Secret of a Thousand Beauties (7 page)

During my descent, my heart pounded and my cheeks were hot as a wok. I’d just left a message for a man, a total stranger! Now I was happy because my mountain writing actually had a reader. But then worry seized me, since I had also inscribed some of Aunty’s embroidery patterns. Would this Shen Feng copy them—or even sell them to other embroiderers? If Aunty found out, she’d definitely kick me out of her house. From now on I would hide my copies of the embroidery patterns—I had found a cave almost invisible behind a thick tangle of bushes.

But this Shen Feng seemed pretty curious, so maybe he would discover the cave.

7

A
week passed. I dared not go back up the mountain because I’d be scared if Shen Feng had written a reply, but disappointed if he hadn’t. Anyway, the weather had turned cold and so I was reluctant to return to the mountain.

The whole thing was very tense for me. I hadn’t even met this mountain friend—what if he was not young and handsome as I imagined, but old and nasty? Just reading this stranger’s words I felt like I was betraying Aunty Peony. I felt both excited and afraid that she would notice.

Though the days passed monotonously with lessons and practice, Shen Feng’s words echoed in my mind over and over. I had to force myself to concentrate since I was at last being taught more difficult subjects such as birds and animals.

During a lesson, Aunty Peony asked, “Spring Swallow, what makes an animal come alive in an embroidery?”

“Their eyes.” I knew the phrase “Eyes are the windows of the soul.” But I wasn’t sure animals have souls, or how to show them if they did.

“Good. Besides eyes, what makes long-haired animals like lions and horses come alive?”

“Their hair.”

“Correct. Spring Swallow, you are smarter than I thought.”

I smiled proudly.

But she responded with a disapproving look. “That doesn’t mean you’ll be good enough to work on
Along the River.
”

Her words made me feel as if I’d been splashed with chilled water.

“To embroider hair, animal or human, we have to use threads of different tone gradations.”

I listened attentively, then asked, “Aunty Peony, what about our hair, since it’s all black?”

She looked at me as if to ask, “How come you suddenly turned so stupid?”

“Under different light black has many gradations. Sometimes there are white reflections. That’s why we need so many different colors. And that’s why once in a while I need to go to Peking to stock up.”

“
Wah,
can I go there someday?”

“Stop dreaming and let’s continue.” She rubbed her eyes for seconds before she resumed talking. “It can take up to twenty different color shades just for hair.”

“Twenty! Can people really tell the difference?”

“Even if they can’t tell the difference, we still have to do a good job. We are artists, after all. You understand?”

“Of course, Aunty Peony.” But I was wondering why it had to be so complicated.

“Even if people don’t notice the separate colors, they will sense the overall effect and feel happy. That’s what makes it art.”

“Yes, Aunty Peony.”

“Now, watch carefully—I am going to use the ‘wandering’ stitch to show the mane of a galloping horse.”

Again, I was completely fascinated by her fleeting finger movements as traceless as her stitches. As she worked, the horse came alive, with its mane flowing freely in the “wind.” I wondered if I could ever learn to create something so perfect.

“Aunty Peony, how do you do that?”

“You need to learn the needle of no-needle, the skill of no-skill.”

This did not help me understand at all.

“When you are really good, you don’t need to follow any rule—that’s the skill of no-skill . . . understand?”

Of course I had no idea what this meant, but I kept silent.

She went on. “Art has to have a pulse.”

“Aunty Peony,” I said, now that I had a glimmering of what she meant, “do you mean there’s a spirit dwelling in the picture?”

“Hmm . . .” She cast me a curious look. “Yes, a masterpiece does possess something alive.”

“What is this ‘something alive’?”

She thought for a while. “I’d say that you can see someone’s soul through it.”

“
Wah,
isn’t that scary?”

“Great art inspires fear.”

I wondered about this fear. Was it why I was afraid of Aunty?

She continued. “All right, I’ve shown you the wandering needle.”

“Can I learn that?”

“Maybe you can try. But you won’t be able to do it properly until you have many months and years of training and bitter practice behind you, like me.”

She raised her hands. “And as embroiderers, we have to protect our most important assets—our hands.”

“They’re beautiful, Aunty Peony.”

“You think so? But before I became a great embroiderer they were even more so.”

She waved her hands this way and that like a leisurely swimming fish or a lotus swaying gently in the breeze.

“It is said that ‘embroidering is like spring wind blowing through the ten fingers.’ And, ‘When the needles fly, the threads run.’ When an embroiderer is truly skilled, when you see her work, you can feel the gentle spring breeze.”

Watching Aunty’s running threads and flying needles was like watching a magician snatch a rabbit from thin air. I had seen her do it, but it still seemed impossible.

As if reading my mind, she said, “From now on I’ll put three long sticks of incense on your table to help you keep time. You should not stop working until all the sticks are burnt. You understand?”

I nodded and she went on. “We embroiderers have a saying, ‘Eyes focusing on nose, nose focusing on heart, heart focusing on hands.’ ”

It sounded like more gibberish, but I nodded obediently.

“Concentration is the first step. . . .”

“Yes, Aunty.”

“Every stitch must carry an emperor’s or a nobleman’s heavenly power. That is the way to the secret of embroidery’s thousand beauties.”

My mind was wandering as I repeated, “Yes, Aunty,” until I imagined I might turn into a parrot.

From that day on, I strictly followed Aunty’s schedule of working until all three long incense sticks had finished burning. Sometimes I worked so long that my fingers swelled up and bled, and I was developing calluses on my fingertips. This was a great dilemma. I needed to practice long hours, but if I damaged my fingers I would have no future as an embroiderer. So, after I was done for the day, I would soak my hands in warm water mixed with medicinal herbs, then put on lotion concocted with fragrant oil. When I did chores like cleaning the table or taking out garbage, I wore cotton gloves.

Despite the long hours and the pain in my hands, I became more and more enchanted by the art of embroidery. And I was beginning to understand that Aunty was not only teaching me a skill but also about a way of life. There seemed always to be more to learn, not only the many colors of threads but their materials: silk, cotton, wool, fleece, silver, and gold. And many different ways to use the needle: not only parallel, crossing, slanting, braiding, but also wandering, hiding, jabbing, even nagging.... And these had to be properly combined. Aunty emphasized that whenever a new stitch is laid down, it should be hidden inside a previous one so the individual stitches would not show.

 

Aunty Peony rarely talked about herself, so I grew more and more curious about her life and what had brought her to this lonely place. I was pretty sure that, like me, she was here to escape some personal tragedy. Why else would she remain single and have only these homeless girls for companions? Surely she’d had a lover in the past.

One evening I invited Purple to take a walk with me outside the house. Once I was sure we could not be overheard, I asked her what she could tell me about Aunty.

Under the moonlight, my big sister’s face took on a puzzled expression. “It’s not only you, Spring Swallow, we’re all curious about Aunty Peony. I think it’s just because she didn’t get married that she doesn’t want us to.”

“But why isn’t she married?”

Purple led me to sit on a big rock under an ancient tree.

“Spring Swallow, I know you can keep secrets, but even so, you must promise never to let anyone know what I am about to tell you.”

“Of course . . .”

She stared up at the moon for a few moments, then began. “Long ago, Aunty seemed very sad and drank a lot of plum wine. The other girls had gone to bed and she began to confide in me. She told me that her teacher was an imperial embroiderer at the Qing court. Only celibate women were allowed to be embroiderers. They were not supposed to have any obligations other than their work. Any girl who was an imperial embroiderer had to be a virgin so her work would be pure.”

My big sister cast me a mischievous glance. “But I’m sure some only pretended to be virgins.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Not exactly. That night she was very depressed; that and the plum wine were why she told me about her past. But since then, she’s never said anything more to me about it and I know better than to ask. But I believe she had lovers when she was young and eager.”

“She told you this?”

“No, but I can tell.”

“How?”

“Because she’s extremely jealous whenever she sees any man talk to us.” Purple paused to stare into the distance. “A woman who’s never had a man looks different.”

“How can you tell?”

“Spring Swallow, you won’t be able to tell.”

“How come?”

“Because you’ve never had a man yourself.”

I blushed. I sort of had men in my life, albeit one dead and the other invisible on the mountain—but basically she was right.

“Or have you, little sister?” She cast me a mischievous look.

“I was married, Sister Purple, but to a ghost, remember?”

She chuckled, then thought for a while. “Little sister, can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“All right, then let me tell you another one. One time Aunty Peony was in a hurry to go out and forgot to lock her door, so I sneaked into her room.”

“Oh, Heaven, what did you see?”

“I’d always thought she must have kept lots of treasures there and that’s why she never invited us in. But to my disappointment, there are only some of her embroideries. One is a portrait of her with a nice-looking young man. But I have no idea who he is.”

“
Wah,
that’s exciting! Tell me more!”

But she only smiled. Then she said, “Spring Swallow, you’re blushing. So tell me your secret.”

Just then thoughts of my unmet mountain friend had flitted across my mind. I hadn’t gone back up there yet because of the cold weather. Had he checked to see if I had answered? Or had he already forgotten about me?

I asked her instead, “What secrets do you have, Sister Purple?”

She stood up abruptly, saying, “Let’s go home, it’s getting cold out here.”

That ended our conversation—but not my curiosity.

 

The day after I learned that Aunty Peony might have a lover, I saw her in a different light. Now I could sense a sadness, even a vulnerability, that she did her best to conceal.

She resumed showing me how to do flowers and birds, but I was not giving it my full attention. After a few stitches, the needle slipped and stabbed my finger.

“Oww!” I screamed.

Aunty immediately pressed a handkerchief against my finger to stop the bleeding. To my relief she did not sound angry, but concerned, asking, “Spring Swallow, where’s your mind today, you left it somewhere?”

I lowered my head so as not to meet her eyes.

She picked up the bloodstained cloth. “Now watch me.”

In minutes, Aunty had turned the dots of my blood into charming plum blossoms!

Before I had a chance to exclaim, she said, “This is one way to turn mistakes into something beautiful. Not only do we not waste a piece of cloth, we’ll even be able to sell it.”

She pointed to her temple. “Your head, it’s your greatest asset. You understand?”

I nodded.

“Spring Swallow,” she said, her voice turning sharp, “you’re not giving total attention to your work. So I’ll end our lesson today until you can focus again, you understand?”

“But, Aunty . . .”

She ignored me and went upstairs, shutting her door with a loud bang, jolting me.

I was alarmed that she’d noticed my distraction. Could she possibly have overheard Purple and me? Did she suspect I’d found out her secret—or did she know about my own secret, my mountain friend?

8

E
ager to regain Aunty Peony’s trust, instead of working for the length of three incense sticks, I started to do four. I desperately wanted to convince her that I was serious, that I really wanted to be a good embroiderer. As a result of my hard practice, now when I split the threads they never broke and when I worked on complicated patterns, my stitches left no traces.

As if what I did was never enough, Aunty would look over my shoulder and exclaim, “Practice more!” Whenever we were done for the day, Aunty would remind me that until I’d put in ten thousand hours of work, I’d never be good, let alone great. But because I was determined to master all her skills to maybe even surpass her someday, I practiced extra hard without her urging.

At last, one day after my lesson, Aunty Peony announced that I could join them in working on
Along the River.
I was elated at this promotion, even though I was only allowed to embroider clouds, distant trees, and anonymous figures. Purple and Little Doll congratulated me, but Leilei averted her face from me, scowling.

I was not surprised as Leilei never spoke to me unless I said hello or good morning to her first. A few times, she’d roughly pulled aside my room’s curtain, plunged in, and closely examined what I’d been working on. A naturally jealous and spiteful person, she constantly spied on the rest of us, fearful that anyone else’s work might surpass hers. She was skillful but did not seem to improve further, perhaps because she was so content with her skill that she no longer bothered to practice.

Once she peered over my shoulder when I was working and sneered. “It’s only because we are in such a hurry with this big commission that Aunty lets you embroider with us.”

I retorted, “So you think my hard work doesn’t count?”

“Everyone works hard here, not just you.”

“Leilei, why are you so mean to me? How about if we try to get along or even be friends?”

“I live my own life and I don’t need friends,” she huffed, then walked away.

I didn’t know what was wrong with Leilei but was not really interested in finding out. She meant nothing to me. Aunty Peony’s secrets aroused my curiosity, but most of all I wanted to know more about my mountain friend. Since Aunty now seemed to trust me more, I felt I could safely go back to the mountain, especially since spring was finally here.

After such a long absence, I was eager to inhale the fresh air, absorb its liberating energy—and, of course, see if there was a reply from Shen Feng.

So one day when I finished work, I walked over to the mountain and began to ascend so rapidly that I was a little out of breath by the time I reached the top. When I finally walked to our secret writing place, I was surprised that Shen Feng had left not one but four messages. I read them one by one.

I found the canvas sack easily and took out a brush, a small bottle of ink, and a small, round ink stone. Tears filled my eyes at the generosity of this person I had not even met, who had never even seen me. His rock messages had also touched me. Somehow, I sensed that he was a decent man. Once again I thought of Confucius’s saying, so often quoted by Father Edwin:

Father had explained that the virtuous love mountains because they are solid and unmovable, just like the steadfast qualities of a virtuous person. On the other hand, wise people love the ocean because of its unfathomable depth.

But I was a mountain climber and Father Edwin was not, so when I looked at mountains I also thought of the hazards: being eaten alive by wild animals, falling off a cliff, or being captured by cruel bandits. . . . You may like mountains because you are virtuous, but the mountain doesn’t care about your integrity. Maybe my life had been so harsh that I tended to worry about dangers more than virtues.

But then Father Edwin had also told me the Chinese fable
Old Fool Removing a Mountain.
An old man moved to his new house, saw a mountain in front of his gate, and decided to remove it. For this he was ridiculed by the other villagers who called him Old Fool behind his back. But Old Fool’s determination was stronger than the mountain. Every day he, his sons, relatives, and friends dug diligently from morning till night. Finally, three generations had passed and the mountain was removed.

Inspired by Old Fool’s courage and determination, I wrote back to Shen Feng.

Finished, I stared at our writings and reflected on my short life. Here I was, living in a house with four celibate women, exchanging messages with a man who liked to climb mountains. Not long ago, I’d been a runaway bride from a marriage to a ghost. I hoped that the future would hold better things for me. Would this stranger play a part in it?

I felt my cheeks burn. I had not even met this man! He might be old and married with children. Suddenly disheartened, I covered over our correspondences with weeds, then began my descent.

By the time I reached home, it was nearly dark. Aunty Peony, Leilei, and Little Doll had already retired into their separate rooms. Sister Purple, who was writing something under the oil lamp, looked up as soon as I entered. Immediately she set a book on top of her writing paper, put down her brush, and stared at me.

“Spring Swallow, where have you been? Your face is flushed. Next time don’t go away so long. I was worried about you.”

“No need to worry, Sister Purple, I just went for a long walk.”

“It’s almost nine. So you must have gone very far.”

Of course I was not going to tell her my mountain secrets.

“I guess so.”

She stood up. “Are you hungry? Let me cook some leftovers for you.”

Right after she left the room, I quickly lifted the book, peeked at her writing, and read:

Damn. It was just at this crucial moment that I’d interrupted Purple’s writing. So now I wouldn’t know her opinion about me—I must be the “new girl.” So Purple had a lover—maybe she had been hinting at this in our talk the other day.

Purple came back to the living room with a tray of rice soup and a bun. “Eat something. Then we’ll talk.”

Was she about to confide in me?

“Thank you, Sister Purple.”

As I was slurping my soup and chewing on the bun, I was well aware of my big sister’s anxious eyes drilling holes in my face.

She finally spoke, lowering her voice. “Spring Swallow, are you happy living here with us?”

I nodded.

“Tell me the truth. You can trust me.”

I also lowered my voice to match hers. “It’s better than being a ghost’s wife and serving his mother for the rest of my life. Anyway, I like embroidery very much and am lucky to have such an excellent teacher as Aunty Peony.”

“You like Aunty?”

I thought for a while. “She’s very good at what she does and I learned a lot from her.”

Now Purple whispered. “But do you
like
her?”

“Hmm . . .”

“Go ahead.”

“She can be very harsh sometimes. . . .”

“That’s what I think too. It’s very oppressive here, all the rules, the endless work, and hardly any pay.”

We blurted out simultaneously, “But we have a home.”

Silence passed before I gathered up courage, and asked, “Sister Purple, you have someone in your heart?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Spring Swallow, no one voluntarily enters the world of celibacy, only to escape from a greater misfortune. Like all of us here.”

She looked sadder than I had ever seen her, so I had no heart to ask her to tell me more.