The Mountains Sing(71)

“You okay?” Miss Nhung reached for his hand.

He shook his head. “Sister Ng?c . . . would you mind getting me some liquor?”

He turned to Miss Nhung. “If you haven’t heard, em, I’ve had problems.”

She put down her chopsticks. “Yes, your mother told me, anh. It won’t be easy to give up alcohol, but I hope you’ll try.”

My mother went to the kitchen and fetched the bottle.

“Don’t put the whole thing in front of me, Sister,” said my uncle. “One small glass will do for now.”

Receiving the glass from my mother, Uncle ??t sniffed it. He finished it in one go and closed his eyes.





Destination

Thanh Hóa–Hà N?i, 1955–1956

Guava, that day outside the house with the thick fence of leafy plants, I waited for your mother, Sáng sleeping in my arm. To disguise myself, I squatted under a tree opposite the house, spreading out my palm. I was a beggar, begging for hope.

It was a long while before Ng?c emerged, holding hands with a little girl. They were both running and crouching down low.

“Older Sister, aren’t we supposed to hide inside?” The girl giggled as they approached me.

“Nobody said so.” Ng?c glanced at me. Her hair had been washed and flowed in a smooth stream down her back. Her face, now cleared of dust and tear stains, glowed. Wearing clean pants and a shirt, she looked as fresh and pretty as a jasmine flower.

“Quick, Younger Sister. Behind that tree.” Ng?c pointed past me. As the girl rushed forward, Ng?c lagged behind, her hands reaching for her waistband. Something white gleamed in her fingers.

“I got a job, Mama.” She dropped two tightly pressed balls of cooked rice into my open palm. “You go. I’ll be fine. I’ll check for Thu?n when I can.”

“Are you sure, Ng?c?” There was no answer. Ng?c had already run away from me to join her new sister.

SO, WITH SáNG on my waist, I continued my long journey toward Hà N?i. Now that I’d shed four children along the way, I was a butterfly who’d lost its wings, a tree who’d forsaken all of its leaves and branches. My mind was dull with guilt, but my legs had to push on. I punished myself by walking day and night. To stay alive, I ate grass, rice plants, and things I could steal from the fields. Sáng survived on my milk and the little food I gave him. The air was getting colder, and I bundled him in Mrs. Tú’s carrying cloth; its scent made me weep. Yet I knew I couldn’t waste my energy on even a single teardrop: I had to hurry if I wanted to see Minh, Ng?c, ??t, H?nh, and Thu?n again.

We were moving faster, but not fast enough. The national highway was the shortest route to Hà N?i. One early morning, I’d ventured onto it again and asked for a ride. There weren’t a lot of vehicles at that time, just the occasional car or buffalo cart. Very few people stopped when I waved and called, but they all turned down my plea for help. There were checkpoints along the highway, and nobody dared to assist a woman without a travel permit.

I resumed walking on the dirt path parallel to the highway. Then I remembered something. Can you believe it? In my crazy mind, I’d forgotten I was wearing something quite valuable.

I went behind a bush and took off the brown outer shirt. Holding my breath, I peeled the silk blouse away from my skin. It was sweaty and dirty but wasn’t ruined. My brother had chosen the best material, and the outer shirt had protected it.

I put my face into the blouse; C?ng’s tender face and his smile were alive in my mind. I hoped Mr. H?i had managed to recover his body and bury him. I imagined my brother’s death and felt his pain. Never could I have thought that so much violence would crash down onto our family. On the other hand, everyone I knew had lost family members to violent deaths. I wondered when the circle of violence would end.

I found a stream and dipped the blouse into the rolling current, washing it. Sunlight glistened on the exquisite green fabric, lighting up the countless ancient words of Phúc—Blessings. Holding the blouse in one arm, I walked with Sáng on my other arm. Cái khó ló cái kh?n—Difficulty gives light to wisdom. The shirt could be a ticket to help us get to Hà N?i.

Your Uncle Sáng was such a good boy. He babbled and pointed at flowers and butterflies, at cars and carts crawling like bugs on the national highway. Then he pointed at a tree by the roadside. When we came closer, he pointed at a pair of bamboo baskets lying there. Inside the baskets sat small piles of guavas and oranges, some areca nuts, and betel leaves. Beside the baskets were ropes that connected them to a bamboo pole. The owner of the baskets was squatting on the ground, leaning against the tree trunk, fanning herself with her hat.

“Hello, Sister.” I lowered myself down next to her. Sáng crawled out of my hands, toward the fruit.

“Don’t touch.” I held him back.

“He can have one.” The woman picked up a golden guava. She checked for its softness and gave it to Sáng.

“?i, ?i.” Sáng babbled, clapping his hands. He sank his baby teeth into the fruit.

“Oh, you’re so cute.” She pinched his cheek.

“Did you just return from the market, Sister?” I asked.

“It was a market all right . . . but nobody wanted to buy. Everyone tried to sell what they got from their own fields and gardens.”