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Authors: Mingmei Yip
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knew immediately what Aunty was trying to tell me with this story: “First, don’t ever think you can surpass me. Second, it’ll take long, bitter practice to even begin to master this skill.”
Putting the second principle into action, she said, “All right, enough talking, now back to work.”
I noticed for a long time that when Aunty Peony was not teaching me or embroidering, she seemed to slip into a state of melancholy. She’d either stare at her teacher’s portrait on the altar or lock herself in her room upstairs, shutting out us and the rest of the world. Curious as I was to know what was inside her room and what she did there, I could not risk sneaking a look.
The four of us—Purple, Leilei, Little Doll, and I—each had a room of our own on the ground floor. Since I was the newcomer, I was given the smallest room, really just a closet. Aunty let us have our own room not because she was nice, but because she knew that if we shared a room we would pass the night snacking, gossiping, and laughing, leaving us too tired to work well the next morning. Of course, sometimes Purple and I would sneak out to the courtyard to talk during the night, but we had to keep it quiet so as not to wake Aunty.
During the day, Aunty Peony, Purple, and Leilei would embroider together on Along the River mounted on a long wooden frame. Aunty would work on the difficult—and interesting—parts while Purple and Leilei did the background, trees, minor figures, and whatever else was needed to fill up the space.
To better concentrate, sometimes Aunty would work on the most complicated sections upstairs in her room. I very much wanted to see her at work by herself, but none of us was ever invited. Only Little Doll was permitted into her private sanctum to clean it. No doubt she felt that the child did not interfere with her privacy. Curiously, neither Purple nor Leilei showed any interest in sneaking into Aunty’s room—or maybe they already had but didn’t tell anyone.
One time I asked Purple about Aunty’s room, but she looked alarmed and warned me, “Spring Swallow, don’t even think about this.”
“Why . . . ?”
“Maybe you’d find out something you’d rather not know.”
Seconds passed and I asked, “Sister Purple, did you ever go up there?”
She cast me a disapproving look. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Spring Swallow”—she sighed heavily—“from now on, instead of thinking about going upstairs, you should stay in your room and work.”
So, instead of going up to Aunty’s taboo room, I went out and up the mountain. I didn’t go there often because most days, after the hectic lessons and endless practice, I’d be so exhausted that the place I wanted to go was not the tall mountain, but my wobbly cot.
Aunty seemed to have too much on her mind to care what I did during my spare time. Though she never asked, sometimes I wondered if she suspected that despite my oath of celibacy, I was going out to see a man. But I was sure she would be able to detect a man’s smell on me. However, I had no man to meet and no interest. I hadn’t overcome my fear and disgust at marrying a ghost. I wondered, though, what it would be like to be with a living man.
When I went up to the mountain, I’d wander around and reminisce about my mountain-climbing days with the village boys. But I had a special place I would go to with a large, flat rock where I would scratch Aunty’s teachings onto the mountain walls. Despite her cold manner, Aunty was an excellent teacher—knowledgeable, meticulous, patient. What she taught me was so valuable that I wanted to write down as much as I could, in case I forgot. Aunty did give me a brush and paper but was very stingy with it and read everything I wrote. I knew she would not want me to record her teachings lest someone outside our group learn her secrets of a thousand beauties. I suspected one reason she kept such a close watch on us was so that no one
Putting the second principle into action, she said, “All right, enough talking, now back to work.”
I noticed for a long time that when Aunty Peony was not teaching me or embroidering, she seemed to slip into a state of melancholy. She’d either stare at her teacher’s portrait on the altar or lock herself in her room upstairs, shutting out us and the rest of the world. Curious as I was to know what was inside her room and what she did there, I could not risk sneaking a look.
The four of us—Purple, Leilei, Little Doll, and I—each had a room of our own on the ground floor. Since I was the newcomer, I was given the smallest room, really just a closet. Aunty let us have our own room not because she was nice, but because she knew that if we shared a room we would pass the night snacking, gossiping, and laughing, leaving us too tired to work well the next morning. Of course, sometimes Purple and I would sneak out to the courtyard to talk during the night, but we had to keep it quiet so as not to wake Aunty.
During the day, Aunty Peony, Purple, and Leilei would embroider together on Along the River mounted on a long wooden frame. Aunty would work on the difficult—and interesting—parts while Purple and Leilei did the background, trees, minor figures, and whatever else was needed to fill up the space.
To better concentrate, sometimes Aunty would work on the most complicated sections upstairs in her room. I very much wanted to see her at work by herself, but none of us was ever invited. Only Little Doll was permitted into her private sanctum to clean it. No doubt she felt that the child did not interfere with her privacy. Curiously, neither Purple nor Leilei showed any interest in sneaking into Aunty’s room—or maybe they already had but didn’t tell anyone.
One time I asked Purple about Aunty’s room, but she looked alarmed and warned me, “Spring Swallow, don’t even think about this.”
“Why . . . ?”
“Maybe you’d find out something you’d rather not know.”
Seconds passed and I asked, “Sister Purple, did you ever go up there?”
She cast me a disapproving look. “Why are you so nosy?”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Spring Swallow”—she sighed heavily—“from now on, instead of thinking about going upstairs, you should stay in your room and work.”
So, instead of going up to Aunty’s taboo room, I went out and up the mountain. I didn’t go there often because most days, after the hectic lessons and endless practice, I’d be so exhausted that the place I wanted to go was not the tall mountain, but my wobbly cot.
Aunty seemed to have too much on her mind to care what I did during my spare time. Though she never asked, sometimes I wondered if she suspected that despite my oath of celibacy, I was going out to see a man. But I was sure she would be able to detect a man’s smell on me. However, I had no man to meet and no interest. I hadn’t overcome my fear and disgust at marrying a ghost. I wondered, though, what it would be like to be with a living man.
When I went up to the mountain, I’d wander around and reminisce about my mountain-climbing days with the village boys. But I had a special place I would go to with a large, flat rock where I would scratch Aunty’s teachings onto the mountain walls. Despite her cold manner, Aunty was an excellent teacher—knowledgeable, meticulous, patient. What she taught me was so valuable that I wanted to write down as much as I could, in case I forgot. Aunty did give me a brush and paper but was very stingy with it and read everything I wrote. I knew she would not want me to record her teachings lest someone outside our group learn her secrets of a thousand beauties. I suspected one reason she kept such a close watch on us was so that no one
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