The Mountains Sing Page 12

  And Hương, thank you for being such a good girl, for looking after Grandma and your Mama. How are your studies? Are you still the only student who got the Excellence Award from your school? Write me soon, promise?

  Mama, Sister Ngọc, Hương, I can’t wait to have you visit me here. We could spend the entire day shopping at Bến Thành Market and sample all types of Southern food. It’s an amazing city, really.

  With all my love,

  Hạnh.

  The tea seller praised Auntie Hạnh for doing so well in the South, but Grandma said she didn’t like some of the changes mentioned in my aunt’s letter, such as reeducation camps and the abolishment of the South’s well-established education system.

  Grandma decided to go home early with me. She led the way, weaving us into tiny lanes that cut across the Old Quarter. When we turned into a large road, I paused at the sight of several guards clutching the arms of a struggling man, dragging him along. Grandma told me to keep going.

  When Grandma stopped, I realized we were in front of the legendary Tràng Tiền store. Here, the most delicious ice cream had been made for generations. I didn’t dare think we’d buy something, but Grandma told me to choose as many sticks as I wanted. I went for three different types: chocolate, young sticky rice, and coconut. Grandma bought two for herself, both mung bean.

  “Let’s go somewhere nice,” said Grandma.

  “Hoàn Kiếm Lake?”

  “You read my mind.”

  A short distance away, the Lake of the Returned Sword sparkled in front of us like a gigantic mirror. I pushed the bike along the dirt path that snaked around the shore, passing bomb shelters with lids overgrown by sprawling grass.

  “Grandma, the man who was being pulled away by the guards, what do you think he did?” I asked.

  “His pants . . . The cuffs were too wide. Too flared. He was being punished for trying to look like Western hippies.”

  I looked down at my pants. Thankfully, the cuffs were narrow.

  “The government wants to control us, Hương. People have been arrested and put into prison. Promise you’ll be careful? If they find reasons to take your bike away one day, let them. Don’t fight them, promise?”

  I nodded, wondering how I’d handle the guard if he came to our home, looking for me.

  We sat on a stone bench, under an ancient tree with its many branches reaching down to the lake’s surface, yellowing leaves flitting in the wind. A short distance away, in the midst of the water, the Turtle Tower glimmered in the afternoon light, moss greening its walls. Atop the tower, figures of dragons and phoenixes soared up to the sky. On a tiny island near the tower, the Ngọc Sơn Temple rose above a thick clump of trees.

  It was a blessing that this ancient site had escaped the bombings.

  I watched the water’s surface, hoping for a glimpse of one of the gigantic turtles that lived in this lake. When I was little, Grandma had told me the legend of the Lake of the Returned Sword. Hundreds of years ago, when China’s Ming Dynasty invaded Việt Nam, Heaven helped the Vietnamese by sending a magical sword. A poor fisherman found the sword many kilometers away from Hà Nội and brought it to Emperor Lê Lợi, who used the sword to defeat the powerful Ming Army. When peace came, the Emperor went boating on this lake. A huge turtle appeared before him, spoke in a human voice, asking the Emperor to return the sword. “The world will only be at peace if all people let go of their weapons,” the turtle said. Astonished, the Emperor held out his beloved sword. The turtle took it with his mouth, disappearing under water. From then on, the lake was named Hoàn Kiếm—the Lake of the Returned Sword.

  The ancient legend couldn’t be truer. If both Americans and Vietnamese had laid down their weapons, no one would have had to die.

  Grandma’s eyes were dreamy. “Mrs. Uyên, the tea seller, once saw a Great-Grandparent Turtle emerging from this lake. When she got home, her daughter-in-law gave birth to a son.”

  Grandma and everyone I knew had such respect for the Hoàn Kiếm turtles that they called them Cụ Rùa—Great-Grandparent Turtle.

  I took a bite of my ice cream. “It’s true then, whoever sees a Great-Grandparent Turtle in this lake will be blessed. But how many Great-Grandparent Turtles still live here, Grandma?”

  “Nobody knows. We only know they’re rare.”

  I shifted my gaze to the Ngọc Sơn Temple. Grandma and I had been there many times, praying to Heaven and admiring the remains of a Great-Grandfather Turtle. He weighed 250 kilograms and was more than two meters long. According to experts, he was 900 years old.

  Resting my head on Grandma’s shoulder, I wished I could tell her how sorry I was for the fight we’d had. From now on, I had to be kinder to her.

  Twilight sprinkled its golden rays onto us as I cycled home with Grandma. As we turned onto our lane, I saw that a crowd had gathered in front of our house.

  Grandma jumped down before her bike stopped completely. She pushed herself into the crowd, disappearing from my view.

  “Can’t believe he made it back,” a woman said.

  “He’s lucky to be alive,” said a man.

  My bike crashed to the ground.

  “Please, let me through.” I squeezed myself between bodies, my arms opening the way. Someone shoved me to the left, another to the right. I struggled to breathe, my head spinning. I inched forward and eventually found myself closer to a small clearing in the middle of the circle.

  Squashed behind some people, I stood on my toes, looking over their shoulders. My eyes found Grandma. She was kneeling in front of a metal chair that sat on two large wheels, holding hands with someone whose body was obscured by the wheelchair’s back.

  “Grandma,” I called. The people in front turned. They mumbled, giving way. Someone pulled me down, and I knelt next to Grandma. I blinked and saw a blurred but familiar face.

  “Hương, Little Hương.” A voice I knew called my name.

  “Papa!” Flashes of light flared up around me. Light that faded into a dark tunnel, pulling me into its depth.

  I floated on a bed of clouds. An immense blue sea surrounded me, waves bobbing under a layer of mist. A black dot appeared, grew larger, then turned into a Great-Grandfather Turtle. The turtle was swimming next to me now, his head held high, his mouth opening. I tried to speak, but only muffled sounds came. “Hương,” the turtle said, his eyes glowing, water glistening on his head. Breathing noisily through his nose, he flicked his tongue; something cool lapped against my forehead.

  “Hương, Hương ơi!” Someone called my name from a faraway distance. I tried to move and the mist started to evaporate. The turtle disappeared and I was inside our home. The clouds became our wooden phản, and the turtle’s tongue, a wet cloth on my forehead.

  “Guava, do you feel better?” my grandmother said.

  “What happened, Grandma?”

  “You fainted, my darling.” She nursed sugary water into my mouth.

  Memory rushed back. “Papa!”

  I looked around. There he was. The hollowed eyes, the gaunt face, the beard and rough skin. Wearing an army shirt, he was sitting in the wheelchair. Two scar-ridden stumps—the remains of his legs—protruded out from a pair of army pants that had been cut short.

  The man grinned, and I heard myself cry.

  He was not my father, but Uncle Đạt.

  “Hương,” said my uncle. “I frightened you, didn’t I? Sorry.”

  I shook my head, tears rolling down my cheeks.

  Grandma caressed my face. “You scared me so, Guava.”

  “Uncle Đạt, I’m so glad you’re back,” I managed to say.

  “Me, too. My Guava. My Little Hương. But you’re not little anymore. You’ve grown so much.”

  “Sorry about your legs.” I glanced toward the stumps. “Do they hurt?”

  “Not anymore.” My uncle pushed himself closer to the phản. He reached for my hand, held it up, whacking it against his stumps. “See? I don’t feel any pain.”

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p; “What happened, Son?” asked Grandma.

  “I stepped on a land mine, Mama. Not such a big deal.” My uncle shrugged.

  “We’re lucky you made it home.” Grandma squeezed his hand.

  Uncle Đạt smiled at me. “I have something for you, young lady. I’m glad . . . so glad to finally deliver my promise.” Unbuttoning his breast pocket, my uncle pulled out a tiny bundle, kissed it, brought it to his chest, and looked up to Heaven. He closed his eyes for a long while before turning to me, the bundle in the nest of his palms.

  I picked it up, staring at the blackish outer layers of plastic and paper. “Who is it from, Uncle?”

  “Your father.” My uncle beamed.

  “You saw him?” I sat right up.

  “Oh, many years ago. Let me see . . . seven years and two months, to be exact. It was in August 1968, when we were both heading south.”

  “Have you seen him again? You know where he is?”

  “Nope, but I bet he’ll be back before you know it.”

  As I sat there, unable to move, Grandma nudged me. “Don’t you want to open it?”

  My hands trembled as I peeled away the layers of wrapping.

  A bird. An exquisitely carved bird. Chiseled from wood, it stood on a square base, its wings open, its neck craning forward as if ready to burst into a song.

  “Your father carved it himself.” Uncle Đạt grinned. “This type of bird used to sing for us as we walked for months and months to get to the battlefields.”

  “Does it have a name, Uncle?” I brought the bird to my face. It smelled like my father, like his laughter.

  “Sơn ca.”

  “A splendid name.” Grandma smiled at me. “Sơn ca means ‘The Mountain Sings.’”

  “Believe me, this bird can sing,” said Uncle Đạt. “Whenever it did, all the mountains around me seemed to be singing, too. My comrades used to tell tales about the Sơn ca. They said the Sơn ca’s songs can reach Heaven, and souls of the dead can return in the Sơn ca’s singing.”

  “What a special bird, Uncle.”

  Uncle Đạt nodded. “This wooden bird was my travel companion during the last seven years, Hương. It climbed countless mountains with me, swam through rivers, dived into underground tunnels, and survived the bombs.”

  “That’s how it got these watermarks.” Grandma admired the bird’s wings. “I know your father has clever hands, Hương. I didn’t know he was such an artist.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Đạt.”

  “Come on, Hương. I’m the thankful one. This Sơn ca saved me. I promised your father to bring it back to you in one piece. I had to stay alive, to be able to do this,” he pointed at the bird. “See the words under the base?”

  I turned the Sơn ca and tears ran down my cheeks. My fingers traced my father’s message: Con gái, con là máu nóng trong tim cha.

  “Treasure this bird, Hương,” said Uncle Đạt. “There aren’t many left. I saw plenty of them at first. But then the bombs and the chemical sprayed by the enemy silenced them.”

  “Chemical?” asked Grandma.

  “Yes, they dumped plenty of it onto our forests and jungles. To make leaves fall off trees, so they could see us soldiers from the North. But whatever they sprayed also killed small living things. I didn’t know what the chemical was called, until after the war. It has a beautiful name: Agent Orange.”

  When dinner was ready, I pushed Uncle Đạt’s wheelchair to the table. Grandma and I glanced at each other. He sat too low.

  “We can move you onto this.” Grandma pulled a dining chair.

  “If you two are strong enough.” Uncle Đạt tried to laugh.

  “You bet.” I stepped to his right, Grandma to his left.

  “Now, hold on to these useless pieces of meat.” Uncle Đạt gestured toward the remaining parts of his thighs.

  Grandma slid her hand under one stump, her other hand supporting Uncle Đạt’s back. I followed, shivering when my fingers touched the soft flesh.

  “One, two, three.” We counted together, struggled, but managed to shift Uncle Đạt.

  “Oho, you girls are good.” Uncle Đạt clapped his hands.

  “It’s not difficult.” I sat down, picking up his bowl.

  He waved his hand. “Don’t fill it with rice yet.” He looked around. “You have some liquor, Mama?”

  “Liquor? I don’t remember that you drink, Đạt.”

  “Well . . . you know, sometimes the stuff helps ease things.”

  “Sorry, we don’t have any.”

  “Hmm, perhaps up there?” My uncle looked up at our family altar. “I’m sure Papa, Uncle Công, and Thuận wouldn’t mind sharing their drinks.”

  “They didn’t drink, Đạt. I’ve never offered them liquor.”

  “Fine.” Uncle Đạt’s face drooped. “Go ahead and eat. I can’t without a drink first.”

  “Wait.” I stood up. “Perhaps Mrs. Nhân has some. Let me go across the road.”

  Thankfully, our neighbor was as helpful as usual. She gave me a bottle of rice liquor, whispering, “My husband brewed it himself, but don’t tell anyone.”

  Back at our house, Grandma fetched a small cup. Uncle Đạt filled it, emptying it in one gulp. He smacked his lips. “This stuff is good, real good.” He picked up the bottle, sniffed it and filled the cup again. “Can you ask where she bought it?”

  “Her husband made it himself,” I blurted out, and regretted it immediately. “Oops, Mrs. Nhân told me not to tell anyone.”

  “It’s a secret then,” Uncle Đạt chuckled, tossing another cupful down his throat. He leaned toward me. “But I can only keep it a secret if they teach me how to make this.” The pungent smell from his mouth made me grimace.

  “Have some food before it gets too cold.” Grandma put a piece of grilled beef into Uncle Đạt’s bowl.

  He chewed and swallowed. “Mmm, this tastes divine. I haven’t had meat for so long. . . .”

  “There’s plenty. Eat all you want.” Grandma rearranged the plates so the beef was in front of Uncle Đạt. He picked up another piece, dipping it into salt mixed with lemon juice and ground pepper.

  “You seem to be doing really well, Mama.” He looked around. “This grand house, the bicycles, the pigs, piglets. . . .”

  “Grandma works very hard,” I said.

  “Didn’t imagine her teaching job would pay that much.” He drained another cup.

  “Of course it didn’t. We would’ve been struggling now if I’d continued teaching.” Grandma grabbed the bottle, filling the cup. “That’s enough for today, Son.” She stood up.

  “You what?” Uncle Đạt was so shocked about Grandma quitting her job that he didn’t seem to notice her walking away with the bottle.

  “I’ve become a con buôn.” Grandma reached up, depositing the bottle into the kitchen cabinet. She closed the door.

  “Hey, I need that,” my uncle protested, but Grandma was already returning to the table. She ladled vegetables into his bowl.

  “Remember how you used to love this? Spinach cooked with dry shrimp.” Her voice sounded choked.

  “Yeah, I remember. It’s delicious, thanks.” He bent his head. “So, you became a trader, huh? It’s brave of you.”

  “It’s saving us.” Grandma scooped rice into his bowl.

  “Grandma’s trading keeps me at school, Uncle. Many of my friends have had to drop out and work instead.”

  My uncle nodded. “So, where do you trade, Mama?”

  “Around the Old Quarter. I’ve done it for a few years now.”

  “You’re a pro then.” He drained the cup. “Think you’ll hire an invalid as your assistant?”

  “Đạt!”

  “I’m serious, Mama. I need a job. Me, minus my two legs.” Uncle Đạt’s voice quivered. But he cleared his throat and quickly gained his composure.

  “I’m serious, too, Son.” Grandma caressed his hand. “You’re my life. I’ll take care of you. You’ll get a job, I promise.”r />
  “Thanks.” My uncle picked up his chopsticks.

  Grandma scooped more food into my bowl. “Now, tell me why it took you so long to get home. It’s October now. You could’ve been home six months ago.”

  “It’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it now. Please, can I have some more of that liquor?”

  Grandma sighed. I thought she’d say no, but she stood up.

  She put the bottle down. “Just finish your food and you can drink.”

  Grandma slept soundly next to me. My mind was alive with images: of my father dashing through jungles under the bombs, of butterflies and birds falling in a rain of Agent Orange, of my father crouching and chiseling the wooden bird, of his hand carving his message to me onto the bird’s base: “Daughter, you are the warm blood in my heart.”

  The Land Reform

  Nghệ An, 1955

  Guava, one afternoon in March 1955, your grandfather came home, looking drunk. He leaned onto the doorframe, trying to take off his shoes.

  “How many cups of rice liquor did your friends force on you, anh Hùng?” I asked, untying his shoes. Some of Hùng’s friends brewed their own liquor but he wasn’t a drinker. Not at all.

  “No friends . . . I was called to a meeting.” Hùng struggled toward the bedroom. The way he talked, I knew the meeting wasn’t related to the school where he worked. It was to do with his political activities. Ten years earlier, after the Việt Minh saved us from the Great Hunger, Hùng had become an underground Việt Minh member, writing leaflets and documents, calling on our fellow citizens to unite in supporting the Việt Minh troops.

  I followed Hùng into the bedroom and helped him settle into bed. He shivered under the blanket; his forehead burnt with a fever. If he hadn’t drunk, perhaps he’d been caught by some bad wind.

  “What was the meeting about, anh?” I slid a softer pillow under his head.

  “They challenged me about what I’d said. So I had to explain why we need democracy. Why multiple political parties should be allowed so that we could run real elections.”

  Hùng hadn’t hidden his opinion from anyone. He was determined to help resurrect our homeland from the remnants of war. The Việt Minh had become popular by liberating the North and forcing Emperor Bảo Đại to abdicate, and by then triumphing over the French in 1954, at the battle of Điện Biên Phủ. But Hùng wasn’t keen that the Việt Minh had followed the path of the Chinese and Russian Communists by ruling our North with a single political party. By that time, the Russian Communist leader, Stalin, had sent millions of Russians to labor camps. He killed millions of others to consolidate his power.