The Tapestries

by Kien Nguyen

  A few feet below him, the Queen Mother stretched her arms. Her shoulders shrugged as if she were cold, and the salmon headdress slipped down the front of her face, where it looked like a blindfold. She signaled to a team of ladies-in-waiting that stood nearby. Dan returned to his canvas; in a few minutes, he heard their wooden clogs clatter off.

  He knew that revenge for his family was his obligation, but it had always struck him as unreasonable. How could he seek vengeance on the magistrate's family when his life was spared by his own enemy's granddaughter? If it were not for Tai May, he would not have survived to this day. He owed her a life. Tonight, in the brightness of his gazebo, the war of emotions seemed to strike him at a new level of intensity. The past that he believed he had escaped forever seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

  A masculine voice rose over the room. The music that was playing from a gramophone scratched into silence, and everyone on the floor stopped still. Dan leaned forward, using one hand to part the beads so he could peek outside. A Vietnamese official in his mid-twenties was standing at the edge of the platform. The man's overweight body swelled uncomfortably inside a beige military uniform with a high-collared jacket that squeezed his neck, turning his face red. His stance—legs apart, chest high—allowed the rows of golden medals on his left breast to glow under the decorative Western light bulbs.

  Dan noted that the transformation to European culture ended at the official's neck. The Vietnamese black silk headdress bound up his forehead in several layers like a bandage keeping the pressure from bursting out of his face.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the royal opera company will not be performing tonight. They have been canceled due to the unanimous complaints of the audience, and, of course, the orders of His Majesty himself.”

  Spurts of laughter exploded in the crowd. The mandarin paused, tilted his head, and waited for the eruption to subside.

  “Instead,” he continued once the silence had returned to the stately hall, “for tonight's entertainment, we have decided to introduce a new talent from the motherland. Her expressive voice, superb diction, and fine sense of style have made of her an ideal interpreter of French songs. Mademoiselle Suzanne Therein will perform selections from Debussy's Pelleas et Melisande (act one, scene two) in which she plays the role of sweet Genevieve. And now, for your listening pleasure, please welcome Miss Therein.”

  Dan winced and lifted a hand to his open mouth. He had been waiting the whole night for Tai May, only to be disappointed. He stood up. Balls of thread fell from his lap onto the tiled floor. Behind him, the guards bounded forward, apprehensive at his peculiar behavior.

  “It is all right,” he whispered. “Please, take me back to the Great Golden Gate. I have finished my embroidery for this evening.”

  chapter eighteen

  Camillie

  It was midnight when Dan passed through the Meridian Gate. Ahead he could see the outline of a roofed promenade along the bank of the river, marking the perimeter of the fortress. The moon was hanging directly on top of it. Dan was too restless to return to his apartment. Instead, he crossed over the Truong Tien Bridge and wandered into the streets of New Town, which had grown up around the outskirts of the citadel. He could already hear the sounds of night life on Morin Street.

  Tonight, the whole country was celebrating the emperor's return. He had no intention of brooding alone, simmering in the sour broth of his sorrow.

  Dan made a quick turn at a bend in the path, and the busiest street in Hue City opened before him, noisy and energetic. Half-naked children chased one another through the piles of garbage on the side of the road. Puddles of murky water in the gutters reflected the street lamps.

  The city was infested with stray cats that squirmed cagily in dark corners or draped themselves along the houses' banisters as though to camouflage themselves. Their yowling echoed in the night. Everywhere he looked, commoners and noblemen pressed against one another, yelling and barking out the deep, hollow laughter that he had heard all day.

  Above the clamor that surrounded him, Dan detected the subtler, more hypnotic sound of music being plucked from a lute. It seemed to be floating from the upper windows of a tea shop across the street. The melody was an old folk song he had often heard when he was a child. Now, it was being played in a slower and sadder style, lingering like a ghost from yesteryear. An unseen hand pushed him toward it.

  To reach the entrance of the tea shop, he had to pass through a horde of drunken men who had had too much of a good time. The crowd condensed into a multilimbed mass that oscillated wildly, and Dan was caught in the middle, like a shrimp inside a spring roll. In striving to move forward, his feet slid on something slippery on the ground, and he could only pray that it was a banana peel. He fought his way to the sidewalk, and the heat from the nearby vendors hit him like an invisible wall of hot coals.

  The tea shop stood five stories high. Dan entered a narrow door and saw that the first floor was a sort of living room, crowded with couches and lounge chairs. Most of the men sitting in them were hidden under large palm trees set in ornate ceramic tubs. He strained to hear the enticing sound from upstairs, but it was muffled by the much louder noise below.

  Beautiful women in scanty dresses slithered in the dim light like the stray cats he had seen outside. Their faces were concealed in heavy makeup that made them appear as mysterious as the scents that emanated from their bodies. None of them paid any attention to him, a country fellow who was still wearing the traditional ao dai tunic and hiding his long hair in a formal silk headdress, so different from the fashionable linen suits and fedoras of the shop's regular clientele.

  Somehow Dan found the courage to navigate through the crowd and wind his way to the wooden counter near the back of the hall. When a male bartender in black uniform looked his way, he asked for ten copper pennies' worth of tea.

  Clutching the delicate cup, he sat in a lounge chair under the staircase so he could observe the lewd commerce taking place between the hostesses and the guests. His inner voice urged him to drink the tea quickly and go away, but curiosity kept him in his seat. He had entered because of the strumming lute; he must meet the person whose lullaby he had heard.

  After fifteen minutes, Dan went back to the counter. The bartender lurched forward. He was an oak statue of a man, with a neck full of beard, sunken cheeks, and eyes so narrow that they swam on his face like two anchovies. His stringy hair was pasted over a large bald spot. He gave Dan a dark look. “What is it? Does your excellency see a girl you desire?”

  “I h-heard someone p-play a lute from outside,” Dan stuttered. “I would like to hire that person to play this particular song for me.” He whistled a tune from The Jade Pin, which still haunted his mind.

  The man chuckled. “Oh, mother of Heavens,” he called out in false delight.

  “What is it?” Dan asked. “Did I say something amusing?”

  “Not at all.” The grin remained plastered across his face. “It is just that you do not look like the type who would be a fan of our Camille. In fact, you are much too young. I am curious to know, has anyone recommended her to you?”

  Dan shook his head. It seemed to him that things had become a lot more complicated than he had envisioned. He took a sip of tea.

  “Listen.” The bartender leaned forward. His breath was a sea of rotten fish, choking Dan to the verge of tears. “For the customer that has more than ten silver pieces in his girdle, there are joys to be had in feasting and taking pleasure in private with any woman in this place. The rooms upstairs are reserved for this purpose, and the higher the floor, the more expensive the girls that occupy its rooms. Look around you. There are so many beauties for you to choose. Why don't you look at someone else, some pretty little lips perhaps? Or do you prefer the wild and wicked type?”

  Dan's resolve hardened. “I told you, I heard a tune as I was passing. Can your musician play any songs from The Jade Pin? If so, then it is imperative that I meet her.”

&n
bsp; The man paused, sucking his teeth. His eyes became two thin lines. Then, while Dan held his breath, he smacked his hand against the wooden countertop and said, “Have a seat. I will return shortly with Camille.”

  Dan again retreated under the staircase. From there, he could see the entire place with little effort. Clearly, it had undergone a major reconstruction. Remnants of an old design were still visible in the copper plaques that gilded the ceiling beams and the oval openings that led to the inner gambling rooms. Facing the entrance, instead of the typical partitions that were seen in rich houses, a crystal wall of falling water shielded the inside from the street's pollutions, at the same time enhancing the visitors' privacy. The mist that rose from the cascade smelled of burnt rubber, and its damp vapor coated the furniture like slippery oil.

  He remained in the dark corner for some time drinking his tea. Through the cracks between the steps, he watched the customers' costly Western shoes climbing the narrow stairs next to the silk slippers of their women. Those who descended wore a uniform look of satisfaction, confirmed by their disheveled clothing and stupefied grins. Their smug faces were stamped with the heart-shaped imprints of lipstick kisses, making them look like pigs that had just passed the Board of Health's inspection and earned the red seal of approval.

  Out of nowhere, a brush of warm air blew a harsh, flowery perfume into his nostrils. Dan turned and faced an attractive woman who was half-leaning, half-stretching along the upholstered back of his seat. Her hair was tied into a big knot above the nape of her neck. The violet light overhead formed shadows over her eyes and darkened the folds of her lips, giving her an owl-like appearance.

  “Camille is here at your service,” she said. “You are, I presume, visiting the Red Dream Hotel for the first time?”

  He nodded and lowered his head. She laughed with a twinge of sadness. “I heard you are looking for some company,” she said.

  He inspected the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup and listened to the rattling of dice from the next room. The hostess slid down into the chair. The friction of her movement bunched her black dress together in the back, and for a moment, she looked almost nude. Dan could see the outline of her rib cage beneath the thin satin. Her eyes looked straight at him with a hunger that again reminded him of street cats. She swung her arm forward, catching his fingers in her nails. He found himself unable to look away from her sharp white teeth, bluish under the light as she pulled him closer to her.

  “Do you understand the rules of this place, young farmer?” she asked. “If you request a girl, you are expected to pay for her time, unless you have no silver. In which case, you do not belong here and must leave at once.”

  “I c-came here with one wish,” he stammered. Her perfume reminded him of the stagnant water in a vase of old roses.

  “My dear boy, you have come to the right place,” she said with an air of pride. “You can make any demands in this house. Nothing is so outrageous that it cannot be done. However, people pay here before they indulge in their desires. As soon as you make a suitable donation for my services, I will comply with your wishes.”

  He reached for the money sack that was hidden in the sash around his waist. Her greedy stare followed his every move. “Tell me then, how much?” he asked.

  “It depends on how long you wish to keep me,” she breathed. “For the first hour, I am worth a pair of silver coins. Eight more will provide you my devoted service for the entire night.”

  “What I need would take no more than ten minutes of your time.”

  She chuckled. “You are certainly inexperienced, young farmer. But do not fret! I assure you that I am a skilled teacher. What's more, we have several kinds of tiger-bone wines that will help to prolong your endurance. In the house of pleasure, there is no speaking of time, only satisfaction.”

  Dan picked out two pieces of silver and handed them to her. She pulled back, as if he had offered her a burning lump of coal. “Do not give that to me,” she whispered. “Pay him.”

  He saw a shadow coming toward them from the other side of the hall. It staggered, and a clinking sound of metal echoed its footsteps, like an iron shackle being dragged across the floor. From the darkness above him, the face of the bartender appeared, with his thick black beard bristling. The giant stopped a few feet away from Dan and turned his eyes upon him. He thrust his hand forward, revealing a stack of keys wrapped around his wrist. Dan realized that the manaclelike sound he had heard was made by the keys clicking against one another. He placed the coins in the man's palm and watched them vanish.

  “One hour,” the bartender said.

  “Where is my tip?” the woman cried.

  Dan had never heard that word before. They were both feasting their eyes on him, clearly expecting him to understand what it meant. He searched for clues on the woman's face, and she fixed her eyes on his bag of coins.

  “What is a tip?” he finally asked.

  “My present,” she said in exasperation. “And who has not heard of it? You must show your gratitude for my service.”

  “But you have not rendered me any service.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. “I will, soon after you settle all of the payment in advance.”

  “All right,” he said, his patience wearing thin. “How much do I owe you for this great pleasure?”

  “The smallest amount one would consider a tip is one half of the fee. But according to most of my customers, my talent is worth at least two extra pieces of silver.”

  Dan laid more coins in the bartender's hand and they disappeared like props in a magic trick.

  “Thank you, sir,” came the guttural voice above him. “You have been more than generous with the lady. But I beseech you not to forget about me. I, too, deserve a tip for two reasons: one, for bringing you this songbird. And two, it is I who will stand guard outside your door so that neither drunkards nor policemen will disturb you and Camille.”

  Dan gave his collar a frustrated yank. The entire evening had become one gigantic mistake. Silently, he cursed himself for walking into this tea shop, and he cursed these scoundrels for helping to make this attempt at frivolity utterly unbearable. And to think of all the nights this should happen! He looked up, hoping to catch any trace of penitence on their faces. Instead, he met two pairs of blinking eyes, gleaming with uncanny desire at the velvet pouch in his hands.

  “Why are you making a fool of me?” he asked them in a low voice. “All I want is a song. Why must you tease me with this silly prank? “

  “We have certain rules in this place,” Camille said. “It signifies nothing whether you stay one minute or one hour—whether you have my company here at this table or in the privacy upstairs. The stated price always excludes the tips.”

  Dan raised his hand until the purse was inches away from the woman's face. He tapped his fingers, and the coins jingled. He watched her make a quiet swallow with the muscles of her throat. Next to her, the bartender scratched his beard.

  “This is all the money I am willing to pay,” he said, “including your service, your tips, his tips, and my protection from the law enforcers—ten coins. With this much silver, I could make you bark like a cur. And based on your disposition I am certain that you would, probably for a much smaller sum.”

  He threw a handful of coins in her lap. They bounced under the indigo light like the splashing of some liquid. She sat on the edge of her chair with her mouth open. “I will not make you do anything shameful,” Dan continued. His voice was a lot calmer now, almost a whisper, but his enunciation made his words as clear as if he were shouting. “I won't even stay in your room for more than half an hour. That money is yours—all of it, if you agree to sing the song I requested and play your lute in accompaniment, the same way you have been playing upstairs. Will you do what I bid you, or should I leave this instant?”

  She used both her hands to gather the coins and hand them back to him.

  “Take your money, young farmer,” she said. “I will sing you that so
ng, and it will be both my present and apology to you.”

  “Wretched woman, have you lost your mind?” cried the bartender with fury. “Why are you, an aging prostitute, turning away a small fortune because of some misguided fan? Impossible—utterly impossible!”

  “Will you be silent?” replied the woman. “This fellow has paid my fee and your tip in full. What more do you want, unless you intend to frighten away a perfectly generous customer and inflict such a bad recollection in his mind that he would never visit us again? Return to your station and serve people drinks. Leave me alone, so that I can do what you are hiring me to do: provide the entertainment. As for you, country fellow—” She grabbed Dan by the hand and pulled him toward the stairway. “You are coming up to my room.”

  “If you were a good whore,” the man grumbled, “you would let me handle the negotiations with the customers.”

  When they reached a turn in the flight of stairs, she leaned against Dan's chest and whispered to him, “Once we are in my room, you must give me that sack of money. I, Camille, have made two vows in my life: never apologize and never volunteer my services for free. I simply do not want to share this fortune with the beast downstairs.”

  The corridor that led to her room was narrow and torturous, reeking of rotten garbage, sweat, and human excrement. “Watch your step,” she warned him. There was no ventilation, and the trapped air seemed to churn with his hesitating progress. Around him, like the sound of electricity, the dark stucco walls buzzed. He recognized the grunting, hissing, moaning noises of sexual release.

  Camille marched a few steps ahead of him. Her body blended with the shadows in the hallway. All he could see was her thin white neck suspended in space. Dan wondered how many times a day someone in her position had to perform this ritual—walking on the sticky floor, listening to the droning in the wall, and all the while, pleasing men as part of her duties.