by Kien Nguyen
She died, quietly and with exquisite poise.
Among the scattered sampans, Dan spotted his vessel floating off to one side. With the corpse in his arms, as warm as a wadded winter quilt, the tip of her forefinger still hooked in the silver chain on his wrist, he walked into the river until the water was up to his hips. As if in a dream he noted the tide pushing against him. At last he felt the exhaustion from his lack of sleep. But the evening approached. He had to leave this place. The eunuch was waiting for him.
The last bright strokes of September sunlight made his eyes tear. He carried her to the boat, raising his arms high so that the water would not touch her body. One by one the tossing waves lunged against his chest, only to disappear into the silvery sunset.
On the bank, Ven stood unmoving. Her brown skin merged with the bamboo forest. Each time the gentle winds blew, the forest gave up a handful of golden leaves that spattered down on her, floating in midair like paper canoes before the river took them into its bosom. She was staring at his back, and without looking, he knew the look of love and wonder in her eyes. He had not yet bidden her good-bye. The time-teller lingered nearby, holding his silence.
Dan had no idea how to take his leave. The sun descended lower into the west, and the winds grew chillier. When the edge of the plywood gunwale touched his skin, he lifted Lady Chin over the side, then climbed in after her. With infinite gentleness, he laid her down on the deck, her head resting on a bench. The lady-in-waiting looked as if she were watching the sunset through half-shut eyes. He arranged her clothing and folded her hands across her chest. Dan saw Ven walk to the water's edge. For a moment they stood, soaking in the glowing twilight.
“Farewell, Ven!” he called and reached for the oars.
Her grief-stricken shout tore through the silence. She dove in, hands stretched out before her. The river received her embrace, the waves exploding their foamy heads into the cool dusk. The time-teller fell to his knees and leaned forward, clutching his head and rocking himself. His howl, deep and whimpering, echoed hers. Ven turned her head to look back at him, then continued to part the river and propel herself forward.
Dan leaned over the boat's starboard side, reached out, and pulled her toward him. Ven grabbed the wood and lifted herself. The vessel swayed. Her wet clothes clung to her body, dripping water onto the deck.
“What are you doing here, Ven?” he asked. “Your life belongs with him.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide. Carefully tiptoeing around the dead body, she backed away from him.
“Listen!” Dan said, reaching to grasp her arm. “Do you not hear him? Big Con is your spouse, and he has saved your life. You have to return to him.”
She shook her head, slid her hand into the river, and moved her wet finger across the dry bench. It took her a few attempts to form the message she wanted to tell him. Help… the phrase read.
“You can write,” he said with astonishment. “Tutor Con must have educated you. How remarkable!” He grew worried. “Help? You need help?”
She tapped on her chest, and then pointed at the wobbly scribble on the bench. The word was blurring as it was absorbed into the wood. He leaned over, wrinkled his forehead, and guessed out loud, “You…help!” She nodded and caressed his face. He saw the entire river in her eyes, immense and endlessly giving. Behind her, the time-teller had ceased his howling. Clutching the front panels of his shirt, he staggered across the wet sand. His face was drawn, eyes hollow. The panic on his features was deafening.
“You'll help me,” Dan repeated.
She nodded.
Pointing a finger at the time-teller, he asked, “Who shall help him? What will happen to the tutor if you leave?”
She blinked, pushing the oars into his hands.
“I understand, Ven,” Dan said. “You feel that you must be loyal to me first.”
She shook her head in disagreement. Quietly, she put a finger against his lips, as if to stop him from talking. Dan pulled away from her touch.
Big Con chose that moment to spread his arms in her direction and scream, “Come to me, Ven! Come back! If you abandon me, you are abandoning yourself.”
She turned her head away. “Go,” she slurred at Dan. Her strange voice pushed him back on his seat, and he thrust the oars into the water. Ven huddled across from him, hiding her face.
The time-teller stood frozen under a tamarind tree until their boat was out of sight.
By the time they reached the Truong Tien Bridge the sun was gone. The city was soaked in a faint purple shadow like the inside of a dense mosquito net. Through the twilight, Dan could see the south entrance of the Imperial Palace. Along a small stretch of water a series of sampans was docked. He aimed his boat toward them.
In September, the sky got dark quickly. Above the horizon the stout silhouettes of partridges—the game birds with variegated plumage—circled in the wind, wailing for a safe place to nest. Their predators, the local dogs, crouched in the sand, unmoving except for the fuzzy tips of their tails, as they waited patiently for the flock to veer down. Some of the birds wheeled and soared. Others dove into the water, their little bodies rising and falling on the glistening white-caps like lotus blossoms. Watching them, the dogs growled.
Dan recognized the fragile form of the eunuch standing on a wooden platform that reached out into the water. His face was hidden in the dark. In his hand he held a paper lantern. Its faded light flickered in the wind, gradually becoming a bright-red flame as Dan came closer. Behind the old man stood a team of guards, six men in the palace uniform, their metal clubs gleaming in spite of the dimness. In another hour the ledge where they stood would be submerged, denoting the time for the closing of the Meridian Gate.
Twenty yards from shore, Dan's oars brushed against the muddy floor of the river. Using his upper-body strength, together with the rising tide, he pushed on the paddles and thrust forward. The vessel ripped into the sludge, landing a few feet from the old man. Ung uttered a high-pitched wail when he saw Lady Chin's rigid corpse.
Dan leaped onto the soggy earth and anchored his skiff to a pole. Ven followed him. With his bare hands, he lifted the vessel out of the water, and left it lying at a slight angle on the soft ground. Silently, he returned onboard for the lady-in-waiting's body, which had grown stiff. During the journey, he had torn a panel of fabric from her outer tunic and draped it over her face. The eunuch stood a few feet away, his eyes on Dan and the corpse in his arms.
“She told me to wait for her here,” he said.
“She is gone,” answered the young man.
The weather was getting colder. Without a shirt, Dan shivered from the stirring air, and possibly from the contact with his inert burden.
“In that case, it was her wish that I am here to collect her body.” The eunuch paused, then added, “She left me careful instructions as to what to do after she passed on.” He reached inside his long sleeve to pull out a bamboo cylinder, sealed with wax at each end. “This is her will,” he said, breaking the seal to retrieve a small scroll. Turning to his men, he shouted, “Would one of you take delivery of my lady from this young gentleman? You will be rewarded handsomely for your service.”
One of the guards moved forward and eased Lady Chin from Dan's embrace. The breeze endeavored to rip the veil from her face; as the soldier pressed her against his chest, it remained over her, fluttering as if she were breathing. With the corpse in his arms, he turned and walked back to his initial spot, a few paces behind the old eunuch. “May I inquire whether any of the instructions pertain to me?” Dan asked.
“You will see soon enough, young Master,” Ung replied and unrolled the paper. “Would you prefer for me to read the full content of this note in front of these witnesses? Or should I just tell you in brief what it says, since I have full knowledge of my lady's wishes and commands?”
“You can tell me,” Dan said. “I will not contest whatever outcome she has reserved for me, because of my respect for your unblemished reputation and the u
nique relationship between you and the departed. Furthermore, during the period that I have spent with Lady Chin, especially in the Apartments of Peace, I came to trust her noble-hearted character, her generosity in rendering praise or rewards, and her fairness in retribution.”
“Very well then,” the eunuch said. “To fulfill her wishes I have brought the matter to the attention of the Queen Mother. Under Her Majesty's direct order, these soldiers are here to arrest the man who is responsible for the kidnapping and possible manslaughter of one of Her Majesty's highest-ranking ladies-in-waiting.”
Ven stepped forward, without realizing that she was now blocking the old man's path to Dan. The eunuch gave her a quick look of surprise before regaining his air of calm assurance.
“I do not understand,” said Dan. “Please explain your meaning. Kidnapping! Manslaughter! Sir, I do not challenge the wisdom of the court, but those are serious accusations.”
“They are,” Ung replied, “plus there are many other charges that I have not mentioned. However, the warrant of the arrest is not meant for you, Sir Nguyen. Even if there were doubts to be raised as to the nature of this crime or the validity of your actions, there must be explicit documents to support or deny these charges. It would be tragic to accuse an innocent, would it not? Lady Chin's last will and testament provides a way for you to prove your purity.” He lifted up the note and read loudly, “For Dan Nguyen to verify his innocence, look for my son's silver anklet on his wrist. Without this memento, he shall be tried as a murderer for my death, as well as the deaths of my son and husband. If he can provide such object, I hereby designate him as the new heir of my fortune, which amounts to fifty thousand silver coins. The money is temporarily in the custody of Mr. Dinh Ung. It will serve as the reward for his quest to bring the true killer of my family to justice. When this is done, he will thus accomplish my final wish.”
The old man paused, lowering his eyes until they looked directly at Dan's arm. “I recognized Master Bui's good luck charm the moment you came ashore. Congratulations, sir. Not only are you now free, but through the generosity of my mistress, you have an inheritance.”
chapter twenty-four
The Road to Nirvana
Dan's living room, a blue rectangle with one window open to the front garden, contained only a few pieces of plain furniture. On the main wall, hanging from the ceiling almost to the floor, was a tapestry embroidered in black silk thread on white canvas, as stark and dramatic as if it had been brushed with coarse strokes of India ink. The room was always dark, and the image was too large for Ven to see it wholly. She had been here for five days, distracting herself from memories of the time-teller by studying the artwork.
At first she had thought it was an old Chinese scroll painting, depicting the evanescent details of life: a bamboo forest, a flock of sparrows, or maybe a misty valley in springtime. However, tonight in the hoary moonlight, as she sat in a chair next to the window, the black dots and lines in the tapestry above her merged into the figure of a young maiden. The girl's hand held an elegant lute. The long, idyllic slopes that Ven had taken for a brook running through groves of bamboo were the girl's dress. And the bamboo leaves were her eyes, seeming to demand a response from inside the room. Ven recognized that face, those long fingers, and the silky black hair that flowed like a watercourse. It was the girl from the house of Toan.
In the center of the room, sitting on a leopard-skin rug, Dan was ruminating over a blank piece of paper. Sketches of discarded brush-work, crumpled into irregular balls, lay scattered on the floor. A finely pointed feather was poised between his fingers; nearby sat a block of ink and a lantern. For hours this evening no sound or movement had come from him. Ven understood his concentration. Once he committed his vision onto paper, there was no turning back. The ink line, once laid down, could never be altered or erased. The moonlight flowed through the slats on the window and slid across him like a striped shirt. She wondered if she should open the shade so he would receive more light.
As she raised her hand toward the wood slats, he surprised her by asking, “Tell me, Ven, are you thinking of the tutor?” A corner of his eyebrow rose. He handed her the pen and said, “Come and sit next to me! Write down your thoughts if you would like to.”
From her youth she remembered delicate sheets of paper, covered with black marks, as they passed through the hands of the scholars—friends and acquaintances of her father. The time-teller had taught her the Western letters, scrawling them on the sand with a stick or using a piece of charcoal to mark a board. Never had anyone given her such paper, which had the smell of freshly cut wood. She got up from her seat and received the wet feather with both of her hands, fearful of dropping it on the animal skin.
“Go on,” he said.
The tip felt as light as a toothpick in her fingers. Dan put his hand on hers and guided the pen down the paper. She sat awkwardly on the floor beside him, thinking she had never held anything so delicate. She moved the pointed tip of the writing tool, slick with ink. The first mark came, wobbly and graceless, sweeping across the blank page like the path of a scratchy broom.
“That one is not your best stroke,” Dan said, pulling back his hand. “Now you try, alone. Forget about the brush and ink when you write. Just picture the letters.”
Ven gripped the frail handle more firmly. With a surge of confidence, she began to make small dots and lines by moving her wrist as Dan pinned the paper down with his palms. Like magic the letters took shape, a curve here, a straight line there. To Ven it was as thrilling as the first buds of spring. “A…B…C…” Her hand glided across the page. “D…E…”
Next to her, Dan burst out laughing. “The alphabet,” he said. “How modest of you. Can you put the letters together to form a word?”
“THE MAP…”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What about the map?” he asked in a restrained voice.
Ven unfurled one of the crunched-up wads of paper. Shapes and shadows formed a landscape, similar to the tattoo they had seen on his father's back long ago.
Dan snatched the paper back from her. “This accursed map,” he said, smoothing it across his knee. “I have been re-creating it both from memory and from observing its partner on my mother's back. Together they form a diagram that leads to my father's treasure. By studying the riddle written at the bottom of the drawing in the old vernacular language, I guessed part of the secret. But without the first map, it is useless. I plan to embroider it into a tapestry, to teach my children someday about their ancestors' legacy.”
“Tellme its secret,” she wrote.
“Do you remember the verse on the first map?” he asked.
She nodded. He recited it, and she mouthed the words with him, approving his recollection. “The priests make charms out of nature by aligning the constellations, the sun, and the moon. Then they hold the constellations in their hands, and peering at the sun, they find the road to Nirvana. Many invalids shall be cured at the door.
“I remember what my father said about the riddle,” Dan said. “It was a famous poem in the early seventh century describing the Taoist rites in the history of the Sui dynasty. Since my father was a true believer that long life and good fortune could be achieved by magical means—the principles of Taoist philosophy—it is understandable that he chose this verse as the clue to his treasure. Look at the first group of characters: The priests made charms out of nature by aligning them with the constellations, the sun, and the moon.” His hand brushed over the red dots on the map that he had drawn. “These drawings are descriptions of nature, and the red marks represent the constellations, the sun, and the moon,” he said. “If we superimpose the two maps on top of each other, following the alignment of these dots, I believe we will see the whole picture.”
Ven moaned. Her forehead was damp from anticipation as she listened to his voice.
“And the second phrase,” he murmured. “Then, they hold the constellations in their hands, and peering at the sun, they find the road to Nirvan
a. This must refer to the way to the hidden treasure. By holding the drawings in the sunlight, we will see this path clearly.”
He scratched his head with a sigh. “The last line: Many invalids shall be cured at the door. I do not understand the meaning of this sentence, but it sounds like a warning of some sort. Invalids shall be cured—what about healthy people?” He shrugged and tore the picture in half. “Ah, let us not dwell on this matter any longer. It is unfortunate that we only possess a partial diagram. My father has carefully made certain that without one of the two maps, the other would be just a mystery.”
“Make a tapestry,” she wrote, “for the Nguyens' legacy.”
“You approve of this idea?” he asked. “So much blood has been shed, I fear to create another fallacy about the treasure to pass on to the next generation.”
She shook her head vigorously. Dan scrutinized her facial expression. She tried to form a smile in response to his glare.
“Dear Ven,” he said solemnly, “there is an important question that I must ask. You lived near Magistrate Toan for seven years, so you must understand his strength as well as his limitations. If you wished to take revenge on the old man, you must have had countless opportunities to do so. Yet, you waited for me to return. Why, Ven? “
She looked away. Her smile faded.
“Please do not refuse me the answer—tell me why you spared his life,” he said.
She dropped the pen on top of the stack of paper, lifted her hands to her face, and looked at him in silent panic. The bright moon passed through the wooden slats, streaking on both of them. He thrust the brush back into her hand.
With a loud bang, the front door was flung open. Against the dark background of Dan's garden, she saw a round, wrinkled face lit to pastiness by the frail beam of a lantern.
