The Mountains Sing(10)
“Ah, you trust those foreigners too much. They’re pacifying us with their words, words that they’ll soon swallow.” Hùng went on to tell me how the French wanted to keep Vi?t Nam backward, uncivilized, and impoverished. How they extracted our natural resources, transporting them home. How they fed Vietnamese opium to blunt our sharp minds. They were never going to let us be free.
As we talked, I was amazed. Men I knew outside my home didn’t bother with women’s opinions, considering us unworthy of conversation, saying that “?àn bà ?ái kh?ng qua ng?n c?”—Women can’t pee higher than the tips of grass blades. So when Hùng looked into my eyes and said he didn’t agree with me, I liked it. I realized how genuine and handsome he was. His eyes radiated excitement, his lips curled up like a half-smiling moon.
I fell in love with your grandpa then. I still see his love every day, looking at you, Guava. You have his eyes, his nose, his smile. Sometimes when I’m talking to you, I feel I’m talking to him, too.
We married that year, the Year of the Buffalo, 1937. At my parents’ request, Hùng went against tradition and moved into our house. Our eldest son, your Uncle Minh, was born in 1938, followed by your mother, Ng?c, two years later, then your Uncle ??t in 1941.
Now, looking back, these were the happiest years of my life. I thought happiness had burrowed deep under my skin and no one could take it away from me.
Then, one day during the winter of 1942, my life changed.
I REMEMBER THAT day, so vividly, from the moment I bent down to my children, the lamp in my hand illuminating their faces. Minh, four years old then, had his arm slung over ??t, who’d just turned one. Both had kicked away their thick blanket.
In a far corner of my large childhood bed, Ng?c was muttering in her sleep. Guava, you know how beautiful your mother is now, but you don’t know how pretty she was as a little girl—milky skin, long eyelashes, rosy lips. Wrapped in a silk quilt, she was a fairy coming out of her cocoon.
“I’ll miss you, babies,” I whispered. In a few hours, I’d be leaving them for the first time, to go to Hà N?i for twelve long days. I wanted to scoop them up, holding them close. Instead I pulled the blanket over the chests of my sons, then slipped away as winter rain sluiced down our roof.
The lamp’s flickering guided me back to my room, which used to be the old storeroom.
“Di?u Lan, are you up?” A soft voice. Oh, no, I’d woken my husband.
I blew out the lamp, gliding into bed.
“What time are you leaving, em?” Hùng’s chin was on my face. He covered me with the warmth of our quilt.
“At the start of the fifth time interval.” Around three in the morning.
“I wish you’d let me go instead. Women shouldn’t be on the road.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, anh Hùng.” I brushed away his idea with a quiet laugh. “Papa and Brother C?ng will take care of me. Besides, I need to pay respect to Master Th?nh.”
With this trip to Hà N?i, I’d get to visit my childhood teacher, who had been ill, and see his house on Silver Street. This would also be my chance to help my father. Business hadn’t been easy. With the spread of World War II, the Japanese had arrived. They’d been ruling us through the French, burdening us with yet another layer of taxes and duties.
“But Hà N?i is a long way, em,” Hùng insisted. “As I said, a teacher at my school has heard stories about Japanese soldiers robbing villages up North, attacking civilians.”
“Ah, these are just rumors, don’t you think, anh?”
“It might be true. This crazy war is giving the Japs too much power.”
“You worry too much.” I pulled the blanket to cover Hùng’s arm. “As I’ve told you many times, Papa knows the roads.” I reminded him that the Northern region rumored to have troubles was near the Chinese border, far from where we’d be traveling.
“But promise you’ll be careful?” Hùng begged.
I thought it was unnecessary for him to worry about the trip. The Japanese had said on the radio that Asians ought to love Asians, and they were not here to fight. They said they’d help Vi?t Nam establish its independence. I’d seen with my own eyes how polite Japanese soldiers were. A group of them had passed by our village. The sight of their brown uniforms, shiny boots, and dangling swords scared me at first. But timidly, they knocked on our house gate, asking my mother if they could use our yard to eat their lunch. They were so young, these soldiers, and friendly, too. They played with my children, kicking featherballs high into the air, laughing just as Vietnamese boys laughed.
I let a current of sleep pull me away, waking a bit later to the sounds of faint murmurs, hurried footsteps, and the thumping of buffalo feet against the yard’s surface. I fumbled in complete darkness for the bag of clothes I’d kept near the bedroom entrance and sneaked out.
On the veranda, under the glow of three large kerosene lamps, my parents, C?ng, his wife Trinh, and Mrs. Tú were piling sacks of potatoes onto a long cart. The cart sat on large wheels, its wooden frame crowned by sheets of woven palm leaves.
Out in the rain, a pair of water buffaloes were munching fresh grass, their horns’ arcs towering above their heads.
Rushing toward my family members to lend them a hand, I knocked my knee against the cart’s side and nearly tumbled down into the yard.