Women of the Silk

by Gail Tsukiyama

  But what surprised Pao Chung even more was to hear the sound of his own voice speaking first. “Pei?” he asked.

  “Yes, Ba Ba.”

  “You have returned home?”

  “Just to visit, to see you and Ma Ma.”

  Pei’s voice quivered as she said this. He watched her look toward the groves, searching among the lush leaves for any sign of Yu-sung.

  “Your mother will be happy to see you again.”

  “Where is she?” Pei asked, turning back to him.

  “She has not been well.” Pao Chung put down the bucket he was carrying and wiped his dirty hands on his trousers. “She is inside.”

  “And Li?”

  “She has a family of her own now,” he said quickly.

  He looked away from Pei, toward the house. When his gaze returned, it rested on the young woman who stood beside his daughter. Her fair skin and even features made it obvious she was not a farmer’s daughter.

  “This is Lin,” Pei then said. “She’s my friend from the silk factory.”

  Lin bowed her head slightly and said, “I’m very honored to meet you.”

  Pao Chung paused uncomfortably, then nodded awkwardly toward Lin.

  He quickly turned away from them and, picking up his half-filled bucket, he flung the rest of the fish food out into the water.

  “Come,” he said, leading them back up to the house.

  When Pao pushed open the door to the house he had built, he suddenly felt ashamed of the small, crude space in which they lived. As the warm stale air greeted them, he stepped in and let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. Already something had changed as they entered; his life, which had dulled over the years, seemed to stir again. He turned back to make sure Pei and Lin were really there, only to see Pei’s eyes move slowly around the room of her childhood. Her gaze stopped at the bed in the far corner of the room where she and Li had once slept. She said nothing.

  He moved to the table and lit a lamp. Yu-sung was nowhere to be seen. She was not standing by the fire, cooking or staring blankly into its flames as he often found her. Pao Chung hoped Yu-sung would be up and in better spirits to welcome their daughter home. But even more he hoped that seeing Pei again might give Yu-sung back her strength.

  “Your ma ma must be resting,” he said, a moment of panic moving through him. But before he could say anything else, there was movement from the other room, and Yu-sung suddenly stepped out from behind the blanket.

  Pao Chung remained silent. It was Pei’s voice that said softly, “Ma Ma.”

  Pao Chung turned back toward Yu-sung. At first her eyes grew wide, as if she had seen a ghost; then, slowly, he saw the familiar glow of spirit return. For years he had watched her once-young heart die slowly, along with three of their children. He had given up hope of ever seeing her happy again—until now.

  As Yu-sung moved slowly toward Pei and Lin, Pao stepped back out of her way.

  “Pei?” Yu-sung whispered. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Ma Ma.”

  “You are still alive, Pei?”

  Pei laughed. “Yes, Ma Ma, I’m very much alive.”

  Without any hesitation, Pei wrapped her arms around her mother’s frail body, stroking her gray hair.

  “I prayed to the gods that you would still be alive. After a while, I didn’t believe your father when he said you were happy with your new life, but it was too late, we had given you to the silk work. I prayed for the day when you would return and forgive us.”

  “I have, Ma Ma.”

  Yu-sung stepped back and looked long and hard at her daughter. “I knew you would be a tall one,” she said, her voice breaking as she took Pei’s hand. “Even as a young girl you were taller than the others.”

  Pao Chung stood silent, watching his wife and third daughter. How small Yu-sung looked next to Pei. And how old she had become. He wanted to wrap his arms around both of them, but he didn’t know how. When he felt the tears burning in his eyes, he quietly left the house and returned to his ponds.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Yu-sung

  At first, Yu-sung thought she was still asleep and dreaming. She hugged Pei again, and held on to her for a long time. When she finally let go of her tall daughter, something almost painful moved through her fragile body. The years of stagnation felt heavy. Yu-sung had always wondered if she would ever see her third daughter again. Pei had been the child of guilt: Not seized by death or marriage, she had been given away, sold, in order to save the farm.

  In the past year, with her health failing, Yu-sung had sought forgiveness. She feared dying and going into the other world, not knowing if Pei would always hate her. She never dared to dream there could still be tenderness between them. It was something they had never known.

  When Yu-sung finally pulled away, it was with embarrassment. She blushed and pushed back a fallen strand of her gray hair. Then, unconsciously, her hand moved to smooth the wrinkles from her coarse clothing.

  “Ma Ma, I want you to meet my friend, Lin,” Pei said, filling the quiet room with the music of her voice.

  Yu-sung turned, and for the first time realized that another person stood near her. Her eyes came to rest on a shorter, fairer young woman with a face so smooth and lovely, Yu-sung immediately bowed and welcomed her.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” said Lin, moving closer.

  Yu-sung stepped back and turned shyly away from the two young women. She moved quickly to the barrel where the water was kept, ladling some into the kettle used for tea, then putting it on the fire. At once she felt the comfort of doing something that was simple habit. From a jar she took out the dry tea leaves and sprinkled them into a pot. It took a few moments for her to swallow all that was happening. After she had stoked the fire, Yu-sung turned back to take another good look at her third daughter. Pei had grown up to be very different from what she had imagined. She still appeared so much like her father, but Yu-sung could also see herself around the eyes. And Pei had grown so tall and confident, obviously well taken care of during all the years that separated them. Could Pao have been right after all, that Pei was better off at the silk village? The thought had tormented her every night since the morning Pei had left so many years ago. When Yu-sung had closed her eyes, she saw her curious child, Pei, and every night it felt as if her heart would burst.

  Yu-sung opened her mouth, but there seemed to be something heavy and solid caught in her throat, stealing away her voice. She felt a burning sensation in her eyes, but there were no tears. Yu-sung’s hands moved instantly to cover her face. When she felt the comfort of her daughter’s arms around her, Yu-sung weakened, and let her body relax against Pei’s warmth. It was not a dream; the gods had not abandoned her after all. Pei had really come home to forgive her.

  “Sit, sit, the tea will be ready soon,” Yu-sung said, pulling away from Pei and smiling shyly at Lin.

  “Please, don’t go to any trouble,” said Lin, taking a seat on the rough bench.

  Yu-sung poured the hot water into the jar with the tea leaves and let it sit. She reached up and found the tin of dry biscuits she purchased in the village, and placed them on a plate. With a thin wooden stick, she stirred the tea and divided it into three clay cups. It was only then that she felt more at ease with Pei and Lin. She carried their tea to the table and sat down across from them. Yu-sung wrapped her hands around a hot teacup and inhaled slowly, letting out a small sigh of contentment.

  “Have you and Ba Ba been well?” Pei asked, breaking the silence.

  Yu-sung was amazed at how smooth and calm her daughter’s voice was. “As well as can be expected,” she answered slowly. “We are getting old.”

  Pei shook her head and smiled.

  “If you hadn’t come now, I might not have been here for much longer.”

  “I always wondered why you never came …” Pei began.

  “Your ba ba has always been busy with his ponds, and I have kept busy. There has been time for little else,” Yu-sung sa
id before her daughter finished her sentence.

  Pei sipped her tea. She looked around the bare, unfinished room. Yu-sung knew that, in all Pei’s years away, nothing in the room had changed.

  Then in a voice filled with concern and curiosity, Pei looked at her and asked, “Ma Ma, where is Li?”

  Yu-sung’s eyes never left her daughter, as they might have when she was young and asking too many questions. “She is married to a farmer on the other side of the hill.”

  “Is she happy?”

  Yu-sung’s eyes wandered away from Pei. She took a sip of her tea and stared at nothing. “She has a husband and his family to care for,” she said absently. “She can at least be happy for a roof over her head.”

  “How long ago did Li marry?” Pei continued, hungry for details about her sister.

  “A long time ago, just past her fifteenth birthday.”

  Yu-sung saw the stunned look on Pei’s face. She saw Pei’s lips tremble at the news that her sister had been married for more than ten years.

  “Does she have any children?” Pei asked, her voice strained.

  Yu-sung shook her head. “We have not heard from her in a very long time. The farmer had children of his own when his wife died in childbirth. He had seen Li in the village and sent the matchmaker over to speak to your father, wanting Li for his wife.”

  “And Ba Ba just let this farmer have Li?” Pei said quickly, hard with a sudden anger. Lin reached over and touched her shoulder.

  “It isn’t what you think,” Yu-sung replied sharply. “Your father spoke with Li, and allowed her to make up her own mind. She chose to be the wife of the farmer. It was her decision to go!”

  Pei swallowed hard and said nothing. Yu-sung knew Li had had more of a choice than Pei was given. She glanced over at Lin, who sat quietly staring down at the table. Yu-sung paused, but she didn’t stop there. She would never keep her words from Pei again. In an even tone, she told Pei of Li’s customary return home after three days of marriage. It was the last time Yu-sung had seen her.

  “On the first morning of your sister’s return home, your father had left very early to work at his ponds. I got up to find Li still asleep. I moved very quietly, so I wouldn’t wake her. Li must have been exhausted, having walked all the way back here, because she never flinched, even when I moved toward the bed and watched her sleep. It was then that something caught my eye, and still I don’t know what possessed me to pull her blanket back, just enough to see the strange marks on her arms. Li moved, but she didn’t wake. Slowly I pulled the blanket back, and the lower my eyes traveled, the more discolored bruises and deep scratches I found on her calves and thighs. Even asleep, Li seemed to have aged right before my eyes. I wanted to wake her, and soothe her in my arms, but it was as if I were frozen. You know how much Li is like your father in that way; she keeps things to herself.”

  Yu-sung stopped and took several deep breaths. When she looked up at Pei, her eyes were red and moist. Pei opened her mouth slightly, but said nothing.

  It was Yu-sung’s voice that filled the silence again.

  “Li did not wake. She could have been dead, if not for her slight breathing. I stood there watching my eldest daughter, her body beaten black and blue, wishing she had died like my other children, rather than have to return to that devil farmer. I carefully covered up Li and returned to my work. When she woke, Li quickly dressed and went about her chores as if she had never left.”

  “You didn’t say anything?” Pei asked, her eyes avoiding Yu-sung’s.

  Yu-sung waited for Pei to look back at her. Only when Pei did, did she continue. “Neither of us said a word. When your sister prepared to return to her husband a few days later, I told her it wasn’t too late. If she should decide not to return, it would bring no shame to us. But she shook her head and said, ‘No, I have made my choice.’ I wanted to say something else, but what was the use? Her life was with her husband, no matter how hard it would be, just as mine was with my husband.”

  “But how could you let her go back, knowing …” Pei stopped when she felt Lin move closer.

  “What choice did she have—either return to her husband, or stay here and bring shame to her family,” Yu-sung said quietly. She coughed, and a dry, harsh sound filled the room. Slowly she lifted her body up, her hands pushing against the splintered table. When Pei tried to help her, she motioned for her to sit back down and steadied herself.

  “Pour your friend more tea, I will be right back,” Yu-sung said. Moving slowly, she disappeared behind the other side of the hanging blanket.

  Pei and Lin sat in silence.

  When Yu-sung returned, she carried a rolled-up scroll. She placed it on the table in front of Pei and sat down again.

  “I’ve been waiting to give this painting to you. I’ve always remembered how you liked to look at it when you were a girl,” Yu-sung said, clearing her throat.

  “I don’t have anything for you,” Pei said quietly.

  Yu-sung saw Pei’s eyes instinctively move toward the empty wall where the painting had once hung. Only its faint outline still marked the wall. Pei’s fingers slowly stroked the smooth edge of the rolled-up painting. With no words, Yu-sung reached over and placed her hand on Pei’s cheek, wiping away her tears.

  A Clear Light

  “Go now, before it becomes too dark,” her mother said, pulling away from Pei’s tight embrace; then she turned and touched Lin’s sleeve, but said nothing. Lin accepted the gesture and returned it with a shy smile.

  The sun had fallen, but still glared hot and bright across the glassy ponds below. Pei stepped back and looked toward the faded house and the surrounding land that had been the entirety of her childhood. It had changed so little with time that she imagined at any moment the young Li of her memory would come running up from the incline. When she felt her mother’s hand on her arm, Pei turned back toward her. There was a serene smile on Yu-sung’s face, no hint of her earlier embarrassment. She held on to Pei’s arm for a moment longer, then let go.

  After so many years, Pei would have known her parents anywhere, though they were older and slower than she had imagined. Her father’s distance had seemed well established before she was born; Pei knew her mother was different. She felt it every time her mother deliberately separated herself from the children with her stern words. What Pei saw now was the yearning she could never name, a craving that must have ached in her mother’s bones. So it was without hesitation that Pei had gone to her, finally wrapping her arms around her mother’s thin body as she had always wanted to do. Pei might have never let go if her mother had not gently pulled away from her. Only then had she seen how her mother had aged, how her once beautiful black hair had gone white, matching the wrinkled pallor of her skin.

  Pei had always wanted nothing more than to please her mother. As a child, she was never able to. That gift had been reserved for Li, who did naturally what Pei strived for. Li only needed the simplicity of routine to keep her spirit satisfied. Pei was always the stronger and more restless of the two. And though she tried, she was always less than obedient. She had thought for the longest time that that was why she was given to the silk work. She always wanted much more than her parents could give her. Pei only realized now that it had been her fate to be chosen. Her parents had had no more choice than she. Li would have shrunk away; she had survived.

  In the bright light, Pei searched for her father down by the ponds for one last time, but saw no one. The heavy, dank smell filled her head. He had not returned to see them off, and she somehow knew he needed to stay hidden among his ponds. Still, she would never forget the expression on her father’s face when he first recognized her. He had squinted toward the light, but even then she saw the first glimmer of recognition. There were no words at first, but his eyes opened wider, and he might have gasped in surprise if he were someone else. Instead, he had looked hard at Pei and said her name as if she had just come in from the next room. Her words were as restrained as his, though she wanted to say “
Yes, Ba Ba, I’m your daughter Pei and I’ve finally come home.” But after so many years she stood before her father, just as she’d always dreamed, only to find him not half as tall as she remembered.

  “Will you say good-bye to Ba Ba?” Pei asked.

  Her mother nodded. “He won’t leave his ponds,” she then whispered to Lin in a tired voice.

  “It’s okay, Ma Ma,” Pei told her mother. “I’ll be back again.”

  Yu-sung inhaled and let out a sigh. “Go, go now.”

  “Take care of yourself, I’ll be back soon.”

  Yu-sung nodded and waved as they made their way back up the dirt slope. Pei turned around and caught a last glimpse of her mother, dressed in her coarse cotton clothing that now seemed too large for her thin, withered body. As Pei moved farther and farther away, her mother remained. She stood perfectly still, slowly fading from sight.

  Yu-sung finally turned around, long after Pei and Lin had disappeared up the hill. If she hadn’t been certain she was awake and standing, she might have thought it was all the tricks of an old woman’s imagination. Pei had returned and forgiven her. For the first time in her life Yu-sung stood helpless, not knowing what to do next. Then sudden fear grabbed her and pushed her back against the closed door. There had never been a moment in her life when she felt such an emptiness.

  Yu-sung took a small step forward. She glanced down toward the ponds, knowing Pao was probably down there among the mulberries, watching her. He had been watching her closely for the past year, as if she couldn’t stand alone and might fall at any moment. How could she tell Pao that she needed to be alone, that she deserved no more than filling her days with work? It was the only way she could stand the fact that the gods had taken away her children, and that she was partly to blame. She could offer Pao very little, and expected even less from him, but lately he seemed as persistent with her as with his land.