The Mountains Sing

  I took a deep breath. In front of me stood Silver Street and its hundreds of houses. Where could Master Thịnh’s be?

  I didn’t know the address of my teacher’s home. His parents used to be silversmiths, so his house had to have a silver shop. I stood in the middle of the road, looked both ways and decided to head in the direction where more lights were glowing.

  “Đẹp quá—Oooh, pretty.” Sáng pointed at magnificently lit doors and windows. Shops lined our path. Silver and gold jewelry glimmered under long glass counters. A few people were browsing, their bodies huddled inside thick winter jackets.

  I stepped into a shop where a man sat behind a counter, working on a gold bracelet. He lowered his glasses, looking up at me.

  “Chào chú.” I bowed in greeting. “I’m looking for my childhood teacher. Master Thịnh. Do you know him? His family lives here, on Silver Street.”

  “Master Thịnh?” The goldsmith wrinkled his already-creased forehead. “Didn’t he leave Hà Nội for a while and teach in Nghệ An?”

  “Yes, that’s him! I’m his student from Nghệ An, Uncle.”

  “He used to be my elder brother’s classmate.” The goldsmith pulled the glasses away from his face. “But Master Thịnh . . . he died many years ago.”

  A cry escaped from deep inside my chest. So I would never have the chance to see my teacher again. Upon his leaving, he’d given Công and me half of his books. “You have a fierce will to learn. Keep it burning inside of you,” he’d told us.

  I begged the goldsmith with my eyes. “Uncle, I’d like to talk to Master Thịnh’s family.”

  “They’re no longer here. His wife and children moved south. They followed the French.” He studied Sáng’s face. “Are you looking for him to say hello, or is there something else?”

  “Does he have relatives who still live around here, Uncle?”

  “I don’t know.” He lowered his voice. “We’re not supposed to keep in touch with those who migrated south, you know. They’re our enemies now.” He put back his glasses and resumed his work.

  The news emptied my body of hope, and I thought I would crumble. I had made no alternative plans, how stupid. At that moment, my mother’s voice echoed in my mind: “Còn nước còn tát.” While there’s still water, we will scoop.

  “Uncle . . . do you think I can talk to the people who live at his house?” I asked.

  “Well, good luck. It’s four houses away from here, on this side of the street, the shop that has the bàng tree in front.”

  Out on the road, winter seeped back into my bones. I wrapped Sáng’s scarf tighter around his neck. Whatever obstacles lay ahead, I needed to fight them to see my children again.

  There it was, the shop that occupied the ground floor of Master Thịnh’s house. I stood outside, dazzled by its bright glow.

  Inside, a middle-aged woman emerged from a wooden staircase. “Hello, Sister,” she called cheerfully. “Come on in. What are you looking for? A ring, bracelet, or necklace?”

  I stepped forward, conscious of my broken sandals and my blistered feet on the spotless floor. Behind the counter, the woman smiled. Gold jewelry dangled from her ears and clattered on her wrists.

  “Madam.” I took a deep breath, “I used to be Master Thịnh’s student. . . .”

  The smile on the woman’s face dropped. She scanned me from head to toe. “Master Thịnh died many years ago. Why are you looking for him?”

  “Are you his relative, Madam?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just . . . I can only discuss this with the relatives of my master.”

  “Spit it out then. I’m his niece.” The woman picked up a cloth, flicking it against the glass counter, as if wanting to chase away bad luck.

  “Madam, Master Thịnh was my teacher. He taught my brother and me for five years. He was my father’s best friend. He lived with my family in Vĩnh Phúc Village—”

  “So what? What do you want?” The woman knitted her brow. Her gaze shifted to Sáng, who was clinging to me, watching a large clock in the shape of a cat with a swaying tail on the wall.

  “I beg you for a job, Madam. We had trouble with our business and lost our home. Master Thịnh would want his family to help. He was an uncle to us—”

  “Uncle? Help?” The woman laughed. “How ridiculous! I’m not even sure you knew him.”

  “Is there a problem, Châu?” A man asked, coming down the stairs. His bushy eyebrows and bright eyes reminded me of my master.

  “Hello, Sir.” I bowed my head. “I used to be Master Thịnh’s student in Nghệ An—”

  “Trust no one these days, anh Toàn.” The woman flicked her cloth. “Too many thieves around.”

  “But she does have the middle-region accent.” The man stepped closer. “Uncle Thịnh used to tell me about Nghệ An. What’s your name?”

  “Diệu Lan.” I was breathless. “My brother was Trần Minh Công and my parents Trần Văn Lương and Lê Thị Mận. Master Thịnh taught us from 1930 till 1935. He stayed with our family then. He could speak and write Chinese and French. He taught me the Nôm language. His full name was Đinh Văn Thịnh, he was born in the Year of the Dragon. He was an expert in playing the đàn nhị musical instrument.”

  “Yes, that’s my uncle, the scholar.” The man smiled.

  I recalled what my master had said and remembered that his name, when put together with his younger brother’s, meant prosperity. “Master Thịnh told us he had a younger brother named Vượng who continued the family tradition of making silver so he could teach.”

  “That’s my father. You’re truly Diệu Lan then.” The man clasped his hands. “When did you get to Hà Nội, Sister?”

  “Sister this and Sister that,” said the woman. “We can’t afford to give charity to everyone Uncle Thịnh knew.”

  The man ignored the woman. He pulled up a chair for me to sit down. “Diệu Lan, your father used to come here with his buffalo cart. Wasn’t it 1942 when he didn’t come anymore? My uncle was very much saddened.”

  “Yes, it was 1942. . . . My father was traveling to Hà Nội, he planned to see Master Thịnh but . . . but an accident killed him. Since then, terrible things have happened to us. I lost my mother, brother, and husband.” I hated to cry, but my tears flowed, warming my cheeks. “Please, I beg you for a job. I can clean, cook, wash, help with any household chore.”

  The man closed his eyes for a moment then turned to the woman. “Châu . . . you’ve been so stressed with the children. It’d be good to have some help.”

  “Help? How could she help with such a young son clinging to her shirt hem? Hire her and we’ll have extra burdens.”

  “Madam, I’ll find someone to care for my son.” I didn’t know whom but there should be a way. “I can do all types of housework. I’m good with children.”

  “I don’t trust strangers,” the woman said.

  The man shook his head. “Diệu Lan, my apologies. I need to talk to my wife about this. Come back tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll let you know.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” hissed the woman. “Haven’t you heard about the Land Reform? She might be a rich landlord running away. Assist her and we’ll be in trouble.”

  “Shut up,” the man snapped. “Don’t let evil people poison your mind.”

  I stood up to leave but didn’t know where to go. Through the door, darkness looked like it harbored the men who’d just robbed me. In hoping Master Thịnh’s nephew would ask where I’d sleep, I sat down again, placing Sáng on my lap. I took off my scarf, wrapping it around his head. If we were to choose the pavement as our home, my baby had to stay warm.

  “Hold on,” the man exclaimed. “What happened to your neck, Diệu Lan? It’s bleeding.”

  My hand crept up to my neck. I’d been too dazed by the robbery to notice the pain, which now sprang up under my touch. My fingers groped at a sticky liquid. Blood. Quite a
lot of it. My scarf had concealed it from the women sellers and Mrs. Châu, but now, it must be quite a sight.

  “Ew,” said the woman. “You didn’t believe me, but can’t you see, anh Toàn? She’s indeed bringing us bad luck.”

  “You need to see Mr. Văn the healer. I’ll take you,” the man told me.

  “No, you won’t,” said the woman. “Mrs. Chinh is picking up her earrings and they aren’t ready yet.”

  “Madam is right, I can find my own way to Mr. Văn, Sir.” I bowed to the man.

  “He’s a few hundred meters away from here.” The man sighed and pointed to his right. “If you ask our neighbors, they’ll show you the way to Kim Ngân Temple. He’s the keeper there.”

  I headed for the door, dizzy. Even if I found the healer, would he treat me without any money?

  I wandered through Silver Street, passing homes and shops filled with people and their happiness. My heart sobbed for my children. What a terrible mistake I’d made, walking to Hà Nội, to become a bird without its nest, a tree without its root.

  When I found the temple, I went through the antique wooden doors of its entrance, through a spacious yard, and saw a man with white, long hair. His beard was also white, reaching his chest. Sitting cross-legged on the veranda, he was motionless; his eyes were closed, his back straight, his hands on his lap.

  Sáng stayed in my arms, watching. After a long while, the man took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes. I came to him, my head bowed low. He nodded his greeting. His calmness reminded me of the wise men who always appeared in our fairy tales, to bring blessings to the unfortunate. My instincts told me he must be Mr. Văn.

  “Uncle, I’m told you’re a healer, but I don’t have any money.” When the words escaped my mouth, the shame made me feel as small as an ant.

  “How can I help you, my child?”

  I knelt, showing him my neck.

  “That’s a deep wound.” Mr. Văn winced. He brought out his box of medicine and treated my injury. “Somebody cut you with a knife? What happened?”

  “Robbers, Uncle, earlier today.”

  “You’re lucky they caused you no other harm.” He shook his head. “A young woman like you should know how to protect herself during these chaotic times.”

  We spent the night on the street. The air was cold but I was warm. Mr. Văn hadn’t charged me for the treatment. I’d asked whether he knew someone who could babysit, and he’d taken me to the house of Mrs. Thự, one of his neighbors. She was an artisan, skilled at making paper animals. She agreed to look after Sáng in exchange for me cleaning her home and washing her clothes. Our agreement had to be kept a secret, of course.

  It was barely after lunchtime when I arrived back at the shop, which looked even bigger and brighter than the night before. Master Thịnh’s nephew was behind the counter.

  “Hello, Sir,” I greeted him.

  He looked up. “Call me Toàn, please.” He glanced toward the entrance, then lowered his voice. “My wife agreed for you to help, but please, stay out of sight when you’re here. Don’t come out unless you have to. If someone asks, pretend to be my cousin who visits for a few days. And if there’s any hint of trouble . . .”

  “Then I’ll leave.”

  That afternoon, under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Châu, I cleaned the house, washed buckets of clothes, cooked dinner, and bathed the children who came home from school. I tried to keep a cheerful face, but Guava, darkness overwhelmed my every cell. Here I was, taking care of other people’s children while I’d abandoned my own.

  I worked twelve hours a day, every day of the week, except for half a day on Sunday. Mrs. Châu might have agreed to hire me at her husband’s request, but she seemed to enjoy having me as nô lệ—a slave to boss around. And my salary was so small that I didn’t have anything left after paying for a place to sleep at the back of the artisan’s house, and after buying meager food for Sáng and me.

  How could I ever set up a home and bring my children to Hà Nội?

  I looked for a better job, but there were many unemployed people sitting on street corners, offering their labor for next to nothing. I tried to please my employers, hoping for a salary raise, but all I got from Mrs. Châu were complaints. I wanted to ask Mr. Toàn for help but didn’t dare. News about the punishment of landlords was flooding into Hà Nội. Each village, each hamlet, and each town had been given a quota of how many rich landowners to denounce, beat, or execute. In poorer villages, even farmers with tiny pieces of land had been killed and their property taken away.

  I wondered whether Mr. Toàn knew. Not once did he ask any questions. I think he was afraid of knowing the truth. I didn’t blame him.

  So, the days passed. As I did the chores, sang for and laughed with my employers’ children, I ached. Sleep no longer came when the night arrived. I just lay there in darkness, thinking about Minh, Ngọc, Đạt, Thuận, and Hạnh, praying that they were okay, and that they were surviving. Fearful that I wouldn’t be able to find my children again, I mapped out the locations where I’d left them on a piece of paper. I learned the map by heart and talked to Sáng every night about it, so maybe one day he could find his brothers and sisters if something happened to me.

  Whenever I could, I wandered Hà Nội, looking for Minh. There were many times I ran after men on the street because they looked like him from behind. But my search only brought me sadness. If Minh wasn’t here in Hà Nội, how could I ever find him again?

  “Stay calm. Your fate will change. Be patient,” I told myself, recalling what Nun Hiền had said. The star that predicted my fortune had been shifting, and soon I’d find a way.

  When I returned to Kim Ngân Temple to thank Mr. Văn, I found out that he taught a self-defense class, for free.

  I must tell you, Guava, that I detest violence. But life taught me that I must build up my inner strength and physical skills to defend not just myself, but also those around me.

  So every Sunday afternoon I walked with Sáng to the temple, my baby practicing his steps along the way. Arriving at the temple yard, where the perfume of plumeria flowers lingered, I’d devote my full attention to being a student. Sáng would play happily on the verandah with the children of my classmates, or under the shades of tall plumeria trees.

  My self-defense class turned out to be a great blessing. Having won many martial arts contests, Master Văn had developed a method of self-defense called Kick-Poke-Chop. The main idea is that when a man tries to punch you and harm you seriously, you back away, block his punches with your arms, gather your momentum, and then kick him straight in his groin. While he crouches down in pain, you grab his hair, knee him in his face, then use your arm to deliver a thundering chop to his neck.

  Guava, here, let me show you. Yes, kick like that, but it has to be hard. Harder. Straight. Use the balls of your feet. There, good. Don’t laugh. Do it again. Good! Now I’m crouching down in pain, what do you do? Yes, yes, grab my hair, pull my head down, and chop my neck. Like that. Yes, but it has to be hard. Let me teach you later properly, okay?

  Master Văn’s class helped my classmates and me toughen our arm muscles. We hit our arms against each other’s repeatedly, and against tree trunks. We meditated to improve our ability to focus and stay calm during emergencies. We learned to think and act quickly.

  Master Văn also taught us ways to deal with situations when our attackers had weapons. He showed us how to disarm those attackers and bring them to the ground. He made us practice so hard, we sweated furiously, our muscles screaming with pain. When he was confident I was good enough, he asked the men in my class to attack me with real knives and mock guns.

  My mother used to say, “Good luck hides inside bad luck.” That is so true. The robbers had stolen all my money, but it was the injury they caused that led me to Master Văn, and it was Master Văn who would help change my fate.

  It happened around the end of February, 1956, nearly three months after my arrival in Hà Nội. I was cleaning the house of Mr. T
oàn and Mrs. Châu. It was lunchtime, and the street was quiet. Coming out into the shop to sweep the floor, I saw a bulky man with his back to me. He was holding Mrs. Châu with one hand, his other hand pressing a knife against her neck.

  “All your gold and silver. Into the bag. Quick! Make a noise and I’ll slice her throat.”

  Behind the counter, Mr. Toàn looked as pale as a ghost.

  “Fill the bag, hurry.” The man pressed the knife harder against Mrs. Châu’s neck. She screeched, but he brought his hand to her mouth. “Want to die, bitch?”

  A brown bag had been left on the counter. Mr. Toàn started shoving jewelry into it.

  As quiet as a cat, I moved to the robber’s side. My fingers became powerful claws that clutched the robber’s wrist, pulling it away from Mrs. Châu’s neck, twisting it hard. My hours of training had given me tremendous power. The knife clattered to the floor.

  The robber turned around to face me, just in time for me to poke my fingers into his eyes. Howling, he released Mrs. Châu, who ran to her husband. As the robber brought his hands to his face, I kicked straight into his groin, grabbed his hair, and delivered a thundering chop to his neck, sending him crashing to the floor.

  Mrs. Châu was hysterical while I held the robber’s hands behind his back, my knee pinning him down. I shouted for Mr. Toàn to find some rope. Blood had drained from the robber’s face. He was lucky I hadn’t used my full force to attack his eyes. I knew they hurt, but he wouldn’t lose them.

  The neighbors called the police, who took the robber away. Mr. Toàn and Mrs. Châu were so shocked, they closed their shop for the rest of the day. The next morning, when I came back to work, Mrs. Châu called me into her bedroom.

  “Close the door,” she told me. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “From Master Văn, the temple keeper, Madam.”

  “I see.” She studied my face. “You’re quite a fighter, Diệu Lan. There’s no telling what somebody with your skills might be capable of. If you can bring down a big man like that, who’s to say that you might not think of overpowering me in the same way? If you took it into your head to do it, you could probably beat me senseless.”