The Tapestries (30 page)

During the days when the work at the market was slow, Dan had embroidered his tapestries. While the dusty wind sighed through the tattered rooftops, he set up his equipment in a shed, bound together by dirty rush sacks, to escape the harsh sunlight. And amid its poverty he had created beautiful images that were suitable for a rich man's house. He sold most of his needlework to a shop at the market, keeping for himself only those portraits he had made of Tai May. He became known for his unique talent, and rich ladies hired him to embroider their portraits, often posing with their favorite Pekingese.

One day, a noblewoman, seeing the unusual style of needlework at the shop, had decided to question the merchant about the artist. With little difficulty she had found Dan in his home. It was an afternoon at the end of December. The northeasterly gale blew through the streets, warning of a storm. It was an idle day for the coolies because the harsh weather had forced the marketplace to close. Inside his hut, the wind had torn some of the split reeds off the mats that covered the roof. The tapestries he had made of Tai May napped as he was trying to retrieve them from the walls and place them under the floorboards. When the noblewoman entered, he was so engrossed in protecting his work that he did not hear her. In fact, the lady had been there in the doorway for several minutes before he noticed her. She was examining the wall hangings with an expression of wonder. Not until the last tapestry was safely packed away did she speak.

“I admire your work. I did not expect you to be so young.” Her voice was cool and steady in contrast to the rumbling of thunder outside.

“Thank you,” he said, wondering how a woman of her importance had found her way to this poor section.

As if reading his mind, she said, “I saw your embroideries at the market. It took me a while to find out where you live, but I am a persistent person. And now I see the beautiful likeness that you did of the young dancer in the palace. She must have been a great inspiration for you to have so many of her images in your home. I must confess I am a little jealous, but she is a lovely model.”

Even the booming thunder outside did not shake him as forcibly as her words. Dan's mind reeled. Could it really be Tai May that the woman was referring to? He had to find out. But he must be careful because he was a runaway slave. He took a deep breath and asked, “Do you know this dancer, great lady?”

“Of course. Every lady in the court talks about this girl. She is the disgraced granddaughter of a wealthy landowner from the town of Cam Le.”

It had to be Tai May, and she was no longer with her family. He struggled to keep silent, lest his emotion betray his identity.

That same afternoon, the woman had commissioned him to create a portrait of her mandarin husband, accessorized in all his glory. In a matter of weeks he had created a life-size image of the old official, draped in his noble coat of arms with its ferocious blue dragon. The artwork caught Lady Thuc's attention. “I have seen your work, and I would like to meet you,” she wrote in a letter to him. At that moment, Dan decided that he no longer wanted to be in hiding. Now he had a chance and a reason to enter the palace and look for his love. He could not worry anymore about his past or his safety when she was so close. The following day, he stepped into a red palanquin, shaded by a yellow parasol. Borne aloft by four liveried porters, he bade farewell to the workmen's grim neighborhood and entered his comfortable new quarters in the citadel. His new home was behind the legendary Lake of Serene Heart, one of the modest and secluded apartments reserved for artists of the royal family.

For the next five years, whenever he was summoned by the royal family, he entered into a small work area the shape of a bamboo birdcage without a roof. Its walls were a series of strings and beads, turned at an angle to allow him a view limited to his subject. It was located a short distance from the king's throne, so that Dan could embroider each requested portrait. The bored women of the court scrutinized his completed canvases, their yawns expressing their views of his fountain of ingenuity. The only relief he found from the monotony of his new occupation had been the performances of the opera troupe.

Dan liked the way their melodies translated his emotions into sound. The screens of glass beads surrounding him parted like the sheer curtains on a window. Sometimes he was given permission to part the curtain and get a full view of the room, but only for short intervals. Any time he watched too long, it would be the armed guards' duty to pull him away. They were there to protect the royals. During one evening's entertainment, he had caught a glimpse of a slender body pirouetting among other dancers. She was facing toward him, but her eyes seemed to register only the dark beads that hung between them.

At first he thought he had nodded off and encountered her only in his dream. The plaintive melody shrieked as if someone were sharpening a knife against the outer wall of his skull. And somehow, incredibly, Tai May was dancing on the inside. Her skirts, like a white butterfly's wings, whirled under the green canopy of rosebushes outside his childhood home. After a time, he became aware that he was not dreaming. She was as real as the music streaming from the singer's mouth.

In a daze, Dan had gotten up from his seat. Barely aware of the warning looks of the guards, he parted the blinds and peeked through the opening. But the girl had moved away from the main stage, and he did not know where she had gone. Then, as the two guards seized him by the arms and pulled him away from the lookout point, he saw the white panels of her clothing some distance away, motionless. Had she recognized him, too? The curtain closed before he could see her face. After a moment, she turned and rejoined the rest of the dancers.

“I've found you, but it has never been in my power to give you happiness,” he whispered to her form as it disappeared from his view. He pushed the guards away and sat back down on his chair. Never had it dawned on him what a great sacrifice she had made in order to save his life. To give him his freedom she had lost hers.

T
hrough party after party he had sat and watched, needle in hand, observing the merrymaking of the royals. During ceremonies and rituals, he peered into the inner court, scrutinizing dozens of dancers, but he did not see her. It was as though she had vanished from the palace. And then, at last, came the evening when Lady Thuc had decided to employ the entire royal opera company to perform
The Jade Pin.

That night, Dan had been assigned his own corner in a room filled with mountains of food heaped on a low table, in the Japanese style. In front of him, the ladies reclined on their dainty seats, anticipating the great event. The banquet consisted of roasted pheasants, decorated in peacock feathers and surrounded by tiny black chickens to depict the gracious feminine character of the phoenix; a boar on a spit; several superb courses of fried carp; and enticing platters of oysters and clams. Between these major dishes were the smaller ones of rice, noodles, and other vegetarian delicacies, including sauteed snow peas, mustard greens in three types of wine vinegar, and seaweed salads. Wine and spirits were served in carved silver cups next to large gold-rimmed plates imported from Beijing, China.

Dan paid scant attention to the food that was served to him behind his screens. He had never attended a formal feast; even divided from the rest of the guests like an invisible man, he felt conspicuously out of place.

In an unseen inner room, a lute nicked its first soft, lingering note. Above the spectators' voices it sounded like the gurgle of a brook, rising and swelling until it became a stream of melody. Through his blinds, he saw Tai May. Her white flesh shimmered through the opening of a purple satin robe. As the tips of her satin shoes, ornamented with glass beads, touched the tiled floor and the sweeping music floated around her, she moved closer to the screen that obscured him.

She stopped, facing in his direction. The music halted and the room fell silent. Too overwhelmed to breathe, he leaned closer to the beaded blinds and parted them. This time there was no doubt in his mind that she saw him. Her eyes were shining with teardrops. Her face wore the same expression that he had seen the night she helped him escape Magistrate Toan's murderous fury. That evening, beneath the calmness of her face, she had plotted for his freedom. He wondered what she was going to do now. He felt feverish.

She reached inside the crepe-de-Chine band that bound her bosom and pulled out a piece of cloth. Dan gasped, recognizing the red rose he had embroidered for her. The music lifted and she began to sing. He retreated back into his seat. Her voice was choked with the passion of the song's lyrics, which depicted the awakening of love between two mortals. The words pierced his heart. Then she bowed and pressed her face against the fabric, made an abrupt twirl, and returned to the audience. Dan sat frozen in his sanctuary, shaking and perspiring. She belonged to the king—just like his tapestries. But he knew she had sung and danced for him alone.

W
hile the world below him celebrated the young king's homecoming, Dan studied the door behind the dais, which led to the royal theater and the rooms reserved for the dancers. The moon was slanting through the glass ceiling. Looking out the window toward the pond, he could see reflections of silver on the rippling water, flickering among the shadows of the trees. A drowsy hibiscus drooped its branches over the misty bank. The scent of water lilies, subtle but distinct, wafted through the humid air that enveloped the jade building.

Dan stole another glance at his watch, and the humming died in his throat. The palace dancers were now well behind schedule. It struck him that the opera might not be performed this evening, and the idea was enough to make him ill. It had always been difficult for Dan, as a male official of the court, to obtain authorization to enter the inner palace during major events, even to do needlework.

Throughout the year, the Forbidden City celebrated a seemingly endless succession of festivals and ceremonies. Anniversaries of the births and deaths of emperors and queens, observations of the changing seasons, the year's end, the beginning of a new year, or respectful acknowledgments of lost souls and stray spirits—all demanded their appropriate rituals.

For each occasion the old queen would send out invitations to all the women of the palace, enclosing an agenda that generally included a lavish procession to offer tea, fruits, flowers, rice, and incense to the ancestors in the pagodas and temples in the morning, and bridge or mah-jongg games with entertainment from the opera troupe in the evening. During these rare opportunities, Dan knew he must exercise his charms and influence on the ladies-in-waiting, who prepared the guest list. The permits he acquired from them would provide him a few passing glances at his beloved Tai May.

For five long years, whenever he had gone to work, each evening he had tarried until the musicians and dancers began their rehearsal on a veranda along the great theater's wall. In his corner behind the thin barrier, he sat stiffly and searched until his eyes could discern his lover, waiting for her turn to sing. Each holiday, he went into the women's palace and watched her, like a lonely canary in a cage, singing and dancing for a mate that would never come. He knew that she was aware that he was right beside her, also caged but forced to hold his silence.

How he longed to leap forward into the court, shout her name, take her in his arms, and declare his love for her. But he knew what would happen if he did so. She was the king's property. If he dared to approach her, the guards would burst into the room and fire their rifles at them. To Dan, the idea of giving up his life for love often seemed preferable to the torment of his perpetual wait. But an inner voice would stop him from behaving impulsively. The voice belonged to his peasant wife.

Not knowing what had happened to Ven, Dan could only assume that she had sacrificed her life for his freedom. The last time he had seen her, she had been urging him to flee the ruins of the Nguyen mansion after they had witnessed the murders of the minister of religion and his son. Dan could only surmise that she must have been executed in some horrible way by the old magistrate.

If his wife were standing in front of him now, she would say, “You have cheated death more than once, young Master. Do not offend the gods by forsaking your life now. Remember all that you owe me, for I stayed behind to face a violent death in order to save you. During our marriage, you deprived me of liberty, love, and happiness. The least you must do now to repay your debt is to seek revenge. Release my woe!”

A few feet below him, the Queen Mother stretched her arms. Her shoulders shrugged as if she were cold, and the salmon headdress slipped down the front of her face, where it looked like a blindfold. She signaled to a team of ladies-in-waiting that stood nearby. Dan returned to his canvas; in a few minutes, he heard their wooden clogs clatter off.

He knew that revenge for his family was his obligation, but it had always struck him as unreasonable. How could he seek vengeance on the magistrate's family when his life was spared by his own enemy's granddaughter? If it were not for Tai May, he would not have survived to this day. He owed her a life. Tonight, in the brightness of his gazebo, the war of emotions seemed to strike him at a new level of intensity. The past that he believed he had escaped forever seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

A masculine voice rose over the room. The music that was playing from a gramophone scratched into silence, and everyone on the floor stopped still. Dan leaned forward, using one hand to part the beads so he could peek outside. A Vietnamese official in his mid-twenties was standing at the edge of the platform. The man's overweight body swelled uncomfortably inside a beige military uniform with a high-collared jacket that squeezed his neck, turning his face red. His stance—legs apart, chest high—allowed the rows of golden medals on his left breast to glow under the decorative Western light bulbs.

Dan noted that the transformation to European culture ended at the official's neck. The Vietnamese black silk headdress bound up his forehead in several layers like a bandage keeping the pressure from bursting out of his face.