The Language of Threads by Gail Tsukiyama Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€œDown 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.”
    â€œDo you go down to Central often?” Pei asked.
    â€œOnly 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.”
    â€œWill 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