Women of the Silk

by Gail Tsukiyama

  The next day Chung remained stoic and unapologetic. He stood before them, slowly speaking of the concessions he would make, barely glancing up. Pei, standing beside Lin near the spot where Sui Ying had lost her life, couldn’t bear to look up at Chung. The mere sound of his flat voice disgusted her.

  “You will have ten-hour workdays from this day forward,” Chung said, reading from an unfolded piece of paper. “Sometimes twelve-hour days, if there should be a large shipment due; you will be compensated for the extra work.”

  The cheers began before Chung could finish his sentence. He frowned, and waited impatiently for the voices to stop.

  “You will have one day off every two weeks,” Chung shouted, “provided it’s worked out in a way that does not disturb production.”

  When Chen Ling came forward and confirmed the rest of the changes that would be taking place, the women cheered so loudly that she gave up and stepped back.

  Pei tried to raise her voice along with them, but something caught in her throat. The strike was over, but Sui Ying was dead. It didn’t seem like such a victory. Pei held back her tears. Lin took hold of her hand and squeezed it tightly, both of them silent as the voices rose steadily around them.

  Chapter Twelve

  1934

  Auntie Yee

  Auntie Yee was not well. It was just after the New Year that she began to slow. At first it struck Auntie Yee that the years were catching up with her, the unkindness of age had settled in. But the pain that gradually grew in her chest seemed to overtake her, leaving her without strength or breath. The simplest cleaning would tire her out. Sometimes she found herself having to sit so she wouldn’t fall down. It was hard to believe that after all these years, her body had turned against her.

  Auntie Yee hid her illness from everyone skillfully, disguising her tiredness as a cold and always keeping up her happy disposition. Most of the time the girls were so busy with their own lives that they paid little attention to how she looked, or if she’d lost some weight. Only Moi knew, though no words were ever spoken. She guarded Auntie Yee’s secret as if it were her own. The rest of them were fooled until it was too late, until Auntie Yee was too weak to wear her frail disguise any longer.

  One night Auntie Yee became very ill. Moi sent a girl to the sisters’ house to get Chen Ling. The girl was frightened and trying to catch her breath, and they could barely understand her when she told them Auntie Yee was in great pain and coughing up blood.

  When Chen Ling, Ming, Lin, and Pei arrived at the girls’ house, Auntie Yee lay in her bed, pallid and wasted. It was like a bad dream. Auntie Yee appeared a different person to them, her once-round face distorted from the pain. There was little resemblance to the Auntie Yee they had known as girls. Pei and Lin had seen her several weeks before, and she seemed to be nursing a cold—nothing more, she had told them. Now they stood to the side and stared at Auntie Yee wide-eyed as Chen Ling and Ming fussed about her, their faces full of concern.

  Chen Ling sent immediately for Chan, the herbalist. He came quickly and spent a long time with Auntie Yee before mixing together several different herbs to be given to her. After a few days’ rest, Auntie Yee was up and around again, but she no longer hid the fact that she was very ill. She moved with slower, more deliberate steps, and seemed to watch the faces of the girls longer and harder, not missing a thing.

  After Auntie Yee became ill, Chen Ling and Ming remained at the girls’ house. Chen Ling took time off at the factory to be with her, but as soon as she was well enough, Auntie Yee pushed Chen Ling back to work. The silk work had always been as important to Auntie Yee as it was to the girls. Each evening she questioned them about their day, and every once in a while, when there was a problem at the factory, Chen Ling would come to her. Auntie Yee would then retreat into herself, pacing the floor, until suddenly she would look up with an answer. In the twenty-eight years since she had scrimped and scraped to begin the girls’ house, Auntie Yee had never gone back to the silk factory. She preferred to take charge of her girls spiritually and personally, leaving the talk of cocoons and reeling to Chen Ling and Lin. During the strike, Auntie Yee kept silent in her concern and sorrow. But it was widely known throughout the village of Yung Kee that no one knew more about the silk work than Auntie Yee.

  The news of her illness spread quickly. Most of the girls knew her or knew of her. Many of them had grown up at the girls’ house, while others knew her as the mother of Chen Ling. Everyone who had lived at the girls’ house saw Auntie Yee as her mother. In many ways, she was better to them than their real mothers had been, and through the years she’d kept their devotion. Those who had left often returned to visit Auntie Yee. Sometimes she would forget a name, but never a face. Her influence would always remain a vital part of their lives, even if they didn’t choose the sisterhood. Auntie Yee knew there wasn’t any deep, dark secret to their devotion. It was simply because she had to work harder to reach them when they had lost their first mothers. And once she won the battle of becoming their second mother, there was no letting go.

  The girls’ house had been the one reward in her life that made it possible for her to bear all the sorrows of her daughters. Auntie Yee refused to become paralyzed by life. She seemed to move out of some kind of invisible necessity, knowing that if she stopped, it would be for good. She talked, laughed, and loved the girls out of their lonely and bruised lives, pointing them in a new direction.

  “Nothing ever stands still,” she told them. “And neither should you.”

  Moi answered the door for every one of Auntie Yee’s visitors. Some she suspiciously ushered in, in her abrupt, careless way, while others, like Lin and Pei, were given appreciative nods. The rooms in the girls’ house now seemed small, still bare and immaculate. And everywhere was the thick, sweet smell of burning incense.

  When Auntie Yee felt well enough, she greeted her visitors in the reading room, where she always felt the greatest sense of calm. She was no longer strong enough to see all the girls who came to visit, but on occasional evenings she felt happy to be up. She knew these times were numbered. As the ache of this thought rushed through her, Auntie Yee washed it from her mind. The smell of incense was even sharper and more overpowering ; Moi burned a forest of thin incense sticks in front of the shiny statue of Kuan Yin. Moi lingered like a shadow in the reading room, and stayed with Auntie Yee to tend to her needs. Her eyes darted quickly over at Auntie Yee before she moved across the room to light another stick of incense.

  When Moi returned, carrying a bowl of dried plums, she sat down in the chair across from Auntie Yee. Moi sitting down was a rarity, and try as she might, Auntie Yee couldn’t remember ever seeing Moi sit anywhere other than the high wooden stool she kept in the kitchen. The kitchen had always been the only place Moi really looked comfortable. It never took long for a new girl to understand that she was never to touch anything in the kitchen without asking Moi’s permission. Auntie Yee once told them all, “Moi guards her pots and pans as others guard their money.”

  Moi looked over at Auntie Yee and suddenly asked, “Are you hungry?”

  Auntie Yee shook her head, conserving her energy. “You can go,” she finally said. “I’ll be fine here.”

  Moi started to rise, then sat back down in silence.

  “So when all this nonsense is over, will you take a room upstairs? It will be more comfortable.”

  “What do I need with a room?” Moi returned. “I would have nothing to put in it.”

  Auntie Yee smiled at their ongoing argument. Moi’s room had always been a flat gray cot at the far end of the kitchen. The few clothes she had were stacked neatly in a basket, or sometimes hung across a thick rope that held the blanket separating her space from the rest of the kitchen. Wherever Moi went, the stale smell of cooking was always embedded in every article of clothing she wore. For years Auntie Yee had been trying to get Moi to take a room upstairs, but she refused to leave her corner in the kitchen.

  “I want you to have my room,” A
untie Yee said, adding a new element to their old argument. She knew it was unfair, but said it anyway.

  Moi glanced up surprised, a look that had rarely crossed her face in all the years they’d been together. Then she looked away from Auntie Yee, down at her own rough, overworked hands. When she was ready to speak, Moi lifted the bowl of plums towards Auntie Yee. “I make no promise to sleep in it,” she finally said.

  Auntie Yee smiled and nodded. She knew Moi had never been close to anyone except for her. In their mumbling, argumentative way, they’d been a family to each other for many years. And it was Moi she worried about most when it would be time for her to go into the other world. These thoughts ran through her head now as they sat in a comfortable silence. Upstairs, she could hear the quick movements of Chen Ling and Ming cleaning her room and making up a fresh bed. When Auntie Yee looked back over at Moi, she could see her lips moving silently as if in prayer.

  Auntie Yee dreamed that night of her brother, Chan. She was so happy to see him again as he lifted her into his arms. He appeared just as she remembered him, so young and strong, but she couldn’t help thinking how old and worn she must look. She opened her mouth to say something, but Chan put up his hand to stop her. Ahead of them was the house of their childhood, a white light shining. Chan smiled calmly and held her hand. There was no more pain or struggle; Auntie Yee remained silent, comforted.

  Pei

  The evening Auntie Yee died, Pei and Lin were still working at the silk factory. It was Ming who came to tell them. Pei knew immediately that Auntie Yee was gone from the look on Ming’s face, an expression caught somewhere between sorrow and relief From a distance it looked almost like a frown. Ming walked slowly toward them and whispered some words to Lin, who then looked over toward Pei and nodded her head slowly.

  They went directly from the factory to the girls’ house. As soon as Pei turned the corner she felt what she’d been dreading. The girls’ house she had once known so well had lost its spirit, standing grave and silent against the darkening sky. The pale glow of the oil lamps burned low in the courtyard. Already mourners, both young and old, waited outside in scattered groups for their turn to pay their respects. Moi answered the door and ushered Pei and Lin in. She wore the dark clothing of mourning and kept her eyes downcast. Pei looked hard around the familiar rooms for any difference, any hard evidence that Auntie Yee was no longer alive and well. She glanced toward the stairs, still waiting anxiously for Auntie Yee to come down them.

  Then Moi suddenly stopped, turning toward them. Her eyes were cloudy and faraway. She leaned forward as if to convey a secret to Pei and Lin. “I knew all along it was a bad sickness. The old woman could not fool me. Aii-ya, did she think she could fool me? When you have lived together as long as we have in the same house, you know these things.”

  “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Pei asked gently.

  Moi looked down and rubbed her bad leg. “What was there to say? If Yee wanted you to know, you would have known. I did what I could, brewing her strong teas and slipping very hard to find herbs into her soup. For a while she was better, then all of a sudden it came back stronger to take hold of her again.” Moi shook her head sadly. “I did everything I could.”

  “We know you did,” Lin said, letting her hand gently touch Moi’s arm.

  Moi was silent again, having said what she needed to. For the first time she appeared old and lost. Pei knew how helpless she must feel, and how hard it would be for her now that Auntie Yee was gone. She wanted to say something comforting, but Moi turned quickly around and led them upstairs to Auntie Yee’s room.

  There was a strange feeling in Pei’s stomach as they made their way upstairs. It felt like the first time she walked up the stairs with Auntie Yee as a child, a knot of anxiety growing inside her with each step they took. It had been as if Pei knew her father was leaving her that day; now that same tiny whisper moved through her, only this time it was Auntie Yee who had left.

  The room was dark, illuminated by a single lamp in the far corner. Incense burned in thin, shadowy streams beside the bed on which Auntie Yee lay. Her eyes were closed, as if in sleep. Chen Ling was kneeling on one side of Auntie Yee’s body, softly chanting in prayer. Ming touched her on the shoulder to let her know they had come.

  Chen Ling rose and whispered, “She’s at peace.”

  Auntie Yee’s body had been bathed by Moi and Chen Ling, then dressed in the white silk tunic and pants she had worn so many years ago at her own hairdressing ceremony. On one of Lin’s and Pei’s last visits, Auntie Yee had shown them the tunic. She had proudly displayed the superior quality of the silk and pointed to the intricate weaving, as her swollen fingers moved lovingly over it. “When you die,” Auntie Yee had said, “and the fates are kind, you have the time to prepare.”

  But seeing Auntie Yee dressed in the tunic now was something entirely different. With her hair neatly coiled on top of her head, Auntie Yee appeared serene and very beautiful. Suddenly Pei was filled with the desire to tell Auntie Yee how beautiful she was, but it was too late. Auntie Yee was dead. She would no longer self-consciously dismiss, with a high shrill laugh or a quick wave of her hand, anything Pei said or asked.

  Pei turned to Lin, who seemed deep in her own memories. Her eyelids were lowered, almost closed, and Pei suddenly felt helpless amid the silence and the thick waves of incense that stung her eyes.

  The funeral was held two days later. The morning after her death, Auntie Yee was placed in a silk-lined coffin of thick hardwood polished a shiny brown. It sat like an unwelcome intrusion in the reading room, with Auntie Yee filling three fourths of its length. Incense burned on a table at the head of the coffin. At her feet and all around her body were heavy silk quilts, which held her body firmly in place, and between her lips Chen Ling had placed a white pearl in case she would need to buy her way into heaven.

  Auntie Yee was to be buried in a small cemetery, just outside Yung Kee, which was the resting place for many of the sisters who had gone on into the other world. It was the kind of day Auntie Yee would have loved, cool and crisp. The sun was shining weakly as they gathered in front of the girls’ house. Mourners from all the different girls’ and sisters’ houses in the area came to pay their final respects to Auntie Yee, wearing coarse muslin burial outfits over their own clothes, with two lengths of muslin draped over their heads. Slowly the funeral procession made its way down the dusty street, following the coffin bearers like a flock of birds. Chen Ling, Ming, and Moi led the mourners past the countless staring eyes of the Yung Kee citizens.

  When they finally reached the cemetery, Chen Ling spoke briefly to the man attending the gate before they continued along a dirt path, leading to the site Auntie Yee had chosen. It was on a slight hill, with two large trees on each side to shade her from the sun. Pei moved forward and let her hand touch the place on the box where she imagined Auntie Yee’s hands were, folded gently across her chest. Pei’s hand remained there for several minutes, pressing harder and harder against the shiny, slippery wood.

  The ceremony was short and simple. After a few words spoken by Chen Ling on the occasion of the acceptance of Auntie Yee into the land of her ancestors, the young men hired to carry the coffin slowly lowered it into the ground. Following Chen Ling and Ming, Pei and Lin walked toward the grave and kowtowed three times before Auntie Yee. They each picked up a handful of dirt and threw it into the grave. Then Chen Ling lighted a match and burned the paper money, paper servants, and paper clothes that would accompany Auntie Yee into her next life. Very carefully Pei, Lin, and the other mourners removed the muslin outergarments they wore. One by one these clothes would also be burned, so that no remnants of death would be taken back into their daily lives.

  That evening, Pei and Lin returned to the girls’ house for a simple meal of vegetables, prepared by Moi. They ate little and exchanged few words. Not until much later, when they returned to the emptiness of the sisters’ house, did Pei weep for her great loss.

  The
Ghosts’ Feast

  Moi rolled out the sticky rice-flour dough in small jerking movements. Every so often she sprinkled water and more flour onto her dough until it reached the right consistency. On the table next to her was a bowl filled with several different kinds of chopped vegetables. Moi had spent a good part of the previous evening chopping and mincing, preparing to make the dumplings that she would steam or cook in broth.

  The Ghosts’ Feast occurred once a year, when they prepared food and went to the cemetery to eat and to worship their family and sisters who had gone into the other world. It was the first Ghosts’ Feast since Auntie Yee’s death, and Moi was determined to make it a memorable one. Since the death, Chen Ling and Ming had moved back to run the girls’ house. They’d left early to buy the incense and paper money necessary for the celebration at the cemetery.

  Moi stopped and looked toward the door that led outside to the well. It had become a habit since Auntie Yee’s death to suddenly stop whatever she was doing and look toward a door, any door leading elsewhere. Most of the time Auntie Yee came to her through the back door, keeping Moi company while she prepared the evening meal or when she scrubbed the wash. Auntie Yee had made Moi promise that she would tell no one of these visits.

  The first time Auntie Yee appeared, Moi almost sliced off part of her finger. It was less than a week after Auntie Yee had died, and Moi was suffering terribly from the loneliness. Auntie Yee had been her only source of companionship, even if it was sometimes harsh. Without her, Moi lived in a void. She moved through her daily routine unhappily and said almost nothing to others.