The Language of Threads (8 page)

Ma-ling returned to the sitting room with tea. “Song Lee should be here any minute now. I hope you don't mind. She
wants to see how you're doing and didn't want to disturb you at the Chens'.”

“Of course I don't mind,” Pei answered, turning her attention to Ma-ling.

Ji Shen smiled with relief. Song Lee's kindness and happy disposition would distract Pei for a good part of the afternoon. Ji Shen had upset Pei enough for one visit. She didn't want to let slip what she really felt—how she didn't want Pei to leave again, how she hated the thought of returning to the dusty classroom each day, and how terrified she felt, waking up from her nightmares, only to find herself alone in her closet-sized cubicle. Ji Shen walked slowly over to the window and opened it, filling the room with a choir of screeching street voices, blaring horns, and babies' cries.

Pei returned to the Chens' house that evening feeling unsettled. Ji Shen had been distant and quiet the entire afternoon. Pei knew she was hiding something under her flat answers and forced smiles. Their separation had proven more difficult than she expected. All Pei wanted was for Ji Shen to get a good education, so that she would have a better future. But she felt Ji Shen's silence like the sharp edge of a knife, stinging as if Pei were to blame. Even as Ji Shen waved good-bye at the door, clutching the blue cotton dress, Pei grieved for their lost time together.

All the way back to the house, Pei tried to block out Ji Shen's sullenness by recalling Song Lee's visit. By the time the rotund Song Lee had climbed the stairs and fallen onto the sofa next to Pei, Ji Shen had already retreated to a chair by the window.

“And how is it, working for the Chens?” Song Lee asked, breathing heavily.

“It's fine.” Pei poured her a cup of tea. “I'm still getting used to everything.”

Song Lee smiled. “All the different personalities,” she said knowingly.

“Yes, and all the dos and don'ts.”

“I've heard the Chens are much better than others.” Song Lee took a large swallow of tea, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “There are more horror stories than you can imagine—tiny, filthy rooms, long hours, too little food, beatings; some are even raped by their employers.”

Pei nodded, knowing that she should thank the gods for her good fortune. Yet she couldn't help feeling uneasy. “Do you know much about Fong, who takes care of the Chens' daughter Ying-ying? She used to be a silk worker.”

Song Lee's tongue flicked out and moistened her lips as she eyed Pei more closely. “Yes. From the Shun-te region. I know who she is. Is there a problem between you?”

“No,” Pei answered too quickly. In the moment of silence that passed between them, Song Lee's large, clear eyes never wavered from hers. Pei felt she could trust Song Lee, but didn't want to cause her more problems. “Nothing of importance. I just wondered where she was from.”

“There have been rumors. . . .” Song Lee leaned closer. “Some say she was really a grass widow with a young child, and that she abandoned the child when she came to Hong Kong. Others say she was never a silk worker, but just pretends to be as a means of finding work in a good household.”

“What do you believe?”

Song Lee fell back against the sofa with a throaty laugh. “I have heard so many stories over the years, I've ceased to believe any of them. I've learned to wait and see what happens instead of taking sides. One way or another, a person's past eventually makes itself known.”

Pei hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Just that we can't run away from what defines our fates.
Who we are and what we believe in grow from the roots of our past, no matter how much we might try to deny it.”

From the corner of her eye, Pei saw Ji Shen staring blankly out the window. Would she understand one day why she must stay at the boardinghouse and study now? Pei's thoughts turned to her own past, to Lin and the silk work. If she hadn't been given to the silk work, her life would have taken a very different path. She might have been forced into a marriage in which she had no choice, or, fated not to marry, been left to fend for herself in a world that regarded an unmarried woman as worse than a disease. Pei couldn't imagine what her life would have been without the strength of Auntie Yee, the obstinacy of Moi, the love of Lin.

“I see what you mean,” she finally said.

Song Lee's eyes narrowed as she watched Pei closely. “Yes, I can see that you do.”

Pei paced back and forth in her room, listening for the first stirrings of the morning—the soft creaking of a door opening, the sharp scrape of Leen's iron kettle against the stone counter. Pei had been up for over an hour, worrying about her trip down to Central with Chen tai. What would they talk about the entire afternoon? What if she said or did the wrong thing? Was she supposed to wait inside or outside the store? Pei put her ear to the door, hoping to catch Ah Woo before the others awoke.

After dinner the night before, Pei had only wanted to retire to her own room, exhausted from her visit with Ji Shen at the boardinghouse. She'd just finished clearing the table when Ah Woo returned from the dining room and whispered, “Chen tai would like to see you,” as if it were a secret. Pei could feel Fong and Leen watching her every move, their gazes piercing through the kitchen door as it swung closed behind her.

The Chens had already abandoned the dining room for their living room, with its tall ceiling and large windows overlooking
the front garden. Pei had entered the living room just once before, when Ah Woo gave her a tour of the house. Easily three times the size of Lin's Canton house, the room smelled of incense and spices. Pei had never seen so many beautiful objects displayed in one room. It was crowded with rich rosewood furniture, elaborate embroideries, an ornate rug the color of cinnamon and tea leaves, Chinese scroll paintings, and a set of black lacquer screens. There were large and small statues of tigers, lions, and the goddess Kuan Yin, and each tabletop was adorned with vases of inlaid mother-of-pearl and bright cloisonné of red, green, yellow, and gold. Pei wondered how such a vast room could feel so suffocating.

Pei stood in the marble foyer and knocked lightly on the already opened double doors.

“Come in, come in, Pei,” Chen tai said, from the far end of the room.

Pei approached Chen tai, being careful not to knock anything down. Chen seen-san and Ying-ying were nowhere in sight. “You wanted to speak to me?”

Chen tai sat against a maroon silk brocade cushion on one of the rosewood chairs. Dressed in an off-white cheongsam, she looked positively regal. “We will go down to Central tomorrow afternoon.” She smiled. “You can do some washing in the morning, and leave the rest for the day after.”

Pei shuffled from one foot to the other. “Yes, Chen tai,” she answered, already warm at the thought of her first trip down to Central.

“We'll leave tomorrow after lunch, then,” Chen tai continued. “Tell Ah Woo to have Leen make me something plain—a bowl of jook will do.”

Pei nodded, hesitated, then turned to leave just as Chen seensan walked into the room. Large and stocky, dressed in a dark
Western-style suit, he appeared out of place amid all the delicate Chinese artifacts.

“And just what are you two discussing so seriously?” he asked, speaking more words than Pei had ever heard him say.

Chen tai laughed and waved her husband closer. “Pei is going down to Central with me tomorrow.”

Chen seen-san cleared his throat; behind his thick, black glasses, his eyes traced Pei from head to toe and back again. “Can I trust you to keep Chen tai from spending all my hard-earned money?”

Chen tai laughed again, high and shrill.

“Yes.” Pei pinched the edge of her cotton tunic.

Chen seen-san roared with laughter, his baldness glistening in the pale light. “I like this one!” He flipped open a black lacquer box and lifted out a cigarette. “Finally, someone to help keep me from going into debt.” He brought the cigarette to his lips, lit it, and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

“I'd like to know who could stop you?” Chen tai waved the smoke away.

“Perhaps Pei will come along with me next time.” He snickered and blew smoke in his wife's direction. Then he turned to Pei and asked, “How would you like that?”

Pei held her breath, the words refusing to emerge. She wished Lin were there to take charge, put Chen seen-san in his place with a few simple words—“No, I wouldn't like it,” or “I'm too busy for your games.” Instead, she breathed out slowly, feeling the heat spread through her body, coloring her face. “I . . .” she began, but before Pei could answer, Chen tai spoke.

“You can go now,” Chen tai instructed, her gaze remaining on her husband.

Pei hurried out. She'd never been so happy to return to the safety of the bare, scrubbed kitchen.

In the early-morning light, everything was muted, soft. Pei slipped out of her room, stepped quietly into the kitchen, and ladled some water into the kettle for tea. The house creaked in a long sigh, then settled into stillness. As the water boiled, Ah Woo emerged from her room. “Ah, you're up early,” she said, settling down in her chair at the table.

“I couldn't sleep,” Pei admitted. She took down another cup and poured Ah Woo some tea.

“There's nothing to worry about,” Ah Woo said knowingly. “Central is like everywhere else in Hong Kong: too noisy and crowded.”

“What if I make a mistake and upset Chen tai?”

Ah Woo laughed. “And what kind of mistake can you make carrying her packages?” She sipped her tea. “Let me tell you something I've learned over the years. Simply do as Chen tai instructs. She'll tell you, ‘Come with me,' ‘Wait here,' ‘Take these packages,' so there's nothing to worry about. And, oh, yes,” Ah Woo added, “never speak unless spoken to first. Chen tai likes to be in charge.”

Pei nodded, and finished her tea in one large swallow.

After lunch, Ah Woo walked Chen tai and Pei to the front door; Lu was waiting with the car. From the corner of her eye, Pei saw Fong lingering in the stairwell. “You'll be fine,” Ah Woo whispered in Pei's ear just before closing the door behind them.

Pei was terrified. The glare of the hot sun beat down on her. The last time she'd been so close to a car was years ago, during the strike at the Yung Kee silk factory. She remembered the angry voices and the thick crowd parting as Chung's long black car inched through the gate, then flinched at the shock—she could still feel it—of seeing Sui-Ying's lifeless body sprawled on the ground. In the end, they had won shorter working hours, but at the terrible cost of her friend's life.

Now just the thought of riding in the big black metal monster
made her stomach turn. Ah Woo had called it the latest-model “Packard.” It was as long as two beds, with a roofless front seat that exposed the driver to the sky, while the backseat, where Chen tai sat, was separated from the front by a glass window and covered with a roof. The front grill shone bright silver in the sunlight, and the four black tires had bright white circles on them. Pei hoped she could sit up front in the open air, even if Lu didn't say a word to her the entire trip down to Central.

“You can sit on my other side,” Chen tai said, as Lu, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform, with two rows of gold buttons up the front of his black jacket, opened the back door and stepped aside.

“Get in from the other side,” she heard Lu's voice command.

Pei hurried around to the other side of the car and reached out to pull on the handle of the shiny black door as she'd just seen Lu do. The door opened with a deep click and swung out toward her. Pei quickly stepped in and pulled the door closed. The tan seats were smooth. They smelled of leather polish and, faintly, of cigarette smoke.

When Chen tai settled into the seat next to her, she brought along the strong scent of gardenia. The slippery sound of her blue silk cheongsam against the leather suddenly made Pei conscious of her own simple tunic and pants. Until that moment, she had never felt out of place wearing them. Pei moved closer to the door afraid she was taking up too much room. From her purse Chen tai pulled out a flowered fan, flipped it open, and began fanning the thick air in the enclosed space.

“It's hot,” she muttered.

Pei wasn't sure if Chen tai was talking to her or not, so she simply stayed quiet, watching closely as Chen tai grabbed a handle on the door and rolled down the window.

“Aren't you hot?” Chen tai turned to Pei and asked. “You can roll down the window if you want.”

“Thank you.” Pei smiled. She did the same thing with the handle on her side of the door, each revolution bringing the glass window down lower.

When the big car roared to a start, then lurched forward, Pei gripped the door handle, white-knuckled. They pulled out past the iron gates; other houses darted by as they picked up speed. Pei felt as if she were gliding on air. Chen tai snapped open her compact and powdered her nose. For a moment, Pei allowed her body to relax into the soft leather seat.