The Mountains Sing(70)

I nodded and stared at the branches of a ph??ng tree. They were barren, shivering in the wind, like Grandma and I had during our walk to Hòa Bình. I pointed out the brown lids scattered around the schoolyard. “Bomb shelters. The largest one is in front of the canteen. You should know where to run if the bombs come back.”

“I hope they never do. In fact, I wish there would never be another war on the face of this earth.”

I turned to Tam. I’d never heard any boy talk like him. “You have a relative who fought?”

“My father . . . he came back miserable. We are lucky, though. Many men of my village never returned. How about your relatives?”

“My Uncle Thu?n died. Uncle ??t lost both of his legs. We’re still waiting for my father.” I felt the heat behind my eyelids and bit my lip hard to stop myself from crying in front of a boy I barely knew.

“I’m sorry. . . . How long has your father been gone? Have you heard from him at all?”

“Seven years, nine months and twenty-five days.” I lifted the S?n ca from my pocket. “My Papa carved this for me in the jungle.” I could no longer hold back the tears.

“Shhh.” Tam put a finger on his lips. He brought the bird to his ear. “Uhm huhm.” He nodded. “Uhm huhm, thank you, Birdie.” He arched his brow. “Oh, you want to talk to her now, Birdie? Okay, here she is.”

He placed the S?n ca next to my ear. “Do you hear him?”

I shook my head, smiled, and wiped my tears.

“He said you’re a special girl, a princess, and you shouldn’t hang out with me.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because I’m a nhà quê.” Tam called himself a country bumpkin. He dropped his bag, stepping away from me. He bent low, pretending to hoe his field. He thumped his back with his fist, wiping the invisible droplets of sweat from his face, and resuming his hoeing again. He looked so funny that I had to laugh.

CYCLING HOME, I couldn’t get Tam out of my mind. His smiling eyes and his warm voice made me giddy. I told myself to stop thinking about him. Men could be evil, like those who’d harmed my mother. I had no idea what type of a person Tam was. I shouldn’t trust him so easily.

I arrived home to find Uncle ??t on the floor, whistling. He was working on a new trough for the pigs.

My mother was busy in the kitchen, delicious smells twirling up from her hands.

She looked at me over her shoulder. “Feed the animals, they’re driving me crazy.”

“Sure.” I laughed. “What’re you cooking?”

“Tofu in tomato sauce and coriander.”

My stomach cheered. I hadn’t had it for such a long time. My mother cooked it the best.

“Will lunch be ready soon?” Uncle ??t glanced up at the clock. “Nhung will be here in a minute.”

“I’m excited to see her, too.” My mother tossed a bunch of green spinach into a sizzling pan.

When I finished feeding the pigs, the food was on the table. Miss Nhung distributed the chopsticks. She was so thin that I could see the blue veins on the back of her hands. I hoped Uncle ??t would take care of her, but how could he, without a job?

“How do you like your new school, H??ng?” Miss Nhung smiled at me.

“It’s not so new anymore, but it’s great, Auntie.” I thought again about Tam.

“What do you want to study later when you go to the university?”

University sounded grand. I hoped I could make it. I sucked in a breath. “I don’t know yet, Auntie.” I found words beautiful, but didn’t know whether I’d be brave enough to be a writer. I’d been reading books by Phùng Quán, Tr?n D?n, Hoàng C?m, and Lê ??t—writers who’d been imprisoned in the Nhan V?n Giai Ph?m movement. Their work during the mid-1950s called for freedom of speech and human rights, bringing me closer to my grandpa, who lived at the same time and held the same liberal ideas. Yet such work also highlighted to me the risks that writers faced, with a government that censored everything. “A circus rope walker balances breath-taking difficulties,” the poet Phùng Quán wrote. “Yet tougher still to be a writer enduring a lifetime on the path of truth.”

I knew that, like Phùng Quán, if I wrote, it could only be the truth as I saw it. I couldn’t twist my words to please the ears of those in power.

“I hope you’ll become a doctor, H??ng,” said Uncle ??t. “Your mother can teach you a few things about herbal medicine. It has magical powers.” He winked at Miss Nhung, who blushed.

My mother smiled, scooping tofu into Uncle ??t’s bowl. “When do we need to leave?”

“In half an hour.”

“I have oranges and incense for Thành’s altar,” Miss Nhung said.

My mother nodded. “I’ve prepared a small bag of rice for his parents.”

“You two are wonderful,” Uncle ??t whispered, and I felt glad that my mother and Miss Nhung had taken the afternoon off work to accompany him. His friend died in the bamboo forest on this day three years ago, and Uncle ??t needed to burn incense for him. But it would be hard for my uncle to tell the grieving family about their son’s final moments as his life was extinguished by the B-52 bombs.

Uncle ??t shifted in his chair. He’d turned to look at the kitchen cabinet several times. There was a glass of water in front of him, and he kept staring at it.