The Mountains Sing(29)

During the following years, we worked hard. C?ng and I put into practice all the skills my parents had taught us. We grew crops that were in high demand. We saved and invested. We buried jars of dry food in the garden, so that we’d never go hungry again. Over time, our family business started to blossom. Our cattle stalls were once more alive with animals, our fields green with all types of rice and vegetables.

My love for your grandpa blossomed, too. In the Year of the Pig, 1947, I gave birth to your Uncle Thu?n, followed by your Aunt H?nh one year later—in the Year of the Mouse, 1948. I turned twenty-eight that year and was already blessed with five children, and I wanted to have many more.

I remember clearly the summer I gave birth to H?nh. It was hot and humid. The air vibrated with cicadas’ cries. Following the n?m ? custom, I was confined to my bed for the whole month, a bucket of hot coals constantly smoldering under my bed. Hot coals were meant to ward off evil spirits, but the heat was almost unbearable. My whole body stank and itched; I was forbidden to take a bath or wash my hair.

Three weeks into n?m ?, I was going mad. One morning, after breastfeeding H?nh and putting her to sleep, I wrapped a scarf around my neck and snuck out of my room. Inhaling fresh air deep into my lungs, I walked along the corridor, passing my brother’s bedroom. Arriving at the living room where new furniture was gleaming, I looked for my parents. There they were, high up on the altar, behind bowls of incense.

“So skillful!” A child’s voice flowed toward me, together with the rhythmic tick-tick sound of a featherball being kicked. Ng?c, Minh, and ??t were counting, together: “M?t tr?m b?y m??i m?t.” One-hundred and seventy-one times! Could someone kick the ball so many times without dropping it? I stood up, bowed to the altar, and went out to the front yard. Squinting, I saw the children standing in a circle.

Dressed in shorts, Minh was bare-chested, sweat glistening on his skin. He was balancing on one leg, his other leg kicking a featherball. My brother C?ng had found the best feathers and pinned them to a rubber base, to make the ball. My children had become his children.

As the featherball fell, Minh’s foot raised to meet it with a happy click. The ball fluttered upward, once again.

“You’re so good,” I said. The children turned. Minh dropped the ball and in an instant, all of them darted over to me.

“Mama, Mama,” they cheered, their embraces tightening around me.

I knelt down, wiping droplets of sweat from their faces. “Play in the shade.” I led them into the shadow of the longan tree.

“Why are you out here, Mama?” Ng?c stared at me. “Grandma Tú said you have to stay in your room.”

I had to laugh. Guava, at a young age, your mother was already bé h?t tiêu—a little hot pepper.

“I’ll ask for her permission then.” I hurried across the yard before emerging into the coolness of Mrs. Tú’s room.

“Dì Tú ?i,” I called. She was squatting on a straw mat, Thu?n in her arms.

“What’re you doing here?” She frowned.

“M?.” Thu?n babbled, craning at me.

“Mama is here. Here’s Mama.” I cooed, reaching out for Thu?n. Just over one year old, he looked adorable with a single tuft of black hair crowning his head. His father had cut his hair according to the traditional trái ?ào hairstyle.

“Why have you left your room? Bad winds will make you sick.”

“It’s been three weeks, Auntie.” I tickled Thu?n’s neck with my nose. He giggled.

Mrs. Tú walked toward a large wooden trunk, where fruits picked from our garden were kept to ripen. There, you could easily find tiny yellow th? fruit radiating delicious fragrance, papayas reddening under layers of jute bags, and juicy na fruit opening like flowers.

Mrs. Tú fetched a golden banana and returned to the straw mat. Thu?n crawled out of my arms and onto her lap. She laughed, peeling the fruit. Thu?n clutched it with both hands, munching.

“Smells good.” I gave Mrs. Tú a begging look.

“You know you can’t eat raw fruit yet. Not yet. Go back to your room.” She stood up again. “I’ll bring you a bowl of black chicken and herb soup.”

Black chicken and herb soup, again? It was supposed to help my body regain strength. It’d tasted delicious at first, but the herbs—stewed ng?i c?u leaves—were overwhelming. I shuddered.

Instead of protesting, though, I watched Mrs. Tú walk across the room. Unlike the children, she’d never recovered from the Great Hunger. She’d lost most of her hair. If it weren’t for her, things would have been worse for us.

Returning with a long-sleeved shirt, she made me put it on. She unrolled the sleeves until they covered my fingers. Wrapping a thick scarf around my neck, ears, and head, she spun me around. Once she was sure there was no more exposed skin where evil spirits could attack me, she pushed me lovingly out of her room.

Walking past the side garden, I caught sight of bent backs. My husband and brother were chatting away while working on a square patch of young rice plants. The planting season had come and they’d transformed a part of our garden into the hatching place for rice seedlings.

The children ran past me. “Mama, want some green guavas?” Minh asked.

“Oh, yes, please.” Saliva gushed to my mouth, but I knew I’d have to hide those fruits from Mrs. Tú.