Secret of a Thousand Beauties (11 page)

“Yes, but to a ghost or a chicken, not a man.” I went on to explain how I had gotten into this trap.

“Poor girl. Lucky you could escape. If my sister had your courage, she might be alive today. That’s why China needs to be modernized, to get rid of its feudal poison.”

“I’m sorry.”

I was afraid he would get tired of hearing about my troubles. And I wanted to know more about him. So I asked, “Where do you live?”

“In Soochow.”

“And you come all the way here?”

He nodded. What I really wanted to know was why he didn’t have to work, so I asked about his job.

“I coach some university students, so my working hours are up to me. I come up here before or after I give my lessons,” he replied.

He paused to look at his watch. “Actually, I am going to be late for my first lesson today so I need to go back now. Spring Swallow, tell me where you live. I’ll walk you home.”

“The only house near this mountain.”

“I’ve seen that house and always wondered who lives there.”

“But, Mr. Shen, I can walk home by myself. I can’t let Aunty see me with a man.”

“I understand. But China is now modern. Men and women are equal and can freely mingle.”

“But my aunty made all of us take a vow of celibacy before she would teach us embroidery.”

“You’re serious?”

I didn’t know how to respond.

“I hope not. Since you’re so pretty and, I assume, also very talented.”

Again, I remained silent. So we turned and descended the mountain together.

When our feet set on level ground, Shen Feng asked, “Spring Swallow, when can we see each other again, since I don’t think I can send or deliver you a letter.”

“I never know when I will have the chance to come up here.”

“Then if we do not see each other when we come, let’s keep writing each other on the cave’s walls, all right? Anyway, I‘ll be here tomorrow morning, so I hope you can come then too.”

I hoped so, too, I thought, but felt too shy to say it out loud.

12

A
s I dashed back in the house, my heart was fluttering like Aunty’s embroidering hands. I checked Purple’s and Leilei’s rooms, but neither had returned. Since it was only seven-thirty in the morning, I imagined that Purple might just now be waking up with her lover in the haunted temple, and Leilei perhaps with her man in one of the inns along one of the Soochow rivers.

Would they imagine that now I had a male friend too? Weren’t they worried that Aunty would come back early and put two and two together? But it didn’t seem likely. To go back to Peking again so soon, she must be doing something very important for herself, something other than simply picking up the photographs.

Then I realized I had the opportunity I had been waiting for so long—to go up to her forbidden room to snoop. I tiptoed upstairs and knocked softly on the door and, as I expected, there was no answer. I twisted the knob back and forth and, also as expected, it was locked as tightly as her lips were when asked about her past. But my instinct told me she must have a spare key hidden somewhere.

I searched underneath a large vase and carpet on the stair landing, but no luck. Then I had an idea and dashed downstairs, hurrying across to the altar. I picked up the ceramic Guan Yin statue, shook it, and turned it over. But to my great disappointment, there was no key. Finally, my eyes landed on Aunty’s teacher staring back at me from her photo. I lifted off the framed photograph and turned it around. Sure enough, a little cloth pouch had been sewn on the back. I reached inside and pulled out the key, being careful not to tear the cloth.

The key turned smoothly in the lock and I swung the door open. Sunlight streamed in through a window high up on the wall. The room was modestly furnished with a plain wooden bed, a large chest of drawers, and a bookcase. What immediately attracted my attention was the embroidery covering all four walls. If the works downstairs were excellent, these were exquisite. I turned my head to survey them: brightly colored carp swam in schools; lotuses bloomed on a rippling pond; white cranes spread their wings above undulating waves; bats—to symbolize good luck—flew in the four auspicious directions; dragons undulated through colorful clouds and lightning flashes....

Looking at these beautiful images, I felt myself transported to another world. Finally, when I came back to reality, I noticed a small writing desk on which stood a wooden frame enclosing an embroidered portrait of a young couple. The man had a high, shiny forehead, neat crescent-moon brows, single-lidded eyes, a knobby nose, and thin mouth. A handsome man. The woman was wearing an elegant, high-neck embroidered silk
cheongsam.
As I studied the young woman’s image I realized with a start that it was Aunty Peony herself! What was she doing with a man? Or perhaps it was merely her younger brother—but he did not look like her.

The work was painstakingly done. Every single hair on their heads, even their brows and lashes, was visible. Their faces were shown with colors ranging from pink, to brown, to deep brown, all depicted with invisible stitches.

I remembered when Aunty had taught me how to embroider portraits. She said, “If you use only threads of one color to embroider eyes, they’ll look like a dead fish’s. To make them look alive, you must choose threads with many gradations of white, split the threads as thin as possible, then sew the brighter and darker areas according to the light. This way, the eyes will be round and realistic.”

In Aunty’s portrait, the couple’s eyes appeared so alive that I imagined I could see into their souls. I felt a little uncomfortable, as if Aunty herself were watching me invade her private life.

Calligraphy ran down the right side of the portrait.
Qinse hexie, huahao yueyuan,
meaning
qin
and the
se
music played together harmoniously and the flowers beautiful and the moon round. This was a popular celebratory saying for married couples. So was this man Aunty’s husband? This was a shock. If she had been married herself, then why our celibacy vows? I’d never seen this man, of course. Perhaps he was a ghost, like my own husband.

Inadvertently, I knocked over the portrait, and as I leaned over the desk to put it upright, I slipped and fell hard against the desk. I felt a little dizzy as the wall behind the desk seemed to shift. After rubbing my eyes, I looked again, only to find that the wall was really moving. Then I pushed myself up and, to my complete surprise, part of the wall swung open like a door.

Before me loomed a secret chamber, a mystery within the mystery of Aunty’s room. Gingerly, I stepped in. In the dim light I could make out many shelves and drawers. Something bright was hanging on the wall—a dazzling yellow robe. Everything else was in shadow, so I ran as fast as I could down to my room and brought back my oil lamp.

The robe resembled the one in the Lotus Embroidery Shop in Peking that Aunty had declared a fake. Now I could see why—this one was of a completely different standard.

Countless laboriously layered threads gleamed in the light of my lamp. There was a fullness in the way the fabric hung, almost as if it were still inhabited by a living, breathing body. I’d never seen threads, silk, and craftsmanship so fine. Not one coarse surface or sloppy stitch was to be seen. The nine dragons embroidered with threads of gold seemed about to leap out at me. Their eyes and whiskers seemed to follow me as I moved around admiring them.

I remembered an expression for extolling masterpieces,
qiaoduo tiangong,
which meant “cleverly robbing Heaven’s skill.” Then I realized what had been at the edge of my mind: This masterpiece must be the robe of an emperor! Could this really be so? It must be, because the emperor’s symbols mentioned by Aunty were all here: sun, moon, stars, mountains, arrows, ax, bronze vessal, fire, rice—and the seaweed missing from the fake one. The dragon’s robe in the middle of nowhere? And in Aunty’s possession? Had she made it herself or been given it—I did not want to think that it was stolen.

But there was much more here, so I walked around the secret chamber to glimpse the rest of her hoard. I spotted a Guan Yin embroidery in a corner. Its craftsmanship was flawless, but it seemed rather dull because the embroidery was all against a white silk background. Something was different about the threads, however, and, with a start, I realized the entire work was made from human hair, likely the offering of a very devout lady, maybe Aunty Peony herself.

She had told us about the use of human hair to embroider religious figures as offerings. But if she had cut off her own hair to create this goddess, she must have done it because she wanted something back from the goddess. What it was I had no idea.

I was getting nervous that Purple or Leilei would return soon, but I could not resist looking at another piece, a simple one, showing yellow butterflies with translucent wings hovering over blue flowers. I turned the frame around to see a completely different picture—orange-spotted carp swimming in a weed-strewn pond.

I realized this was the famous double-faced embroidery for which Soochow was known. Aunty—though frequently boasting that she was teaching us the secrets of a thousand beauties—never mentioned these techniques. She was holding these back for herself, like many teachers. This way the students will never excel over their masters and they will keep coming back, hoping to learn the ultimate secrets of the craft.

Now I was even more nervous, so I started quickly opening drawers, hoping to find more of my teacher’s secrets. There was no embroidery work in the drawers, but instead I found piles of notes, patterns, fine silk threads, and expensive embroidery tools.

So here were the things that Aunty held back for herself. There was no time for me to memorize the designs to inscribe in my secret cave. And though I would have loved to take them to my room to study, as soon as Aunty noticed they were missing she would quickly search everyone’s room. So I reluctantly set down the sheets, doing my best to arrange them exactly as I had found them.

Next, I stroked the threads, enjoying the cool feel of the little rainbow. When I picked up the last few bunches of threads, I spotted a thick book bound with brocade. I assumed it contained more patterns and notes, but when I opened it and started to read Aunty Peony’s tiny, very neatly brushed characters, I quickly realized that it was her diary. It seemed that, after all, she did confide her thoughts, not to us, of course, but to a notebook. I felt guilty intruding on her private life, but my curiosity was too much. Besides, she knew my secrets, so why shouldn’t I know hers?

I thumbed through the notebook. Much was about embroidery, but then I spotted a more interesting entry:

I gasped out loud. Could Aunty really mean the emperor? Was this just her imaginings? I continued to read.

I was puzzled that a scarf and a poem could bring misfortune. I continued to read.