The Mountains Sing

  But now she was no longer alone. She began talking to Uncle Đạt, too. I heard their murmurs whenever I walked past their room in the evenings.

  I often found myself wondering about the baby. Would I have been able to love him the way a sister was supposed to love her brother, or would I hate him because half of his blood had come from the man who had attempted to kill my mother’s soul?

  Nightmares still tortured my mother, but she no longer kept herself isolated from us. After coming home from her factory, she cooked. She asked me about school and Grandma about life in the Old Quarter. She wheeled my uncle out for a walk and helped him exercise. One day, she brought packages of dried plants home. As she brewed a pot of those sliced roots, stems, flowers, and seeds, her tears fell. But she told me she had to conquer her demons: the medicine was for Uncle Đạt, who’d told her his disability went beyond what the eyes could see, that he could no longer make a woman happy. My mother hoped the brew would help him; her recipe for treatment was among the many she’d learnt from her healer and recorded in her notebook.

  Two weeks after my mother had laid bare her soul to me, the bàng tree provided shade for us to wash our hair, and the oil lamp gave light for my mother to help me with my homework. She showed me different ways to answer the most difficult math questions, and I was amazed.

  Bit by bit, Miss Nhung found small ways back into my uncle’s life. She visited occasionally, bringing with her one time a cassette full of songs that Uncle Đạt ended up listening to every day, and another time a book that Uncle Đạt stayed up the whole night reading. My mother told me that when Uncle Đạt returned, he still loved Miss Nhung, but he believed she would be better off with another man.

  The only one who hadn’t turned around was Uncle Sáng, so one day, when my mother told me she needed to pay him a visit, I joined her. My uncle hadn’t been to our house at all, but he and his wife kept eating Grandma’s food. Twice a week, Grandma had been preparing different dishes, and I had to deliver them.

  It was night when we lugged the bike up to Uncle Sáng’s apartment. My uncle poked his head out of the door’s crack. “Sister Ngọc . . . Hương.” He glanced down to my empty hands. A look of disappointment crossed his thin face.

  “How are you, Brother?” My mother pushed the bike inside.

  Uncle Sáng closed the door behind us. “Fine, Sister.”

  “I thought you were sick, terribly sick! Too sick to come see your Brother Đạt.”

  “Shhh. Keep your voice low, won’t you? Hoa is already sleeping.” Uncle Sáng grabbed my mother’s hand, pulling her deeper into the gloomy apartment. “Sit down, Sister. You, too, Hương.” He gestured toward the reed mat on the floor.

  “We don’t have to sit.” My mother’s voice was icy. “Why haven’t you been home to see Đạt?”

  “Things are complicated.” My uncle wrinkled his forehead. “I’m leading a campaign to wipe out capitalists, bourgeoisie, and traders. And Mama . . . as you know, is a con buôn.”

  “So that’s the way you two treat Mama? You despise her in front of others but you use her as your slave?”

  “No. No. You’re getting me all wrong here.”

  “Tell me in what way I’m wrong.”

  “Lower your voice.” Uncle Sáng knitted his brows. “I’m thankful to Mama, but I have to abide by the Party rules. We need to rebuild our country with the hard work of laborers and farmers. No association with capitalists, bourgeoisie, and traders.”

  “Capitalists, bourgeoisie, traders? Sáng, Mama labors so hard out there to earn every single cent. She’s a worker, not a bourgeois.”

  “I have to abide by the Party rules. ‘No association with capitalists, bourgeois, and traders,’” my uncle repeated.

  “So the Party is your God, is that it?”

  “Sister, we fought so hard to regain peace for our country. We sacrificed our lives to chase away the capitalists, the exploiting class—”

  “Exploiting class? Don’t let them brainwash you, Sáng. You know what happened to us during the Land Reform. They condemned our family wrongly. They called us exploiters. They killed—”

  “Shut up,” Uncle Sáng hissed. “I have no connection with landlords.”

  “I know. You faked your papers. You erased your family roots so that you could become a Party member. How sad. But don’t forget, Sáng, how our father died.”

  “Don’t you dare make things up. Get out of my house.”

  “Sáng, I’m not here to argue with you. Please come home and see your Brother Đạt.”

  “I told you I can’t, but he can visit me.”

  “He lost his legs, Sáng. He lost his fucking legs and can’t walk.”

  “He has a wheelchair and—”

  Whap. A smacking sound. My mother had slapped Uncle Sáng across his cheek.

  “What kind of brother are you?” she screamed. “Don’t sell your family so cheap for some political ideology!”

  My uncle’s hand reached up to his cheek. His face twisted into a look of disgust.

  “You crazy woman!” he hollered. “Get out of here, or I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Arrest me then. Arrest me!” My mother beat her fists against her chest.

  “Mẹ ơi!” I reached out for her. “Let’s go.”

  My mother looked at me, tears filling her eyes. “Just a minute, Hương.” She straightened her back and faced my uncle. “I know you’ve climbed up the ladder, Sáng, but don’t think you’re too high up. You’re still my younger brother. Without Brother Minh here, I’m the eldest in the family. I have the responsibility to teach you.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s teaching. Get out of my house.”

  My mother coughed and spat on the floor. “From now on, you’re no longer my family. I hope your children will do better than you and remember their roots.”

  We walked out.

  I felt proud that my mother had stood up for Grandma, but somehow I also found myself mourning for the youngest uncle of my childhood—someone who had laughed with me as he slivered bamboo, creating colorful lanterns that came alive under moonlight of the Mid-Autumn Festival.

  I ran up the staircase leading to my class, my stomach empty since I hadn’t had time for breakfast. All was quiet around me.

  On the third floor, I turned into a long corridor.

  Teachers had started their lessons inside the classrooms I passed. Some boys were stealing glances at me through the open windows. I tried to make myself smaller, embarrassed at the sounds my sandals were making.

  The bursting noise of my class welcomed me in. No sign of a teacher. Good. I hurried to my seat.

  “What happened? Why are you late?” Trân rushed toward me.

  “I overslept.” I smiled at her. She was one of the girls most friendly with me. I wondered if she’d visit my home some time.

  “Watch out,” voices rang from behind my back, then roaring laughter. I didn’t have to turn to know the boys were playing some stupid games again.

  Trân took something out of my hair. A paper plane with my name scribbled on its wings. “From Nam. He really likes you.”

  “Well, I don’t like him.” I opened my bag, pulling out my notebook.

  “I see Teacher Định,” someone called out. My classmates shouldered each other, scrambling to their desks. Our history teacher appeared, but he wasn’t alone. Next to him was a tall boy; unlike those in my class, his skin was as dark as a farmer’s.

  We stood up in unison to greet our teacher, who smiled and nodded for us to sit down.

  “Tâm, your new classmate.” Teacher Định gestured toward the boy. “Help him get settled and don’t give him a hard time, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Teacher,” we chorused.

  “Come see me if you have any problems,” Teacher Định told Tâm. “And to help you get familiar with things, Thiết, our class president, will take you on a tour when school finishes today.”

  “Thiết is sick, Teacher,” someone sa
id.

  Teacher Định looked around the room. “Someone else will give you a tour then.” His eyes found me. “Hương, okay?”

  “Yes, Teacher,” I mumbled, though all I could think about was how I wished I could skip the entire day, to be home, to have a long chat with Uncle Đạt. I needed to say sorry. There had been moments when I considered him a burden, even though I’d promised to help him when he first returned.

  At the sounds of drumbeats, my classmates spilled out of the room like bees fleeing their hive.

  “Need help with guiding the new cutie?” Trân came to me, giggling.

  “Thanks, but it’ll be a quick tour.” I stuffed my notebook into my bag. How could Trân even think that the new boy was handsome? What was his name again?

  Trân glanced toward the back of our classroom. I followed her gaze. The new boy was at his desk, his head bent over a book. I wondered what he was reading.

  “Hi, Hương,” someone called out. Nam. He smiled nervously at me. “Can I invite you for—”

  I dropped the paper plane into his half-open bag. “I’m on duty today, the introduction tour.”

  “Oh.” He scratched his head.

  “Want to invite me instead?” Trân pulled Nam’s arm. When they were nearly out of the classroom, Trân turned her head. “Have fun,” she mouthed.

  I cleared my desk. I remembered the boy’s name now. Tâm. His name meant “Good Conscience.”

  Tâm was still reading when I got to him. “Ready to go?”

  He lifted his face. His eyes were deep brown, framed by long lashes. “Go where?”

  His heavy middle-region accent surprised me. Grandma spoke this accent, but only at home. Why did Tâm leave the middle region to come here?

  “The tour, remember?” I mumbled. I wished I’d asked Trân to take over the duty, but no student would dare disobey the teachers. If we wanted to pass our grade, our mark for the “Good Behavior” subject had to be adequate.

  “Oh.” Tâm stood up. “Thanks for doing this.”

  We left the classroom. The corridor was empty. Gray clouds had gathered in the sky, sprinkling a drizzle onto the yard. We stood on the balcony, gazing down at the wetness beneath.

  “We have around five hundred students here.” I zipped up my jacket. “School starts at seven-thirty every morning except for Monday, when we arrive one hour earlier to sing the national anthem and greet the national flag. Behind that tree is the canteen, the soccer field is at the back of that building.”

  “Is there a library?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have many interesting titles, to be honest. The book you’re reading, is it good?”

  “It’s too good. I can’t stop.” Tâm showed me the cover. The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

  “Ah, Victor Hugo is an incredible writer.” I smiled. “I adore his poetry. I read this last year and dreamt about visiting France to see that magnificent cathedral.”

  “I know.” Tâm returned the book to his bag. “I’d love to visit Paris one day, too. . . . And I was hoping our library would have a great collection. I’ve left most of my books at my village, for my sister.”

  “That’s nice of you. . . . I have a few books and could lend you some.”

  “Really?” Tâm’s eyes brightened. “That’d be great. Thanks.” He pulled up the collar of his jacket. “Do you live far away from here?”

  “I’m on Khâm Thiên Street. Where’s your home village?”

  “In Hà Tĩnh Province. Uhm . . . your neighborhood, Khâm Thiên, was heavily bombed, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”

  I nodded and stared at the branches of a phượng tree. They were barren, shivering in the wind, like Grandma and I had during our walk to Hòa Bình. I pointed out the brown lids scattered around the schoolyard. “Bomb shelters. The largest one is in front of the canteen. You should know where to run if the bombs come back.”

  “I hope they never do. In fact, I wish there would never be another war on the face of this earth.”

  I turned to Tâm. I’d never heard any boy talk like him. “You have a relative who fought?”

  “My father . . . he came back miserable. We are lucky, though. Many men of my village never returned. How about your relatives?”

  “My Uncle Thuận died. Uncle Đạt lost both of his legs. We’re still waiting for my father.” I felt the heat behind my eyelids and bit my lip hard to stop myself from crying in front of a boy I barely knew.

  “I’m sorry. . . . How long has your father been gone? Have you heard from him at all?”

  “Seven years, nine months and twenty-five days.” I lifted the Sơn ca from my pocket. “My Papa carved this for me in the jungle.” I could no longer hold back the tears.

  “Shhh.” Tâm put a finger on his lips. He brought the bird to his ear. “Uhm huhm.” He nodded. “Uhm huhm, thank you, Birdie.” He arched his brow. “Oh, you want to talk to her now, Birdie? Okay, here she is.”

  He placed the Sơn ca next to my ear. “Do you hear him?”

  I shook my head, smiled, and wiped my tears.

  “He said you’re a special girl, a princess, and you shouldn’t hang out with me.”

  “Oh. Why not?”

  “Because I’m a nhà quê.” Tâm called himself a country bumpkin. He dropped his bag, stepping away from me. He bent low, pretending to hoe his field. He thumped his back with his fist, wiping the invisible droplets of sweat from his face, and resuming his hoeing again. He looked so funny that I had to laugh.

  Cycling home, I couldn’t get Tâm out of my mind. His smiling eyes and his warm voice made me giddy. I told myself to stop thinking about him. Men could be evil, like those who’d harmed my mother. I had no idea what type of a person Tâm was. I shouldn’t trust him so easily.

  I arrived home to find Uncle Đạt on the floor, whistling. He was working on a new trough for the pigs.

  My mother was busy in the kitchen, delicious smells twirling up from her hands.

  She looked at me over her shoulder. “Feed the animals, they’re driving me crazy.”

  “Sure.” I laughed. “What’re you cooking?”

  “Tofu in tomato sauce and coriander.”

  My stomach cheered. I hadn’t had it for such a long time. My mother cooked it the best.

  “Will lunch be ready soon?” Uncle Đạt glanced up at the clock. “Nhung will be here in a minute.”

  “I’m excited to see her, too.” My mother tossed a bunch of green spinach into a sizzling pan.

  When I finished feeding the pigs, the food was on the table. Miss Nhung distributed the chopsticks. She was so thin that I could see the blue veins on the back of her hands. I hoped Uncle Đạt would take care of her, but how could he, without a job?

  “How do you like your new school, Hương?” Miss Nhung smiled at me.

  “It’s not so new anymore, but it’s great, Auntie.” I thought again about Tâm.

  “What do you want to study later when you go to the university?”

  University sounded grand. I hoped I could make it. I sucked in a breath. “I don’t know yet, Auntie.” I found words beautiful, but didn’t know whether I’d be brave enough to be a writer. I’d been reading books by Phùng Quán, Trần Dần, Hoàng Cầm, and Lê Đạt—writers who’d been imprisoned in the Nhân Văn Giai Phẩm movement. Their work during the mid-1950s called for freedom of speech and human rights, bringing me closer to my grandpa, who lived at the same time and held the same liberal ideas. Yet such work also highlighted to me the risks that writers faced, with a government that censored everything. “A circus rope walker balances breath-taking difficulties,” the poet Phùng Quán wrote. “Yet tougher still to be a writer enduring a lifetime on the path of truth.”

  I knew that, like Phùng Quán, if I wrote, it could only be the truth as I saw it. I couldn’t twist my words to please the ears of those in power.

  “I hope you’ll become a doctor, Hương,” said Uncle Đạt. “Your mother can teach you a few things about herbal medicine. I
t has magical powers.” He winked at Miss Nhung, who blushed.

  My mother smiled, scooping tofu into Uncle Đạt’s bowl. “When do we need to leave?”

  “In half an hour.”

  “I have oranges and incense for Thành’s altar,” Miss Nhung said.

  My mother nodded. “I’ve prepared a small bag of rice for his parents.”

  “You two are wonderful,” Uncle Đạt whispered, and I felt glad that my mother and Miss Nhung had taken the afternoon off work to accompany him. His friend died in the bamboo forest on this day three years ago, and Uncle Đạt needed to burn incense for him. But it would be hard for my uncle to tell the grieving family about their son’s final moments as his life was extinguished by the B-52 bombs.

  Uncle Đạt shifted in his chair. He’d turned to look at the kitchen cabinet several times. There was a glass of water in front of him, and he kept staring at it.

  “You okay?” Miss Nhung reached for his hand.

  He shook his head. “Sister Ngọc . . . would you mind getting me some liquor?”

  He turned to Miss Nhung. “If you haven’t heard, em, I’ve had problems.”

  She put down her chopsticks. “Yes, your mother told me, anh. It won’t be easy to give up alcohol, but I hope you’ll try.”

  My mother went to the kitchen and fetched the bottle.

  “Don’t put the whole thing in front of me, Sister,” said my uncle. “One small glass will do for now.”

  Receiving the glass from my mother, Uncle Đạt sniffed it. He finished it in one go and closed his eyes.

  Destination

  Thanh Hóa–Hà Nội, 1955–1956

  Guava, that day outside the house with the thick fence of leafy plants, I waited for your mother, Sáng sleeping in my arm. To disguise myself, I squatted under a tree opposite the house, spreading out my palm. I was a beggar, begging for hope.

  It was a long while before Ngọc emerged, holding hands with a little girl. They were both running and crouching down low.