The Mountains Sing(35)

“Respectful?” I sat up. “Perhaps respect no longer exists in this family.” I thought about how Uncle Sáng, his wife, and my mother had behaved.

Grandma’s face darkened. I was sure she’d slap me or shout at me, but she quietly retreated from my room.

I lay down, humming, thinking I’d won Grandma over for once, but she appeared, the nón lá on her head, the food bag in her arm.

“You’ll understand why I do this once you become a mother.” She pulled me up. I wanted to resist, but the look in her eyes silenced me.

When we arrived at the concrete building where my aunt and uncle lived, Grandma sent me upstairs alone, hiding her face under her nón lá. “Meet me on Tràng Ti?n Street when you’re done,” she said.

I watched her pedal away, her shadow tiny against approaching darkness.

I bit my lip to stop myself from screaming as I entered the gloomy, filthy staircase. I wanted to rip the bag open, devouring the food myself. I was tired of my duty: to Grandma, to my mother, to my relatives.

I knocked on the apartment door. No answer. I waited. “Uncle Sáng,” I called.

Silence.

“It’s good you’re not home,” I said, turned, and was about to walk away when a whisper raced past my ears. “H??ng, is that you?”

The door had creaked open. Auntie Hoa was poking out her face, scanning left and right. In a flash, she reached for my hand, pulling me inside. The door shut quietly behind us.

“Did anyone see you come up?” She frowned, her stomach bulging under her mismatched pajamas.

“Don’t think so. Why?” I didn’t address her with a respectful title, yet she didn’t even notice; her eyes were on the food bag.

“Come. We’re just having dinner.” She pulled me further into her apartment. We passed a room where piles of books sat on the floor. Theories of Marxism-Leninism, the cover of one book said. Capitalism Is Shuddering before Its Death was the title of another one. The American Empire Is Only a Paper Tiger was a book with the name of its publisher printed in a large font: the Truth Publishing House.

To my right was the empty kitchen. To my left were a bathroom and another room, barely furnished. Grandma had told me Uncle Sáng had given away his beautiful furniture, to show that he belonged to the working class. There was plenty of space to raise chickens and pigs, but there were no animal sounds.

We stepped into a big room.

My uncle was sitting on a reed mat. In his undershirt and shorts, he looked shockingly thin. In front of him were two plates of food: manioc and boiled water spinach. People who worked for the government were paid in food coupons, but the coupons weren’t enough. Uncle Sáng should raise animals like us, instead of reading those propaganda books.

“Chào chú.” I greeted him.

“H??ng. You here alone? Where’s Grandma?”

“Down there on the street.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief.

“She sent you some food.” The bag felt much heavier now; it contained many hours of Grandma’s labor and her love for her youngest son.

Uncle Sáng and Auntie Hoa exchanged glances. A moment passed. My uncle cleared his throat. “Just put it down. Lean it against the wall. Yes, yes. It’s fine there.”

I dropped the bag.

“H??ng,” my uncle said. “Tell Grandma it’s good she’s careful, that she sent you instead of coming herself.”

I didn’t answer. I just needed to get out of there.

? ? ?

A WEEK LATER, I arrived home from school and was unlocking the front door when a bell clanged behind my back. I turned to see a man in a yellow hat who was perched on a bicycle, a bag slung over his shoulder, an envelope in his hand. A postman.

“Eh, is this the house of Mrs. . . . Mrs. Tr?n Di?u Lan?”

“Yes, Uncle, she’s my grandma,” I said.

“A letter for her. From Sài Gòn.”

I leaned my bike against the door. “Sài Gòn?”

The man nodded, handing me the envelope.

I glanced at the neat writing on its front. “From my Auntie H?nh. Do you . . . do you have another letter for us?”

“Don’t think so, but let me check.” The postman pulled a stack of envelopes out from his bag, going through them. “Nothing else.”

I watched until he and his bike disappeared from our lane, hoping he’d turn back to tell me that he was wrong, that there was another letter for Grandma and me.

The pigs, piglets, and chickens greeted me with hungry complaints as soon as I swung the door open. I peered at the letter. Perhaps Auntie H?nh had gone to Sài Gòn to look for my father and Uncle ??t. Perhaps she’d met them there.

I wanted to know what my aunt had written, but feared the news. I had to find Grandma.

I hurried to feed the animals, then raced toward the Old Quarter on my bike. Around me, autumn was ripening. Golden light poured from the deep, blue sky. Red and yellow leaves swayed, drifting down from tree branches, covering pavements, rustling under people’s feet.

In the Old Quarter I rode from Silk Street to Silver Street, from Cotton Street to Onion Street. I returned to Traditional Medicine Street, biked along Coffin Street and ended up on Bamboo Street. There were thirty-six streets here, and Grandma could be on any of them. She could be any of the people I saw, scurrying by, their faces hidden under their nón lá.