by Kien Nguyen
She got up from the edge of the wedding bed and lowered the oil lamp until it emitted only a dot of light the size of a pea. Quietly, she took off her restrictive clothing. The boy sat on the bed and watched her with his large, almond-shaped eyes. He inserted his thumb into the gap in his teeth. Ven left her undergarments on and climbed into the bed, pulling the mosquito net over her. As she lay down, her husband snuggled into her outstretched arms. He buried his face in her armpit, sucking his thumb.
She took the boy's wrist and pulled the finger out of his mouth. With an effort, she made her voice low and reasonable. “Young master, you are too old for this habit.” He lay still, looking at her. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. Ven struggled with an impulse to wipe the drool off his face.
In the dark, she began to understand what her position would be in this rich man's house. They did not marry her to make her a fine lady. They wanted her for slave labor. Yet, being a daughter-in-law, she was not entitled to the salary a servant would have been paid.
To her surprise, Ven found she could not cry. Soon exhaustion claimed her.
chapter two
Breakfast
Ven was awoken before dawn by a tapping on her shoulder. In the light of the oil lantern, she saw the shadowed face of a young woman leaning over her. At her side, still wrapped in her arms, her groom was asleep.
Ven pulled away from her husband gently, so as not to disturb him. His peaceful face, round with baby fat, pressed against the hard tatami surface. The oak bed creaked under her weight like the bones of an old person. Through the bedroom window the night seemed frozen in time, and the courtyard shimmered in an iridescent glow. Here and there, the moonlight lingered on a few rare orchids.
Beyond the high brick garden wall, she heard the lazy footsteps of a time-teller. In most communities, the task of telling time fell to the village idiot, since his duty was considered lowly in the extreme. Most often, he lived in a hut on the outskirts of town, far from any neighbors. Besides the clothes on his back, the time-teller typically owned only a small metal gong. Night after night, he wandered the streets, sounding the passage of time with his padded hammer. By counting the strokes he made, the villagers could approximate the hour. The night was divided into five intervals, each about two Western hours long, stretching from sunset to rooster's crow. Ven counted four strokes on the gong. Its hollow sound echoed through the stillness long after the man's shuffling footsteps had receded.
She dressed quickly in the dark, wearing the undergarments she had on from the day before. From the bundle of possessions she had brought with her, she chose a long-sleeved cotton blouse, as the sun would not come up for several more hours.
The young woman who had woken Ven up stood waiting by the doorway. She was dressed in servant's clothes—a faded brown uniform. She was about sixteen years old, and sleep still crusted her eyelids. With an impatient gesture, she beckoned for Ven to follow her. Ven took a lantern from the bamboo stick outside the bedroom door and watched the servant hurry ahead of her down the hall. The girl was heavy, and she waddled like a pregnant mare.
“What is your name?” Ven asked her.
“I am called Song,” she said in a whisper.
“Where are we going?” Ven hastened to keep up as they walked down one of the manicured paths that cut across the garden, dividing it into rectangular beds of well-kept grasses and plants.
The maid stopped next to a plum tree and turned to look at Ven. “We are going to the kitchen, of course,” she whispered. “First Mistress has ordered you to make breakfast and have it ready by the time the other mistresses wake up. Didn't the matchmaker tell you this would be your duty?”
“No,” Ven replied. “When do the mistresses wake up?”
“As soon as the time-teller makes his last round. But if I were you, I would not rely on him. He drinks too much rice wine and is always late. You have about two hours to prepare the meal.”
She resumed her swaying gait, and they walked in front of Master Nguyen's house. The mansion and its outlying buildings faced a white-brick path, about twenty feet wide and a hundred yards long, that led to the street. Three gates protected the compound from intruders. The middle and largest one was a solid piece of black granite, split in two. When closed, the two sides merged in a complicated carving that depicted a portion of the mystical world of Heaven—beautiful bodies of the immortals dancing in and out of the clouds. Through this elegant portal only family members and honored guests would pass. Servants and vendors used the two side doors, which were modest in size and made of simply carved wood.
Ven stopped to look at her new home. Under the indigo moonlight, its outline glinted as though made out of sapphire. Never in her life had she been in a place so magnificent. It was a miniature palace, from the golden roof, decorated with a bold ceramic dragon at each corner, to the red sliding panels of its doors. In front stood five massive granite columns, embossed with carved dragons. The veranda held an ornamental vase balanced on a wooden stand large enough to hide an adult. Inside grew a eucalyptus twisted into the shape of a phoenix, which reached its wings to the sky as if to take flight.
They turned onto a side path, and through a window of opaque parchment, Ven was surprised to see that the main living room was aglow. The light of oil lamps flickered on the silhouettes of two men. They leaned over a desk in serious discussion. Curious, Ven stepped closer. She could hear their urgent whispers, though she could not make out what they were saying.
Song slipped in next to her. “The master is meeting with Master Long, the town mayor.”
“Did my father-in-law entertain a lot of overnight guests because of the wedding?” Ven asked.
The girl shook her head. “No, the master doesn't allow overnight guests, except for a few important people and, of course, his fishing crews. Master Long did not come for your wedding. He sometimes comes after dinner, and he and the master stay up talking until dawn.”
“How often do they meet?”
“It varies,” Song replied. “Our master and the first two mistresses are seldom home, but when they are, they entertain several guests. For example, Master Long was here four nights already this week. Occasionally, two other men accompany him.”
“What do they talk about?” Ven asked. Her eyes were glued to the shadows on the screened window.
“I don't know. I assume it's about the master's business.”
“What kind of business does he have?”
Song looked up at Ven with a fearful expression. “Please, Mistress—”
It was the first time that Song had addressed Ven with a title. She listened as the maid continued, “I beg you, don't ask me any more questions. Your in-laws would not hesitate to discipline me severely if they found out I was telling you these things.” The girl turned away and hid behind the curtain of her hair.
Ven knew she should give up her prying and make herself subservient in the eyes of others. But inside she felt a touch of rebellion, and as isolated as she was in this strange house, she could not let go of the subject. She touched the girl's shoulder. “I am scared, too,” she admitted. “You and I are of the same kind. We are both women. And we are slaves under this roof. But unlike you, I do not receive wages for my service, and to others I am still an outsider. For those reasons, I need your help. Please tell me about these people before I meet them, so that I can avoid mistakes. I promise I won't get you into trouble.”
Song sighed. “I see that you know as little about them as they know about you,” she said. “The master and his first two wives earn their living from the sea. Master is the captain of the largest fishing boat in this town. Most of the men in the village work for him as his sailors.”
“What about Third Mistress? What does she do?”
“Third Mistress is like a water lily, beautiful but fragile. Before she was married to our master, she was an actress in a Chinese opera troupe, which performed in the big cities. She was sold into this house when she was fourteen. I lear
ned this from Old Che, the family's cook. She was handed over to settle a debt the owner of the troupe had with the master. He loves her beyond reason. He treats her like a Buddha statue and never lets anyone or anything so much as touch her fingernails. Ever since she was blessed with a child, and nearly died giving birth to him, Master Nguyen has allowed her to handle the household while he is away at sea. That child is your new husband.”
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.”
Ven 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.
Ven 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.
