The Tapestries Read Online Free Page A

the entrance nearest her. Finding the door unlocked, she turned the knob with her free hand and pulled it open. The rusty hinges groaned.
    She found herself in a dark and damp room filled with half-naked men sprawled on tatami mats. At least thirty, maybe forty of them were crowded into the confined space. They roused lazily as the bright, crisp air from outside poured in. Some muttered curses under their breath. Others burst out laughing when they saw the frightened look on Ven's face. She took several steps back, her hands gripping her tray. She turned around and hurried back to the second path.
    But fate seemed to toy with her that morning. As she approached the house for the second time, the corroded metal door before her sprang open, and a man stormed out, colliding with her. Though she was normally not a graceful woman, she spun around, using her back to absorb the impact of the blow while she balanced the precious load. She recognized the angry face of Master Long, just inches from her own. He had the smoothest skin she had ever seen on a man.
    “Watch where you are going,” he snapped. Adjusting his robe, he sauntered past her and disappeared behind a clump of taro plants.
    With her heart throbbing, Ven pushed the third door open with her elbow. The first face she saw in the room was her husband's. He grinned at her, showing the same toothless smile she had seen the night before when he had removed her wedding veil.
    V en lowered her glance and kept her eyes glued to the floor, which was overlaid with beautiful blue-and-white tiles. Its surface was so highly polished that she could see her reflection as clearly as if she had been gazing into the river. The room occupied a large portion of the main house, an expanse of roughly thirty by seventy feet. The sturdy walls were made of cement mixed with peppercorns. As the temperature outside dropped, the heat from the peppercorns would help keep the room's temperature at a comfortable level. Ven knew that this system of construction was a luxury that only the rich could afford.
    Her husband stood at the foot of a spiral staircase, once again dressed in his groom's outfit. His head was shaved except for three little spots: one above his forehead and two at the sides, above his ears. For the first time, Ven noticed that the haircut made him look like one of the fairies' servants who carried the peach of immortality at the gate of Heaven, a scene often depicted inside Confucian temples.
    Behind the young Master Nguyen was a massive black-lacquered divan decorated with a mother-of-pearl mosaic illustrating the life story of Kuan Yin, the goddess of mercy. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, and Ven could not help admiring its beauty. She paused, temporarily confused.
    “Come in and close the door behind you,” a harsh voice said.
    She lifted her head and saw that the voice belonged to a woman in her sixties, the oldest person in the room besides the matchmaker. The dowager lay on the couch, reclining. Her face was cocked upward to study Ven, and she wore an expression of undisguised disapproval, as though she were regarding a piece of spoiled meat. One of her arms stretched over the back of the divan, and in her hand she loosely held a long, ivory opium pipe. Her other hand held the mouthpiece of the pipe a few inches away from her mouth. She wore a black robe, which hung on her flat chest like a scarecrow's rags. Its severe color accentuated the pallor of her skin, and her purple lips, discolored from opium, pressed together like oily earthworms. She wore no jewelry except for a bright gold collar, which encircled her neck like a brace.
    “Move closer. Meet your second and third mothers,” she said, pointing to the other two women.
    The matchmaker seized the opportunity to make herself useful. She reeled toward Ven, her back curved torturously to the ground. “Come over here, girl. Pay your respects to your mothers-in-law. Bow and offer them the soup.”
    Ven moved toward