Daughters of the River Huong

by Uyen Nicole Duong

  “A lion, perhaps?” I giggled.

  He did not reply. He gazed, instead, deep into my eyes. Before he left my boat, he said he would send somebody to fetch me soon, and then I would be with my husband king.

  Of course, I did not believe him.

  Before she passed away, my mother told me it would be better for me to marry a Cham man, someone robust enough to help me with the paddling trade. My mother hinted that I should stay away from Vietnamese men, who would never accept a Cham girl like me and hence would treat me like a second-class citizen.

  I never thought much of my mother’s advice until my unexpected wedding day, chosen and planned for me by people I had never met.

  My mother hadn’t warned me of the magic of the Perfume River and its moonlight, which could turn life into dreams—even if they were sad dreams that would ultimately imprison a woman with muscular arms and legs and with eyes accustomed to searching the blackened sky for a star to guide the lonely boat she paddled. I discovered the meaning of dreams on the day the royal guards appeared all along the riverbank to take me away. Those guards paraded in yellow and red uniforms, their slanting eyes hidden under cone hats embroidered with gleaming gold threads. They lined up along with the royal musicians dressed in blue satin and violet raw silk.

  That was how a royal bride was taken to her husband: by royal guards and royal musicians. I was told this later, after five women got on the boat and started to dress me. For the first time in my life I wore a silk ao dai and felt its softness caressing my skin. The women put a red brocade smock over the golden silk ao dai, topped my head with a green turban, and hung heavy gold earrings from my earlobes. Those earrings, together with bracelets, pendants, and anklets, felt like shackles on both sides of my face and all of my limbs. The women gave me a perfumed fan to hold and told me I was being costumed to become the chosen royal bride.

  I was in a daze. All I can remember is the sight of the main road leading to the Citadel circling around the royal palaces. As I peeped from behind the red curtains of my rickshaw, I saw the amazing sight of lotus ponds: thousands of lotuses bloomed under sharp sunlight. I looked behind me at the progression of women dressed in green satin and carrying golden boxes, followed by the fleet of musicians and guards. I tried to imagine my new life, but I could envision nothing. I closed my eyes and felt in my palm the shape of the gold coin given to me by a young man whose face reminded me of a lion. I had kept the coin with me all this time for good luck.

  When the rickshaw stopped bouncing, its curtains were raised and my eyes were blinded with blazing lights. In my bewilderment and confusion, I could not tell whether they were sunlight or lanterns. The women who had dressed me quickly gathered around my rickshaw. Two of them raised my arms and literally lifted me off the carriage. From there on, they carried me along and I was placed on a red satin mat in the middle of a grand hall. A hand gently pushed my head down, and someone whispered to me that I should not look up. I kept my head bowed but discreetly rolled my eyes upward and saw the lower body of a tall, trim man. I focused my attention on his gold boots, the golden hemline of his shimmering ao dai, and the sharp, pointed end of a gold-carved scabbard dangling on his right side.

  I had never seen a man carrying a gold sword before.

  He took three steps forward toward me, and I trembled. The women pressed my head down so low that my forehead and all that oiled, coifed hair beneath the green turban almost touched the satin mat. I could not see his face. His boots and sword made a swift turn, and he walked slowly away from me. I saw the boots climbing up a stage, on steps that were bordered with carved gold dragons. The man sat down, his boots resting on the last step of the pedestal above my head, and the same whispering voice told me to keep kneeling and bowing.

  I heard the salute shouted by men: “Le nap phi!” the offering ceremony for a royal concubine to enter the palace.

  The shouting continued. “Long live Heaven’s son! A thousand years of life and happiness!”

  The music began. The whispering voice told me to kowtow and bring my head to the floor numerous times. I was supposed to worship my husband-to-be, formerly Prince Buu Linh, now the king of Annam presiding under his dynastic name, Thuan Thanh.

  So this was the man, I thought, to whom I should sing the mandarins’ songs depicting the sufferings of the people of Annam. But I was not singing any song. I was bowing endlessly to a pair of golden boots.

  This whispering voice and dozens of female hands guided me along, telling me I was already in the grand West Palace inside the Violet City. Through all the rituals I was to keep my head low, my forehead to the floor, and my eyes lowered. So I moved along as though sleepwalking, thinking of the lion face on display in an opera troop and wondering where that royal husband of mine had gone and how in the world I could recognize him in this crowd. I kept looking for the familiar pair of gold boots and the pointed tip of the gold-carved scabbard. After a while, gold boots and scabbards seemed to be everywhere.

  I caught glimpses of carved dragons, phoenixes, and lions. I lifted my eyes once and saw the solemn faces of men, so many men, together with the rosy cheeks and curious, surreptitious glances of women all dressed alike—their heads were bowed like mine, yet their eyes met mine. They, too, were peeping, looking at me, the royal bride. It was my wedding, a joyous occasion, yet no one was smiling. I kept moving in a trance, unable to decipher whether I was happy or sad.

  When the fanfare died out, I found myself in a perfumed tub. The heavy clothes and jewelry had been removed, piece by piece, by unknown hands. The bath was elaborate, and numerous fingers ran through every muscle group, every fold in my body. When the bath was over, they draped me in loose pantaloons and a camisole, topped with colorful outer garments. I was moved along a narrow corridor where several men lined up on both sides, their heads bowed. I jerked back reflexively at the sight of these men, conscious of my naked flesh underneath the loose layers of sheer silk. I reached out for the familiar feel of my paddle, but my hand hung empty in the air.

  Someone pressed upon my back for me to march on. The whispering person told me not to be afraid, as those solemn-faced men were all eunuchs. Eunuchs were men who were no longer men, the person explained. The women kept moving me along the corridors, a walking puppet covered in layers of silk.

  A symphony of stringed instruments and jingling bells started, paused, and restarted. When the music died out, I found myself sitting alone on a lacquer bed between shiny wood pillars circled by carved dragons. The sudden silence intimidated me, so I wiggled my hanging feet, and the velvet slippers dropped to the floor. Cold air brushed my naked heels.

  5. THE EUNUCH SON LA

  It was then that I heard a crisp knock at the door. The curtains were raised, and in the smoky red lantern light, a diminutive old man entered the room, followed by two women carrying a porcelain sink. The man approached the bed, knelt down before me, and introduced himself as my servant, the eunuch Son La. The two young women knelt docilely with him, their faces expressionless and their eyelids lowered.

  A moment passed and the women took hold of my dangling feet. I jerked them away, and the old man looked up with kindness in his eyes. “My lady, please relax. We are here to wait on you.”

  I looked down at the man kowtowing before me and found the attentive and wrinkled face of an old man with the grin and gaze of an earnest child. The women dipped both my feet into the hot water, and the eunuch firmly grabbed my heels. I shuddered and struggled to escape, but he murmured, “My lady, do not fear me. I am not a man, and I am here to serve.”

  I looked again at the old man, puzzled by his statement that he was not a man. With his soft, skilled palms, he pressed upon my skin, and his fingers adroitly made their way through the cracks between my nervous toes. When he felt the calluses of my paddling life, he sighed sympathetically. He rubbed and lotioned my feet, again and again, with the attentiveness of an artisan. “Pay no attention to me, my dear lady,” he said. “I am an old eunuch. A eun
uch is a man, but he is not a man. Take notice only of what I can do for you, my lady.”

  I drifted in and out of senseless, indecipherable dreams, and my skin burned. The eunuch was drying my feet and rubbing them against some soft, fuzzy fabric; but just at the point when I thought the massage was over, I felt the coolness of lotion upon my skin again, and the rubbing recommenced.

  Finally, the two women raised my feet and gently pushed me back against the pile of pillows. I lay on my back with my eyes closed, the wild beating of my heart loud in my ears. I felt the gentle touch of probing fingers on my body again; the women were slowly peeling off my camisole and pantaloons. Startled, I opened my eyes and found the two young women undressing me, handling each piece of garment expertly. The eunuch remained kneeling on the floor, his head bowing, on the other side of the curtains that separated us.

  All of my modesty vanished when I observed the waxen, emotionless faces of the women, their chins pressed down into the hollows of their necks as they went mechanically about their business. To them, this was apparently a routine job. They were just preparing me as though I were a statue ready to be displayed. They oiled and powdered my body with soft cotton balls and silky brushes, and then they wrapped me again in layers of soft white silk. All this time I had managed to clutch on to my gold coin, but finally one of two women undid my fist and removed that good luck charm. I uttered a feeble sound of protest.

  “This is a necessity, my lady,” the old man said to me from the other side of the curtains. “You are being presented to Heaven’s son, wrapped in perfumed silk. That way, no weapon can ever be carried by a royal concubine.”

  The eunuch Son La got up and, with a quick, almost imperceptible hand gesture, signaled to the pair of women, and they backed away toward the door, carrying the porcelain sink and bowing their head, as usual. I thought he would leave, too, but he knelt down by the bed and spoke softly. “Those maids, my lady, they may or may not be your friends, but I am. You see, I have one-fourth Cham blood in me.”

  I stirred in the bed and caught sight of his dark face and fierce brows on the other side of the curtains. Those were the typical genetic features of a Cham face. All of a sudden I felt less lonely.

  “You have been part of an unusual occurrence, my lady, a historic event. Never before has a woman like you been admitted to the palace this way. You were brought here in a formal wedding, the same way daughters of cabinet ministers—the thuong thu—were married to Heaven’s son. You have already been given a place in the West Palace, among the highest honors accorded a royal concubine. Normally, commoners are admitted as dressers or maids, never in a formal wedding.”

  He kept his head bowed to the floor, and I had to lean forward to hear him more clearly.

  “His Highness must have been smitten by you. He has broken all traditions, making you into an object of envy and curiosity. But this is a very difficult time for Annam, and we will all be affected. Things are changing, and you must be prepared for your fate.”

  I heard footsteps outside and saw shades of flickering lanterns passing by the half-moon window. The old man immediately changed his manner of speaking. He was wishing me a thousand years of happiness and a hundred children.

  A hundred children? I did not want a hundred children.

  “Close your eyes and pray,” he continued. “In fact, all you need is one child: a son. His Royal Highness might leave you. So keep him with you as long as you can, and Heaven will grant you a son.”

  6. CONJUGAL BLISS

  Behind brocade drapes and muslin curtains, I leaned against the satin pillows and listened to my own pounding heart and the shuffling of fabric as I shifted within the bundle of silk. I wondered whether the moon had ascended yet. I missed my boat and my river. An immense loneliness had just come over me when, again, I heard footsteps.

  The double doors swung wide open, and there entered the entourage, headed by that wealthy passenger who, in that fated night on the Perfume River, had insisted on paddling my boat. His steps were forceful and his gaze direct. I recognized the familiar pair of golden boots but no longer saw the golden sword. He was approaching me steadily, and when I lifted my eyes, I saw the face of a lion.

  “Buu Linh,” I whispered to myself. That holy animal.

  I no longer had the gold coin he had given me to hold on to, so I clenched my fists to calm myself. My heart sank when I saw a dozen women following him in pairs. Dressed in blue and white satin, they gathered around him and began helping him undress. A sense of both modesty and excitement took over me. My face and body felt feverish.

  First, his turban was removed. Then one by one the buttons of his gold ao dai were undone by the women’s adroit hands, traveling across his costumed body like little birds wavering over a landscape. His eyes were fixed upon me when each garment was peeled off. He became a silhouette in a dream, a blurry figure who moved his limbs deliberately and slowly to facilitate the women’s undressing of him as though he were performing a dance. All the golden and multicolored garments were eventually gone, and he displayed a brown torso over a pair of white silk slacks. The dream dance came to a stop.

  He raised the curtains, and we looked at each other face-to-face. I quietly registered in my mind the facial features that had become curiously familiar to me, since I had memorized them and envisioned them every night since our encounter on the Perfume River. Yet the face remained a stranger’s face.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned toward me. His breath was heavy and hot on my cheek, and I felt the same magnetism I had felt when he had touched my palm and given me the gold coin on the boat. Self-conscious, I glanced toward the women, who had all lined up and knelt down around the bed. My eyes rose to meet his with an unspoken question.

  “They are trained to surround us,” he whispered into my hair, and then he nibbled my earlobe. My embarrassment lingered on, and I stiffened when his hands reached underneath my armpit to undo the silk wrapping. As I slightly resisted his touch, he understood and withdrew his hand.

  He left the bed and stood in the middle of the room, the light from the red lanterns flickering onto his naked back. The women rose, acknowledged his hand gesture, and left the room quietly like ghosts. “He came back to the bed, and this time, he slipped one hand underneath my wrapping silk while pulling on the string of his silk pantaloons with his other hand.” He was skilled at unwrapping me, suggesting to me he had done this many times. I shuddered as his fingers traveled underneath the silk. My cheeks felt hot as my eyes followed the wave of the soft fabric that rolled down and gathered around his thighs. My skin was burning when he kissed me one, twice, and then too many times to count. His musky body smell reminded me of the night he had crossed and re-crossed the river with me, and it seemed as though we were paddling against the waves there behind the curtains, the boat rocking and rocking.

  Instinctively my muscular arms and legs wrapped around my dream, and I became my Perfume River, liquid and flowing, heated and cooling at the same time. I let go of the security associated with the familiar feel of the damp, wooden paddles that smelled of moss. I let go of all those hidden tears blended into those Hue rivers upon which my ancestors paddled away the sorrow of the defeated Cham race, forever longing to recapture the spirit of Mee-Ey mourning her lost kingdom, towers, temples, and tombs. I let go, too, of my mother’s monotonous words uttered before her death, advising me not to fall in love with a Vietnamese man.

  I had become a river that merged with the flesh of a Vietnamese man.

  I let go of myself. I bit down on his shoulders when I felt him piercing me. Like an arrow he traveled until he reached the shooting star once presiding over the Perfume River and guiding me in my paddling pattern. The arrow he had become cut a silky path on which I arched my back to touch my new rainbow and find that excruciating pain and tantalizing delight of knowledge.

  I turned sixteen that year. The Annamese believed that sixteen was the age of a ripened moon.

  The morning after my w
edding, he must have left while I was still sleeping. The royal decree came and was read to me when I was still dreamily resting in the mess of wrapping silk. The decree said that the king had waived all royal protocols when it came to me. For example, I was allowed to rest during the procedure that followed: the announcement of my title.

  The privilege did not exactly please me. I had wanted to see and feel his face next to me when the sun hit those muslin and brocade curtains, yet I was greeted only with his official words, read to me by eunuchs.

  Words of a king, not a lover.

  The decree said that the king had given me my permanent quarters in the West Palace. He also gave me my official royal title. I was to be called Huyen Phi, “the Mystique Concubine.”

  He was back the following night, enraptured, his eyes locked on mine, while a dozen women took off his royal clothes before my eyes. I became my Perfume River and he became my shooting star, again and again, traveling up where a cooling river met sun and sun melted into cooling river and I created my own universe. Every time he came to me, he was the tender and passionate lover who cherished and adored and who caressed not only my body but also my soul. He touched not only my skin but also my heart, with his loving fingers as well as his sensitive eyes. There was something else, too—something very real yet surreal, because I did not quite understand it. Nor could I give it a name—some sort of a deep emotion that sent waves of vibrating sensations from the sight and closeness of him right into my heart. Something so sacred it touched me so deeply, so privately, bestowing me with a sense of permeating, overwhelming happiness that made me want to cry.

  It had to be the strong and special feeling described by the human race as love.

  He did not talk much, just enough to explain to me the meaning of my royal title. He considered our encounter on the Perfume River mystical, and my royal title was to memorialize that mystique. No Nguyen king had ever picked his bride the way he did, my lover said. I would enter history as the myth of Hue, as the woman who brought the tunes of the common people to the heart of the king of Annam. But, as the Nguyen kings honored their founding father’s tradition of not crowning a queen, every consort could only be titled as a royal concubine. Only one would be chosen as queen and so crowned if her son became the crowned prince. The fact I was given a royal title immediately and allowed to take my place in the West Palace was a testament to his adoration.