Fifty Contemporary Writers

by Bradford Morrow

  The night sky was starless. Only moonlight illuminated everything, emanating from a moon low and yellow and pocked, larger than she had ever seen it before. Its surface appeared to her as clear and as close as the ridges of a mountain from a valley. Pearly light bathed the stunned and salt-specked faces of the hundred people on deck, all of whom had expected to die but were instead granted this eerie reprieve.

  Nobody talked. Night, empty of sound, held every soul in thrall—the retching, the complaint of babies, the nervous breathings, now all muted. The world seemed alien, somehow beyond the reach of Mai’s mind—to be beneath the giant moon, and have nothing but space, and silence, all around.

  A fog rolled over the water.

  Mai looked sternward and saw Quyen slumped, arms outstretched, collapsed to one knee. Her head lolled against her left shoulder. Her forearms were bleeding from rope burn—she must have been stranded on deck when the storm came in; someone had strapped her, spread-eagled, to a low horizontal spar, and saved her life.

  Mai searched for Truong.

  From below deck there now came a humming of prayer. Then someone gasped—Mai swung to find a face, then several, turning pale, hands to mouths beneath stupefied eyes.

  “Do you hear?”

  “What is it?”

  “Be quiet! Be quiet!” an urgent voice commanded. “Listen.”

  But when the noise on the boat ceased, there still came from every direction the sound of people whispering, hundreds of people, thousands, the musical fall and rise of their native tongue. Barely intelligible. Sometimes right next to Mai’s ear and she would whip around—but there would be nothing except the close, gray fog.

  In a whisper, “It’s nothing—the wind, that’s all.”

  “Who’s there?” someone demanded loudly, unsteadily, from the prow.

  No answer, just the lapping of low murmurs.

  On the foredeck, a man turned to his companion.

  “Here?”

  The second man nodded. Beneath the moonlight Mai recognized him. It was Anh Phuoc, the leader of the boat. He was, Quyen had told her, one of those mythic figures who’d already made his escape and yet returned, again and again, to help others.

  He nodded and looked out into the haze.

  And now she realized where they were—where they must be. Everyone had heard about these places. They had ventured into the fields of the dead, those plots of ocean where thousands had capsized with their scows and drowned. They stared into the fog. All drawn into a shared imagination, each in some space of unthinking as though they had leapt overboard, some madness possessing them, puncturing the glassy surface of the water and then plunged into black syrup, coming up into breath but panicked, disoriented, flailing in a viscid space without reference or light or sound.

  “Try to sleep.”

  It was Quyen; she had untangled herself from her station and crawled forward. Mai turned to her, then looked away. There was a sort of death in her face.

  “I saw Truong, down—,” Mai began, then saw that he had appeared silently behind his mother. He stood close by Quyen without touching her. For a moment Mai was seized with a desire to take the boy up and press him hard against her chest, to keep him—his stillness, self-containment, whatever it was about him—close to her. But she too was contained, and didn’t move. She began to smell incense from the hold. People praying to their ancestors. It lightened her head. A dim thought struggled, stabilized, in her mind—maybe the voices on the water were those of their ancestors. Maybe, she thought, they were answering their prayers. What did they know? What were they so desperate to communicate?

  “It’s over now.”

  She let herself pretend Quyen was speaking to her and not to Truong.

  “The storm’s over, Child. Try to sleep.”

  Mai submitted, and when she closed her eyes, knowing they were both beside her, she found the hum of the phantom voices almost lulling—almost like the wash, when she dozed off, of a monsoon starting, or a wedding, dim sounding on distant midday streets. A sea wind bearing men’s voices up from the wharf. At times she thought she almost recognized a voice. When her eyes opened a second later it was morning: the moon had disappeared and the cloud streaks were already blue bruised against a sky the color of skin.

  The first five days they’d traveled on flat seas. It had been hot, and Mai had faced the choice of being on deck and burnt by the sun or being below in the oven-heated hold. In the beginning people swam in the ocean, trailing ropes off the slow-moving junk, but afterward the salt on their bodies cooked their skin like crispy pork.

  She spent as much time as she could bear out of the hold, which simmered the excrement of a hundred people. Their boat was especially crowded, Quyen had explained, because it carried two human loads: another boat organized by the same guide had at the last minute been confiscated by the Communists.

  Each family kept mostly to itself. Mai was alone. She stayed close to. Quyen and Quyen’s six-year-old son, Truong. He was a skinny child with an unusually bony frame and a head too big for his body. His eyes, black and preternaturally calm, were too big for his head. He spoke in a watery voice—rarely—and, as far as Mai could tell, never smiled. He was like an old man crushed into the rude shape of a boy. It was strange, she thought, that such a child could have issued from Quyen—warm and mischievous Quyen.

  When Mai first met him they’d been gliding—silently, under cover of night—through a port full of enemies. Even then his demeanor had been improbably blank. The war had that to answer for too, she’d thought—the stone-hard face of a child barely six years old. Only when the boat shifted and his body leaned into hers had she felt, astonishingly, his heartbeat through his trunk—an electric flurry racing through the concavities of his back, stomach, and chest. His body furious with life. He was engaged in some inward working out, she realized, and in that instant she’d grasped that nothing—nothing—was more important than her trying to see whatever it was he was seeing behind his dark, flat eyes.

  Two nights later, as Mai had been trying to sleep on deck, the song began. The faint voice drifted out of the hold with a familiar undertow. It was an old Vietnamese folk song:

  I never thought to be a soldier’s wife,

  You were not born to foreign lands preside;

  Why do the streams and hills our love divide?

  Why are we destined for this faithless life?

  In the shade of the hibiscus hedge her mother had once sung the same words to her during the years her father was away at war. The hibiscus flowers outside their kitchen in Phu Vinh, which bloomed only for a single day. And though dusk came, her mother would keep singing the soldier’s wife’s lament, her long black hair falling over Mai’s face soft as a mosquito net, and Mai would trace the darkening red of the flowers through that curtain of hair.

  Mai followed the song into the hold. She stopped at the bottom of the companionway steps; in the darkness she could just make out Quyen’s form, lying on her side behind Truong as though shielding him. Her voice was thin, attenuated in some way, stripped of vibrato. It didn’t slide up to notes the way traditional singers’ did. Mai stood on the dark steps and listened:

  The path of wind and rain is yours to take,

  While mine does mourn an empty room and bed;

  We reach to touch each other, but instead …

  Her mother, who had waited each time her husband went to sea, again when he left to fight the Communists, and then—five years later—when he left once more, to report for reeducation camp. That was supposed to have been the last time. He was supposed to have been gone for ten days—the prescribed sentence for low-ranked soldiers. Mai remembered: on the eleventh day the streets were swept, washed, festooned with lanterns—women in their best and brightest outfits. The war had been lost, their husbands and fathers were coming home. Mai and Loc wore clothes their mother had borrowed. All through the afternoon they’d waited, through the night too, the lanterns growing more and more dazzling, the congee a
nd suckling pig cold, congealed. The next morning Mai’s mother sent for word but received none. What could she—could any of them—do?

  Overcome with feeling, Mai wanted to ask Quyen to stop singing—not to stop singing. Never to stop. How could she explain it all? Afterward, she had seen her mother caught on that cruel grade of time, growing old, aging more in months than she had in years—and yet she had given no comfort to her. She had been a daughter selfish with her own loss. From that day on, she never again heard her mother sing.

  Squatting down, Mai dried her eyes with her sleeves. The song continued. With a shock, Mai realized Quyen’s mouth was not moving. She was asleep. The singing cut off as Truong lifted, turned his head, staring at Mai with large obsidian eyes. Stunned, she said nothing. She looked back at his pale face, the slight, girlish curve beneath his nose to his lips. The intentness of his gaze. Then, slowly, she felt whatever turmoil broke and banked inside her becoming still. Watching her the whole time, Truong opened his mouth and took a deep breath:

  You took my love southeast before I asked

  Whereto you went, and when you should return;

  Oh warring soul! through bitter years you learned

  To treat your sacred life like leaves of grass.

  Quyen stirred. Her eyelids still closed, she murmured, “Yes, you miss your father too. Don’t you, my prince?”

  He stopped singing. Shadows shifted in the darkness.

  Here was how it began: her mother brought her through the dim kitchen into the yard. Her father had been released, three months prior, from reeducation camp, and immediately admitted into the hospital in Vinh Long. He had gone blind. The doctors were baffled because they could identify no physical abnormality, no root cause. His reeducation had blinded him. Mai, in the meantime, continued trundling every day from corner to corner, selling cut tobacco to supplement their family income. Her father’s sickness was not unlike the war: something always happening elsewhere while she was forced on with her daily routine.

  That day had been a slow one and she’d come home early. In the yard, beneath branches of mastic and white storax flowers, next to the deciduated hibiscus hedge, her mother had hooked her fingers under her waistband and handed her a damp bundle of money. The ink faded from the sweat of counting and recounting.

  “Child can spend it however Child likes but try to keep, nha?”

  Knowing her mother’s usual frugality, Mai struggled to respond but her mother said nothing more, wiping her hands stiffly on her pajama pants and turning back into the house.

  Two days later she told Mai to go visit her father at the hospital.

  “Child is a good child,” he told her after a long silence, his eyes fixed on some invisible locus in the air. He’d barely reacted when she came in and greeted him—it was only her second visit since he’d returned from reeducation camp. What had they done to him there? She remembered him being gaunt three months ago, when he’d first returned, but now his whole face was sunken—as though its foundation had finally disintegrated, leaving his features to their low inward collapse. His eyes extruded from their deep-set sockets like black stones.

  “How is Ba?”

  “Ba is unwell,” he said, rubbing his stubbled chin. He spoke to her as if to a servant. He didn’t even look in her direction.

  Mai hesitated. “Can Ba see?”

  He didn’t seem blind to her. She’d always imagined blindness to be a blacking out—but what if it wasn’t? What if he could see—his eyes seemed outwardly unchanged—but had now chosen not to? What if his eyes were already looking elsewhere?

  She said, “Ba will get better.”

  “Child is a big girl now. How old is Child now?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Heavens,” he cried. Then jokingly, “So Child has a boyfriend, ha?”

  Mai blushed and her father’s hand searched for her head, patted it. Instinctively she twisted her cheek up into his rough palm. She’d come with so much to say—so much to ask—but he might as well have been deaf as blind. He laughed humorlessly. “At sixteen, Ba had to look after Ba’s whole family.”

  Mai didn’t reply. She felt insolent looking at his face when he didn’t look back.

  “Look after your mother,” he said.

  Look at me, she wanted to say. She considered moving into his fixed line of sight but didn’t dare. Just once, she thought. Just look at me once, Ba, and I’ll do anything you say.

  “And obey her, nha?”

  “Yes, Ba.”

  He gave a single nod, then smiled, but it was nothing more than a flexing of his lips.

  “Obey your mother. Promise, nha?”

  “Yes, Ba.”

  “Child.” His voice lowered conspiratorially and, her breath quickening, Mai stooped down closer to him. He was going to talk to her. Once, that had been her whole life. He smelled like rusted pipes. “Stop it,” he whispered. She held her breath, watching his eyes. They were still locked in midair. “Stop crying, Child.”

  She held herself still as he patted her head again.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  The next day her mother put her on a bus to Rach Gia. It was a five-hour trip, she was told. Here was a plastic bag for motion sickness. In the market she would be picked up by an uncle she had never met. “Give this to him,” her mother said, and pressed a fold of paper, torn from an exercise book, into her confused hands. Just before she got on the bus, her little brother, Loc, tugged at her shirt and asked if she minded if he used her bicycle.

  “Use your own bicycle.”

  She boarded. Watched the two of them through the scuffed, stained window. Then, on the street, her mother raised one hand from her thigh in a hesitant motion, as though halfway hailing a cyclo.

  “Ma?”

  Mai pushed through the scree of indifferent bodies and rushed out to her mother. She stood there, breathing hard, sensing the larger finality in their parting. Her mother asked if she still had the money. Yes. Remember not to let anybody see it. Yes. Her mother smiled abstractedly, then brought her hand onto Mai’s head and eased down, combing hair between her fingers.

  “Child,” she said softly, “remember, nha? Put your hat on when Child gets off.”

  Mai stammered, “Child hasn’t said good-bye to Ba.”

  Her mother’s hand followed the contours of her skull down into the inlet of her neck, a single motion. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Ma will say. For Child.”

  As the bus pulled out, a residue of memory surfaced in Mai’s mind. Seeing her father off the first time—seven years ago, when he left for the war—her mother had clung fast to his elbow, her body turned completely into his, her face creased as though it were having trouble holding together a coherent emotion. But the second time—five years later, at the end of the war—her face had completely smoothed itself over. It had learned how to be expressionless.

  Mai looked out of the back window—searching for her mother’s face—but the street, like a wound, had closed over the space where it had been.

  After hearing him sing, Mai caught herself, time and time again, searching for Truong. She was most at ease sitting in the shade of the hatch door, facing the prow, watching him with the other children. The only structure on the foredeck was the pilothouse, and the children played in a small clearing behind it—a concession of territory from the adults teeming all around. Many of the children were twice Truong’s age. He played with them laconically, indifferently, often leaving a game halfway through when he was bored, inevitably pulling a small group along—eager for him to dictate a new game.

  Unlike the others, he didn’t constantly look around to find his family. He lived in a space of his own absorption. Quyen too seemed content to let him be. Hemmed in always by dozens of other sweaty, salt-gritted bodies, Mai watched him, stealing solace, marveling at how he could be in the sun all day and remain so pale.

  It seemed impossible she’d known him only a few days.

  According to Quyen, Truong’s father
—her husband—had already made his escape. She told Mai that he had arrived safely in Pulau Bidong, one of the larger Malaysian refugee camps, eight months ago. He was waiting for them there.

  Why hadn’t they traveled together?

  “We are going to America,” Quyen continued, passing over Mai’s question. “My husband has already rejected one offer from Canada. He says he has made friends in the Red Crescent.”

  “Red Crescent?”

  “Do you have any family there?”

  After a while, Quyen, misreading Mai’s silence, continued, “You are probably going to Australia, no? Many people are going there now.”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” She pursed her lips in mock decision: “Then Mai will come with us.”

  “Thoi,” started Mai uncertainly.

  “You must come. That one likes you,” Quyen said, gesturing at Truong. “He talks about you all the time.”

  Mai flushed with pleasure, not fully understanding why—as she knew Quyen was lying. “He is very good,” she said. “Very patient.”

  “Yes,” Quyen replied. She reflected for a moment. “Like his father.”

  “And who has ever heard of a young boy who can sing like that? It’s a miracle. He will make you rich one day.”

  “Thoi, don’t joke.”

  She looked at her friend, surprised. “I am not joking.”

  Together they turned toward him. He stood skinny and erect, his clothes hanging from his limbs as though from a denuded tree’s branches. His hands directing the ragtag crew to throw their sandals into a pile. Mai wondered briefly if it made Quyen proud—seeing all those children scrambling to obey her son. The game was one her brother used to play. Relaxing her mind, Mai could almost fool herself into thinking he was there, little Loc, springing away as the designated dragon swung around to protect his treasure hoard. He was about the same age as Truong. Her thoughts started to drift back to her last meeting with her father, at the hospital, when Quyen interrupted: “That one was an accident.”

  Mai immediately blushed, said nothing.

  “He slid out in the middle of the war.”