Ho Yung nodded. “Just like always.” He smiled.
Out the train window, the outskirts of Kowloon sped by. When they entered the flat open space of the New Territories, Pei leaned back and closed her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in the new suit she’d bought for the trip. At sixty-two, she was still a handsome woman, standing tall and straight, trying to grow old as gracefully as Mrs. Finch. Pei was entering the last years of her life in relative contentment. All life’s benevolence balanced against the blows it had struck. Gong had grown up to be a decent young man, who had studied architecture and was about to be married. Yet she still felt a small stab in her heart every time she thought of how proud Ji Shen would have been of him.
Pei opened her eyes with a start when a staticky voice announced that they’d arrived in Sumzhun. She carried only a small canvas bag. It was a short walk across the concrete bridge over the dry ravine separating one guardhouse from the other, the past from the present. Groups of people trudged across carrying gifts and packages, voices lowered, hoping not to be detained with something deemed suspicious—a clock-radio, a camera, razor blades. Pei walked briskly ahead of the crowds, stood in line, stared the guard hard in the eyes as if to say, “I’m not hiding anything,” and heard the dull thud of the stamp passing her through.
The train to Canton was yet another step back in time. Pei saw for herself how China had stood still while others rushed right past. Even the train moved at a snail’s pace, and Pei imagined she might get out and run faster. She stared at the white doilies that covered the back of the seats. The pale green walls and lace curtains made her feel as if she were in someone’s sitting room. The faint smell of mothballs emanated from the seats. A woman dressed completely in white pushed a rattling cart down the aisle, serving hot tea from silver thermoses.
As the train slowly inched its way through the countryside, Pei saw the mahogany-colored earth of her childhood. It was just as she’d remembered it. She saw again her mother and father, and the land they had tended and worked so hard just to scrape by. As a child, she’d known nothing of what a drought or flood meant to their existence. All she knew was that every crack in the dry dirt meant less food and more worries, while at the same time the jagged lines made for her a new puzzle in the ground, and the rain-soaked earth provided new ponds for them to play in. Could she have once been so young and naïve?
By the time the train pulled in to Canton, it was late afternoon. Ho Yung had arranged for her to stay at a good, comfortable hotel, and though she was uneasy spending so much money for just a bed to sleep in, he assured her that she could well afford to stay three days. Pei smiled at the thought.
The station was crowded and noisy. People pushed and shoved from all directions to get where they wanted to go. Voices shouted over the loudspeaker, announcing arrivals and departures. Vendors sold steamed buns, paper toys, and candy all along the walkway. Pei couldn’t move two feet in any direction without being solicited to buy something. She picked up her step and headed for the line of mismatched bicycle-rickshaws waiting along the curb.
The next morning she caught an early bus and was on her way to Yung Kee before the sun had fully risen. Sitting on the hard wooden seat, she watched the morning light slowly bring into focus a world that had never been far from her heart and mind. In the bright light, the fish ponds gleamed mirrorlike, surrounded by mulberry groves.
Pei sat across the aisle from a woman who smiled at her every time she glanced her way. She was obviously ready for some early-morning conversation, while Pei struggled to keep the silence of her own thoughts. Except for the two of them and another man sleeping up front, the old bus was empty.
“Tso sun.” The woman leaned toward her.
Pei had to respond to the good-morning greeting. “Tso sun.”
“You’re going to Yung Kee?”
Pei nodded.
“More people returning now,” the woman added, loud enough to wake the sleeping man.
“Do you live there?” Pei asked.
The woman spoke with her hands, making small circles in the air. “During the week I take care of my grandson. My daughter works in a silk factory there.”
“Silk factory?” Pei repeated, surprised.
“It used to be work for only the unmarried girls,” she confided. “Reeling the silk was wet work, and people thought it might interfere with having babies. But now any woman can do it. It’s hard to pay attention to the old superstitions when production for the masses is what counts.”
Pei tried to appear interested as the woman rattled on, her hands dancing in front of her. How times had changed from the days of the old superstitions that had forged a sisterhood of silk workers, who lived, worked, and even died together. Pei swallowed, glanced past the woman out the window.
The last time Pei had been in Yung Kee was 1938, and her sadness then was so thick she couldn’t see beyond it. Lin had died, and she and Ji Shen were running one step ahead of the Japanese. By then, Yung Kee had become a big, rambling town, far removed from the small dusty village where she’d grown up. The silkwork had kept it flourishing and Pei remembered being amazed at its immensity.
Now, from the window of the bus, she saw its dusty edges and faded colors. Clearly, Yung Kee was in the midst of transformation, with new buildings tucked here and there among the old ones. It was just another Chinese town that had somehow managed to survive a lifetime of changes, buoyed by a silk industry that stubbornly continued. Pei swallowed, her mouth dry and bitter. It had taken her thirty-five years to return and say goodbye.
She leaned forward in the bus and tried to figure out where they were. New shops and open stalls selling fruits and vegetables lined the streets where once there had been nothing. She would have to rely on her memory to get her through the maze of streets and bicycles to the girls’ house. Stepping down from the bus, Pei nearly missed being hit by a young man on a bicycle. He turned around long enough to shake his fist at her and then continued on his way.
She stood at the side of the dirt road, cleared her mind, and found the direction by recognizing the straight line of tall trees that still shaded one of the roads leading away from the market. In the past, all the times she’d walked down this same street, she’d never paid the least attention to it. Now she saw how many of the big houses that still stood were in need of repair. Jasmine and litchi still grew wild and abundant. Pei walked faster, the fine dust resting on the tops of her shoes. Rounding the corner, she still expected to see Auntie Yee, Chen Ling, and Ming, young, eager Ji Shen, her calm, knowing Lin. Instead, she saw only the two-story red-brick building that was the girls’ house.
The Girls’ House
The wooden fence that had once surrounded the girls’ house was gone. Pei imagined it must have been priceless firewood during the occupation. Weeds and foliage littered the front courtyard where she’d once sat with her father and Auntie Yee. The house itself was a shambles; the front steps had disappeared. Instead, several tree stumps of different heights led up to the front porch. Auntie Yee had kept the house spotless during Pei’s childhood; the scent of ammonia had never been far from her dreams, and the wood floors gleamed even in the rainy season. Seeing it in such ruins made her heart ache. Pei closed her eyes and wished that Lin were there with her.
Sudden loud voices came from inside the house. She started for the front door, only to be startled by someone speaking from behind her.
“What are you doing here?” The voice was sharp and familiar.
Pei turned around quickly. It took her only a moment to realize that the wizened old woman standing in front of her was Moi. And once again Pei felt like the little girl who stood to one side as Moi dragged her bad leg through the kitchen of the girls’ house, never allowing any of them to enter. Year after year she had cooked wonderful meals for all the girls lucky enough to stay with Auntie Yee.
Pei stood for a moment in disbelief. Moi must be in her nineties. Pei had never expected she would still be alive. Her heart skipped a
beat to think Moi had survived through such difficult years.
“Moi.” The name rolled softly off her tongue.
“Who wants to know?” Moi snapped, stepping closer to get a better look.
“I’m Pei,” she said, hoping her name might conjure up some small memory in Moi’s mind, though the girl she’d been had long since turned into a tall, gray-haired woman. “I stayed here at the girls’ house with Chen Ling and Lin.”
Moi stared at her with suspicion, then turned away as if she were having a conversation with the air around her. “Yee tells me you are one of our girls. The tall one.”
Pei looked around. “Auntie Yee?”
“She comes to me often,” Moi said, and gestured for Pei to follow. She turned, dragging her bad foot, down the path that led to the back of the house.
Pei quickly followed. What had once been a flourishing garden was now a jungle of weeds and shrubbery. Hidden in it stood, a small shack constructed, with the resourcefulness Moi had been born to, of flattened tin cans, cardboard boxes, and wood scraps. Characters in red and black hinted as to what the packages once held: oranges, bananas, a thermos. Outside the door were two wooden crates.
“Sit, sit,” Moi mumbled, pointing to the crates.
Pei did as she was told. Moi stepped into her small house and ladled water from a metal drum into a pot, clanking it down on a small camp stove.
“Who’s living in the big house?” Pei dared to ask.
Moi clicked her tongue. “Families assigned by the village work force,” she answered, clear and precise.
Pei looked into Moi’s alert eyes and saw that she wasn’t the confused old woman she pretended to be. She understood everything that was going on around her. Whether she wanted to listen was another matter.
“Have you seen Chen Ling?”
“Out in the countryside. Sometimes she comes to visit. It’s not so easy anymore. We’ve all gotten old.” Moi sprinkled tea leaves into two cups, then poured hot water into them. From an old footlocker, she pulled out a bag of peanuts and filled a chipped rice bowl.
“Are you all right here?” Pei grieved to see Moi living in such squalid conditions. If she had known, Pei would have brought gifts from Hong Kong to make Moi’s life easier.
Moi pulled out another crate from her shack and sat across from Pei. She had shriveled to the size of a child. “Yee and I have survived it all,” she finally said. “No one can take me away from here. They let me be. Just waiting for me to die so they can take what little I have.”
Pei smiled. “You were always stubborn.”
“It was always Yee who was the stubborn one, not me,” Moi said, with renewed energy.
Pei sipped the tasteless tea.
“Why have you come back?” Moi suddenly asked.
“To see the girls’ house,” Pei answered. “To see what was left of Yung Kee and the sisterhood.”
“Everybody’s gone,” Moi said quietly. “The silk work is something else now.”
Pei looked at Moi through the cloudy sheen of tears that suddenly covered her eyes. “You’re still here.”
Moi laughed. “There’s not much left of me, either. Not that it matters.” She offered Pei a peanut, then picked one up and freed it from its shell. “I’m not long for this life; Yee has as much as told me so. It’s just a short time before I join her and all the others.”
“Don’t say that.” Pei leaned closer to Moi, remembering the jars of dry food Moi had given her to carry all the way to Hong Kong.
“Nothing to be afraid of. It’s okay to leave one world for another.” Moi smiled. “Even when the Japanese devils descended upon the house like locusts, I wasn’t afraid. They thought they could take everything away from me, but they couldn’t. They laughed at me, and they took or destroyed all the food I’d gathered, but it meant nothing. Because everyone and everything that has always been important was right inside here!” Moi put her hand over her heart. “And they could never take that away from me.”
Pei swallowed, tears pushing against her eyes. “You don’t have to stay here anymore, you could return to Hong Kong with me. I could file the paperwork over there. . . .”
Moi laughed. “Aiya, what would I do there? My home is here. It always has been.” She chewed thoughtfully on a peanut. “I don’t need much.”
“No, you don’t.” Pei smiled.
They sat in silence, simply taking comfort in each other’s company.
Pei stayed with Moi until late afternoon, when she had to catch the last bus back to Canton. She could hardly bear to leave Moi behind. The old woman was Pei’s last link to the girls’ house. Moi walked her out to the street, wearing a threadbare padded jacket. Pei made a mental note to replace it as soon as she returned home, and to send along a new teakettle, teacups, and bowls.
“You must promise to take good care of yourself,” she said, and grasped Moi’s hand in hers.
Moi nodded. “You and Lin will always be here,” she said. She lifted her hand over her heart.
It was the first time Moi had mentioned Lin. Pei glanced down at Moi’s serious, thoughtful face. She had seen so much and said so little throughout the years.
“Go, before it gets dark,” Moi said, with a quick wave of concern.
She watched Moi slowly limp back toward the house, still in charge after all these years. “I’ll come and visit again,” Pei called after her.
Moi turned back once and smiled, just before she disappeared behind the girls’ house.
Pei paused a moment in uncertainty—the past quietly tucked away, the late-afternoon sun warm against her back. She twisted Mrs. Finch’s emerald ring on her finger. She wasn’t scheduled to return to Hong Kong for another two days, but there was nothing left in Yung Kee she needed to see. She could visit Lin’s grave tomorrow morning if it was possible to get through the gates of their old house; then she’d catch a train home. Everyone she loved was in Hong Kong, waiting for her.
As Pei walked down the street, the smell of wild jasmine grew stronger, wrapping itself around her. She stopped and drew in the fragrant memory of the sisterhood and Lin, stirring and settling somewhere deep down inside of her.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Gail Tsukiyama, The Language of Threads
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