Women of the Silk

by Gail Tsukiyama

  “In the beginning, but now I’m glad to be here.” Mei-li stopped. From her pocket she produced another candy for herself and Pei. “There are many more rewards to being here. Besides, not only do I get presents from my parents, but we can take trips to the temples and theaters, and how else would we have met?”

  “Yes,” Pei said after a moment.

  “Do you wish you were back home?”

  “Sometimes.”

  They walked in silence.

  “Were you so happy there?” asked Mei-li.

  Pei considered the question. The thought of happiness had never come into her mind. Her life was made up of her parents and Li and the dank smell of the fish ponds. Happiness was a feeling of lightness when they were finished with chores and free to wander down to the pond.

  “I don’t know, I suppose it was all right, sometimes,” Pei answered. “It would be nice to see my family again, just once, so I could see how they all are.”

  Mei-li nodded. She pulled out another candy and handed it to Pei. Every night they walked back from the factory to the girls’ house in groups, looking like scattered flocks of white birds along the road. The laughter from the group of girls ahead of them rang out in the soft night air. Soon it would be summer, and the clear, sweet air they breathed would once again turn hot and sticky.

  Not all the girls working at the silk factory lived in a girls’ house. Many, from the village, remained at home with their families. Pei’s friend Su-lung was one such village girl. Su-lung worked beside Pei soaking cocoons. She lived with her family in one of the small, dark houses that lined the narrow alleyways. In the maze of cramped spaces, entire families lived side by side.

  Even though Su-lung lacked the freedom Pei and her sisters had at the girls’ house, Pei envied the fact that Su-lung lived with her family. Pei sometimes thought she would gladly give up her freedom at the girls’ house if it would mean staying with her family. So when Su-lung invited her and Mei-li to meet her family and share an evening meal with them, Pei was only too happy to go. When she looked for Lin to tell her the news, Lin had already left for a meeting at work.

  Su-lung’s house was not far from the silk factory. Through a cool alley they walked happily. To each side of them, narrow passageways splintered off into darkness. On the way they gathered even more than their usual share of stares, triggered by their uncontained laughter. On several occasions, jealous villagers stopped and pointed at them. “Who do you think you are?” they said vulgarly. “Living together with all your money!” The villagers had no idea that most of the girls’ earnings went to their families and for room and board. Usually, they were bothered by this thoughtless hostility, but tonight nothing could upset them. Only when Su-lung slowed down and stopped in front of a low wooden door did their voices become silent.

  With a small push, Su-lung opened the door easily. They were greeted by the smell of something frying and chattering voices coming from an inner room. As her eyes adjusted to the murky light the one oil lamp gave off, Pei saw very little in the way of comforts. There was only a small table and a few wooden chairs filling up the tiny room.

  “Come this way,” Su-lung said happily.

  Pei and Mei-li followed her into the inner room and were immediately introduced to Su-lung’s parents, brother, and sister. When Su-lung’s brother, Hong, stood, he was almost as tall as the ceiling and automatically stooped to avoid hitting his head. Pei could not remember the last time she had been in the same room with a boy. Hong, appearing just as awkward and uneasy at meeting them, remained standing. Then, quickly, almost embarrassedly, he sat down. Mei-li giggled and nudged Pei with her knee.

  As usual, Mei-li felt no shyness and spoke of the girls’ house and of her own family with an air of authority.

  “My family is from Fukien,” she said happily. “I have two brothers who are married, though now I feel as if those at the girls’ house are just as much my family.”

  Pei was content to listen to the noisy chatter of a family so different from her own. So she smiled and kept silent, and so did Hong.

  After a simple meal of rice, steamed fish, pork, and vegetables, Su-lung’s mother brought out star fruit and melon. For the first time since Pei had arrived at the girls’ house, she didn’t feel out of place in the company of others besides her sisters. She felt a warmth she had never felt as a child. “Eat, eat,” said Su-lung’s mother, as her father smiled attentively; Hong relaxed enough to answer Mei-li’s questions.

  “What are you studying, Hong?” Mei-li asked without shame.

  “I am preparing for my university entrance exams. I hope to be studying economics.”

  “That must be very exciting,” she continued.

  “It’s a great deal of work,” he said, beginning to show interest in her interest.

  “Yes, it must be. I could never do it.”

  “I’m sure you could if circumstances were different.”

  Hong spoke in a quiet, serious manner, his gaze fixed upon the person he spoke to. His eyes were narrow and suspicious, and while Pei soon lost interest in him, Mei-li listened to every word he said without taking her eyes off him.

  When they left, the night air felt cool and welcoming. Pei was anxious to return to the girls’ house, hoping to see Lin, but Mei-li moved slowly and spoke in a strange, dreamy way.

  “I thought Su-lung’s parents were very nice,” Mel-li said. She stooped down and picked up a flower. Very systematically she began pulling off its petals.

  “Yes,” Pei replied. “They’re very different from my parents.”

  “Mine, too.” Mei-li let the stem of the flower blow away from her hand. “What did you think of Su-lung’s brother, Hong?”

  “He seems nice.”

  “Do you think he thought I was nice?”

  Pei looked at Mei-li and saw the pink flush of her cheeks. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She laughed and put Mei-li’s mind at ease. “I think he thought you were very nice.”

  Mei-li smiled happily and said nothing more about Hong.

  All night Pei hardly slept for fear that she wouldn’t awake in time to see Lin. Every morning Lin and Chen Ling left early for the factory and didn’t return until late. It was as if Lin made no effort to see her anymore.

  Above the rhythmic breathing of the girls, Pei listened for the door across the hall to open and close, followed by the muted footsteps making their way down the stairs. At last the first creakings of the house brought her out of a half-sleep. Pei quietly rose, careful not to wake the others. As she opened the door, the dim light from downstairs entered. Moments later the door across the hall opened and Lin appeared.

  “What are you doing up?” Lin whispered, tying a red piece of yarn to secure the bottom of her braid.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Pei said, trembling, the cool morning air moving right through her cotton gown. She had grown so much in the past years she now stood a half a head taller than Lin.

  “Go back to bed, you’re cold, we can talk later.”

  “I haven’t seen you in so long—are you angry with me?”

  Lin’s face softened into a smile. “How could I be angry with you?” Her eyes looked away from Pei’s. “I’ve been angry with myself for feeling things I shouldn’t.”

  “What things?”

  When her dark eyes turned back to Pei, Lin said softly, “I was jealous because you have had Mei-li and Su-lung and haven’t needed me.”

  Pei was stunned by Lin’s words, no longer feeling the cold. She had been so afraid that Lin no longer wanted to have anything to do with her. “How could you ever think that?” she finally asked.

  “Word gets around,” answered Lin, but then she smiled at the sight of Pei’s distress and said, “I can see I have been foolish. I’m sorry if I have upset you. Now go back to bed and we’ll talk later.” Lin pushed back a wavy strand of loose hair from Pei’s face.

  “Ever since I came here, you’ve been my onl
y family,” Pei said.

  “Go back to bed, we’ll talk later,” urged Lin. “I have to go.” Lin let her hand rest momentarily on Pei’s shoulder and then she was gone.

  The next day at the silk factory Chen Ling approached Pei in her businesslike manner and asked to speak with her. Just as quickly another girl stepped in and took over for her as they walked towards Chen Ling’s office. This was a small, cluttered room behind the sorting room. Pei was relieved to see Lin waiting inside. When Pei looked toward her, Lin smiled reassuringly ; Pei relaxed and leaned against the heavy wooden desk. Chen Ling immediately claimed her chair and with an air of calm and authority leaned back, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I’ve been watching your work, Pei, and you’ve done very well,” said Chen Ling.

  “Thank you,” she answered, lowering her eyes.

  Pei had never gotten over being timid with Chen Ling, even though most of the girls had credited the quiet Ming with helping to soften Chen Ling. It was well known throughout the factory that they were inseparable outside of the silk work.

  “We have decided that it’s time for you to move on to reeling the silk. You’ve shown that you can handle whatever work we’ve given you, so I don’t see why you should have any trouble moving on.”

  Pei looked toward Lin, who was smiling, then back to Chen Ling. “I would like that very much,” she said eagerly.

  “Good, then it’s settled. You’ll begin tomorrow and Lin will work with you until you are able to do it sufficiently well on your own. Congratulations, I’m sure you’ll continue to do good work.”

  For a moment Chen Ling almost smiled before looking down at the papers on her desk, signaling an end to their conversation.

  When they were safely out of Chen Ling’s office, Lin took Pei’s hand and with a small squeeze said, “Congratulations. This will mean more money for you and your family.”

  “Will it?” Pei said absently, not quite believing her good fortune. It sometimes took other girls eight to ten years to become reelers, and she had accomplished it in five, when she was only fourteen. “It’s pretty good, isn’t it?” she then asked.

  “If you ask me, it’s long overdue!” Lin said enthusiastically.

  But their joy quickly vanished when a high, piercing scream came from the far end of the room. Several muffled screams followed as Lin moved quickly toward the noise and away from Pei.

  At the far end of the room a group of girls was gathered. Their machines were left to operate by themselves. The whizzing sound of the bobbins spinning without the connected cocoons filled the air. The screams that had pierced the normal rhythm of the machines were suddenly reduced to low moans. Pei moved quickly through the thick crowd of girls until she reached Mei-li, who stood on her toes trying to see over the heads of the other girls.

  “What happened?” Pei asked.

  “Someone’s been burned!”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t see a thing,” said Mei-li, pushing forward against the girl in front of her.

  The moans grew louder. Pei heard Lin’s voice call out for someone to get Chan the herbalist, who was called upon whenever accidents occurred at the silk factory. Mostly these were routine, the slight burns that the girls suffered from the hot water and heated metal basins. Almost immediately the girls moved back to clear a path. Then in the clearing, she saw Ming lying on the ground, her clothes soaked as the spread of water worked its way outward. The vat of boiling water, which was usually secured to the cart, had somehow fallen on its side, the rush of steaming water hitting Ming before she was able to move out of its way.

  Ming lay on the floor in obvious pain, the skin of her face and arm pink as if she had been scoured with a brush. Lin hovered over her, placing her hand under Ming’s head to give her what little comfort she could. The hushed whispers of the girls sent Pei into motion, and without hesitation she found a discarded cocoon bag and covered Ming’s shivering body with it.

  “What’s happened here?” the irritated voice of Chen Ling demanded.

  The crowd of frightened girls stepped back to allow Chen Ling through. But not until Pei stood and moved out of the way did Chen Ling see the injured Ming lying on the ground.

  “It was an accident,” Lin said softly. “I’ve sent for Chan.”

  Immediately Chen Ling was on her knees, gently cradling Ming’s head in her arms. She whispered words of encouragement to Ming. When Chan arrived and saw the seriousness of Ming’s burns, he instructed that she be taken back to the girls’ house immediately. At first, Chen Ling would allow no one to help. “Stand back!” she demanded, pushing away from Ming those who tried to help. Carefully she lifted Ming’s thin body into the protection of her arms.

  After Chen Ling and Ming left, there was an eerie emptiness amid the noise. For a moment Pei and Lin didn’t move. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, they were both on their knees, mopping up the excess water. Even though Pei tried, she couldn’t bring herself to meet Lin’s gaze.

  Yu-sung

  Yu-sung no longer had any children. They had given Pei to the silk work and Li to marriage. Her youngest daughter, Yu-ling, had gone into the other world less than a year after Pei left. She did not think Yu-ling had suffered—there was no fever like those the others had had—she simply lay stiff one morning and did not wake. Her death seemed as quiet as her life. Pao buried her next to the others, and for several days after Yu-sung felt nothing. Then, when she could feel again, Yu-sung came down with a fever and lay in an endless dream in which her eldest daughter, Li, cared for her. Pao remained silent and hovered over her like a dark shadow.

  Now Li was gone. She had been given in marriage to a farmer on the other side of the hill. He had sent Sing Tai, the village matchmaker, after seeing Li one day in the village. Yu-sung was in the groves with Li when the matchmaker approached Pao. Pao listened to what the old woman had to say and returned to his work. It was not until that evening, when they had finished their evening meal, that Pao spoke for the first time of the matchmaker’s visit.

  “Sing Tai came to see me this afternoon,” he told Li. “There is a man named Chin, a farmer on the other side of the hill, who wishes to marry you.” Pao picked his teeth with a small, sharpened piece of wood.

  Li looked up at him, surprised.

  “The farmer is a widower,” Pao continued, his eyes avoiding Li’s and Yu-sung’s. “His wife has died in childbirth, along with the child. He has two other young children.”

  Yu-sung’s heart stopped, though Li did not seem to flinch. Li cleared her throat and asked, “He wishes to marry me?”

  Pao nodded.

  Yu-sung looked from her husband to the quiet, serene face of her eldest daughter, her last child. The day Yu-sung had dreaded and feared since her daughter’s birth had come and she could do nothing but remain silent.

  “Is this what you would wish, Ba Ba?” Li then asked him.

  Pao turned and paused for a moment, then said, “The decision is yours. I have told Sing Tai we will have an answer in two days.”

  Li stood up and cleared the table, saying nothing more. She remained silent the next day, and as much as Yu-sung wanted to say something to her, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth like sticky rice. The next evening, before Li stood up to clear, she simply said, “I will marry the farmer, then.”

  Pao grunted his answer, and Yu-sung grieved.

  The day the farmer was to come, Li went about her duties as always, as if her marriage day were no different from the rest. That morning Yu-sung opened the chest at the end of their bed and breathed in the years of her youth. Layer by layer she removed the white paper that separated one precious possession from the next, removing the red silk dress and slippers, and the silk scroll-painting she could not bear to look at after Pei had gone. In the back corner she found the lace handkerchief given to her by her grandmother. This she took out and placed on the bed before replacing everything else. When Yu-sung went to find Li, she was carrying water
in to wash the morning bowls.

  “I can do that,” Yu-sung said, gesturing for her to sit down. Li placed the bucket on the floor and did as she was told. Li seemed so young still, looking up at Yu-sung and waiting for her next words.

  “Are you all right, Ma Ma?”

  “I want to give you this,” Yu-sung said, letting the words slip out before she felt herself choke on them. She held out the lace handkerchief wrapped in the milky-white paper.

  Li looked at her, surprised, and then reached up for the gift. Her fingers clumsily unwrapped the paper and stroked the finely woven designs.

  “It belonged to Tai Pao,” Yu-sung said, “my mother’s mother.”

  Li looked up shyly, her face as relaxed and curious as a young child’s, but just as quickly she caught herself, and her thin lips whispered, “Thank you.”

  The house rattled hollow in the strong, persistent winds. At night, when the winds blew, they were like voices coming through the house. Yu-sung lay in bed for hours listening to what they were saying. Sometimes she imagined them to be the voices of her daughters, returning to tell her of their lives. “It is all right, Ma Ma,” they told her. But when she sat up slowly, so as not to disturb Pao, and listened harder for their distant voices, the noise was simply the winds of a storm approaching.

  The Monsoon

  A week after Ming’s accident, the rains came. Auntie Yee and Moi boarded the windows and secured everything of importance against the furious winds. For a day and night the girls lived within the tomb-tight atmosphere waiting for the winds to gather their strength and sweep through the village. For centuries the winds and rain had left their mark on Yung Kee, showing no mercy, toppling anything not secured by brick and mortar. One year the ancient Hing Wah temple was torn from the ground piece by piece. Its ornately carved door was found in splintered sections down by the river, while other remnants were found miles away, several weeks after the winds had stopped. For months after, people worshiped in the large, empty cavity left in the temple’s place.