Secret of a Thousand Beauties (22 page)

Now I looked at him with curiosity. Why would a total stranger tell me so much about himself just minutes after we met?

I didn’t know what to say until finally he asked me my name, and I replied, “Spring Swallow.”

“What a beautiful name, as if you are free as a bird,” he said, blushing, or so I thought.

“Thank you.”

If only he knew what kind of “freedom” I had—usually on the fly—away from trouble. I did like my name, but I thought it might be bringing me bad luck. Because a swallow is always flying, I feared I would never have anywhere to settle.

“Spring Swallow, please go in now. I hope you will find peace here, and return often.”

Inside, the pews were mostly occupied, so I found a place for myself in the last row. The worshippers were mostly Chinese, but a few foreigners were sprinkled through the audience. Shafts of colored light from the stained-glass windows fell across the long nave. In front of the altar stood a man in a red and gold robe, intoning in a strange language. On the wall above him I could see the tall pipes of the organ, from which emanated the music I had heard outside. I wasn’t sure what the priest was saying or doing, but the swelling music began to relax my taut nerves.

Then the organ was silent and the priest went up to the lectern and read in a solemn voice from a huge black book. After a few sentences, he set the book down, looked up at the congregation, and began to speak in Mandarin.

“Remember, God always answers our prayers. But in His omniscience He sometimes answers in ways we do not understand. Do not resist hardship or suffering, they are God’s way to teach us humility and charity. When you lose loved ones, remember they are now with God. . . .”

I was baffled that this God is actually blessing you when he makes you suffer, even strikes your lover dead. My mind began to drift. Then suddenly I realized that the voice with its accented Mandarin was familiar. His hair looked a little grayer and his stomach now protruded a little, but it was Father Edwin! Here in Peking was the man to whom I owed my education, who had taught me to read and write Chinese, as well as English. He’d often told me about the love of God, but I never got this part. To me, this God sounded like a crazy old man who cared about us but was too frail to do much to solve our problems.

However, when I looked around, I saw believers listening in rapt attention with a devout expression. But I also saw a few Chinese children secretly reading comic books, or poking each other and giggling while their mothers shushed them. A few old people, mostly sitting off to the side, were reading newspapers or magazines. I guessed these were what I’d heard called “rice-bag Christians.” For them, God’s love was free food. But I realized that I was not much better . . . wasn’t I also here for food and shelter?

When the mass ended, Father Edwin walked to the back doors, while the congregation respectfully waited for him. Then a long line formed, awaiting his blessing as they left the church.

Finally, I was standing before my former mentor and he said, “Miss, I haven’t seen you here before. You are welcome.”

I was surprised and disappointed that my mentor did not recognize me. Had I changed so much?

I smiled. “Father Edwin. Don’t you remember me? I am Spring Swallow!”

Now he studied me with curiosity. “Can you really be my little girl from the old village?”

I nodded.

“Oh my, have you been well, I hope?”

I was tempted to tell him that since I’d last seen him I’d been married three times and pregnant once—and had also stolen imperial property. But, of course, I was not going to shock him during our first reunion.

“Do you live in Peking now?”

“It’s a very long story, Father Edwin.”

“Of course, let’s go to my study so we can talk over a cup of tea and some cake.”

I nodded, then followed him outside to a smaller building beside the church. Inside was a plain office with a large wooden crucifix on the wall over his desk. On the desk was a portrait of a young, bearded man looking upward longingly at something above the picture frame. I recognized him as Jesus, though he hadn’t aged at all since I’d seen his picture in Father Edwin’s office in the old village.

We sat across from each other at a small table, and Father poured us tea from a thermos and placed a plate of cakes on the table.

After sipping the amber liquid and nibbling the biscuits for seconds, he asked, “Spring Swallow, what brings you to Peking and our church?”

I hesitated and he smiled.

“Don’t worry, only God and I will hear what you say.”

With his experience aiding the troubled, he must already have realized that all was not well with me. Though I had never really understood this religion, I knew I could trust Father Edwin. So I told him my story, including my horrible ghost marriage and how I had learned to be an embroiderer, but leaving out a lot, too—including my secret marriage to a revolutionary. I explained how I had been tricked into marrying Wenyi without being told he was a drunk and a gambler, only to be kicked out after my son was stillborn.

After I finished, Father Edwin looked very sad. “What a life you’ve led at such a young age, Spring Swallow. But God has always looked after you too. He brought you back to me—and to Him. And don’t worry about the ghost marriage. Christians do not believe in such superstitions. So you are free to have a real marriage.”

He sighed. “I’m sure you need a place to stay, right? The house of God is always open for His children. So you’re welcome here.”

“Thank you so much, Father Edwin. I’ll help out by cleaning, cooking, and doing errands for the church. . . .”

He thought for a while, then, “You said you can embroider?”

I nodded.

“Then maybe someday you can embroider some Christian themes so we can sell them at auction to raise money for Our Lady of Sorrows. But for now take some good rest and get used to our church.”

I was relieved and happy at these suggestions, relieved that I had a roof over my head and happy because I could put my embroidery skill back to use, and to help my mentor, who had done so much for me.

“All right, then, it’s decided. I’ll ask my assistant Ryan McFarland to arrange things for you. Tomorrow he can take you to shop for what you need. Your work here will be light and we will pay you modestly for it.”

“I do need to shop, but there’s no need to bother Mr. McFarland. I can do it myself.”

“No, trust me, Peking is huge and full of cheats and thieves. You’ve had enough bad luck in your life. Ryan is a very trustworthy young man and a devoted Christian. He will look out for you. I’m very proud that he will be ordained as a full priest soon.

“Oh,” he smiled contentedly, “Ryan is also an excellent cook. That’s how I got my belly.” He affectionately patted his middle part. “He has been God’s gift to me. I really don’t know what to do without this young man.”

I felt very lucky that things had been settled so easily. I knew I could trust Father Edwin, even though the others I’d trusted had let me down—Mean Aunt, Aunty Peony, Old Li and his family—even Shen Feng had jilted me for his revolution.

23

N
ow that I felt safe, I gave in to my fatigue. For the next two days I just slept and ate. Ryan McFarland was indeed an excellent cook and had extended his culinary skills during his time in China, producing not only fried chicken, black-peppered steaks with onions, and pan-seared pork chops with boiled potatoes, but also sweet and sour pork, crispy duck, kung pao chicken, and several other dishes. Even the church’s regular cook liked the way Ryan prepared food.

Once I’d regained my energy, I went to Lotus Street where Aunty Peony had taken us to shop and sightsee two years ago. Seeing the same sights now gave me a melancholy feeling. In the intervening time I’d transformed from a novice to a master embroiderer. But also from a young girl into a woman, then a widow, then a married woman who’d lost her child, and now an outcast at the mercy of a Western church run by foreign ghosts, albeit kind ones.

I wanted to find the Heavenly Phoenix shop where Aunty sold our works but had kept secret from us. Since I didn’t have an address, I went to the embroidery shop Aunty had taken us to, hoping they would give me directions. The same plump woman was still here, busy with customers. All she would tell me is that someone at a tea shop nearby might be able to tell me. I assumed she just didn’t want to help me find a competitor, but since I had no other leads, I decided to find the teahouse.

She pointed, saying, “It’s down that way.”

The weather was fine, so I enjoyed walking along, feeling the city energy, while looking for the tea shop. All along the walls of the buildings were colorful posters—Movie Star Perfume, Twin Sister Cosmetics, Longevity Cigarettes, Great Wall Coffee . . . all with pretty women smiling at you, their eyes dreamy and their smiles intoxicated, luring you into their world of make-believe.

Soon I noticed a few wooden tables and chairs under a bamboo roof. In back stood a huge cast-iron stove with a big metal teapot emitting billows of white steam, hissing like a complaining old wife.

Hanging over the stove were wooden plaques announcing the varieties of tea available: Chrysanthemum, Hundred-Year-Old Pu’er, Iron Bodhisattva, Big Red Robe, Before-the-Rain Dragon Well, Turquoise Spring. Another horizontal plaque advised customers to “Meet friends through tea drinking.”

Small tables were crowded into the space under the roof, all occupied except one. Intrigued by this cozy little sidewalk teahouse, I sat down at the empty table. It did not seem an easy place to make friends—everyone was absorbed in conversations within their own little groups. Nearby a young woman was feeding her baby, who occupied her entire attention. At another table was an amorous young couple. I sighed to myself, remembering my own lost baby and lost mountain husband. How come all of these people were luckier than I?

I ordered fragranced flower tea and peanuts. While I was sipping the scalding brew and crunching the peanuts, a stout, fortyish man materialized on the sidewalk in front of the tea shop. He lifted a drum and fastened it onto a wooden stand.

I leaned toward the young mother. “What’s this man going to do?”

“He comes here every day to tell stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Wait and you’ll see.” She fed and cooed to her baby, then spoke again. “We come here to learn the news from him so we don’t need the newspapers. He’s very good at telling any kind of stories, funny, happy, sad . . . depending on his mood.”

A small group had now gathered around the man, eyeing him with anticipation. The storyteller spread his strong feet to root himself on the ground. Slowly he lifted his right hand, then brought it down on the drum with a loud bang. He then began in a sonorous voice.

“Honorable guests, welcome to my storytelling!”

A round of applause burst in the air.

“Today there’ll be no news—but mind you, no news is good news. Instead, I’m going to tell you the story of Tiger-Head Shoes. . . .”

Hearing the words “tiger-head shoes,” my ears perked up. According to Aunty Peony, these shoes were among the most sought-after items that I’d embroidered for Heavenly Phoenix. Because my tiger heads were so cute, both the toddlers and their mothers loved them. Babies, besides wearing the shoes, also played with them as toys, and they liked to kiss the embroidered tiger.

The storyteller continued. “Once upon a time in ancient China, there was a man called Yang Da who made his living by ferrying people across rivers. Though Yang was young and nice looking, he was too poor to get a wife and start a family.

“One day after he ferried an old woman across the river, she said she didn’t have money to pay him but could give him a painting in exchange. Yang, always kind to his customers, accepted her offer. Once home, when he took out the painting, he saw a beautiful young woman sewing tiger heads onto a pair of tiny shoes.

“Yang became transfixed by the woman’s beauty and skill, then was astonished to see her begin to move and step out from the painting. . . .”

A young man among the crowd asked, “
Wah,
where can I get this painting?”

His buddy joked, “But even if you had the painting, the lady wouldn’t walk out for you!”

Everyone laughed heartily; some clapped and others booed.

The storyteller went on in high spirits, his hand beating the drum in a steady rhythm. “Soon Yang and the woman from the painting married in a simple ceremony witnessed by the god of the river where he made his living. Ever after, Yang’s wife would hide herself inside the painting during the day and come down from the painting at night. To help bring in money, she did embroidery. A year later, their son Little Treasure was born and the mother sewed many tiger-headed shoes for him. She believed the tigers would protect her son and give him strength and courage.

“The evil village head heard about Yang and his mysterious wife and decided to pay them a visit. The next morning, when he arrived at Yang’s house, both father and son were out working. So he stole the painting with the wife in it and left. Arriving home and shocked to learn that the painting was gone, Yang asked his son to retrieve it.

“Little Treasure went to the village head’s house, saw the painting, and pulled his mother right out. Village Head immediately ordered his servants to tie up Little Treasure, but the child vigorously stomped his feet. Immediately, two ferocious tigers jumped out from his shoes. The terrified Village Head and his servants screamed and fled. Little Treasure then returned home safely with his mother inside the painting.”

The audience clapped enthusiastically.

The young mother next to me exclaimed, “Good for Little Treasure!”

The couple to my left yelled, “We want a son just like Little Treasure!”

Now the storyteller recounted the moral of his tale. “That’s why we embroider tiger heads onto the shoes of our children—so they’ll be brave as a tiger!”

The audience yelled out,
“Hao, hao, hao!”
(“Wonderful!”)

The storyteller set down a pair of tiger-headed shoes, which rapidly filled up with coins from the audience. After that, customers began to trickle out of the tea shop.

I went up to drop in a few coins myself and noticed something odd about the shoes, so I bent down to get a closer look. To my astonishment, they had been embroidered by me!

I approached the storyteller. “Sir, I really enjoyed your story of the Tiger-Head Shoes.” I pointed to his—or my—shoes. “May I know where you got these from?”

He cast me a suspicious glance. “Why do you ask? They’re my shoes.”

“Because I believe I embroidered them.”

“But they are from a shop here.”

“But I’m the embroiderer.”

“All right, since you are an embroiderer, we can talk. But I’m hungry, so I will order something to eat.”

He led the way to another table in back, near the kitchen. After we sat, he pounded on the table and yelled orders to the cook. The wiry chef was leaning over his wok, which emitted a mouth-watering smell of meat and garlic.

He shouted back, “All right, all right. Hungry, hah?” Then the wok smoked and sizzled as he poured more oil onto it.

Soon fragranced tea with sugared ginger was placed in front of us. Then tasty dishes started to arrive: crispy marinated pig ear, pork intestine filled with soup, fried pancake with lamb and green onion filling.

The storyteller made a sweeping gesture with his rough hand. “Help yourself.”

I wasn’t hungry, but in order to show appreciation I picked up a piece of pancake and started to nibble. To my surprise, the food in this humble street stall was unexpectedly delicious. The pancake had been soaked in lamb fat, then pan-fried just right—crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside. The crunchy green onion teased my palate.

I sighed with pleasure, not just from the perfectly prepared food, but because seeing the cook in action made me think of Aunty Peony’s teaching. She always said that to be successful at embroidering, or anything else, one must concentrate completely. “Even if a mountain collapses outside your window, you shouldn’t look, but continue to work.”

Aunty also emphasized thorough study. “If you embroider bamboo, you study it in all circumstances—sunlight, moonlight, summer, winter, rain, snow. . . . Only when you’ve become one with the bamboo should you begin to work. Then you will possess the secrets of a thousand beauties.”

But Aunty had another rule that was not always possible to follow, though I tried. This was to look at and think of only beautiful things—so as not to defile our vision.

I often remembered what she had told me: “Try to avoid ugly things like a pock-faced man, a beggar in rags, a pus-oozing wound, a dying person, a stinking corpse. If unfortunately you run into something like that, you should immediately wash your eyes with clear water and look at a beautiful painting or scene in nature to neutralize the unpleasant images. Even the face of a crying baby is considered ugly. You understand?”

I challenged her once. “But I find babies cute, even if they are crying.”

“That’s why I don’t like students to talk back, or ask stupid questions. If your embroidery looks like the face of a crying baby, will people buy it?”

I had no answer, but, of course, just as all babies cry, sometimes we all have to look at unpleasant things. Yet some can stay cheerful in difficult surroundings.

This street cook worked on the dirty street, amidst disorderly crowds. Like me he must have spent years of bitter practice perfecting his art. Yet, as I watched the unassuming middle-aged man sweating beside the fiery wok, he seemed to be enjoying himself and I felt great admiration. I looked around at the other diners, lost in their conversations, not even thinking of the cook who had made their enjoyment possible.

Finally, the plates were empty. The storyteller took a long sip of his tea, sighed with satisfaction, then cast me an inquiring look.

“All right, young miss, please tell me why you say these are your shoes?”

“Mister, they are not mine. I only embroidered them to be sold at Heavenly Phoenix embroidery shop, but then—”

“Did you say you embroidered for Heavenly Phoenix?”

I nodded.

“Then how come I never saw you there?”

“My aunty, three sisters, and I all embroidered for Heavenly Phoenix. But we all lived near Soochow, not Peking. Only Aunty went to Heavenly Phoenix—she never took us with her.”

He looked surprised. “Who’s your aunty, is her name Lilac?”

“No, Peony.”

He murmured as if talking to himself. “But Lilac is the best embroiderer who sews for Heavenly Phoenix.”

“Sir, how do you know about Heavenly Phoenix?”

His answer took me by surprise. “I used to work there.”

If he worked at an embroidery shop, what was he doing as a street storyteller?

He went on. “But Lilac never mentioned anyone who worked with her, and I always wondered how she could work so fast.”

By now I was pretty sure that “Lilac” was Aunty Peony. To find out, I asked, “Is Lilac the one whose
Along the River during the Qingming Festival
won the prize at the Peking International Art and Craft Fair?”

I kept my mouth shut about the real embroiderer being me.

“Yes, then Lilac must be your aunty!” He shook his head. “
Hai,
she ruined us!”

“What?”

“You don’t know?”

I told him I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Someone told the police that the embroidery was based on a stolen imperial painting.”

“I never heard anything like this.” Actually, I knew Aunty had stolen from the palace but kept my mouth shut about it.

“Yes, that was the rumor. So one day the police came to search our store. They asked for Lilac, but we never knew where she lived. Now you tell me she lived near Soochow. Oh my, what a woman!”

He stared at me intently. “So, you know where she is?”

“She left Soochow several years ago, but she didn’t tell any of us that she was leaving and we have no idea where she went. Aunty was always very secretive about herself—that’s why she never took us to Heavenly Phoenix. And she used a different name with you.”

“Good. Better that you and I have nothing more to do with her.”

Actually, I did hope I would see Aunty again, but I knew it would be dangerous to suggest that.

“Did the police find anything suspicious?”

He shook his head. “Even though the police couldn’t find anything, customers stopped coming—they did not want anything to do with a business that was watched by the police. And without Lilac’s work we didn’t have enough good stuff to sell.”

He sipped his tea noisily, then spoke again. “We were delighted when she won the contest, thinking it would boost our business. But instead, it ruined us. My boss had to close up. He is still rich, but I ended up here telling stories.”