The Mother Of Silk
Lacking references instinct routinely betrays us underground. Mason moves quietly through the long corridor counting doorways and branching hallways. He is deep within the basements and sub-basements of Chinatown. Instinct tells him he is somewhere beneath the Grand Hotel. The fourteenth door is painted a vivid robin's egg blue. He stops and raps on the door with his knuckles, swift and sharp.
He hears silence followed by a scratch, a scrap, a clank, and a whoosh in short order. A stocky man in a hairnet opens the door from behind, one foot braced against the steel frame, the muscles in his arm corded and taut as he overcomes the seal of air.
Mason glances at the characters in Mandarin that scroll down the inside of the frame. "Room 14, Bolts of Silk, Discrete". The stocky man vanishes down one of the long aisles of steel framing. This far under Chinatown you are where you are supposed to be.
Mason moves through the shelves grazing his fingertips across the cool steel as he passes, counting. Eleven rows in Mason takes a turn to the right and slips into the near darkness. He dons a pair of clean, fine, white gloves. He takes a small bright light from his pocket. The click is loud in the silence as he turns it on.
The bolts of silk are carefully laid out in neat rows, resting on ivory parchment paper. A label neatly printed in Mandarin tells the story of each bolt. He carefully inspects the silk and reads each story. He does not know what he is looking for, but he searches for it. Time fades into the meticulous seduction of silk.
She is almost upon him before he senses her. It is the faint smell of the almond cookies and green tea that catches him. He turns to her. She holds the lacquered tray carefully, in both neatly manicured hands, and smiles as he turns.
Her brown hair is cut short and neat, she wears no makeup, her face tanned and lined with the comfort of her age. Her eyes are brown and crow dark. She smiles with the left corner of her mouth and when she says "Mason" there is a slight descending disapproval in her tone. Mason smiles reservedly.
She is the Mother of Silk. It is her daughters Mason has come to inspect. None will leave without her permission. From behind her the stocky man appears carrying two small chairs and a round table. He sets them in place and she places the tray on the table and sits. She gestures to the other chair. Mason sits.
Mason never keeps notes. To write down the story of each bolt would be a violation. Each story belongs to each bolt and until Mason has taken possession of the bolt, the story remains the possession of the silk.
Mason and the Mother of Silk dance in Mandarin, in English, and in Portuguese. It is a weaving dance that rises and falls in each language, swirling and soft. Mason knows the bolt he desires, but he moves his way toward it softly, tenderly, passing others along the way, pausing to revel in their beauty, to comment on their graces, to compliment their weave. The Mother of Silk knows the bolt that Mason desires and tantalizes him with it. She passes by it, she contrasts it, demurs from it.
Cookies and tea are consumed until finally, in a whisper smooth moment the bolt is consummated, a lover, seduced and embraced. No money changes hands. No price is discussed. The Mother of Silk presents, Mason accepts. They are far from the cruel worlds of commerce here, deep beneath the earth, at the foundations of the vault of heaven. The Mother of Silk passes her daughter to her fervent suitor.
Mason rises as the Mother of Silk rises, his outstretched hand guides her up by the fingertips, grazing her arm, just above her elbow, just below the short sleeve of her tunic. Her hand rises, her fingertips on the back of his hand, soft as silk. His heart turns. Her hand lingers and slips away, as she does, leaving behind only the faintest of scents, a scent not there where she arrived, the scent of jasmine and woman. Every sense alive, Mason knows that this far underground and lacking references our instincts betray us. He winds his way back to the world above.
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