The Mountains Sing

  “Mama, I’m scared.” Ngọc clutched my arm.

  We went down a dirt path. Thick clusters of bamboo soared over us, leaves rustling in the wind. A pair of brick towers covered by green moss framed the village gate.

  My eyes caught sight of the first house, roofed and walled by rice straw. I put my finger to my lips. The children were silent as clams. Thankfully, Sáng was sleeping on my back. We tiptoed closer to the house fence. Behind it stood a papaya tree laden with green and golden fruit.

  My mouth watered, ready to welcome a piece of soft, sweet papaya. I saw myself climbing over the fence, dashing across the garden.

  Violent barks. A dog darted out of the house. In a flash, it leaped up, launching itself at my face. The fence shook. We jumped back.

  “Bad dog, bad dog.” A shout sprang up from a neighboring house. An elderly lady emerged, waving her broom toward the dog. Time had carved deep lines onto her face and bleached her hair silver white. She looked kind. She must be kind.

  Leading the children, I approached her. “Thank you, Auntie.” I smiled. “Would you spare us some leftover rice? My kids are sick. Please, Auntie . . .”

  She looked us up and down then grimaced. “You beggars bring bad luck. I haven’t even started my day. Go away.” She hurried inside, through her gate.

  Instead of being miserable, I was laughing. “That’s good, isn’t it? No one can recognize us now.”

  “To hell with wicked landowners!” The shouts, echoing from a close distance, made me shut my mouth.

  “Is she going to the market, Mama?” Hạnh pointed ahead. A woman had just appeared from a lane that cut into our path, walking swiftly forward with a bamboo pole braced across her shoulder. At each end of the pole dangled a bamboo basket piled with green vegetables.

  “Market, lots of food. Market,” Đạt whispered. “Let’s follow her.”

  We passed lush gardens but didn’t dare get closer to any of them. Without being told, the children bent their heads, hiding their faces.

  The woman disappeared into a lane. We caught up and found ourselves in an open area, bursting with noise and colors. The village’s morning market.

  Rows of sellers sat behind baskets filled with all types of uncooked food: vegetables, rice, beans, fish, and meat. The air no longer smelled of fear, but of happiness and excitement.

  Đạt pulled my arm, and I looked to my left. Wisps of smoke twirled from a huge pot mounted on a coal-lit stove. Behind the pot stood a woman, stirring the contents. The appetizing aroma of phở floated up to me. “Beef noodle soup, freshly-cooked beef noodle soup,” the woman sang.

  We inched closer. The children licked their lips, staring at large bowls placed on tables set in an open area where men, women, and children sat, their faces submerged in rising curtains of steam, their slurping irresistible.

  “Beggars,” the seller suddenly shouted. “Go away.” She flicked her chopsticks at us. “It’s too early. Don’t you dare bring me bad luck.”

  I pulled the children back.

  “Lazy beggars, go work to earn your living. Go work like us!”

  We dragged ourselves away.

  We passed a rubbish dump where clouds of flies scattered. We searched for something edible, but the stench told me anything there would harbor sickness. The children found something useful, though: a tattered nón lá, which I put onto my head to conceal my face.

  We reached the market entrance where people streamed through. We needed food.

  There was only one thing left for us to do.

  I asked the children to kneel down.

  They objected but I was on my knees, stretching out my palms. “Sir, Madam, we beg you. Have pity on us. We’re hungry,” I said, fearing my own voice.

  Sáng woke up. His cries throbbed against my temples.

  The children lowered themselves down next to me. “Sir, Madam, we beg you. Have pity on us. We’re hungry,” they repeated after me.

  I lifted my blouse. I had no more milk. Sáng continued to fuss.

  Around us, people were talking, laughing, bargaining, arguing. I smelled the soup. I watched feet striding past us. I thought about the happy meals our family had shared, about plates heaped with food, fields full of rice and manioc.

  “Sir, Madam, please help, we’re hungry.” The voices of the children trembled. But it seemed we had become invisible. No one stopped. No one.

  We sat there for a long time, begging. Sáng was exhausted; he could only manage occasional sobs.

  At last, somebody paused. Coins clinked happily as they were dropped into Hạnh’s palms. “Here you go,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Thank you, Grandma,” the children shrilled.

  I turned to see a slender lady, her hair long and black, her face smiling. My eyes followed her as she walked to a vegetable stall and held up a bunch of water spinach. I saw my mother in her grace.

  “Sir and Madam, look into your heart, show your sympathy.” The children seemed to gain new energy, their voices more determined, their palms cutting into the flow of people walking past us.

  As I grew desperate, Thuận’s voice sprang up. A man had bent down, placing a few coins into his palms. Our thankful words followed him until he disappeared into the market.

  A whipping sound rent the air. I jumped, pulling my children toward me.

  A man confronted us, a bamboo rod in his hand, anger reddening his face. “No beggars allowed in this village. Leave now.”

  “Sorry, Sir, we didn’t know.” I bent, hiding myself under the hat. The children clutched the hem of my shirt. We hurried away.

  “Don’t come back here, do you hear me? Don’t you dare come back.” His angry voice chased us. We arrived under a large tree a short distance away from the phở shop. Its cool shadow soothed my nerves.

  Ngọc rested against the tree as the children counted the coins together.

  “Twelve cents, Mama.” Đạt showed me his broad smile.

  I handed Sáng to him and took the coins.

  The phở shop was buzzing with customers. The seller was busy dropping white strings of noodles into bowls, topping them with slices of beef, spring onions, and coriander. She shouted at a young boy who was trying to navigate his way around the tables, steaming bowls in his hands.

  “Madam, how much is each?” I asked as the woman started ladling boiling soup into the bowls.

  “Five cents.” She eyed me, a deep line creasing between her eyebrows.

  “Please, one bowl.” I hesitated, the coins dampening in my palms. “No . . . I’ll take two.”

  “Show me your money.” Glancing at the coins, her eyes softened. “Take a seat.”

  The children jumped up and down when I said our food was coming.

  We sat around a table, our stomachs groaning. After emptying a large jug of water, we asked for more. The boy helper was too slow. The seller’s complaints only made him more confused and deliver food to the wrong tables.

  I stood up. Đạt pushed his chair aside, joining me.

  “Money for two bowls.” I placed a stack of coins next to the seller. “Please, could we have our soup now? My children are starving.”

  “Did your hunger eat away your patience?” Her gaze lingered on Đạt. “Ah, you’ve got a strong-looking boy. Why beg when he can work?”

  “Work where, Madam?” Đạt’s face lit up.

  “I need another helper. That slow snail has to go.” She raised her chin toward the boy helper.

  “Can I work for you instead?” I hurried to say. “I can help you cook—”

  “You think I’m stupid? How many children do you have? Five? Now get lost.” She pushed two steaming bowls over to us.

  The children dove into the food. I fed Sáng. He clapped his hands, opening his mouth like a bird. I didn’t remember food ever being this delicious.

  “Mama, can I work here?” Đạt looked up from his spoon.

  “No. We leave today for Hà Nội. Our destination, remember?”

&n
bsp; “Mama.” Ngọc begged me with her eyes. “It’s horrible to walk so far. I thought I’d die. Let’s stay here. Let’s look for a job.”

  “Can’t you hear the drums?” I lowered my voice. “It’s not safe for us here.”

  “Nobody knows who we are.” Đạt chuckled. “They all think we’re pitiful beggars.”

  “Have no fear, Mama,” said Ngọc.

  “No, it’s dangerous—”

  “I need to pee.” Đạt stood up, heading for the rubbish dump. Halfway there though, he turned and quickened his pace toward the phở seller.

  “Đạt, don’t—” I stood up.

  “Let him.” Ngọc made me sit down.

  Đạt was talking to the seller now. She told him something and swung her arm, pointing at the tin-roofed shack behind her back. Đạt disappeared into its dark mouth and came out a new person. His hair was combed, and he had a clean shirt on. The children giggled, watching him pick up steaming bowls and carry them to customers.

  “Look at Brother Đạt, he’s so fast,” Ngọc said.

  “Those customers, they’re smiling at him,” whispered Hạnh.

  Believe me, Guava, your Uncle Đạt was a charming boy.

  Thuận picked up my bowl, slurping down the last droplets of soup. He smacked his lips so loud, everyone had to laugh.

  We moved back into the tree’s shadow. Sitting there, I hoped we wouldn’t run into trouble. The man with the bamboo rod was browsing the market. He’d chased away a couple of other beggars, not just by his words; his rod had rained blows down onto them.

  Holding Sáng, I leaned my back against the tree, my legs pillows for the children who had lain down. I looked up at the tree trunk, at its hundreds of hanging roots, and realized it was a Bodhi tree. Buddha had meditated and became enlightened under the Bodhi tree. I felt his blessing on a cool wind that caressed my face.

  My eyes were heavy as lead. I told myself to stay awake to watch over the children, but sleep drifted me away.

  A delicious smell woke me up. Đạt had squatted down, a bowl in his hand. As his siblings shared the soup, he told me he’d gotten the job.

  “How much will she pay you, Son?” I asked.

  “Ten cents each day.”

  “That’s only two bowls of phở. That’s pure exploitation!”

  “But it can buy us food.” Đạt pulled bits of dry leaves from Thuận and Hạnh’s hair. “Mama, we need a short rest. Let me give this a try. We’ll see in a couple of days.”

  The children begged me with their eyes. My aching body begged me, too. I nodded.

  “I have some bad news, though,” said Đạt. “Even though I tried, she only wants to take me. And she allows only me to sleep in her shop.”

  “What about us?” Ngọc looked at me. She shrugged. “I guess there’re plenty of bushes around.”

  “Đạt, are you coming or what?” an angry voice boomed. The phở seller arrived under the tree, looking down at us, her hands on her hips, her lips smeared with the red juice of the betel quid she was chewing.

  “Madam.” I stood up. “Please . . . I can help you better than my son. The kids can look after themselves—”

  “Stupid woman.” The seller rolled her eyes, spitting a mouthful of red liquid onto the ground. “Haven’t you heard about the Land Reform? You think I’m so dumb?” She edged closer to me, her breath pungent. “I might be a fool but not foolish enough to employ a grownup. They’d execute me for being a rich person, an exploiter, a member of the bourgeoisie.” She chuckled. “I’m not hiring your son, understand? He’s the son of my faraway brother, and he’s just helping out.”

  “Let’s go.” She pulled Đạt up. “Bring that bowl with you. Plenty of dishes to wash.” She turned to me. “Take your children and leave. You can’t hang around here. He’s trouble.” She glanced at the man with the bamboo rod as she strode away.

  “Mama.” Đạt leaned toward me, whispering, “Where do we meet tonight? I’ll bring you some food and water.”

  “Outside the village gate. Behind the bamboo grove.” Tears welled in my eyes.

  “Be careful, don’t let people recognize you, Son.”

  “Plenty of soot over there.” Đạt grinned, signaling toward the phở pot. “A black mustache would suit me fine, don’t you think?” He winked then dashed away.

  The night was hot and thick, swollen with buzzing insects. Sáng slept like an angel in my arms. The phở had brought back some of my milk. Ngọc fanned the mosquitoes away with my hat. She’d just woken from another deep sleep and her fever had eased.

  A flickering dot appeared at the end of the dark road. Gradually the dot turned into a flame that floated midair.

  “It’s him. Brother Đạt.”

  “Quiet, it could be somebody else.”

  “It’s him, I know.” Thuận’s voice drifted away from us.

  “Thuận, come back,” I hissed.

  “Over here, Brother Đạt, over here,” Thuận cheered.

  The flame wobbled and disappeared. We sank again into darkness.

  I heard my own heartbeat, then footsteps on dry leaves, and Thuận’s laugh. “I knew it was you, Brother Đạt.”

  I held Đạt in my arms. My beloved son. I kissed his hair. He smelled like home.

  “Brother Đạt, Brother Đạt.” Ngọc and Hạnh clapped their hands.

  “Shhh.” Đạt chuckled. “You guys hungry? I brought something.”

  “Where? Where?”

  We fumbled and squatted on the ground. Đạt placed a package into my hands. I felt the smoothness of fresh banana leaves and inhaled the fragrance of boiled sweet potatoes and maniocs.

  I distributed the food to the children.

  “Water, Mama.” Đạt gave me a bottle. He reached for my face. “Don’t cry. It’s not bad to work there. Much better than in the rice field.”

  “How’s the woman treating you?”

  “She’s okay, Mama.”

  “I’m so glad to see you, Brother Đạt,” said Hạnh.

  “No, I miss him more,” said Thuận.

  “Shhh, quiet.” Đạt laughed.

  Oh, Guava, that was a special night. It was too dark for us to see each other’s faces. Mosquitoes punctured our skin. Threatening drumrolls and shouts of vicious slogans rang from afar, but I felt as if the rustling bamboo had built a fortress around us.

  When it was time for Đạt to leave, he promised to come back the next night. I walked with him to the phở shop. After he’d hugged me good-bye, I stood hiding in the cloak of the night, telling myself that I had to love him more.

  The children were sound asleep when I returned. I lay down and let the rustling of the bamboo carry me away.

  I woke to the sound of people talking. Soft light was scattering from the sky. Morning dew had dampened my clothes, soaking the layer of fallen leaves on which we slept.

  Through small gaps between the large bamboo trunks, I saw three men across the dirt path, their backs toward me, an ox-cart next to them. Sounds of zippers being pulled down. Noises of water hitting the ground.

  “That bitch and her son, where the hell could they be?” one man spat out his words.

  The man’s voice terrified me. I knew him. I flattened myself on the ground, my eyes fixed on Sáng. What would I do if he cried?

  “Damn it. The tribunal will take place soon. We’ll look like a bunch of idiots,” another voice said.

  “They can’t be too far away. We’ll comb all the villages till we find them,” the first man said.

  Another voice chuckled. “She can’t run far, that bitch. Can’t run far with so many children hanging onto her shirt hem.”

  I held my breath as the men got back into their cart. As soon as they disappeared behind the mossy village gate, I shook Ngọc, Thuận, and Hạnh awake.

  “We must leave. Those vicious people are here, looking for me.”

  “How about Brother Đạt?” Thuận rubbed tiredness from his eyes.

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sp; “We’ll meet him at the next village. Hurry!” The lie tasted bitter in my mouth. Đạt was smart. He could earn his food and should be safe.

  With Sáng on my back, we scurried away. If I let those people catch me, I’d surely face a death sentence.

  My heart ached with each footstep that pulled me away from Đạt. What type of mother was I, to abandon my son to a stranger? Yet it would be better for him to stay put and wait for me to come back. He knew how to disguise himself. He had food and a roof over his head. He’d taken a new identity as a nephew of the phở seller. But I dreaded the moment Đạt returned to the bamboo grove, looking for us and finding no one there. Can you imagine how desperate he must have been?

  Years have passed since the day I left Đạt behind, but I still question my decision, and the ones I’d make next. We’ve talked about this as a family many times, but my guilt is still too overwhelming for me to feel that I’m good enough as a mother. That’s why I’m still trying every day, Guava. Being a mother is never easy, though. It’s about failing, learning, and then failing again.

  Your mother screamed when she realized Đạt wasn’t going to be at the next village. She begged me to go back and get him, but I couldn’t. It would have been too dangerous, you see.

  Watching how Ngọc dragged her feet behind me, and listening to her sobs, I feared she was never going to forgive me.

  It was Đạt who saved us during the next days of our walk. The yams and sweet potatoes, the water, and a box of matchsticks kept us alive. We were able to make a small fire here and there, grilling a snail or crab.

  We made good progress toward Hà Nội, until Hạnh got food poisoning. She threw up violently, then had diarrhea. She was severely dehydrated, drooping like a withered leaf. I no longer dared to feed her the water I found along the way, knowing she’d only get worse.

  “Wait here with Thuận and Sáng,” I told Ngọc. “If we go in there as a group, we’ll face danger.” We’d stopped under a shady bush that looked across streams of fast-running currents and patches of emerald rice fields, toward a village.

  “Where are you bringing her?” Ngọc clutched Hạnh tighter in her arms.