The Tapestries (35 page)
Wings of the Dragonfly
T
he dark sedan, blue in the sunlight, crawled along the dusty road that led to the Nguyen mansion. Its metal roof showed through several tattered layers of paint like the sunburnt skin on the peasants' backs during the harvest season. Behind the car marched a double line of guards—men in white uniforms and straw hats carrying impressive firearms. Their cleated soles struck the packed earth, beating a shuffling rhythm that grew louder in the sultry morning. Before long, the vehicle and its legion drew to a stop on the other side of the entrance. Beyond the thick canopy of leaves, villagers watched with undisguised curiosity.
Lady Chin looked at the automobile's dark windshield, hypnotized by its size. The grumbling of the engine seemed to penetrate the earth like a malevolent entity. A whisper above her head, among the leaves, made her look up. Voices of the ghosts! She felt their presence as clearly as she felt the wind on her skin.
Dan grasped her hand. The warmth of his touch tethered her to the world of the living. She wanted to thank him but found no strength to make the sound. Instead, she returned her attention to the car.
The vehicle's door opened. White smoke curled from inside, caressing the grass like delicate fingers. The soldiers arranged themselves in a semicircle along the wall of the mansion, their hands cradling their guns like infants. More smoke emerged, making it difficult for her to see. The motor stopped its droning, and once again, silence ruled.
A black shoe jabbed the foggy space below the door, then crushed a tuft of grass. It paused on the green edge of the ground with its pointed, shiny tip aimed at her. Then slowly its twin appeared. Lady Chin sat still, mesmerized. Those were wicked feet—two black cats delivering the omen of evil. A faint odor of opium poppy wafted over the clean, sweet air. She was certain that the devil had come in his polished shoes to claim her soul.
Through her confusion she heard an unfamiliar voice, thick and drawling. “It is really you, Dan Nguyen. This morning one of the soldiers reported that you appeared at the dock, announcing your full name with the arrogance of a young lord. Naturally, I was incredulous. I had to see you myself in order to be convinced of such an outlandish tale.”
Lady Chin looked up at the speaker. Prickly coal-black hair straggled over puffy, half-shut eyes. With each word he spoke, a trail of smoke trickled from a corner of his thin blue lips. His clothing was disheveled. The once-expensive silk garment was now crumpled and caked with dirt. One of his ears was flat, pasted to his head like soaked rice paper—the distinctive trait of an opium addict who has reclined too long on one side. She would have guessed that he was probably still in his mid-thirties, but years of indulgence had given his visage the leathery look of a much older man. She marveled that such an unkempt person would speak with such authority.
B
y her side the embroiderer stood with his eyebrows furrowed. “That voice,” he muttered. “Where have I heard it?”
The other man leaned against the sedan's front fender. “You heard it for the first time in this garden, sixteen years ago, the day your traitorous father and his two wives were executed for their crimes. I heard your confession to Toan that you were hiding in that mango tree, and I, a lowly soldier then, was down here with the authorities, on the very spot where you are now standing. Refer back to your memory, young man.”
“Of course!” the embroiderer said in disbelief. “You are Sai, the captain of the guards.”
“Yes, indeed. You have a good memory. Only I am now Master Sai, the town mayor.”
“What happened to Magistrate Toan?” Dan asked.
The mayor did not answer. Lady Chin watched them study each other like a pair of fighting cocks until the embroiderer broke the silence.
“You are not who I am looking for,” he said, straightening. “Either you must leave my property at once, or state your motive. What are you doing here with a team of armed guards? Am I under arrest?”
“Come now, young Master Nguyen!” the mayor exclaimed. “Times have changed since you were last seen in these parts. The Toan family is no longer ruling the village. Since you know everything that happened here when you were a child, you know we share no bad blood between us. It was not I—it was he, Magistrate Toan—who was responsible for your sufferings. I was only a subordinate officer, a mere tool, like this firearm.” He tapped the gun in the arms of a nearby soldier and laughed.
“Why are you here?” Sai's voice contained a trace of irony. “Since you are now liberated from the life of servitude, why return to the scene of your humiliation?”
“You have guessed it, sir. It is the magistrate that I am looking for, to even a score.”
“Then you will need my help, young Master.”
“Thank you,” Dan said. “You are generous. But there will be no need to impose on you. I am capable of handling my own affairs.”
Mayor Sai took a few steps forward until he towered above Lady Chin. His sparse mustache, enormous brown teeth, and red gums made her pull away involuntarily. The burning sun peeked out from behind his spiky head, and she had the impression that fire was bursting out of his mouth. She let out a whimper of fright. The embroiderer knelt and held her in his arms.
“Could this be Lady Yen, your mother?” the town mayor asked.
Dan did not answer; she leaned closer to him and muttered, “Evil man!”
“Is she mad?” the mayor whispered, frowning.
“Quite the opposite,” said the embroiderer, standing up and facing his opponent. “She is every bit as sane as you and I, except that she is dying, and she is sometimes delirious. You appear to her as an evil energy. Step back!”
“Come now, sir. You are acting as impulsively as a pregnant woman.”
“Now,” Dan said. His voice was low and abrasive. “Be gone!”
The mayor spat on the ground. “You wretch!” he thundered. “How dare you provoke me in front of my men? I know why you are here. I have waited many years for this day to come. Clearly you have found the other half of the treasure map. Why else would you come, if not to attempt to salvage your fortune? Without my help, you will never obtain what you are looking for. Trust me, for I know what I am talking about. I myself have been searching for the same object, but the old rascal Toan has been too clever for me. That miserable snake!” He threw a threatening look at Dan. “Do not forget that I am now the mayor. Nothing will leave this town without my consent or my knowledge. If you try to challenge me, I will bring you to ruin.”
“Get away from my property,” Dan said. The muscles on his back tautened as he struggled for composure. The mayor staggered forward and aimed a punch at Dan's face. To Lady Chin's amazement his fist, instead of smashing into the embroiderer's cheek, was caught in midair by the young man. The guards rushed forward, their guns pointing.
“Do not shoot,” the mayor yelled. “I need him alive.”
Still holding the mayor's wrist, the embroiderer swung it around with such strength that the man's body was jerked forward. He fell on his knees, thrusting his chest out to accommodate the twisted arm, which was now pressed against the small of his back.
In desperation, the mayor gasped, “Ah, that hurts. Let me go.”
Dan gave his wrist another push and released his fingers. Sai fell forward, his face in the grass. He jerked to his feet, stroked his bruised arm, and screamed to his men, “Arrest him!”
Dan took a step back, reaching into his pants pocket. Then he raised his hand, palm facing the team of guards. Inside, dangling at the end of a red ribbon, was the ivory pass that had been given to him by the Queen Mother, Lady Thuc. “In the name of the Imperial Court, I command you to stop,” he shouted, thrusting the royal emblem at them. The soldiers halted as if they were seized by an invisible string.
“The palace permit,” the mayor cried in recognition. “How did you acquire such an emblem of merit? What is your position in the Imperial City?”
“I am a mandarin in the Ministry of Chancellery,” Dan answered. “I am the official embroiderer for His Majesty. Do you think I would be foolish enough to enter this blood-soaked place, knowing the danger that I was going to be facing, without the protection of the Royal Court? I have left a note with a trusted friend, telling the reasons why I have returned to the Cam Le Village. Every afternoon the Meridian Gate closes at precisely six o'clock. If I am not present at that time to resume His Majesty's portrait, my friend will deliver this note to Lady Thuc's attention. You, the Toan family, and your henchmen will be held accountable for my absence. And let me assure you, there is enough evidence in the note to guarantee you a death sentence. I have also requested that the head of this village's mayor, whomever that may be, be speared on a pole before my father's grave. Now, do you really want these guards to seize me?”
The mayor raised a hand and signaled to his men. They fell into two single files, heading toward the entrance.
Lady Chin became aware that she was being lifted. She was so filled with relief that she did not know when she left the grounds of the ruined mansion. The vast blue Heaven that had witnessed the massacre of her loved ones now watched her leave the dark ground.
L
ady Chin was attending her own funeral, or so it seemed. Her wooden palanquin, lined with pink and purple satin pillows, floated a few inches above an endless golden field where tranquility was the color of ripened corn tassels. Her body, lifeless and disfigured, was covered in several layers of shrouds. At her side walked Dan, as ever a comforting presence. She could see the mayor's face behind the opaque windshield as his car followed her procession. Behind him strode the long lines of soldiers.
At a turn of the road, an ancient banyan tree sprouting twisted tentacles seemed to mimic a woman drying her hair in the wind. In the distance, the tiled rooftop of a temple appeared, its lichen-covered walls blending into the earth. The sound of gongs, the rustle of leaves, the richness of incense smoke, and the rippling cloud of corn pollens combined in an atmosphere of deep calm, as if time were drifting toward a restful emptiness.
Her retinue, like a centipede, crawled into the street where the market was being conducted in busy confusion. She saw the silk vendors' bright ribbons of vermilion and blue and purple, the food stands displaying strings of succulent roasted ducks and chickens and pork, and men and women in tattered clothes staring at her. These were the witnesses to her interment, filling both sides of the street—strange faces carrying flowers, whispering gossip, playing musical instruments, and burning paper money for the afterlife. She searched each and every countenance, looking for the familiar features of someone who might mourn her loss, anyone who would bid farewell to her departing soul.
Then an odd thing happened. Like a flash of lightning slicing a dark sky, an electrifying image shot through her mind. Before this the villagers had seemed ordinary; all their grubby faces contained the same sunburned, inquisitive expression. But among them was a pair of eyes, dark as coal, cavernous as midnight, that penetrated her very soul. The ghosts of her past descended on her in a rush; she saw the dead bodies of her husband and son flung out on the front lawn of the deserted mansion.
She looked again into the face that bore those haunting eyes and waved in vain for the embroiderer, but he was walking ahead of her and failed to notice. She tried to rise; the scene blurred and she shuddered. How could she tell him that she had just looked into the eyes of a murderer?
D
an Nguyen halted in his tracks. He, too, had noticed the villager with the piercing eyes. The ragged figure detached itself from the crowd and walked toward him—an androgynous creature, with a hairless skull and face full of scars. Any remnant of beauty was gone. The scars were long and grotesque. It was looking at him and opened its arms. There was something maternal in its gesture, the way it was beckoning to him, as if with longing. Upon careful examination, he could see ample breasts under the dark clothes.
The bearers of the palanquin stopped moving when they saw Dan halt. The crowd whispered—a long rasping sound that swept from one end to the other, the way rain traveled. He followed the woman with his eyes and saw her step into the road. Her arms were stretched outward, her mouth hung open, and her stare seared him with the power of the sun.
She ran toward him, stumbling, yet nothing could stop her headlong dash. From her throat, a loud noise, like the howl of a beaten dog, penetrated the hushed surroundings. Where in his life had he heard such a primitive sound? The emotion it expressed was excruciating, but not one intelligible word was being uttered.
Dan took several steps backward, confused and frightened by the terrible screeching. “Who are you?” he cried, searching her face. There was a trace of the time-teller in her scars, the shaven head, and the look of wild terror…Oh, sovereign gods in Heaven, please have mercy…he had seen those eyes somewhere. He could see his reflection in them as if looking into a mirror. They were shaped like the wings of a black dragonfly, and the high cheekbones, the oversized teeth—all were familiar.
The woman smiled, even though tears trickled down her rough skin. She grabbed him by the hand, kissed it, and then pressed his fingers against her cheek.
Comprehension washed over him. “Ven?” he muttered. “Is that you?
She nodded.
From his hips down, the bones melted and he slumped forward. She received him into her bosom as though he were a child.
“The flowers at my father's grave,” he said, while she rocked him in her embrace. “It was you that put them there?”
Again she nodded.
Dan could hardly speak. “Your hair, your face, your voice,” he said. “What have they done to you?”
She answered him with the devoted, happy whimper of a house pet. Her disfigured face relaxed into an expression of contentment. She kept on touching him, from the side of his forehead to the length of his hair, as though to reassure herself that he was not a dream.
