The Mountains Sing Page 3

  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 Thịnh 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 Thịnh, I was just wondering about Hà Nội. . . . 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 Nội? Oh, yes, it’s special. And very ancient, too. Nearly one thousand years old.” Master Thịnh’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 Thịnh 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 Vượng 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 Thịnh’s parents to name his sons Thịnh and Vượng, which, together, mean prosperity. As Master Thịnh talked about Hà Nội 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, Công 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 Thịnh asked, sipping his tea.

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

  “Có công mài sắt 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, Công 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.

  Công and I raced inside the house to fetch new cups.

  Then my brother and I rolled up our pants and got down to our chores. On the farm, which my father had taken over from his parents, Công fed the pigs and I the chickens. My parents had shown us that the greatest joy of being a farmer was to get our hands dirty in the company of plants and animals.

  I played with the chicks until my mother’s call rolled toward me. She was carrying a tray heaped with food from our family altar out to the veranda, followed by Mrs. Tú, who lifted another tray.

  Surrounded by my family, I held the sweetness of the new rice harvest in my mouth. My teacher and the nine men kept nodding their heads, complimenting Mrs. Tú’s and my mother’s cooking.

  After breakfast, my father went with some workers to the fields while my mother worked with the rest in the yard. She’d asked me to go back to bed, but I sat at my desk, opening my books. In the study, Master Thịnh was teaching Công. It’d be my turn to learn in the afternoon, and I wanted my teacher to say I was more intelligent than my brother.

  A cooling wind gushed through the open window. Outside, sunlight poured gold and silver onto swaying leaves. Through the fence of flowering hibiscus that bordered my house and the village lane, I saw an old man stooping.

  He was dragging his feet, guided by a walking cane. The flaps of his white tunic fluttered like butterfly wings. A black headband crowned his silvery hair. I recognized him to be Mr. Túc, the famous fortune-teller of my village.

  Like all my friends, I both feared and admired the old man. I often lurked in front of his home, watching crowds of people who’d traveled from faraway places to receive his predictions. Some emerged from his house delirious with happiness, others brimming with tears. Although many people worshiped Mr. Túc, nobody knew exactly where he got his fortune-telling magic. Some whispered that when he was seven years old, Mr. Túc went swimming in the village pond. The greenish Thủy Quái—the Water Devil—caught his legs, pulled him into the mud, and tried to drown him. None of his friends had noticed he’d gone missing until a column of water arose, shooting up a boy who was punching his fists and kicking his legs. They watched in astonishment as Túc plopped back down into the water and swam calmly to shore. When the boy came home, many people rushed to him to ask about his fight with the Water Devil. Later, they would come back again and again for his fortune-telling magic.

  What was he doing here, at this time of the day, leaving his customers behind?

  I hoisted myself up to the window frame, jumping softly down to the garden beneath. A few grasshoppers sprang up, their rough skin brushing against my calves. Crouching low, I watched as Mr. Túc stopped in front of our gate.

  “Chào ông Túc.” Delight jumped out of my mother’s mouth as she rushed over to meet him.

  “Chào bà. How busy you are! Is the harvest good?”

  “It’s not bad, Mr. Túc. At least our rice wasn’t destroyed by storms like last year.” My mother put down her basket, helping the fortune-teller across the bustling yard.

  Determined to know the reason for the fortune-teller’s visit, I sneaked into the living room and sat on the wooden phản, behind the old man’s back. My mother was pouring tea, offering him a steaming cup.

  “Mr. Túc, thanks for coming. With our business growing, we need to build a large storeroom. Perhaps on the front garden.” My mother poured herself a cup. “Do you think the location is auspicious?”

  Just then, something scurried in front of me.

  “Ahhh!” I leaped away from the phản.

  “What’s that?” The old man flinched.

  “A huge rat.” The animal had vanished, but I still rushed to my mother.

  She laughed. “Our harvest is disturbing them, Kitten. They’ll soon go back to their burrows.”
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br />   The fortune-teller suddenly straightened his back. “Tell me who this girl is, Madam Trần.” He looked me up and down.

  “This is Diệu Lan, my daughter.”

  I folded my arms in front of my chest, bowing my respect to the old man.

  “Come here, little girl.” The fortune-teller knitted his brows. “Something about you is making me very . . . very curious. Sit here, that’s right. Show me your palms. Spread them wide and hold them still.”

  I did what I was told. Waves of excitement rolled through me. Surely my friends would be very jealous that Mr. Túc offered to read my future.

  The old man leaned back in the wooden armchair with dragon heads carved into the armrests. He squinted, scrutinizing the lines and marks on my palms. All of a sudden, his eyes popped open, as if registering a shock.

  “So, Mr. Túc, what do her palms say?” My mother grabbed a paper fan, sending a breeze toward the fortune-teller and me.

  “Give me another minute.” Mr. Túc lifted my hands even closer to his eyes. He peered at the lines, touching them with his index finger. It tickled. I would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so serious.

  My mother poured more tea.

  “So?” she asked when he looked up.

  “Madam Trần, I don’t think you’d want to know.”

  “Why not, Sir?” My mother’s hand and the teapot stopped midair.

  “Perhaps it’s better for you not to.”

  “In that case, I’m very curious.” My mother leaned over the table, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

  The old man studied my face, his stare sending chills down my spine. “Madam Trần, 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.

  “Mẹ!” 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 Trần. 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 Nội, 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 Đàn Forest, where Công 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 Trường Sơn 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 Thịnh, 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 Hồng 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 Thịnh’s books had given me other ideas of beauty.

  It was customary for the eldest son to inherit the family business, but my brother Công wanted me to be involved. The elders in my village often said if the French hadn’t abolished the royal exams, Công would have passed them, become a mandarin of the imperial court, and brought honor to our village. But Công 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 Nội, 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.”

  “Ah, you trust those foreigners too much. They’re pacifying us with their words, words that they’ll soon swallow.” Hùng went on to tell me how the French wanted to keep Việt Nam backward, uncivilized, and impoverished. How they extracted our natural resources, transporting them home. How they fed Vietnamese opium to blunt our sharp minds. They were never going to let us be free.

  As we talked, I was amazed. Men I knew outside my home didn’t bother with women’s opinions, considering us unworthy of conversation, saying that “Đàn bà đái không qua ngọn cỏ”—Women can’t pee higher than the tips of grass blades. So when Hùng looked into my eyes and said he didn’t agree with me, I liked it. I realized how genuine and handsome he was. His eyes radiated excitement, his lips curled up like a half-smiling moon.

  I fell in love with your grandpa then. I still see his love every day, looking at you, Guava. You have his eyes, his nose, his smile. Sometimes when I’m talking to you, I feel I’m talking to him, too.

&n
bsp; We married that year, the Year of the Buffalo, 1937. At my parents’ request, Hùng went against tradition and moved into our house. Our eldest son, your Uncle Minh, was born in 1938, followed by your mother, Ngọc, two years later, then your Uncle Đạt in 1941.

  Now, looking back, these were the happiest years of my life. I thought happiness had burrowed deep under my skin and no one could take it away from me.

  Then, one day during the winter of 1942, my life changed.

  I remember that day, so vividly, from the moment I bent down to my children, the lamp in my hand illuminating their faces. Minh, four years old then, had his arm slung over Đạt, who’d just turned one. Both had kicked away their thick blanket.

  In a far corner of my large childhood bed, Ngọc was muttering in her sleep. Guava, you know how beautiful your mother is now, but you don’t know how pretty she was as a little girl—milky skin, long eyelashes, rosy lips. Wrapped in a silk quilt, she was a fairy coming out of her cocoon.

  “I’ll miss you, babies,” I whispered. In a few hours, I’d be leaving them for the first time, to go to Hà Nội for twelve long days. I wanted to scoop them up, holding them close. Instead I pulled the blanket over the chests of my sons, then slipped away as winter rain sluiced down our roof.

  The lamp’s flickering guided me back to my room, which used to be the old storeroom.

  “Diệu Lan, are you up?” A soft voice. Oh, no, I’d woken my husband.

  I blew out the lamp, gliding into bed.

  “What time are you leaving, em?” Hùng’s chin was on my face. He covered me with the warmth of our quilt.

  “At the start of the fifth time interval.” Around three in the morning.

  “I wish you’d let me go instead. Women shouldn’t be on the road.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, anh Hùng.” I brushed away his idea with a quiet laugh. “Papa and Brother Công will take care of me. Besides, I need to pay respect to Master Thịnh.”

  With this trip to Hà Nội, I’d get to visit my childhood teacher, who had been ill, and see his house on Silver Street. This would also be my chance to help my father. Business hadn’t been easy. With the spread of World War II, the Japanese had arrived. They’d been ruling us through the French, burdening us with yet another layer of taxes and duties.