The Tapestries

by Kien Nguyen

  “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 til
ted 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.

  The old man howled as his robe caught fire. He lurched toward Dan, the long panels of his skirt alive with flames. The blaze gained speed, spreading upward. His kerosene-soaked hands were also blooming with the hungry flames. Dan withdrew farther. The old man bent down and scooped up the burning liquid on the ground. “Come, come,” he screamed. “I have waited long for your return. Come play with me!” He hurled balls of fire around the room. Some of the sparks landed on the draperies, quickly burning holes through them. Others faltered as they flew across the room and then subsided. The interior walls came alive, bright with the new source of light, and the heat rose.

  “Hurry…closer…if you want to know where I keep your father's tattoo. I have held my silence too long. Come before it…too late.” His voice sang above the women's screams.

  Ignoring the smoke-filled air, he searched for Dan. The flames multiplied, howling like a typhoon. Each long curtain, each narrow beam, every ornately carved piece of furniture fueled the fire. At the center, his body, a human torch, spewed streaming firecrackers like popping coals from a hot stove.

  Dan tripped on the armrest of Lady Chin's chair and fell backward. His head crashed against the concrete floor and blackness covered him like a blanket.

  Lady Chin tried to scream a warning to the embroiderer, but the words would not come to her throat. She was too weak; the heat of the fire robbed her of her voice. She saw the old man charge forward. His robe fluttered around him, a vast tidal wave in multicolored rings rising high in order to crash down upon her. The rainbow! She had seen it before; its outlandish charisma had visited her many times, making her swoon with fear. Not this time! She would have allowed the terror to consume her wholly, if only the embroiderer were not slumped at her feet, powerless and in danger.

  Finding some remote strength inside her, she drew her knees up. The beast stampeded nearer. Its burning flesh sizzled and ruptured and flared just inches from her face. With all her might she kicked out, watching the sparks scatter as the soles of her shoes came in contact with his chest. The monster lurched backward, paused for a moment, and then resumed his charge. He was now screaming in earnest. Fire burst from his mouth in gusts, as though his lungs were filled with pure petroleum. She kicked again. But somewhere behind her, the scar-faced man was much faster. He bounded forward and buried his fist in the old man's chest, knocking him several steps back and into his chair.

  The time-teller lifted Lady Chin in his arms. The old house was burning like a bundle of twigs. Angry red tongues of flame pulsed around the painted ceiling beams, hissing at the frightful scene below. She saw the embroiderer come to his feet with the help of the peasant woman. He touched his head, gasping for air.

  Above her the time-teller screamed, “Ven, Dan, let's go! Follow me to the door!” In his arms, she was swung this way and that, while smoke filled her eyes with tears. His mutilated face bent closer to her, whispering inaudible phrases. She closed her eyes. Darkness filled her stinging lids with a soothing calmness, purging the fire away.

  Sai could not restrain himself any longer. The house and his inert prisoner, in a few short instants, had come alive in a simultaneous combustion. All this time, the old man had tricked him into believing his mind was gone. That old devil, that bastard…he had always been so clever, so devious. During the most severe punishment, he had just sat there and rolled his eyes back into his head and drooled in a steady stream, never closing his lids or clenching his fists. Except for an occasional tremor and sometimes a faint moan, the old man had never given any sign that he knew what was being done to him. How could he, the mayor, suspect otherwise? And now, in the blaze, the old scoundrel stood erect and triumphant, once again outsmarting Sai, making a fool of him.

  “Come closer, if you want to know my secret,” Magistrate Toan sang out. His wrinkled skin bubbled like rice paper over live charcoals.

  Sai stood in his place, pondering. His men had tried to pull him out of the burning house, but he had shooed them off. How could he leave when the secret was only a few feet away? The fire was a pyramid made of human flesh, and somewhere beyond the intense light lay a fortune, about to be devoured in the hungry flames. Think, Sai, think! What would the old man do if he were in this situation? Who knew the master better than the slave after twenty years of devotion? He had to find a way to get into that old brain and retrieve what he wanted. Where would that wily fox hide the map?

  “Come, come and play with me, Mouse,” the magistrate crooned.

  “Ven, Dan, get out! Follow me to the door!” the voice of the time-teller urged.

  Sai came closer. The heated air, the smell of burning flesh, the snipping and snapping of fire—it was as if Hell had just opened and the devil was raised from a gap in the ground. Beyond a cloud of smoke, Toan sat on a throne made out of flames. His body was almost nude; a red glow shrouded his dark flesh. Fire was bursting out of his eyes.

  “Who are you?” the demon screamed at Sai.

  “I am Mouse,” he lied, shakily. “Tell me your secret.”

  The skeleton's arm shot forward. It caught Sai's wrist and held him with unbreakable strength. He cried out as the pain seized him like a thousand piercing knives. From the tips of the old man's other hand, the sandalwood urn flew through the smoky air and hit him squarely in the forehead.

  Sai sank to his knees. The chandelier of oil lanterns came crashing down, carrying with it a portion of burning roof. In the quaking turmoil, the mayor sprawled, and the weight of the collapsing world was upon him.

  chapter twenty-three

  The Silver Anklet

  As the afternoon sun pivoted toward the bam-boo forest on the far side of the river, a tiny group of people, like a long, dark line of ants, gathered at the dock. Lady Chin knew that her body was with them, but somehow she seemed to be watching from above. In the distance, over the house of Toan, the north wind thrust bleak, ruddy clouds of smoke into the clear sky. The frantic buzzing of the villagers was half-drowned by the strident sound of the emergency drum.

  The embroiderer led the procession. His brown chest gleamed under the waning sun, his hair was tangled with soot and charcoal, and his left elbow was seared by four burns, each the size of a copper penny. The long wharf, which usually teemed with vendors, was empty. News of the great fire had halted the entire town's activities and attracted all who were curious to the site of destruction.

  The bearers laid Lady Chin's palanquin on the wet soil and turned to the embroiderer, anticipating their wages. He reached deep into his pocket and handed them a stack of silver coins. They thanked him and left.

  Cool winds flooded over Lady Chin. She watched herself gasping for air. From behind a thick, invisible wall, the embroiderer called her name. She saw him above her, hands on her cheeks, looking anxiously for her
pulse. She could not answer. The new world that she was discovering had no sound.

  As she watched, the sky became bluer and clearer. On a long-ago summer day she had flown through the air on a bicycle, happy as a child, while her body melted into thousands of tiny air bubbles, each mirroring her husband's face. She had often thought of the vivid colors she had seen that afternoon—the spectacular green hills, the massive orange sun, the traces of magenta in the sleepy clouds. She never forgot how cheerfully shiny her silver bike was; it had all but twinkled a smile at her for the entire trip. She recalled a single golden dandelion lying in the grass next to her nude body where they had stopped to make love. Long afterward, a yellow petal lingered in her hair like a soft kiss from the earth.

  She would never forget the beautiful life she once had!

  There were, however, many things she did forget. All of her bad memories in the house of Toan had faded away. Nothing seemed important anymore, just this moment in time. She must do yet one more thing, which prompted her to reenter her withered body and focus on the embroiderer. “Wear this,” she whispered, thrusting her son's anklet into Dan's hand. “It will protect you.”

  She was letting go all the ache and pain in her body, all the weight on her chest. The dandelion was still with her, a simple yet lush fragment of her youth dangling from a river of jet-black, luxurious hair. Her belly was firm and flat, and inside it throbbed the tiny heartbeat of a fetus. Green grass sprouted from the dampened soil; the sun liquefied into a lake of red paint. She gave herself one more chance to do it all over again, and this time it was sheer ecstasy. She could not be sure how it happened, nor did she care. Of all the events that were unfolding around her, one thing was certain: she was not imagining this beauty. It was so real to her that she could feel it with her whole being.