The Tapestries

by Kien Nguyen

  He did not; in fact, he could not begin to grasp the burden she had put on him. “I am not a killer,” he said again. “If I murdered Magistrate Toan, I would risk my only chance of happiness with his granddaughter, whom I have loved more than anyone or anything else on this earth, including my own life. Avenge yourself then, madam, for I am helpless against the dictates of my heart. By asking me to commit a deadly act against her grandfather, you are asking me to cut away the only joy in my existence. I would rather let you kill me.”

  Lady Yen groaned and pulled at her hair. “How dreadful is Heaven's will! Is this a foolish game that was arranged by the vengeful gods? Dan, my poor son, how could you love the enemy's offspring? Now I know for certain that I will be trapped here in this bordello for eternity. Guilty as I was, I do not deserve such punishment. Look at me—my skin is drooping, my eyes grow gray, my beauty fades. I will die here, alone, suffering to my last hour.” She sat up, pointing her finger at the door. “You must go, for I have no more to ask of you. As far as I am concerned, you ceased to exist on the day I left the mansion.”

  The clock struck, as if to signify that his hour in her room was coming to a close. In a solemn tone, he said, “I will find the money to buy back your freedom. And I will take revenge on the enemy as you ask of me. I tell you, he shall die! But together with his blood, mine will flow as well. Because in death I shall possess the freedom to be near my lover for eternity.”

  Without knowing how he walked out of her room, he found himself on the street. Away from her, the heaviness that had suffocated him lifted, and he could breathe again.

  By the time Dan Nguyen left Morin Street, the night was almost over. The exhausted city was asleep, silent except for the lonely echoes of his footsteps. The yellow moon that had followed him throughout the evening was now a transparent ghost in the dark sky.

  The main gates of the citadel were wide open. From the watch-tower, a gleaming beacon whirled through the darkness every few seconds; it stopped momentarily to shine on him as he approached the gate. Beyond the light, the gloomy shadows of the guards, like clay figures sitting staidly under their small roof, nodded at Dan when he presented his ivory pass.

  The royal city, just hours ago crowded with party-goers, was now deserted. Dan wound his way through the dark alleys. His hair whipped in the restless night air, and he felt naked without his silk headdress. In his hurry to flee the Red Dreams Hotel, he had forgotten it on the floor of his mother's bedroom. Would it end up among the souvenirs on her mantel?

  What a fool he had been, thinking that he could escape his obligation. In all the years he had watched life as a spectator, he had been marking time, as surely as the ticking clock in his mother's room. Clearly he was, after all, just one more marionette in a puppet show orchestrated by some invisible force. A supreme being, perhaps? What about his free will, and how could he exercise it?

  Again he thought of his mother's shrill voice: Only blood can wash away blood, and you are the last standing man of the Nguyen family I Through her words his ancestors' demands seared him like a flaming sword, and his entire life came to a new focus.

  Dan understood that the answers he was seeking lay hidden within the walls of the Cam Le Village, and he knew he must go home.

  He saw the outline of his apartment, visible behind a curtain of leaves. He tiptoed across a series of wooden bridges, down the slope that led to his front lawn. A lamp glowed in his window, and the door hung open. Dan paused. From inside came the rustling sound of clothing, followed by a quavering voice.

  “Master Dan Nguyen, is that you? At last you are home. I have been waiting all night.”

  Dan shaded his eyebrows to concentrate on the shadow. From the darkness emerged a wrinkled face, yellow under the lantern's glow. Dan recognized the king's former chamberlain, Ung, although he had never spoken to him before. Why was this man inside his living room? He stepped inside.

  “I have important news to deliver to you,” Ung said. His hunched form seemed incongruous among the shadows of bookshelves. There was no furniture in the room, except for a small chair at a corner. On the gray cement floor, a leopard-skin rug spread like a puddle of paint, catching the flickering light.

  “You must go with me to see someone,” Ung said.

  “Who? And at this hour?”

  “Yes, right this instant, sir. It was her dying wish to see you.”

  Dan gave a start of comprehension. “Lady Chin?” Yes, sir.

  “She knows who I am?”

  “Yes, sir. She knows that you have been bringing her the sustenance that has held her spirit to this earthly realm. She recognized you from last night's ball.”

  “She was there? How could she, being so ill?”

  The eunuch pushed his chest forward and said, “I took her there. I convinced her that she should receive some fresh air. You must come with me, young Master. She gave me specific instructions to notify the Queen Mother, in case you refuse to comply. I hope that you do not force me to make that decision, Sir Dan.”

  Dan seized the old man's hands. “I cannot explain right now, but I am leaving the citadel, and I am asking for your cooperation. Lady Chin wishes to speak to me, for she has guessed something. Her intuition is accurate. I am about to reveal to her a secret that has been trapped in my bosom for all these years. She must not die without knowing the truth.” Noticing the eunuch's baffled expression, he slowed his speech as if he were talking to a child. “Please, you appear to understand this matter. Before it is too late, I ask you to help save her soul. I need you to help me take her to the river for the last trip of her life. I cannot leave without her.”

  The eunuch took several steps backward. “I cannot do what you are asking me,” he said. “She would not understand, nor would she survive such a vigorous journey.”

  “If you keep her in that dark room, you are only prolonging her agony.”

  “It is not a possibility, Master Dan,” the old man said.

  Dan pulled at his hair. What could he do to persuade this poor man to change his mind? “Wait here,” he said. Leaving the old man standing in his living room, Dan ran into his sleeping quarters. He opened a simple mahogany chest and fumbled among his clothing until he found a silver chain. He took it back to the living room, only to find that his visitor had left.

  Dan rushed outside. The eunuch was standing under a streetlight. His hands clutched the lantern.

  “We will bring this to her together,” Dan said, holding the bracelet in the lamplight for the eunuch to see. “Her son, Bui, once wore this chain around his ankle. Once she sees it, she will make her own decision about what to do.”

  The old man whispered, “Sir Dan, you overwhelm me with such secrecy. Who are you? And where are you planning to take her?”

  “I am taking her to face Providence,” replied Dan. “There, she will find peace through learning the truth—all of it, including my identity.”

  “Very well, then,” said the eunuch. “Follow me. I will take you to her.”

  They set off in the direction of the Apartments of Peace. The tall frangipani trees that lined the path dropped thousands of white petals, dancing around the two men in the wind.

  chapter twenty

  The Bicycle

  Long ago, when she had just gotten married, Lady Chin had received a generous wedding present from her husband: a bluish silver-white bicycle imported from a factory in Marseille. She never learned how to ride it alone, but she hoped to master it one day, so she kept it, still in its shipping crate, at the foot of her bed. Minister Chin Tang then belonged to the fourth rank of mandarins—the lowest tier in the court that would allow him to enter the terraces outside the throne room. One afternoon when he had completed his duties, he decided to take the vehicle and his wife out for a spin. For as long as she lived, Lady Chin would never forget that ride.

  At first the excursion did not go well. The black saddle seat, where she perched in front of her husband, seemed ridiculously small for two adults to sha
re. Her hands grasped the steering handle, next to a thin rod that held a rearview mirror. The long panels of her skirt were trapped between her thighs. And her feet…she remembered how difficult it was to rest them on the two tiny posts on the front wheel.

  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.

  Now, 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.

  Early 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.

  The 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.

  Cam 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.