The Language of Threads (35 page)

Each day was a new adventure, and Li was like a child again, learning the simplest tasks with all the modern conveniences that only served to confuse her. Water flowed right into the house, then could be boiled without starting a fire. Light filled a room from a small bulb in the middle of the ceiling. And the first time she went to the market with Pei and Song Lee, the automobiles
and crowds terrified her. Unlike her small village market, where a few stallholders sold chickens and vegetables, this market was as large as the entire village. It sold everything Li could imagine, from fresh beef and pork to vegetables and fruits, and even a slithery snakelike fish called an eel.

But nothing puzzled and intrigued Li as much as the
din wa
, the telephone. The voice that floated out without a body made her think a spirit was trapped inside. The first time Pei talked to Li on the telephone, Song Lee had to promise her Pei was all right and just calling from Central to see if she needed anything. “Talk to her, talk to her!” Song Lee pushed the black receiver into Li's hand, and showed her which end to press against her ear and which to speak into.

Although Li gradually began to understand the fast-paced Hong Kong way of life, she was like a spooked horse that could never stand still—always nervous and cautious. She didn't go far from the Invisible Thread, except to walk the three blocks to pick up seven-year-old Gong from school. She had eagerly volunteered one afternoon, when Song Lee was too busy at the shop. Fetching Gong gave Li a chance to make herself useful, as well as to get to know the boy. From then on, it became her afternoon task.

She would stand several feet away from the front entrance where a crowd of amahs and well-dressed Hong Kong mothers waited to pick up their children. Li felt awkward and embarrassed among them, with her scarred face and plain clothes. She didn't quite fit in either category.

“Auntie Li, why do you always wait out here?” Gong asked, wide-eyed and serious, one day.

“I was afraid you might not see me in the crowd,” Li answered.

Gong looked up at her. She knew he hadn't been able to take his eyes off the puckered scar since the day they'd met.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Li smiled. “Not anymore. Do you want to touch it?” She leaned down to him.

Gong raised his index finger and followed the curved road along her cheek. “Is that why you stand so far away?”

Li hesitated, thinking it was because of so many things, including the scar. She wasn't sure how to explain such complicated feelings to a little boy, who was not unlike her Yuan. Then, before Li said anything, Gong had his own answer.

“Because it's how I could always tell it was you in a crowd,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her down the busy street.

That night, after Gong was put to bed, Pei was quietly working on the last panel of her embroidery, the panel detailing their reunion. Li sat down at the table across from her with some paper. Pei looked up to see her sister troubled about something.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

Li cleared her throat. “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course, anything.” Pei stopped embroidering.

“Will you teach me to write, the way you told me Lin and Mrs. Finch once taught you? Like Ma Ma once taught us? There was never any time on the farm. . . .”

Pei smiled. “Yes, I'd be happy to teach you,” she said, thinking how Ma Ma would have been surprised to see her teaching Li. Pei reached for the paper.

“Thank you,” Li said softly.

“Let's begin with your name.” Pei wrote the quick lines and dashes, like a dance on the white paper, and then she numbered each stroke so Li could follow in the right sequence. “Now you try,” she said, and pushed the sheet back to Li.

She watched Li press attentively down on the page, her face set hard in concentration. In neat, careful rows her name filled page after page, late into the night.

Pei taught Li five to ten characters at the beginning of each week. Every day she sat down with Gong and they both practiced, an old student and a young one side by side. By the end of each week, Li had written each character hundreds of times, committing it to heart and memory. Pei had never seen anyone work so hard.

After three months, Li began to recognize some simple characters on street and shop signs—“Stop,” “Go,” “Enter,” “Gold Mountain,” “Silver Palace.” Sometimes Pei would turn around to find Li had stopped in the middle of the block, trying to read a menu or sign on a door. Pei knew that each time Li recognized a word, she was seeing the world in a new way.

After six months, Li could compose very simple lines. One morning she came to Pei with a neatly folded piece of paper in her hand.

“Will you look at this?” Li asked. “Just to see if it makes any sense.”

Pei was on her way down to the Invisible Thread, after dropping Gong off at school. She was already late, though she knew Mai and Song Lee would have everything under control.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A letter long overdue,” Li answered.

When Pei read the spare lines her sister had meticulously written, her eyes clouded with tears.

Dear Old Man Sai
,

I have found my way home safely
.

Thank you
,

Li

1973

Pei stared out the train window and watched as a scattering of last-minute passengers rushed to find their cars. Moments later, the train jerked to a start, then maintained the same rhythmic rocking and rattling for the almost three hours to Sumzhun, where she would walk across a short bridge separating the Hong Kong and Chinese borders. Then Pei would take another train to Canton. After an overnight stay, she would catch a bus that would take her the rest of the way to Yung Kee.

Since the American president Nixon had visited China a year ago and met Mao Tse-tung, China had opened her doors a crack, just enough for Pei to return to Yung Kee one last time. Pei couldn't imagine what the village must be like after thirty-five years, or what remnants of her past she hoped to find, but the desire to return had begun to bloom inside her like a flower that had long been dormant. As far back as Pei could remember, her past had always been inextricably tied to her present, and the future was what followed. There were so many threads that she could never really sever, even with Lin long dead and Li in Hong Kong helping her run the Invisible Thread.

She had hoped to see Chen Ling, and had written to her several times, but hadn't heard from her since Ming's death. Li
had also planned to go, wanting desperately to see her sons and grandchildren, but Kaige and Yuan couldn't make the journey from Chungking because of their work, and then Li's rheumatism flared up, making it difficult for her to walk. Song Lee had then volunteered to accompany Pei—but, already in her mid-seventies, soon realized that she was too old to make the long trip. She mumbled to Pei over and over again, as if angry with herself, “The mind's willing, but the body isn't.”

That left Pei to make the journey alone.

A few days before she'd left, Ho Yung had come by to see her. She could tell by the heavy step on the stairs that he was coming. He had never married and was a priceless friend. When she counted her good fortunes, Ho Yung stood out. He had walked with her through life, never pulling ahead or falling behind, but keeping in perfect pace.

“Are you sure you want to make the trip alone?” Ho Yung asked, always her protector.

“I'll be fine,” she reassured him.

“If you wait until next month, I'll rearrange my schedule and go with you.”

Pei put her hand on top of his, gave a warm squeeze. “I need to do this now, and alone.”

Ho Yung nodded. “Just like always.” He smiled.

Out the train window, the outskirts of Kowloon sped by. When they entered the flat open space of the New Territories, Pei leaned back and closed her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in the new suit she'd bought for the trip. At sixty-two, she was still a handsome woman, standing tall and straight, trying to grow old as gracefully as Mrs. Finch. Pei was entering the last years of her life in relative contentment. All life's benevolence balanced against the blows it had struck. Gong had grown up to be a decent young man, who had studied architecture and was about to be married. Yet she
still felt a small stab in her heart every time she thought of how proud Ji Shen would have been of him.

Pei opened her eyes with a start when a staticky voice announced that they'd arrived in Sumzhun. She carried only a small canvas bag. It was a short walk across the concrete bridge over the dry ravine separating one guardhouse from the other, the past from the present. Groups of people trudged across carrying gifts and packages, voices lowered, hoping not to be detained with something deemed suspicious—a clock-radio, a camera, razor blades. Pei walked briskly ahead of the crowds, stood in line, stared the guard hard in the eyes as if to say, “I'm not hiding anything,” and heard the dull thud of the stamp passing her through.

The train to Canton was yet another step back in time. Pei saw for herself how China had stood still while others rushed right past. Even the train moved at a snail's pace, and Pei imagined she might get out and run faster. She stared at the white doilies that covered the back of the seats. The pale green walls and lace curtains made her feel as if she were in someone's sitting room. The faint smell of mothballs emanated from the seats. A woman dressed completely in white pushed a rattling cart down the aisle, serving hot tea from silver thermoses.

As the train slowly inched its way through the countryside, Pei saw the mahogany-colored earth of her childhood. It was just as she'd remembered it. She saw again her mother and father, and the land they had tended and worked so hard just to scrape by. As a child, she'd known nothing of what a drought or flood meant to their existence. All she knew was that every crack in the dry dirt meant less food and more worries, while at the same time the jagged lines made for her a new puzzle in the ground, and the rain-soaked earth provided new ponds for them to play in. Could she have once been so young and naïve?

By the time the train pulled in to Canton, it was late afternoon. Ho Yung had arranged for her to stay at a good, comfortable hotel, and though she was uneasy spending so much money for just a bed to sleep in, he assured her that she could well afford to stay three days. Pei smiled at the thought.

The station was crowded and noisy. People pushed and shoved from all directions to get where they wanted to go. Voices shouted over the loudspeaker, announcing arrivals and departures. Vendors sold steamed buns, paper toys, and candy all along the walkway. Pei couldn't move two feet in any direction without being solicited to buy something. She picked up her step and headed for the line of mismatched bicycle-rickshaws waiting along the curb.

The next morning she caught an early bus and was on her way to Yung Kee before the sun had fully risen. Sitting on the hard wooden seat, she watched the morning light slowly bring into focus a world that had never been far from her heart and mind. In the bright light, the fish ponds gleamed mirrorlike, surrounded by mulberry groves.