The Tapestries (14 page)

From behind the Great Eastern Gate, the sun emerged, dimming the lingering stars in the bronze sky. Bui sat on a quilt placed on the ground, touching a silver chain around his ankle and staring at the four brightly lit lanterns hung from the garden walls. In front of him, a single file of porcelain vases with sprouting orchids of different shapes and colors sat against the backdrop of a miniature landscape—all built from a single piece of stone. When he was younger, the intricate forms of these rocks above the pond had suggested mountains, animals, and human forms, a magical world full of mysteries.

His father had pointed out a small path in the rocks along the water's edge that led into a dark cave, carved between the granite shoulders of the minuscule mountain. It was, he said, the road to Nirvana as described in the Buddha's scriptures. For a long time, Bui held on to that belief. Sometimes, in the middle of night, he would jump from his bed and run outside to examine the tiny pathway, checking for any subtle changes. The moonlight trickled wanly over a couple of statues that were losing themselves in a game of chess. Each time Bui studied them, they seemed to stop and look wonderingly at him. In the pond, the goldfish, nibbling at the moon beneath an island of water lilies, slowly transformed into illusory dragons and white carps. Now, the tiny clay figures of peasants, temples, and fairies no longer held the enchantment he had felt as a child. Filtered through his adult eyes, the scenery seemed foolish and crude. He got up from his seat, wondering if he should find his father and remind him of the journey they would make today, but decided to wait until breakfast to raise the subject.

In a small room behind his bedchamber, the maids had half-filled a large basin with heated water for his bath. Its steam rose against the darkness, and a mixture of lemongrass and jasmine scents filled his nose. He closed the silk screen and dropped the bedspread on the floor before he slid into the sweltering tub. Today he must cleanse his whole body. Sometime during this expedition, he fully expected to consummate his union with his soon-to-be wife.

As a young man of privilege, Bui was intimately familiar with the soft female flesh of the pubescent maids who worked for his family. He never needed a bath to impress these lowly servants, with their skin toasted brown from the harsh sun like the color of mud. When and if he achieved the conquest of his betrothed, it would be different. This would be the first time Bui experienced the pleasures of a painted face and a delicate body. Like opium smoke, the same earlier excitement rushed through his veins.

After the bath, he hurried into his dressing room. From an armoire full of clothes, he selected a crisp white shirt and a pair of brown French-style trousers. Even though the French had influenced Vietnamese culture since 1862, most families inside the citadel still wore the traditional costumes. Yet, all sense of style seemed to have changed ever since the thirteen-year-old Prince Bao Dai returned to the palace from several years of study in Paris.

The Imperial City had not recovered from the shock of seeing its future king with his new slick hairstyle and the strange Western suits on his back. Soon, several young lords, including Bui, underwent a similar fashion transformation. The reason for the prince's hasty return to the Purple Forbidden City was that his father, King Khai Dinh, was gravely ill. Under pressure from the chief ambassador of France in Hue, the Vietnamese councilmen—nobles belonging to the royal family—had chosen His Majesty's only heir to succeed the throne.

Bui had been among the crowd of mandarins on the day, just a few months earlier, when the prince's formal investiture had taken place in the throne room. That was the only time he had seen the young prince in a Vietnamese ceremonial costume. Just like his idol, Bui was drawn to the French culture like a nail tugged into a magnetic field. He never desired to be clad in another
ao dai
garment again, if he could help it.

In front of a large mirror, Bui examined himself in his brown pants, white shirt, and black velvet shoes. Would the reflection in the mirror impress the country girl who would be his wife? His black hair, shining with pomade, was slicked back along the sides of his head and combed to a point above the nape of his neck like a duck's backside. He studied the unblemished cotton fabric of his shirt and fingered the big belt buckle that rested against his belly. A thick twenty-four-karat gold chain—one of his few remaining possessions that had not yet been sold to support the family in proper style—ran from his waist to his pants pocket. He fixed on his image with an intensity that could almost cut through the mirror's surface. Then he smiled. Any country girl, no matter how rich her family may be, would be fortunate to have him for a husband.

Through the crack of his bedroom door, he heard his father's voice. The maids were coming to fetch him for breakfast. He smoothed the front of his shirt, checked the crease along his pant legs once more, and went outside.

O
n the sidewalk in front of his apartment, Bui spotted a group of male servants carrying hammocks and five-colored parasols, preparing to take him and his father to the riverbank. He went into the dining room, where his parents were waiting. His mother, tall and nervous, sat on the edge of her chair at the head of the table. She greeted him with a grin of gleaming black teeth. The Queen Mother had excused her from her duty this morning, and here she was, on the verge of tears the moment she saw his face. A bowl of glutinous rice in black chicken broth sat untouched a few inches from her bent elbows. That was not unusual, as she never ate at home. It was more economical for her to dine with the other ladies-in-waiting at the palace. Bui would eat her food after he finished his.

At the other end of the table with his face down, the back of his bald head parallel to his plate, was Bui's father. He looked up to acknowledge his son with a faint nod, blinked at the early sun, and returned to his breakfast. Friends of his parents often told Bui that he was the very image of his father, as if it were a compliment. Whenever he heard this, Bui would rise to his feet and leave the room, slamming the door behind him.

As he joined his parents at the table, his mother turned and waved her fingers. The movement of her arms jingled a collection of gold bracelets against one another like the sound of a chime. She said to him, “I was set at liberty by the Queen Mother to formally bid you good-bye before your departure. If it were up to me, I would go where you go. But I cannot, not only because I am a woman, but also because I am bound with higher responsibility than a mother's duty. You will forgive my absence, won't you?”

He sat on a chair next to her, quivering with the anticipation of his journey. His father paused from time to time to look up at him. The way the minister's sparse features disappeared into the folds of his bulbous face reminded Bui of a distant full moon. He wondered how his father could carry a face so big without spraining his neck, especially given the vigorous way he nodded his head in response to his wife's conversation. Bui turned his attention to the plate of food that had begun losing its steam.

His mother talked on as if he were not there. “Just imagine, soon your son will be able to take off the silver chain around his ankle. Did the monk not tell us that his bond to the gods would be severed when he found a wife?” She turned to him and said, “Now, before you grow into a respectable young man, hurry with your breakfast. I cannot stay here all day.”

Bui touched his chain with the tip of his shoe almost absentmindedly The silver bracelet felt cold against his skin. His mother's words, laden with superstition, echoed in his head. He had to acknowledge their wisdom. For more than seventeen years, the chain had served its purpose, not as a piece of jewelry but as a paranormal connection that linked his spirit to this world. Soon it would be time for him to shed this bond. He felt reckless at the prospect of becoming an adult, like a prisoner on the verge of freedom. Unable to finish his meal, he got up from his seat and followed his parents outside.

The servants stood at attention while Bui hopped into the hammock they held suspended between their shoulders. His Western clothes contrasted with the dull uniforms they wore. Above him, the wooden beam that supported the swinging cot bowed with his weight.

Without looking back, Bui could feel his mother hovering in the doorway of their compound. He tried to avoid the embarrassing moment when he had to bid farewell to her. She might have understood his restlessness, but her tears reminded him that he was still a little boy. He did not want to linger a moment longer than he had to. He had waited long enough for this day. As he and his father neared the river, he saw a small brown vessel docked at the shore. On the boat's side, his family's name was written in black letters. Bui jumped off the hammock, abandoned his father, and ran ahead.

Moments later, they weighed anchor and were swept into the main current, heading west. Bui leaned over the rail, studying the boat's sharp prow as it cut through the water. The sailors aligned themselves in two rows and paddled. Around him the dreary northern winds swept their impatient tentacles across the river, changing the tiny, white-crested waves to icy gray. He was too excited to notice the cool air. Like a sparrow skimming over the river, he watched the landscape running to meet him, then falling behind, as the vessel carried him toward his future. Less than an hour passed before a crewman pointed out the Cam Le Village. It looked like a small chip of bark floating in the distance.

A
long the bank of the Perfume River stood a crowd of curious spectators. Bui had no trouble distinguishing the mayor's family. They were the only ones dressed in fine clothes, and they were waving at him and his father.

Bui watched the crowd give way before an old man who took each step carefully behind a walking stick. With clawlike fingers, he clutched at the scrawny twig as though it were a vital limb. His body was nothing but a skeleton, hidden under several layers of expensive silk tunics that were held in place by a golden belt. His thin neck stretched forward like a bird's, and his shoulders arched in a permanent shrug that seemed to reach up to his dangling earlobes. Tufts of white hair, resembling straws that had been bleached by the sun, straggled across his naked head and disappeared beneath the back collar of his tunic.

Next to the old man walked a young girl. Her delicate face was shaded by an elegant yellow organdy hat, woven from sheer cotton, that circled her head with a stiff brim. The sides of her hair were pulled up and hidden under the bonnet, while the rest of it cascaded down her back in the latest style. Bui noticed her lips, deep and rosy like a lotus bud, pressing together as she helped the old man down the narrow, soggy path. The chilly breeze murmured above the water, and the girl's white tunic fluttered against her thin waist.

As his boat approached the pier, Bui overheard the old man's complaint. “Wait for Grandfather's old feet to move, little May. I am using all of my strength, but this road is too long.”

She held her arm around him, guiding his steps through the waiting crowd.

With the help of a sailor, Bui jumped off the boat. He looked up. The first thing his eyes registered was the girl's beauty. Instantly, everything else around him seemed to recede into the distance. He was scarcely aware of a servant's voice announcing his father's name. He moved across the wet sand toward her, unable to keep himself from staring. Hungrily, he licked his dried lips and swallowed. The girl looked right through him with her large, hypnotic eyes as though he were not even there.

He turned around. He saw nothing out of the ordinary behind him—nothing except a humble servant approximately his age. The boy was shouting Bui's name, announcing his arrival to the Toan family on the dock. One glance at him, and a thought flashed through the young lord's mind.

He wanted that slave's face as his own! With its elegant brow, strong cheekbones, and generous mouth, and framed by a thick mane of hair that was tied at the back like the long tail of a horse, it possessed the interesting traits that his own face lacked. Even decked out in the extravagance of his clothing and jewelry, Bui was aware of the dullness of his features. He felt like a peacock whose lively feathers had been singed.

Then he heard a gentle voice, coming from the girl's mouth, as clear as the bell from the pagoda. “Thank you, Mouse,” she said. And a smile blossomed on her face.

chapter nine

The Phoenix Dance

P
lease, gentlemen, follow me,” said the slave to Bui and his father. “The carriage is this way.” Bui drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. A short distance ahead, the magistrate and his granddaughter walked down the path that led into the village. The young lord followed them, allowing himself to be guided by the servant, as he kept his eyes on the girl. In his heart, pride blended with a twinge of insecurity. He had no doubt that she was the fairest noblewoman he had ever encountered, or that she would soon belong to him. Yet her looks intimidated him.

Her father, in contrast, was a portly man in his early forties, with eyes so timid they hid behind his glasses. Next to him, clinging like a strand of wild ivy, was a shadow of a woman. Her face was as blank as a sheet of paper and well hidden behind the thick locks of her black hair. There were remnants of beauty about her narrow face and in her large, frightened eyes; yet overall, she reminded Bui of a once handsome painting that had faded with time. He wondered if she was the girl's mother. No one had included her in the introductions.

A blue-white metallic carriage with four wheels waited for them at a bend of the road. The slave hopped into the driver's seat. The coach, at first, looked to Bui like a fusion of two rickshas, doorless, with two benchlike seats and a collapsible hood. It was pulled by a sturdy white horse that stood, blinking calmly, between two metal shafts.

From inside, Magistrate Toan motioned for Bui and his father to step up into the vehicle's charming interior, which was richly upholstered with purple velvet. There were embroidered cushions for the passengers' backs and a bearskin rug on the scrubbed floorboard. Bui stumbled on the step and would have sprawled on his face had the magistrate not caught his arm in his bony fingers. His cheeks burned as he muttered an apology. He sat erect and tense across from the girl, hoping that his silent uneasiness would be mistaken for calm. She looked back at him, one of her elbows leaning on the arm of the seat. She had the same look of intelligence that he saw in the magistrate, but her expression was much kinder.