The Language of Threads

by Gail Tsukiyama

  The House on Po Shan Road

  The early-morning air still carried a hint of freshness. Pei shifted her scant bundle of belongings from one hand to the other and knocked on the back door of the Chen house. This time she was prepared for Fong’s coldness, but was instead welcomed by Ah Woo, buttoning the last frog of her white-and-blue-striped tunic.

  “Ah, good, good, you’ve arrived early enough to sit down and eat with us. It will give you chance to meet everyone.” Ah Woo pulled Pei into the kitchen. “Let’s get you settled first. You remember Leen.”

  “Yes,” Pei said, swallowing. “I’m happy to see you again.”

  Leen nodded, then returned to her pot of boiling jook. Steam rising from the porridge filled the kitchen with the sweet smell of Pei’s childhood.

  “This way,” Ah Woo said. She led Pei out of the kitchen through a narrow corridor that divided into a number of small rooms. “These are the servants’ quarters. My room is here.” Ah Woo swung open the door nearest to the kitchen. In it were a narrow cot, a small dresser, and a chair. “Leen’s room is across from mine.” She pointed to a closed door, then continued down the hall to the last door, at the end of the corridor. “And this will be your room, across from Fong’s.” Ah Woo pushed the door open and they were greeted by the sharp, scent of mothballs. Ah Woo waved her hand through the stale air and hurried to open the window.

  “Thank you,” Pei said, entering. The space was modest; still, it was larger than the cubicle she shared with Ji Shen, and would afford her some privacy.

  “Why don’t you get settled? Then you can join us for breakfast. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Ah Woo closed the door behind her.

  In the short time Pei had taken to unpack her few belongings and lay out Lin’s silver brush and combs on the chipped surface of the dresser, all the other household servants had gathered around the kitchen table. Pei stopped in the doorway and listened to the quick, sociable voices. She took a deep breath and entered to meet them.

  Ah Woo jumped up from her chair and, taking Pei gently by the arm, guided her to the others. “Quiet, quiet. This is Pei. She’s our new saitong, and will be staying here with us.”

  There were soft murmurs of greeting. “You’ve already met Fong,” Ah Woo began, though Fong’s sweet smile never gave a hint to her cold greeting the other day. “And this is Wing, who takes care of the garden.” He stood up and bowed with a smile, the same old man who had greeted Pei when she arrived looking for Ah Woo. Pei smiled back. “And lastly, this is Lu, our daytime chauffeur.” The thin, middle-aged man in a white shirt and dark trousers barely glanced up from his bowl of jook.

  “Please sit down.” Wing offered Pei a chair.

  Throughout breakfast, Ah Woo kept up the conversation and put Pei at ease as she explained the household schedule. “Each day begins right after our breakfast at six-thirty—sometimes before, if the Tai tai rings for one of us. Chen seen-san usually leaves for the office at eight o’clock, and drops Ying-ying off at school, while Chen tai lingers to plan her day. She is often out to lunch and mah-jongg until dinner. After they’ve had their breakfast, I will introduce you to them.”

  Pei looked up from her jook with a nervous smile. From the corner of her eye, she saw a faint sneer on Fong’s face.

  After breakfast, the servants scattered to their respective duties. Ah Woo went upstairs to awaken the Chens, and Fong went to tend to Ying-ying, while the two men hurried out the back door. Pei, left dangling, rose to help Leen collect the bowls and clear the table. Only then, when they were alone in the kitchen, did Leen utter her first words.

  “I’ve been here a long time,” she whispered, taking the bowls from Pei. “It’s always safest to remain silent.”

  Pei watched Leen’s fluid movements; faint remnants of cooking stained her white tunic. “What do you mean?”

  “I watch and listen.” Leen filled a kettle with water to boil. “Nothing escapes me. I’ve been here a long time,” she repeated. “For over twenty years. Before that, I worked for Chen seen-san’s father. Now, he was a man of great dignity.”

  “And Chen seen-san?” Pei dared to ask. She quickly cleared the rest of the table and handed Leen the last of the bowls.

  Leen shook her head. “Not half the man his baba was.”

  Pei began to wonder if she should remain silent in order to survive in the Chen household.

  “And Chen tai?” Her words slipped out.

  Leen’s eyes narrowed as she carefully scrutinized Pei from head to toe. Seeming satisfied, she moved closer to Pei and whispered, “Chen tai has led a pampered life, surrounded by those who cater to all her whims. Many times this keeps her from seeing the truth.”

  “What do you mean?” Pei asked, stepping back.

  Leen laughed bitterly. “Not all of us are what we appear. I can see that you are a fast learner. Just watch out. In time, all truths are revealed.”

  Pei felt Leen’s words lie heavy in her stomach. Before anything else was said, Ah Woo came back in through the kitchen door. “Everyone’s awakened,” she sang out, only to pause when her eyes fell on Pei. “You look pale. Is everything all right?” Ah Woo’s smile disappeared as she turned toward Leen.

  “Oh, yes,” Pei quickly answered.

  Leen looked down and busied herself with washing the breakfast bowls.

  “At times we aren’t as helpful as we should be,” Ah Woo snapped.

  Leen snickered, then set each washed bowl on the counter with a dull clink.

  “Anyway,” Ah Woo went on, recovering, “I’ve told Chen tai that you’ve arrived, Pei, and she would like to meet you before breakfast.”

  “Now?”

  Ah Woo smiled again and said, “Chen tai has more clothes than half of Hong Kong. The sooner she meets her new saitong, the better.”

  Pei glanced over at Leen, who carefully lowered two brown eggs into a pot to boil.

  Ah Woo quietly pushed the dining room door open, allowing Pei a pause before she met the Chen family. A sweet, strong scent of gardenia filled the air. The dining room was the grandest Pei had ever seen. Not even the one in Lin’s childhood home in Canton could compare in size and extravagance. Red and gold and silver flickered everywhere around the room. Against one wall was an enormous rosewood cabinet with glass doors divided into three sections. The two outer cabinets held Chinese ceramic and mosaic vases, while the middle displayed a full silver tea set, with crystal goblets and bowls. Pei wondered how one family could use so many beautiful things.

  A round carved-mahogany dining table stood in the middle of the room, atop a soft, thick carpet of deep red with intricate gold scroll designs. Chen seen-san sat at one side in a tall, carved mahogany chair, flipping furiously through a newspaper; Chen tai, across from him, talked to Ying-ying, who sat between them, slowly sipping her milk.

  “Excuse us,” Pei heard Ah Woo say, “but this is our new saitong, Pei.”

  Chen tai and Ying-ying immediately looked up from their conversation. Heavier and bigger-boned than Pei had imagined, Chen tai had a smooth, creamy complexion, and wore a jade-green cheongsam of cotton voile, trimmed with black piping. Pei felt as if her feet had sunk too deep into the soft square of carpet and she’d never be able to move. Ah Woo leaned over and gave her a light nudge forward.

  “Tso sun, Chen seen-san, Chen tai, sui-je,” Pei stuttered her good mornings to them, bowing her head.

  Ying-ying laughed and said, “She’s so tall!” Her round face gleamed.

  “Ssh,” Chen tai scolded. “We’re happy to have you with us,” she said. “I’m sure Ah Woo has explained some of your duties here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to attend many social functions, and it’s important to have my clothing ironed and ready for each event.” She squeezed the white linen napkin tighter in her hand.

  “Yes,” Pei said again, this time in a louder, stronger voice.

  The newspaper suddenly lowered with a sharp crackle, and a bald, heavyset man weari
ng thick, black-rimmed spectacles glanced up at Pei. “Where are you from?” Chen seen-san asked.

  Pei felt suddenly hot and sticky; a film of sweat gathered at her temple. “The village of Yung Kee.”

  “Another silk worker?”

  “Yes.”

  He lifted his glasses and stared intently at Pei for a moment with dark, small eyes. “She appears capable enough,” he said, before raising his paper again.

  In the quiet of her room that night, Pei fingered the smooth silver handle of Lin’s brush and assessed her first day in the Chen household. The scent of mothballs lingered heavily. Unanswered questions flashed through her mind so fast she couldn’t hold onto them. Had she made the right decision? How was Ji Shen doing all alone at the boardinghouse? Would Quan remember to take her on a tour of Hong Kong at the end of the week? What did Leen mean when she advised Pei to watch out? The house was so big . . . Chen seen-san’s thick black glasses . . . Chen tai’s closet . . . So many cheongsams of silk and satin . . . So many rules to learn and follow . . .

  The faint whine and clicks of doors opening and closing, followed by the faraway sound of voices, brought Pei back. She stood up and walked quietly to her door to listen, grasping Lin’s brush tightly in her hand. Very slowly she opened her door a crack, but saw only darkness.

  Chapter Three

  1939

  Pei

  Pei filled the iron with hot coals and pushed down on the cover. It felt heavy and solid as she lifted it upright on the wooden ironing board. The first few months of washing and ironing had been difficult, a never-ending process of filling the washtub with water and heating the coals for the iron. Now, after six months, Pei’s back ached constantly and her hands were rough and dry, her fingers cracked and split. Water and steam surrounded her as they had in her early days at the silk factory, soaking cocoons. Only now, Lin wasn’t there to help her through the long days.

  On her first full day in the Chen household, Ah Woo had sat Pei down and explained the rules she was to follow: “You are never to enter a room in the main part of the house without permission. . . . Never touch any of the Chens’ property. . . . You are not to have any personal guests in your room. . . . Bathe regularly and keep yourself presentable. . . . You’ll have every other Sunday off.” The words came out stilted and formal, and Pei could almost hear Ah Woo breathe a sigh of relief when she had finished her prepared speech.

  Pei observed other rules, unspoken, yet just as important. As the saitong, she spent most of her time in the small laundry room off the kitchen, or outside, where she hung the clothes to dry.

  Getting along with the other servants in the house came second to keeping the household running smoothly. Ah Woo and Leen did all they could to help Pei settle in. So did Wing, the gardener, who ventured to the backyard on Pei’s first morning of washing. “For you,” he said, producing a yellow lily from behind his back, while Fong smiled politely from a distance. When they passed each other in the hallway or kitchen, Pei and Fong nodded stiffly to each other, as if there were some great wall between them. “Fong thinks she’s better than us,” Leen had confided in Pei. “Just because she cares for Ying-ying and spends more time upstairs.”

  After six months, work in the Chen household had become routine. Every morning Chen tai left the clothes she wanted washed and pressed on a chair next to her bed. While the Chens ate breakfast, Pei hurried up to their rooms and gathered the clothes—silk stockings, undergarments, Chen seen-san’s white shirts, which had to be soaked and starched, Ying-ying’s school and play clothes. If there was a big social event for Chen tai to attend that evening, she would tell Pei what she wanted washed and pressed the night before. But as often as not, she changed her mind the next day and Pei would have to rush to iron another cheongsam just before Chen tai left the house.

  Pei scooped up the clothes, never daring to linger too long in the large, ornate bedroom. “Best to keep your mind on your work,” Ah Woo had told Pei her first day. “Those who can’t, don’t last long here.”

  Ah Woo needn’t have worried. Everything in the Chens’ room felt foreign and intimidating, from the antique black lacquer furniture to the mother-of-pearl-inlaid headboard that adorned the massive, unmade bed. Pei feared that if she touched anything, something bad might happen. Only once or twice did she stop in front of Chen tai’s opened closet, which extended the entire length of one wall. She’d never seen so many cheongsams before, nor such a multitude of colors, from pale pink to a deep midnight blue. Chen tai had another, smaller closet just to store all her matching shoes and handbags. Pei imagined these came from all the fancy department stores she’d heard about from Ah Woo.

  “Down in Central you can buy anything in the world,” Ah Woo had said. “It’s like some great bazaar where you can see everyone and everything.”

  “Do you go down to Central often?” Pei asked.

  “Only when Chen tai needs my help to carry all her packages. When she shops, she’s treated like a queen!” Ah Woo laughed. “As for me, entering one of those stores is like entering a foreign country.”

  Pei pushed open the small window of the cluttered laundry room next to the kitchen. It had rained the past two days, hard and relentless, but this morning a weak sun shone through the gray clouds. Pei felt a breath of sticky autumn air enter, the damp smell of dirt a sudden reminder of her father’s fish ponds. A cold shiver ran up her spine, followed by a small stab of sadness. Since her mother’s death more than a year ago, Pei no longer received any letters. She imagined Baba on the farm all by himself now. And while her parents had lost contact with Pei’s sister Li years before, Pei often thought of her and wondered if she still lived somewhere near Yung Kee. If so, would they even recognize each other after almost twenty years? Li must have children of her own now—Pei’s nieces and nephews. She still clung to the hope of seeing Li again. Over the years the flame sputtered and flashed, but had never burned out.

  Swallowing her thoughts, Pei reached for the jar of cream made from the aloe plant and sunflower oil, and rubbed some into her swollen fingers. The first chance she’d had, Pei had gone back down to Wan Chai to see Ji Shen and the old herbalist whose store was under Ma-ling’s boardinghouse.

  The herbalist had taken Pei’s hands in his, examining her dry, cracked fingers, then shaken his head sympathetically and guaranteed the cream would soothe them by the end of the week. “Rub it thoroughly into your hands and fingers once in the morning, and again at night before you go to bed,” he’d told her, “and avoid soap and water.”

  Pei smiled, feeling a tingling sensation from his hands on hers. “But I’ll still have to wash and iron every day,” she said.

  The herbalist squeezed her hands slightly. “It’s a shame that such beautiful hands can never rest.”

  “Will they still heal?”

  He gently let go. “They’ll heal,” he said, “but it will take longer.”

  With quick and knowing hands, Pei sorted through the morning’s laundry. Each time she held one of Chen tai’s silk cheongsams in her hands, Pei could hardly believe that it was woven from the same thin, almost invisible threads of silk she’d once reeled onto spools. In her mind’s eye she could see the cocoons dancing on the surface of the boiling water as they unraveled. As she stroked the sleek, shiny material, the Yung Kee Silk Factory felt like a lifetime ago. She held the red-and-gold cheongsam up against her stark white tunic and baggy black pants. She couldn’t imagine herself wearing something so tight and revealing.

  Pei picked up Chen tai’s beige lace cheongsam and laid it flat on the ironing board. She waited a few moments longer for the iron to heat up, meanwhile examining the intricate lace handwork of Chen tai’s new dress, tailor made like all her dresses for the most auspicious occasions.

  Chen tai had surprised Pei that morning by bringing the dress down to the laundry room herself. Her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon and her strong features looked softer without makeup. She was dressed casually, in a blue silk tunic and
pants.

  “Chen seen-san is being honored by the Hong Kong chamber of commerce at a very special banquet this evening,” she said, handing the dress carefully to Pei.

  Then, instead of leaving, she stood solid and imposing in the narrow doorway. From the kitchen came the sharp, scraping noise of Leen sharpening her knives and cleavers.

  “Is there something else I can do for you?” Pei cradled the dress gently in her arms. She wished the tiny room weren’t so messy.

  “No, nothing for now,” Chen tai answered. “Only, I wanted to say that you’ve done a very good job in the past six months.”

  Pei blushed. “Thank you.”

  “Keep it up.” Chen tai turned to leave. Then she stopped and turned back, her eyes traveling once around the small room. “Perhaps you’d like to come along when I go down to Central next week.”

  Pei looked up, not believing what she was hearing. That honor was usually given to Ah Woo, who had been a trusted member of the family for so many years. “Yes, I would, thank you,” Pei answered, a quick flush heating her cheeks.

  Chen tai’s gaze softened into a smile. Thin fine lines appeared around her eyes. “I’ll let Ah Woo know that you’ll be coming with me, then.” She turned and left the room before Pei could say anything.

  Pei returned to her work. For the rest of the morning, a faint trace of Chen tai’s sweet rose fragrance mingled with the hot, dry air of her ironing.

  Pei was pleased when Chen tai wore her beige lace cheongsam as planned and left for the banquet on time. Instead of rushing to iron another dress at the last minute, Pei helped Chen tai dress, then extracted a gold evening bag and shoes to match from her smaller closet. Even the usually impassive Chen seen-san was smiling happily when Pei closed the front door behind them.