The Mountains Sing(17)
“Grandma, but if something happens to you—”
“Nothing will. I’ll be very, very careful.” She kissed my hair then pointed at a pot dangling from the roof of our cooking area. “Guess what I have for us?”
“Rice?” My stomach rumbled.
“Better. Wait and see.” She winked at me. “I got you a gift, too, but can’t remember where I put it.”
I jumped up and peeled away the straw mat. Nothing. I looked under our pillows. There was nothing under our clothes and among our bowls and chopsticks, either.
“Look harder.” Grandma giggled.
Finally, I found my gift, wrapped and hidden under the pile of dry branches for cooking fuel. A book. Pinocchio, the Adventures of a Little Wooden Boy. Squatting on the mat, I opened the pages, which transported me to Italy, where Geppetto the woodcarver discovered a piece of wood that could talk.
A delicious smell rose from the kitchen. I lifted my eyes. Grandma’s thin body bent down to the fire. She’d always encouraged me to read far and wide, unlike my friends’ parents who pushed their children to memorize textbooks. She’d always done the best for me. I was a bad granddaughter for doubting her.
I came to her, eyeing the pan. Beef. Paper-thin slices of it were sizzling.
“There’s one thing I don’t like about becoming a trader.” Grandma squinted her eyes against the smoke. “I won’t be home often to look after you.”
“I can look after myself, Grandma. Remember how you panicked the other night? It wasn’t necessary.”
As Grandma turned around to chop more onions, my fingers became a pair of chopsticks, lifting several slices of beef, ferrying them into my mouth. My tongue burned, my eyes watered, but my stomach cheered.
I quickly wiped my mouth before Grandma could catch me. She tossed pieces of ginger and onions into the beef, her chopsticks danced, mixing them together.
“I’m sorry.” She added a dash of fish sauce into the beef. “But I’d gone to Th?y’s house and her mother said she hadn’t seen you.”
“I was playing in her backyard, Grandma. Please, stop worrying about me.”
“Guava, I promised your mother to take care of you. I can’t let anything happen—”
“Don’t you see how big and strong I’ve become?” I pulled her up, showing her that the height of our shoulders matched. “And should somebody try to kidnap me, I’d kick their buttock.” I poked my finger into Grandma’s stomach. Quick as lightning, she jumped back, her hand blocking mine.
I kicked into her groin. She raised her leg, blocking my leg.
“All right, all right. I shouldn’t have forgotten I’ve taught you the moves of Kick-Poke-Chop.” Grandma laughed. “Let me finish cooking, or else everything will burn.”
GRANDMA’S NEW JOB gave me freedom. She was gone most of the day, and I didn’t need to be home. After school, I spent most of my time with Th?y, skipping ropes, lying in her hammock gossiping, venturing out to see different parts of Hà N?i. We even walked all the way to the Red River, dipping our feet into the water, the wind whistling in our hair.
As Grandma turned into a professional con bu?n, the Old Quarter became the maze of her secret operations. She had no stall, nor did she carry any of the goods with her. With a nón lá resting on her head, shielding her from the sun, she hung around government stores, looking for customers. Negotiations were conducted in whispers. Once the price was agreed upon, Grandma took her customer somewhere else, where the item was handed over and money paid. All the while, everyone involved had to be watchful. They would scatter and abort the sale whenever a policeman or government guard appeared.
By now, American planes had vanished from Hà N?i’s sky. Grandma made the most out of the opportunity by working day and night. Dark rings appeared around her eyes. Her skin was scorched by the sun, and she had blisters on her feet. In exchange for the danger she faced, she brought home food, clothes, and books for me. And whenever she was home, she sang.
“As long as I have my voice, I’m still alive,” she had told me as she recounted how she’d carried Uncle Sáng three hundred kilometers to Hà N?i, on foot. My uncle was a baby then. He was a soldier now. Where was he fighting and was he surviving? Were my parents surviving?
“Grandma,” I asked one night. “How come Auntie Hoa hasn’t visited us for a while?” Auntie Hoa was Uncle Sáng’s wife and lived in an apartment near the Hà N?i Opera House. Her parents were high-ranking Communist officials.
“I think we won’t see her for quite a while longer.” Grandma was eating her dinner after a long day of work. It was nearly midnight. She picked up some water spinach with her chopsticks, dipped it into fish sauce, and popped it into her mouth.
“How come? Isn’t she supposed to take care of you when Uncle Sáng is away, Grandma?”
“She belongs to a different class. A higher class. So I guess she isn’t bound by any rule.” Grandma shrugged as her chopsticks ferried a couple of tiny shrimps, which I’d cooked with juicy star fruit.
She smacked her lips after chewing. “Delicious, you’re becoming a chef.”
“Grandma,” I insisted. “I know Auntie Hoa holds an important Party position, but we’re still her family, right?”