing by the window of the brothel, selling her body to strangers. He thought of Ven and her silence. Could he…would he…be the instrument of vengeance for these lost souls and for his own?

The anger in him rose, like the smoke inside the urn. He opened his eyes. Then, before Dan was aware of it, he was grabbing the old man by his bony wrists and forcing them down from their mechanical twitching. The magistrate's wrinkled face was convulsing, but he made no attempt to escape. Dan leaned closer. He could see his reflection in the old man's eyes, a distorted, convex likeness of himself full of hate.

“Are you in there?” he screamed. “Answer me! Why are you so wicked? Why did you take so much pleasure in destroying my family? If you can hear me, explain yourself.” His grip tightened on the magistrate, his voice hardened. “I could crush you with my bare hands this instant. Your weak, fragile bones would break just like a young chick. Toan! Anyone in here could kill you. But that won't give me back my parents, and Ven won't get back her power of speech. Crimes will not resolve crimes. I cannot…I will not become you.” Behind him he heard the mayor's coarse laughter.

He felt a sticky liquid seep onto his hands. Dan uncoiled his fingers and raised them. To his horror he saw blood, thick, dark, and pungent. The old man, free from Dan's hold, jerked his arms in careless abandon, again chasing the tendrils of smoke. His frozen face showed no emotion.

Appalled and frightened, Dan let out a groan. The magistrate's arms jutted from the wide sleeves of his tunic, dotted with liver spots and smeared with blood. Why was the old devil bleeding? His grasp had not broken the skin. At the entrance, the maid was squatting on the ground with her hands wrapped around her head, elbows forward, her buttocks inches from the cement floor. She swayed, making soft moans. Dan unfastened the magistrate's tunic and peeled it open. The old man fell forward, laying his forehead against an armrest.

“No more, please,” the maid screeched. “Do not hit the master again! I beg you.”

Under the luxurious golden robe, the skin on Toan's back was scarred and broken. The black-and-red marks of whiplashes, some old, others still oozing blood, crossed one another like the lines on a road map. The servant's voice faded into a hoarse whisper.

Dan looked for the mayor. Sai spoke from the darkest part of the room. “I have tried every known method to make him talk. According to the physicians, he is in command of his five senses. He feels every physical stimulus that is inflicted upon him, even though he may not be capable of responding the same way any of us do. I was hoping that I could torture him out of his catatonic state. Certainly the magistrate understands that once he gives up what I am looking for, the torment will end.”

Faced with Dan's silence, Sai lost his poise. “Sir Dan, don't you ridicule me with that glare!” he said. “You cannot judge me from where you stand, for I must do what I can to survive. I am not as fortunate as any of you: I am not blessed with a conscience. Poor Dan! Poor Ven! What has become of poor Sai? Did anyone even know him? Is he alive and at peace with himself? I am, as you can see, nameless and forgotten.”

Turning to Ven, he raised his voice. “I know about the secret affair between you and Big Con, your cottage in the forest and your frequent trips to the cemetery inside the Nguyen mansion. I have kept an eye on the two of you as long as I have been the town mayor. But have I ever bothered or disturbed your happy nest? My mind has only one priority, and that is to retrieve the buried treasure so that it will comfort me in my final years. If you are tempted to judge me, I urge you to keep your comments to yourselves.”

“You don't fool me, Mr. Sai,” Dan interrupted. “Ven and Tutor Con are necessary actors in your sad drama. To you, they served as bait to lure me back into this village. That is why you have endured their presence for the past seven years without disturbing them. Now that I am here, my knowledge of the second half of the map won't help you find the treasure without the first half, which is lost along with the magistrate's mind. Be that as it may, it is no reason for you to act so cruelly to him. Remember the laws of consequence dictated by the rule of Karma—in twenty years, any of your men may inflict the same torture on you. Judging from the way that you have taken command of Toan's automobile, his men, and his career, I surmise that you are enjoying his estates and his lands as well. This fortune should be sufficient for you, Mr. Sai, to secure a life of leisure and prosperity.” As he spoke, Dan turned to the old man and said, “The magistrate has paid his debt to you, to me, and to society. Let him be! He is now alone in his misery. As for me, I see that my trip home has served its purpose. It is time I should leave this place, go far away, and be free from such bitter memories.”

He took Ven's hand and turned. The mayor sauntered forward, blocking Dan's exit.

“You cannot leave, my friend,” he said, pushing his hands against Dan's bare chest. “I have pursued the hunt for your father's fortune for so long that I cannot let it escape me again. Give me your map! I deserve the right to possess it even though it is, as you have said, useless. You don't seem to care much for its value. Why not give it to me? I shall keep it as a memento.”

Ven swept Sai's hands away from Dan and forced herself between them. Dan touched her shoulders, his face calm under the glow of the oil lanterns above.

“Do not fret, Ven,” he said. “Sooner or later the mayor will realize I do not have the map in my possession. It is he who made the assumption that I have what he is looking for.”

“But you have spoken as if you know where it is,” Sai exclaimed.

“And so I have,” replied Dan. “I confess, I have mentioned my knowledge of the second half of the map, but it is not in my care. In fact, I have seen it briefly just once. My poor memory, since then, has forgotten its details.”

Sai leaned forward and opened his mouth. “Sir Dan,” he breathed, “who has it? I have waited for so long, tell me and I will—” His jaw dropped in the middle of the sentence, and his eyes widened. Somewhere in the dark, the time-teller called out for Dan to be careful. A shadow floated up and crept across the ceiling, sweeping along the beams and columns of the stately house and then spreading out like spilled ink above Dan.

He turned and saw a pair of ancient eyes, aglow in the nickering light, staring at him from a few feet away. For a moment, he could not comprehend what he was seeing. Gradually the face of the old magistrate emerged from the vast form of his body. He was standing. His outstretched arms were raised upward, holding a tilted lantern. Some of the liquid inside its glass case spilled from the neck. The smell of kerosene permeated the sweltering air.

As Dan watched, dumbfounded, the old man sprang toward him, and his hands came down. The flash of fire tore through the darkness, a brilliant meteor. Dan caught the old man's wrists. Ven was coming toward him from the side with her face twisted and her arms raised. With his shoulder, Dan blocked her path.

“Get away, Ven,” he said. She fell back, startled. More kerosene spilled, and the flame grew larger, crackling inside the transparent covering.

Magistrate Toan pulled himself closer. His rheumy eyes blinked, as his mouth broadened into an evil smile. “Greetings,” he hissed. His guttural voice gurgled with pleasure. “You die…today…with me! We shall find the treasure together…in Hell. But first, your father is looking for his head. Will you help him?” His body shook with laughter. The room shuddered, echoing his lunacy.

Then, without pausing, he uncurled his fingers and the lantern slipped. The flaming wick responded to the rush of air and fluttered like the wing of a bat. Dan jumped back, watching the lamp crash onto the cement floor inches from the old man's feet. The splash of fire burst into hundreds of orange petals.