The Mountains Sing

  “Older Sister, aren’t we supposed to hide inside?” The girl giggled as they approached me.

  “Nobody said so.” Ngọc glanced at me. Her hair had been washed and flowed in a smooth stream down her back. Her face, now cleared of dust and tear stains, glowed. Wearing clean pants and a shirt, she looked as fresh and pretty as a jasmine flower.

  “Quick, Younger Sister. Behind that tree.” Ngọc pointed past me. As the girl rushed forward, Ngọc lagged behind, her hands reaching for her waistband. Something white gleamed in her fingers.

  “I got a job, Mama.” She dropped two tightly pressed balls of cooked rice into my open palm. “You go. I’ll be fine. I’ll check for Thuận when I can.”

  “Are you sure, Ngọc?” There was no answer. Ngọc had already run away from me to join her new sister.

  So, with Sáng on my waist, I continued my long journey toward Hà Nội. Now that I’d shed four children along the way, I was a butterfly who’d lost its wings, a tree who’d forsaken all of its leaves and branches. My mind was dull with guilt, but my legs had to push on. I punished myself by walking day and night. To stay alive, I ate grass, rice plants, and things I could steal from the fields. Sáng survived on my milk and the little food I gave him. The air was getting colder, and I bundled him in Mrs. Tú’s carrying cloth; its scent made me weep. Yet I knew I couldn’t waste my energy on even a single teardrop: I had to hurry if I wanted to see Minh, Ngọc, Đạt, Hạnh, and Thuận again.

  We were moving faster, but not fast enough. The national highway was the shortest route to Hà Nội. One early morning, I’d ventured onto it again and asked for a ride. There weren’t a lot of vehicles at that time, just the occasional car or buffalo cart. Very few people stopped when I waved and called, but they all turned down my plea for help. There were checkpoints along the highway, and nobody dared to assist a woman without a travel permit.

  I resumed walking on the dirt path parallel to the highway. Then I remembered something. Can you believe it? In my crazy mind, I’d forgotten I was wearing something quite valuable.

  I went behind a bush and took off the brown outer shirt. Holding my breath, I peeled the silk blouse away from my skin. It was sweaty and dirty but wasn’t ruined. My brother had chosen the best material, and the outer shirt had protected it.

  I put my face into the blouse; Công’s tender face and his smile were alive in my mind. I hoped Mr. Hải had managed to recover his body and bury him. I imagined my brother’s death and felt his pain. Never could I have thought that so much violence would crash down onto our family. On the other hand, everyone I knew had lost family members to violent deaths. I wondered when the circle of violence would end.

  I found a stream and dipped the blouse into the rolling current, washing it. Sunlight glistened on the exquisite green fabric, lighting up the countless ancient words of Phúc—Blessings. Holding the blouse in one arm, I walked with Sáng on my other arm. Cái khó ló cái khôn—Difficulty gives light to wisdom. The shirt could be a ticket to help us get to Hà Nội.

  Your Uncle Sáng was such a good boy. He babbled and pointed at flowers and butterflies, at cars and carts crawling like bugs on the national highway. Then he pointed at a tree by the roadside. When we came closer, he pointed at a pair of bamboo baskets lying there. Inside the baskets sat small piles of guavas and oranges, some areca nuts, and betel leaves. Beside the baskets were ropes that connected them to a bamboo pole. The owner of the baskets was squatting on the ground, leaning against the tree trunk, fanning herself with her hat.

  “Hello, Sister.” I lowered myself down next to her. Sáng crawled out of my hands, toward the fruit.

  “Don’t touch.” I held him back.

  “He can have one.” The woman picked up a golden guava. She checked for its softness and gave it to Sáng.

  “Ổi, ổi.” Sáng babbled, clapping his hands. He sank his baby teeth into the fruit.

  “Oh, you’re so cute.” She pinched his cheek.

  “Did you just return from the market, Sister?” I asked.

  “It was a market all right . . . but nobody wanted to buy. Everyone tried to sell what they got from their own fields and gardens.”

  “Sister, may I make an offer?” I held out the blouse. “This is silk, woven at Vạn Phúc Village.” I rubbed the fabric against her cheek.

  “So soft.” She grinned. “I heard about silk and always wondered.”

  “It’s my brother’s precious gift to me.” I choked, not wanting to part with my last memory of Công, but knowing I had no other choice. I put the blouse into the woman’s hand. “It’d look great on you. Try it on.”

  “No.” She pushed it back, eyeing me up and down.

  “Sister . . . I didn’t steal this, I swear. My brother paid a high price for it.”

  “Why would you want to give it to me then?”

  “Would you accept this in exchange for your baskets and carrying pole?”

  The woman stared at me.

  I held her gaze. “Sister, I need a job. I want to earn my living with these baskets and carrying pole.” I gave her the two cents. “This and the blouse?”

  I pulled her up and made her put the blouse on.

  “Đẹp quá.” Sáng clapped his hands, praising how beautiful the woman looked.

  The woman twirled around, laughing. Seeing how her eyes lit up, I knew the deal was done.

  “Ah, vui, vui.” Sáng babbled about being happy as he sat in the front basket, bouncing up and down together with the rhythms of my footsteps. At my back, another basket bounced up and down, half-filled with guavas and oranges. “Sit still,” I told him, going slowly at first, then faster, as Sáng clutched the ropes with both hands, sitting like a Buddha. He lifted his head, chuckling, eyeing a flock of birds speeding a large V shape across the deep blue sky.

  “You’re a good boy, Sáng. Sit still and we’ll be in Hà Nội in no time.” I pressed on harder toward the national highway. Now with the baskets and bamboo pole, I’d have a reason to travel on the road: to get to the next town’s market. I hoped nobody would make trouble for a poor saleswoman who carried a baby, traveling through winter.

  “Ai mua ổi đây, cam đây?” I sang out loud, red juice oozing from my mouth. I was chewing a betel quid, to discolor my white teeth. In exchange for the blouse and money, the woman had given me all the contents of her baskets. The sale of these oranges and guavas would make the capital for my business.

  “Ai mua ổi ‘ây, cam ‘ây,” Sáng babbled, enjoying the new way of traveling. He couldn’t pronounce the đ yet and sounded hilarious.

  “Get out of the way!” Shouts rang out from behind my back. I turned to see a man and several women on a buffalo cart.

  “Sisters, Brother . . . my guavas are homegrown . . . sugar sweet,” I called out to them.

  “Ai mua ổi ‘ây, cam ‘ây,” Sáng chanted, and clapped his hands.

  “Oh, that baby’s so cute,” a woman said and the rest of them burst out laughing.

  The cart pulled to a stop. The women hopped down, approaching us.

  But I could no longer see them. The panting buffaloes had caught my eyes. My father was standing by the cart, smiling at me. Papa!

  “Sister, how much for one? Didn’t you hear me?” A woman was pulling my shirtsleeve.

  I blinked and the image of my father disappeared.

  As the woman tugged my arm again, I turned to her. “Sorry. Two cents each.”

  “That’s expensive!” snapped another woman.

  “It’s a long way to bring them here, Sister. They’re tender and juicy.”

  The women shook their heads. It was Sáng who rescued me. “Ai mua ổi ‘ây, cam ‘ây.” He clapped his hands, dimples flowering onto his cheeks.

  The women burst out laughing again.

  “All right, give us three oranges and two guavas. We’re only buying because of this cutie.” A woman giggled, unhooking the safety pin that secured her pocket. She pulled out a stack of coins.


  “You did it!” I dropped to my knees, hugging Sáng as the cart crawled out of earshot. “We earned two bowls of phở in just a few minutes.”

  Sáng and I sold everything we had that afternoon. The money we earned that day, Guava, it was enough for us to buy twenty bowls of phở.

  For weeks, I journeyed, trying to make as much money as I could. At checkpoints on the highway, the guards always stopped us. I bribed them with money or fruit, and managed to convince them that I was truly heading to the next town’s market. And Sáng did such a great job in charming those guards. Yes, Guava . . . I know your uncle has become quite a serious young man, but he was my cute and cheerful helper then.

  To get new supplies, we had to travel to nearby villages. Arriving at a market before sunrise, we could buy the best fruits at the cheapest price. By then, my teeth were colored red by betel nuts and my skin dark. I’d also become very thin. I knew my hunters wouldn’t recognize me so easily anymore. Still, dangers were sharp thorns that surrounded me. Coming closer to Hà Nội, my middle-region accent made me stand out from everyone else.

  I tried to imitate the Northern accent and speak as little as I could. With our profit, I bought us sandals, some warmer clothes, and a nón lá for Sáng. Now that your uncle sat all day in the sun or rain, he needed a hat. But he almost always tilted his hat backward to seduce customers. He was the one who made everybody want to buy our fruits. As for my hat, I had to keep it. The children had found it for me and, as I wore it, I heard them urging me on. By then, I’d had enough time to think, and I still believed that the only one who could help us would be Master Thịnh. My father had been so close to my former teacher that he used to stay with him, his wife, and their two children in Hà Nội.

  With hope being my guiding light, I journeyed on. Sometimes when I allowed myself a good sleep, I’d go into a village and ask people to let us stay the night. I paid for it. There were plenty of thieves around, true, but many country people opened their doors to us. We slept on dirt floors, or, if we were lucky, in a nest made out of straw. Thinking back to those days, I miss the smell of dry rice straw. It was like perfume, the perfume of my sleep.

  So I walked, and walked, and walked. I looked for Minh wherever I was, but there was never any sign of him.

  I was exhausted at the end of each day. I experienced many moments of despair. Even now, sometimes in my dreams, I find myself marching with the bamboo pole braced across my shoulder, my baskets heavy, the road in front of me stretching until eternity. I wake with sweat dampening my back.

  Once, on the way to a village, I broke down crying. Around me, rice plants began rustling their tiny, green hands. They were offering me their most soothing rice lullaby. I realized that whenever humans failed us, it was nature who could help save us.

  I willed myself to be like nature, so I found myself singing, just like the rice plants. I sang to Sáng and to myself. I sang out loud and in silence. I was determined to sing on. I learned then that as long as I have my voice, I am still alive.

  It was December 1955, two months after running away from my village, that I carried Sáng into the winter of Hà Nội. A drizzle blanketed the city. Everything was shrouded in a mysterious mist. I’d bought us each a thick winter jacket and a woolen scarf, but still, I was shivering.

  Wrapping Mrs. Tú’s cloth around my head, I felt the warmth of her love. I hoped our escape hadn’t brought her trouble.

  It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at a paved road edged with tall trees. A few houses stood desolate. Not a soul was in sight. How could I ask for directions to Silver Street, where Master Thịnh lived?

  I looked up at the darkened sky. I’d covered Sáng’s basket. He sat inside, bundled in warm clothes, poking his little head out.

  “Lửa.” Sáng babbled, pointing toward a street corner, which had just come into view. Behind a tree, a circle of people huddled around a large bonfire. The fire crackled, raging against the wind and rain. I had to be that fire, raging against all odds.

  I pressed forward, calling out my greeting to the group. As they turned, I halted in my steps. They were all men, all looking vicious. Anger and hunger glinted in their eyes.

  Clutching the ropes that bound the baskets, I hurried away, my eyes on the slippery road. “Sit still,” I told Sáng. I sensed that I had tránh vỏ dưa gặp vỏ dừa—dodged melon skin only to stumble on coconut shell.

  “Hey, why are you leaving us so fast, Sister?” someone shouted. A chorus of laughter exploded. Not the friendly type of laughter.

  Several men leaped onto the road, blocking my path. “I asked why you’re leaving us,” grunted a voice.

  A man faced me. His eyes were hollow, his cheeks sunken, thin hair sticking to his skull. The stench of liquor rose from his filthy clothes.

  He snatched the nón lá from my head. “Show me that beautiful face of yours.” Mrs. Tú’s carrying cloth fluttered onto the road.

  I stepped back, clutching the ropes tighter, glancing down at Sáng. I had to protect my baby, no matter what. “Please . . . let me go. My husband and his friends are waiting for us.”

  “Oh, what a cute middle-region accent.”

  A yellow-toothed man leaned over at me. His bloodshot eyes pierced into mine. “Husband? Where? Where’s the lucky bastard?”

  I pointed straight ahead. My hand was shaking. I couldn’t help it.

  The men threw back their heads, laughing.

  “She’s afraid of you, Brother.” A man with a mustache elbowed the yellow-toothed man.

  “She’s lying. Teach her a lesson,” said another man. Cheers followed his voice.

  Sáng started to cry. Someone had snatched away his hat. I picked my baby up, holding him against my chest. I rocked and hummed to him, but he was so frightened, he kept screaming.

  “Brothers, please.” Tears blurred my eyes. “You’re scaring my son. Please, let us go.”

  “Tell him to shut up,” someone snapped.

  I rubbed Sáng’s back. I tried to rest his face against my shoulder, but he turned away. His fearful cries rose higher.

  Whap. A smacking noise. The yellow-toothed man had slapped Sáng. “Shut up, little monster!” he hissed.

  I shielded my son with my bare hand. “You’re a monster yourself to hit a child!” I screamed.

  “Ah, a tigress,” laughed a man. Something glimmered in his hand. A knife. Its tip glided under my scarf, pressing against my neck.

  “Stop making a scene, or else,” the man growled, his palm over my mouth.

  Sáng quivered in my arms. I held him tight. As the men searched my clothes, I gritted my teeth. If I moved, they could harm my baby.

  “Shit, this bitch is rich.” They chuckled.

  “Drop everything into these hats, idiot. It’s not just for you,” a voice barked.

  Coins and notes were pulled out of my pockets. The coins and notes soaked with the sweat of my hard work and sorrow, the coins and notes that would bring me back to my children.

  “This money is my life,” I shouted, but my voice was a gurgle inside my throat.

  “Stand still, bitch.” The knife pressed hard against my neck. A sharp pain cut into me. “Stand still, or I’ll slice your throat.”

  “Someone’s coming,” a voice whispered. “Hurry up, you idiots.”

  The mob snatched my bamboo pole and baskets. They started running away.

  “Robbers. Help. Somebody help!” I hollered, but the men were disappearing into the mist. They even took Mrs. Tú’s cloth with them.

  Sáng was shaken but uninjured. I held him, sobbing into his chest.

  Sounds of running footsteps. A group of women rushed toward us, each carrying a pair of baskets on a bamboo pole.

  “Are you all right, Sister?”

  “What happened?”

  I searched my body but only emptiness met my fingers. “The robbers, they took all my money.”

  “I knew it.” A woman thumped one end of her carrying pole onto the road.r />
  “Hà Nội can be a dangerous place, Sister,” another woman said. “Don’t walk around on your own when it’s getting dark.”

  I stood with Sáng on my waist, feeling like a tree without its roots. I was stupid beyond belief. I’d wasted all that time buying and selling, for all the earnings to be robbed. What would I do in this city, without any money?

  Someone peeled a sweet potato and gave it to Sáng. He stopped crying, munching on it. My poor boy, he was hungry again.

  There must have been fifteen women around us now. Sheets covered their baskets, from which the sweet smell of boiled yam, potatoes, and maniocs rose.

  “I was selling fruits,” I told the women. “The mob took away my baskets and pole.”

  “How terrible! What’re you going to do?”

  “I have to get to the Old Quarter, Sisters, to find Silver Street.”

  “But it’s a long walk, and it’s getting dark.”

  More mist had settled around us, concealing the road ahead. Drizzle cut across the cold air.

  “Sisters, I need to get there tonight,” I insisted. “Please, could you show us the way?”

  The women stepped aside, putting their heads together. One of them came to me.

  “We’ve decided to change our route. We’ll take you to Silver Street.”

  “Are you . . . are you sure?”

  “It’s not a bad idea for us to try and sell there.”

  Life is great, Guava, because whenever I was put down, there were always kind people who picked me up.

  It was dark when we got to the Old Quarter, a maze of lanes woven along old, slanting houses. I gazed up at bright streetlights atop metal poles. It was much busier here. Life spilled onto the pavement. People were cooking, washing, and drinking tea outside their homes, their voices soft whispers against the wind.

  “Here you are. Silver Street. Good luck.” One of the women pushed a bag into my hands. “Something from all of us. Just cheap sweet potatoes.”

  A knot expanded in my throat. Human kindness never ceased to amaze me.

  Sáng waved his little hands. “Thank you, Aunties,” I said on his behalf.

  “Thank you, Aunties,” repeated Sáng. The women waved back, giggling.