by Kien Nguyen
“Ah! Ah! Did you know I took the young mistress, Lady Tai May, to the Trui market yesterday?” he had said to her in his cracking, adolescent voice. He shifted his weight from side to side in agitation. “You cannot guess what we saw at the market, can you?”
“No, sir, I really cannot.”
“Roses,” he blurted. “Beautiful red roses, just like the ones we used to have in our garden before the fire. I bought one bloom for my mistress with my wages, but the heat made it wilt.” He paused and drew near her, then asked in a whisper, “Ven, will you teach me how to embroider? I want to make a flower for my mistress that will remain fresh for eternity.” That was when she knew he had forgotten his blood feud with the Toan family.
The same afternoon, she gave her husband the sewing kit. It was a birch box that she had spent more than two years carving with lively images of plum and bamboo trees, using the only tool she had—the antler of a roe deer. A few days later, she had bought him the first fabric. And then she taught him how to embroider, hiding her jealousy inside the silken threads they had chosen together. Like tea leaves steeping in hot water, Ven's emotions swelled in the brew of her censorious silence.
Now, even with the town in mayhem and his life in danger, he still wanted to embroider. It was almost more than she could bear. He was right to have blamed her for sending him into the enemy's house. In her perfect plot for revenge, she had not envisaged the power of that girl, or the way her husband blushed each time her name was mentioned.
An old song, like a faded memory of her childhood, rose to the tip of her tongue:
The female toad gave birth in a goldfish's pond.
The young tadpoles looked just like goldfish's fry,
So the goldfish adopted them and brought them up.
“What happened to our children?” the toad cried to his wife.
In the middle of the night, he came to the pond and asked for his sons back.
But the goldfish humiliated him, saying that they
Could not be his offspring, for toads were land animals.
A tree frog listened to the quarrel nearby and said to the toad,
“Why argue? Every species reproduces its own kind….
“Calm yourself, and do not continue with this dispute,
Let the goldfish bestow care on your children;
One day, when their tails fall off, they will return to you.
And that is the natural way.”
Hot air leaped across the fiery ocean of cornfields, scorching her face. Thinking of the toads, she wished for her husband to return to her, not only for the cautious weekly visits when he could escape his duties at the Toan mansion, but also as her sole contact with anything resembling a family.
She picked up her pace, as if to leave her troubled thoughts behind. The song continued to stream from her mouth, softly as first. And then like the humming wind, it soared through the air:
Those goldfish were truly thieves.
Greed like a blob of pond scum had blinded them,
Without giving them time to think.
The tadpoles became toads and went home to their parents.
And while the goldfish cried over his losses,
The family of toads was reunited and lived happily together.
She was floating with her song beside a bright checkerboard of golden fields when tramping feet thundered behind her. She stood rigid, yet fully aware of her surroundings.
“Where is this dumb beggar going in the middle of a curfew?” asked a mocking male voice.
With a slow gesture, she hooked the handle of her knife inside her waistband and turned around, her hands knitted together against her stomach. Dark veins bulged along her forearms, highlighting her muscles. Her eyes took in the muddy tips of the men's shoes and then the dark-blue socks around their ankles. She counted four pairs of soldiers' clogs scuffing the dirt in front of her in their usual intimidating way. One of the men, the captain of the guards, slammed his fist at her shoulder, forcing her to take a step back.
“We asked you a question. Must we stand here all day while you stare at the road?” No, sir…
“No, sir, what? You are under arrest for breaking the curfew. Did you not hear the warning drum?”
“Yes, sir. I heard it loud and clear. Can you tell me what has happened?”
“We are looking for an escaped slave from the house of Toan, who may also be a kidnapper. No one is allowed to roam the streets until we find him.”
“Why do you trouble me? I am not a slave,” she whispered. From under her lowered lids, she was watching their every move. She saw the leader's shoes shuffle closer until the front of his brown shirt pressed against her nose. His skin oozed the unmistakable odor of opium, sweet and acrid.
One of the soldiers seized the meaty part of her arm in his gnarled fingers. “Listen to us, she-monkey,” he said in a thick voice. “You do not talk to Mr. Sai, the town's police chief, in that tone of voice.”
The rest of the men closed in around her like a pack of stag-hounds. Their nostrils puffed air in excited bursts, as though they were waiting for a signal from the master of the hunt.
Ven looked up at the leader's face for the first time. He had prickly black hair, and dark-brown specks of tar dotted his large yellowish teeth. His eyes were half shut; his face was puckered into an idiotic, hallucinatory grin. Using both hands, he scratched his head repeatedly—a gesture that reinforced her impression that he was sleepwalking.
No one moved while the captain's attention wandered across the fields and finally back to Ven. His eyes lost their glazed look as he ordered, “Who has the rope? Tie her up.”
Ven brushed away the hand on her arm and plunged forward. Before she could get far, the captain of guards was blocking her path. More hands, like the hooks of a fishnet, seized her. She struggled to break free.
Sai raised his sparse eyebrows to form two exaggerated half circles. With his fists he delivered a series of punches to her chest. The skillful blows of the experienced guard were unlike any she had encountered in common fights. She had no breath to scream; her lungs could produce only a chain of muffled hiccups. With his eyes still half shut, her captor clutched the scruff of her neck, pulling her upward, while the other men twisted her arms against the small of her back. Holding her in that position, they wrapped a rope around her wrists and fastened a knot. The captain released his fingers. Ven fell to the ground, immobilized.
The soldiers yanked her to her feet. She stood before Sai again, red-faced, with a trail of saliva trickling down her chin.
“Why are you running away?” he asked.
“I don't have to answer any questions,” she said. “You have no right to arrest me.”
“Do you defy us?” There was something eerie in the way he referred to himself in the plural.
Ven tried her best to project an air of meekness. “No, sir,” she mumbled.
“We think you did,” he barked.
The blows rained down again, harder this time, pummeling her chest with a dull agony. The men released her arms, and she fell flat on her face. Flashes of lightning exploded in her eyes. On her tongue, she was aware of the metallic, earthy soil, which reminded her of the taste of blood. She choked, unable to speak.
“Stubborn brute, why are you silent all of a sudden? Let us hear your sharp tongue once more,” the captain said.
She closed her eyes. Her mind opened into a world that was filled with nothing but gray sky. The captain's voice rasped above her, like the relentless wind: “Another drifter on the way to town. Sooner or later, we'll find that runaway slave…”
Someone grabbed a handful of her hair. Ven struggled to her feet as she felt herself being dragged down the road.
Outside the community hall, an ancient banyan tree threw its shadow across the ground. The rich colors of harvest goods brightened the marketplace, an impressive testament to a successful farming season. Soybeans lay in mounds on the rectangular veranda, waiting to be divided among the landowner
s. Near the front entrance of the hall, ears of corn were strung high from one tree to another, drying in the sun. Beneath them, the massive courtyard was full of vehicles of all kinds—carts, wagons, horse-drawn carriages, and a dark sedan caked in brown mud.
In back of the redbrick hall, a dismal scene was on display. A desultory herd of oxen and cows chomped the few strands of limp grass that clung to the hard-baked soil under the dying sun, while their owners—hapless peasants arrested for curfew violations—sprawled silently inside. Above them, beyond the tall foliage, strong winds pulled forward masses of dark clouds. A storm was moving in.
In the great hall, the harvest moon banquet was winding to an end. Upon a dais that was furnished with a thick, soft carpet—the highest and most honored seat in the house—Master Long, his elderly father, and the guest of honor, Minister Chin Tang, sat cross-legged, sharing a pipe of opium and a burning oil lamp. Long's mouth drooped to the side, and from his throat escaped a damp snore, like the gurgling of a kettle.
To his right sprawled the old magistrate, draped in a formal outfit—a dark-blue silk tunic and a headdress of similar color. He was clutching a half-eaten cow's shank in his misshapen fingers. His lavender lips stretched almost to his earlobes as he tried to gnaw the meat off its bone.
The minister of religion was clothed in the fine satin of the Imperial City's official uniform, with its outer tunic of glossy purple-blue. A gloomy look shaded his face. Before him was a lacquered bowl heaped with grilled chicken, beef stew in curry sauce, and fried shrimp wrapped in rice papers, all of which appeared to be untasted.
Underneath the platform crouched a pack of dogs. Watching the bone in the magistrate's fingers, the animals panted and salivated, occasionally biting one another's ankles in frustration.
A few feet away from the dogs, a cluster of less important residents—the Cam Le Village authorities and senior citizens—sat around a tatami mat covered with dirty dishes, fish bones, and empty lobster shells. A black pipe, shiny from the addicts' greasy handprints, was being passed from one person to another. The droning sound of air churning atop the lantern was as steady as the buzzing of flies over the leftovers. Some of the men were waiting for their turn to partake of the pipe, while others leaned back and held the opium smoke in their lungs with mouthfuls of hot tea, served to them by orderlies.
Ven huddled in the far corner of the hall, lost among a crowd of a dozen bound prisoners. The smell of the stale food, mixed with the peasants' strong odor, numbed her mind. Her arms remained roped behind her back. The knot was so tight that she could no longer feel her fingers, except to sense that they had swollen like ten gigantic bamboo sprouts. Now and then a gust of wind rushed through the great door, and she shuddered.
Not far from her was a pack of scavengers—homeless, addicts, and orderlies—the dregs of Cam Le society who came to the banquet for leftover food and opium. Among them was the time-teller. He sat on the ground with his legs wide apart. Working with silent intensity, he scraped the burnt residue from the opening of a pipe with a crooked spoon. His face was flushed from the smoke he had inhaled; even his scars, normally grayish and distended, were now pink and oily with sweat.
Ven shifted her buttocks, searching for a more comfortable position. Her mind was awake, but her limbs felt as if they were trapped under heavy blocks of concrete. She straightened her cramped legs, and as she did so she knocked over a stack of dirty dishes someone had laid close by. Their loud crashing noise carried above the shrill clamor of the hall.
The sound woke Master Long. His eyes, clouded and bloodshot, turned in her direction. Soon the sharpness returned to them, accompanied by a sudden anger. He pounded his fist on the copper food tray, sending a vigorous vibration through the surrounding tableware. The room became silent.
“Who—?” His scream echoed through the hall, sounding like a long lowing of a cow. He staggered to stand up, but as one of his toes caught the hem of his tunic, he fell back.
The silence continued until Master Long's voice again rose. “Who broke the dishes?” He searched the hall until his eyes rested on the time-teller. “Big Con, my favorite lackey,” he said. “You are sitting near the peasants. Surely you must know who that clumsy brute is. Lean over and give him a slap in the face for me.”
The time-teller looked up. He licked a corner of his mouth, and Ven shuddered at the sight of his black, furry tongue. Everything about the man frightened her. He threw her a look that reminded her of the emptiness of a well. She sat frozen, watching him until he lowered his eyes and resumed his scraping.
Master Long's voice barked again, more impatiently this time. “Raise yourself, time-teller, and hit that miserable fool who broke the town's dishes. Teach him a lesson, Big Con. You must show us your strength, which we have already paid for with the free supper and rice wine.”
The time-teller pushed himself to his feet. As he relaxed his fingers, the spoon slipped from his hand, making a hollow clatter when it hit the stone floor. Ven watched him move closer until his body filled her vision. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and waited.
Then she heard his voice again for the first time after many years, as though he were speaking directly to her. “I will not hit her.” His speech rasped, as if rusty from disuse.
“Why not, you weak-minded coward?”
She heard the movement of his body, and then the vast shadow receded. “I am not drunk enough to strike a bound woman,” he said.
The guests exploded into savage laughter, mocking the time-teller's weakness with their guffaws.
“Shut your mouths, now. All of you, be silent!” shouted a reedy voice from the center of the dais.
Ven opened her eyes. Minister Chin Tang, with his chest pushed forward and hands folded into fists, stood on top of the platform. His small eyes bore a resemblance to those of the young lord her husband was holding prisoner at the ruined mansion. However, on this man's face, those eyes gleamed with authority.
“Say not a word about being prudent,” said the minister in his purest accent. “Why should all of you bother with a lowly beggar when you are supposed to be searching for my son? I have exhausted my patience sitting here all morning and part of the afternoon, waiting for news about his return, while all you could do was eat, drink, smoke, ridicule, and judge things that do not concern you. If the mayor of this town is not disturbed by my son's absence, then let me summon my three sailors, who are waiting by the dock, and conduct my own search. I will not sit here, safe from harm, while my son's life may be in danger. Gentlemen, I bid you farewell. Enjoy your feast and do not expect any kindness in my annual report to the king's councilmen about your town.”
The old magistrate leaned on his son's shoulder, struggling to stand up. Not until his eyes were at the same level with those of the irate minister did he speak. “Sir Chin,” he said, “I assure you, your son is not forsaken. Right this instant a search is being conducted. My men are combing this village section by section, gathering every clue that might lead to his whereabouts. So far, no one has claimed to have seen or talked to him. Unless the young master left Cam Le this morning, sooner or later we will indeed find him. For the time being, I beg for more of your patience. What good would it do if you stir up a crisis among these ignorant villagers? Allow us, your true allies, to express our faithful friendship and service for a few more hours.”
“You will never find him,” Ven shouted. “I am the only soul in this place that knows where the young lord is.”
The silence in the hall was deafening. Outside, the autumn earth seemed to smoke. Rain was coming. She shrank back to the floor, shutting her eyes. The old magistrate sat up. When she looked up again, her eyes locked glances with him.
“Who are you?” the minister asked, jumping down to the ground.
Ven's mind was flooded with panic. What are you doing, Ven? You have taken one step too far on this road; there is no turning back now, except to face the consequences. This might be the only way she could save Dan.
/> “Where is my son? Do you want to tell me where he is or should I beat the information out of you?” the minister cried as he rushed toward her, his robes rustling through the long room.
Ven felt him seize her shoulders. “No, no torture,” she gasped. “It would not do you any good. I will not tell you under any circumstances, unless you give me your sacred promise that you will listen to my story and protect my family from all harm and grievance. Only you, as the king's minister, could provide a just ending to the harrowing tale that I am about to reveal to you. Your son is safe. It is us, the lowly slaves and beggars, who are in great danger.”
Hearing her words, Magistrate Toan resumed his former position, half-sitting, half-lying on the carpet. But now his every muscle was taut, alert. Next to him, his son roused from his drowsy state.
“I swear to you my promise, deeply and sincerely,” the minister said. “Tell me where to find my son, and I will recompense you to the best of my efforts. You speak as though you are a victim of great injustice, and from what I have seen in this town, I have reason to trust you. Just begin by telling me who you are. How can a lowly beggar speak so eloquently, even more so than many educated men in this place?”
The sincerity in his demeanor persuaded her to trust him. “I was the daughter of a poet,” she said. “My father passed away when I was a young girl. Even though I did not have an opportunity to learn the proper vernacular language, I grew up among poets and writers and acquired a different type of education—the ability to express myself through speech. I confess, poverty was the main reason for my grandparents to send me to this town nine years ago, a slave-bride to the rich house of Master Nguyen. There in his cursed mansion, I witnessed a massacre.” She jumped up from her sitting position, feeling warm tears on her cheeks. Looking at the old magistrate, she screamed to him, “Toan, do you know who I am? Can you guess it now, or do you want me to tell you my name?”
