The Mountains Sing(7)

“I’m glad he’s teaching you and C?ng French,” said my father.

“But I don’t see why they should learn it,” my mother said, and I couldn’t agree more. The French were occupying our country. I’d seen French soldiers beating farmers on our village road. Sometimes they’d come into our home, searching for weapons. In our province, farmers and workers had been demonstrating against them. My parents didn’t get involved. They feared violence and believed the French would eventually return our country to us, without bloodshed.

My father stopped pounding and lowered his voice. “You know that I hate those foreigners. They’ve been here more than sixty damn years too long, robbing us blind with their duties and taxes, killing innocent people. But we can only kick them out if we understand them.”

“Is Emperor B?o ??i doing just that? Studying in France to liberate us from them?” my mother asked, holding out her tray as I poured pounded rice onto it.

“People say the French are turning him into their puppet, though. Wouldn’t it be ideal for them, ruling us via our own emperor?” my father answered, and resumed pounding.

We finished our work. A rooster flapped his wings from our side garden, tossing a buoyant song high up. Other roosters followed, chorusing to call the sun to wake.

Drum sounds echoed from the village pagoda, signaling that the fifth time interval had finished, that it was five o’clock in the morning.

Mrs. Tú hurried down the yard. She pulled me into her arms. “Why aren’t you in bed, Kitten?”

“I’m a little farmer today, Auntie.” I sniffed the sweet smell of areca nuts and betel leaves emanating from her clothes.

She smiled and turned to my mother. “Sorry, Sister, I overslept.”

“Not at all, Sister. You worked so late last night.”

Receiving the urn, which brimmed with white rice from my mother, Mrs. Tú hurried across the yard, toward the kitchen.

A pink glow pushed through the eastern horizon. Birds sang on tree branches. The first sunrays glimmered on the husks under my feet. I held the broom, sweeping sunlight into a pile.

My mother carried a tray to my father, who sat on the veranda steps. She poured steaming green tea into jade cups.

“Good morning.”

I looked up to see Master Th?nh stepping out, his eyes smiling under bushy eyebrows. “Oh how I love to wake up early here, to this fresh air,” he said, taking a deep breath. Class wasn’t starting soon, yet he’d already donned his turban, black tunic, and white pants.

My father laughed. “Please, join us for some tea.”

Squatting down between my parents, I had a sip of my father’s tea. A bitter taste bit into my tongue, yet a fragrant sweetness lingered in my throat.

“Master Th?nh, I was just wondering about Hà N?i. . . . It must be a fascinating place,” my mother said as she handed my teacher a cup. Like most people in our village, she hadn’t been to the capital city.

“Hà N?i? Oh, yes, it’s special. And very ancient, too. Nearly one thousand years old.” Master Th?nh’s eyes became dreamy. “My family lives in the Old Quarter. There, small lanes weave through a maze of old, slanting houses. But you only know the Old Quarter if you remember its thirty-six main streets. Each has a life of its own—Silk Street, Silver Street, Tin Street, Shoe Street, Bamboo Street, Coal Street, Copper Street, Salt Street, Coffin Street, Cotton Street, Traditional Medicine Street . . .”

My eyes widened as my teacher recounted all the names from memory.

Master Th?nh went on to say that his family had a house on Silver Street. His father was a silversmith who wanted him to continue the family tradition. “But the busy city life isn’t for me. I’m lucky my younger brother V??ng is there to shoulder that task, so I can enjoy this wonderful country life while teaching delightful children.” He smiled at me.

I thought it was clever of Master Th?nh’s parents to name his sons Th?nh and V??ng, which, together, mean prosperity. As Master Th?nh talked about Hà N?i and his family, I tried to remember his every word. I had no idea what I did then would help save my life twenty-five years later.

“G’morning.”

I turned. My brother was standing in the doorway, yawning and stretching like a cat. Two years older than me, C?ng was tall and well built. His skin was a golden brown from his days playing outside, riding buffaloes and catching crickets.

“Up so early?” Master Th?nh asked, sipping his tea.

“Yes, Master. Got to study while the brain is fresh.”

“Có c?ng mài s?t có ngày nên kim,” my teacher said, beaming. Ah, the proverb that I’d heard countless times: Perseverance grinds iron into needles. Upon hearing it again, the happy feeling inside me dropped like a stone. When it came to studying, C?ng worked much harder than me and I believed he was much better. He could remember all those confusing ancient Vietnamese, Chinese, and French characters. On top of that, he didn’t need an abacus to do his arithmetic.

As if to rescue me, a group of nine men appeared at our gate. Clad in brown shirts and black pants, they were holding sickles in their hands. On their heads sat nón lá—conical hats woven with bamboo and palm leaves. These men had worked for my parents for many years.

“Please, join us for some tea,” my father said.