The Language of Threads

The Language
            
of Threats

ALSO BY GAIL TSUKIYAMA

Night of Many Dreams

The Samurai's Garden

Women of the Silk

Gail Tsukiyama

A Novel

THE LANGUAGE OF THREADS. Copyright © 1999 by Gail Tsukiyama. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

Book design by Ellen R. Sasahara

www.stmartins.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Tsukiyama, Gail.

    The language of threads / Gail Tsukiyama.
        p. cm.

    ISBN 0-312-20376-4 (hc)

    ISBN 0-312-26756-8 (pbk)        ISBN 978-0-312-26756-8

    1. World War, 1939–1945—China—Hong Kong Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3570.S84L3    1999

  813'.54—dc21                                                            99-22212

                                                                                            CIP

10 9 8 7 6

For Grace

I am deeply grateful to my agent, Linda Allen, my editor, Reagan Arthur, and to Sally Richardson and Joan Higgins at St. Martin's Press for their ongoing trust and guidance.

Again, my thanks to Catherine de Cuir, Cynthia Dorfman, Blair Moser, and Abby Pollak for the many years of wit and wisdom. And to my family, immeasurable gratitude.

As I look at the moon

my mind goes roaming,

till I live again

the autumns that I

knew long ago
.

—
S
AIGYO

1938

Pei glanced down into the dark, glassy water of Hong Kong harbor and suddenly felt shy and wordless. She saw herself as a child again, whom, at the age of eight, her father had taken to the girls' house in the village of Yung Kee. Compared to their small farm, everything had been big and frightening. For nineteen years, Pei had lived and worked with Lin doing the silk work, only this time, Lin's patience and kindness wouldn't be waiting for her when she arrived.

Now, she alone would have to care for Ji Shen in the big, vibrant city; the thought terrified her. At fourteen, Ji Shen was almost half Pei's age, and had already been orphaned once, fleeing from the Japanese devils in Nanking. She had miraculously found her way to the girls' house, where Pei and Lin had nursed her back to health. As the Imperial Japanese Army closed in on Canton, they'd made a desperate run to Hong Kong without Lin to guide them. That the past weeks had been spent in constant movement was a saving grace. Pei's days had been filled with the needs of Ji Shen and with their impending voyage.

When the ferry groaned and finally docked, it swayed from side to side, knocking and creaking against the wooden pier. As the crowd pushed to disembark, Pei stopped abruptly at the railing
and stared down at the clapboard ramp that led to the crowded pier.

“We have to keep moving,” Ji Shen whispered, gently urging her forward.

Pei held onto her cloth sacks and inched toward the ramp. High shrieking voices pierced the air, attacking them from every direction. Pei felt a sharp jab from someone behind, then stepped down the ramp into the dizzying, hypnotic life that would now be hers and Ji Shen's.

“Hong Kong's so crowded,” Ji Shen said, clutching the sleeve of Pei's white tunic.

“Yes.” Pei smiled wearily. She hoped Ji Shen couldn't see how afraid she was. Everything around them hummed and buzzed with movement. Ships from all over the world were docked in Hong Kong harbor, ships with long, complicated names written on their sides. Sampans huddled together, filled with families who lived their lives on the boats crowded, swaying decks. Faces glared at them, then quickly turned away. There were more Westerners than Pei had ever seen. Even many of the Chinese women were dressed in Western clothing.

From the pier they turned left and walked down the crowded street, sidestepping swarms of people as if in a dance, sweating in the humidity. The salty pungent smells and high whining voices were overwhelming. They passed endless stalls of merchants, selling silk stockings, flowers, fresh fruit, and hot noodles in soup. Filthy, toothless beggars thrust their wooden bowls out, hoping for a coin or two. Ji Shen squeezed Pei's arm tighter as they fought their way through the crowd. A long, jagged line of rickshaws and their drivers snaked from one end of the street to the next. Pei felt her pocket for their envelope of money and the letter Chen Ling had given her with the names and addresses of other silk sisters who had made their way to Hong Kong. “Go to the address at the top of the list,” Chen Ling had directed. In her other hand, Pei grasped her belongings, including the cloth bag Moi had insisted she take. Pei carefully swung it over her
shoulder, the jars of herbs and dried fruits clinking against one another.