The Mountains Sing(18)

“Right, but it doesn’t mean she’s allowed to show us compassion. Rumors travel far these days, and she knows I’m trading. I’m sure she won’t visit us for a while. People could run into trouble if they’re caught associating with me.”

“That’s why our neighbors don’t visit us anymore, except for Mrs. Nhan. I don’t mind but when it comes to Auntie . . .”

“It doesn’t matter, Guava. Nothing matters when I have you.”

A FEW DAYS later, I went to Th?y’s shack, bringing her a small plate of bánh cu?n Grandma and I had cooked together. These crepes—thin layers of steamed rice flour wrapped around minced pork and finely chopped mushroom—were her favorite.

“She’s not here,” her mother said before I could step inside.

“I’ve got something for her, Auntie.” I lifted the bánh cu?n.

“We already ate.” She turned away, leaving me desolate in her yard. I tried to think of the reasons for her rudeness. Perhaps I’d forgotten to bow my greetings when I last saw her?

Next day at school, Th?y avoided me.

“What’s going on?” I caught up with her on the way home.

She kept on walking.

I blocked her path. “Did I do something wrong?”

She tried to get around me but I reached for her arm. “I saved some bánh cu?n for you—”

“I don’t want your food.” She pulled herself away from me. “Please, you shouldn’t visit me anymore.”

“It’s your parents, isn’t it? They don’t want us to be friends because of my Grandma’s job. . . .”

She bent her head. When she looked up, a proverb spilled out of her mouth, “Cá kh?ng ?n mu?i cá ??n, con c?i cha m? tr?m ???ng con h?.” Fish failing to absorb salt spoils; children defying parents ruin themselves hundreds of ways.

As she left, I wondered whether she expected me to defy my grandmother to earn her friendship.

That night, I planned to try to convince Grandma to quit trading, only to see her come home with a smile as wide as a river. “A book from America,” she told me, unwrapping a bundle, revealing more than a hundred pages of text, all hand-written. “It cost quite a fortune, but I thought you might like to read it. The novel is called Little House in the Big Woods, very famous in America.”

“Why should I read something from the country that bombed us?” I looked toward Th?y’s house, hoping she’d change her mind.

“You know . . . not all Americans are bad. Many have been demonstrating against the war.” Grandma picked up the first page, reading it out loud. The book began with “Once upon a time,” just like a fairytale, and brought me immediately into the mysterious world of an American girl called Laura and her house made of logs, surrounded by great, dark forests where wolves, bears, and deer lived.

“Who translated this book, Grandma?” I fingered the pages, touching the path that would lead me into the country I knew little about, although its actions were changing my whole life.

“A professor. He was sent to Russia to study American literature, to see into the minds of American people, to help us defeat their army. He practiced his English by translating this book.”

“This is his handwriting?”

“His family hand-copied it, to sell. . . .”

LITTLE HOUSE IN the Big Woods helped me forget about Th?y and allowed me to become friends with Laura, with whom I sat listening to her father’s music and stories. Just like my father, Pa was funny and enjoyed working with his hands. Just like my mother, Ma was attentive and loved to cook.

I adored Laura but also envied her. While my world was full of longing, hers was filled with the presence of her parents, her sisters Mary and Carrie, as well as her dog Jack. But just like me, Laura had her own angst. She feared for her father as he crossed the dark forest, went to town to sell furs and didn’t come back for an entire night. She was terrified for her mother when they ran into a bear, which could have killed them both.

I had heard rumors that American people liked to rule other races, that they didn’t have feelings like us, but now I knew they loved their families, and they also had to work hard to earn their food. They enjoyed dancing, music, and storytelling, just like us.

TOWARD THE END of March 1973, news of American troops withdrawing from Sài Gòn reached Hà N?i. During class time, my teachers showed pictures of tall foreign men boarding their planes. We clapped our hands, singing songs of victory. It seemed the war was definitely ending, now that we’d defeated the American invaders.

At home though, Grandma wasn’t so excited. She knew from information circulating in the Old Quarter that fighting was still taking place. With the Americans gone, the war was now among Vietnamese ourselves, the North against the South.

Whenever I saw a soldier visiting our neighborhood, I was petrified. I tried to focus on my studies, read my books, and pray.

And I stayed close to Grandma. After dinner and homework, I’d take a little nap and wake up when she came home. While she washed up and ate, I was right by her side, telling her about school and hearing about her days. At government stores, she told me, there wasn’t enough food. Arguments often exploded as people fought for a place in the long lines. More and more people were getting up in the middle of the night to queue, then sell their places to others. People had to offer bribes to get a better cut of meat or some rice without the generous addition of maggots. Everyone around us was doing whatever they could to survive, to live.