The Mountains Sing(9)
The old man studied my face, his stare sending chills down my spine. “Madam Tr?n, if you must know . . . your daughter will have a very hard life. She’ll remain rich for a while, but will lose everything and become a wandering beggar in a faraway city.”
The teapot slipped from my mother’s hands, shattering steaming tea onto the floor.
“M?!” I rushed to her.
She stepped away from the broken mess, pulling me into her arms. “Mr. Túc, are you sure?”
“The palms say so, Madam Tr?n. I’m sorry.”
My mother gripped my shoulders.
MY MOTHER NEVER saw Mr. Túc again and forbade me to set foot near his house. His prediction so terrified her that she secretly took me to countless temples and pagodas to pray for blessings. As I watched her burn stacks of hell money for unseen ghosts and offer roast piglets to invisible devils, I resented the old man.
Two years later, when I turned twelve, Mr. Túc died of old age. His funeral was one of the largest our village had ever witnessed. People from countless regions came to pay their respects. They talked and talked about how true his predictions had turned out to be.
Still, I didn’t see how he could be right about my future. How could I possibly become a beggar? My family was by far the richest in our village. Our stalls were filled with animals, our fields with rice and vegetables. With our buffalo cart, my father had started transporting our produce to Hà N?i, where he sold it for high profits to select restaurants. At night, when I listened to the click-clack sounds of my mother’s abacus, I knew we had plenty of money. Although we had to pay all types of taxes to the French and to the Emperor, my parents worked hard.
Mr. Túc’s prediction eventually faded like a drop of black ink diluted in a pond, leaving me a carefree girl. With my friends, I ran across fields, chasing grasshoppers and locusts, exploring streams, paddies, and gardens, climbing trees, and peeking into bird nests to spy on the hatching of eggs. With my family, I piled into my father’s buffalo cart, heading toward colorful weekend markets or to Nam ?àn Forest, where C?ng and I galloped in the green space. Oh Guava, if I close my eyes and take a deep breath now, I can still taste the sweetness of purple sim berries, the richness of yellow mountain guavas, the sour bite of wild bamboo fruit.
Sometimes my father drove us even further, so that we could see the rice fields rolling out their silky carpets, dotted by fluttering wings of storks, the Lam River glimmering in the sun, and the Tr??ng S?n Mountains soaring like dragons ready to take flight. My childhood, let me tell you, was both like, and unlike, any other.
I studied hard under the guidance of Master Th?nh, who spent five years with us, and who was my father’s best friend. Night after night, the two men sat on the veranda, sipping tea, composing poems. Ca dao—our folk poetry—had taken root in my father’s life via his mother’s lullabies. As with many farmers, for my father the act of composing poems was as natural as plowing a patch of field.
Meanwhile, all my girlfriends were getting married to men chosen by their parents. When she was thirteen, my best friend H?ng had to marry a man twice her age. His wife had died, and he needed someone to work in his field. That was how most women were regarded in those days, Guava.
My mother made sure things were different for me. She and my father encouraged me to be independent and speak my own mind. They even agreed when I refused to discolor my teeth. Do you know that in those days black teeth were considered essential for women? Those with white teeth were regarded as improper. But I was horrified at the pain my friends had to endure while their teeth were being softened by lime juice and lacquered with black dye. Master Th?nh’s books had given me other ideas of beauty.
It was customary for the eldest son to inherit the family business, but my brother C?ng wanted me to be involved. The elders in my village often said if the French hadn’t abolished the royal exams, C?ng would have passed them, become a mandarin of the imperial court, and brought honor to our village. But C?ng always shook his head at such ideas. He loved our fields, and he was falling in love with Trinh, daughter of the village chief. They got married when I turned sixteen, and Trinh became the big sister I always wished to have.
In my village, there was someone in charge of collecting taxes for the French. Nicknamed Wicked Ghost, he had a meaty face, narrow eyes, and a bald, shiny head. We all dreaded the sight of him and his whip, made out of the strongest jungle vines. Wicked Ghost whipped those who couldn’t pay in time, taking their belongings in place of the money they owed, and he lashed his wife. I avoided him and never dared to look directly at him. Little did I know that I would have to face him one day.
When I was seventeen, I met a young man. Hùng. My parents had known his family for years. After finishing his studies in Hà N?i, Hùng came back to our village and taught at a new school in our district.
Until the day I met Hùng, I didn’t like boys. Well, I liked picking on them, just as I enjoyed picking on my brother. So, you could well imagine how Hùng reacted when he first visited my home. We argued.
Yes, we did. We argued.
“Don’t you think we should kick the French out right away?” Hùng fumed at me. “The atrocities they’re committing against our people must be stopped!”
“Haven’t you heard?” I threw my words back at him. “They’ve promised to return our country to us. If we wait a few more years, we’ll have our homeland back without bloodshed.”