The Mountains Sing

  And I wished I could hug her so hard, to squeeze out all the terrible memories.

  But my mother didn’t let me pity her. As soon as she was dressed, she picked up my comb, untangling my hair. She asked me about school and told me about her day. She was glad to feel useful again. Her hospital was struggling with too many patients, few doctors, and even less medicine. There was much to do, and she regretted all the months she’d wasted by staying home, getting angry with everyone, and blaming herself.

  In the evening, Miss Nhung came and sat with Uncle Đạt at the dining table. He convinced her to join him in making rubber sandals, for extra income for herself. When I took a break from my studies and went to the kitchen, I saw a pair of brand-new sandals in front of them. They were working on another pair now, he talked and she listened, laughing softly.

  I went back to my books, back to the lotus flower, whose petals glowed like Tâm’s face.

  My mother was on her bed, sorting out different types of dried roots, fruits, barks, flowers, stems. She put them into bags, labeling them.

  I brought her a glass of water.

  “These just arrived from the Institute of Traditional Medicine.” She indicated the bags. “I’ve been studying about them and need to get licensed.”

  “Licensed for what, Mama?”

  “For practicing herbal medicine.” She drank the water.

  “You’re already a brilliant doctor. For sure your knowledge of Western medicine will help?”

  “Yes, once we know how the human organs function, we can better cure them with medicinal plants.”

  I nodded, picked up a root, sniffing it. A sweet scent lingered in my nostrils, but I knew it’d taste unpleasant. A few weeks earlier, I’d had a bad flu, and my mother brewed me a pot of herbal remedy. I recovered fast but would never want to drink a sip of that black liquid again. I shuddered at the memory of its taste.

  “Somehow you look quite different today.” My mother grinned, her dimples deepening on her cheeks. “Your face glows. . . . Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  “Oh, Mama,” I moaned in embarrassment.

  “You don’t have to say anything.” She lifted a tiny scale, weighing some brown bark, putting it into a bag. “You just look so happy, I thought I should ask.”

  I nodded. “I’m very happy. The happiest in a long time, Mama.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m happy because you’re home, and Uncle Đạt is getting better.”

  “And because of some boy?” My mother continued to smile.

  I thumped her back with my fist, hiding my face behind my palms. “Is it written all over my face?”

  “Yes, it is.” She giggled. “I was your age once, remember?”

  “He . . .” I hesitated. “He’s the one who gave me the lotus flower.”

  “He did?”

  “He repaired my bike, Mama.”

  “Ah. A handyman, like your father.”

  “That’s why I like him, I think. Just like Papa, he knows how to make me laugh.”

  “Tell me more about him then.”

  “Well . . . he’s the same age as me. Sixteen. His name is Tâm.” I liked how Tâm’s name sounded on my lips. “Mama, please, don’t tell anyone.”

  “Sure, I promise.” My mother pulled me into her arms. “It’s a wonderful secret. I’m so glad you told me.”

  When I went to school the next day, I was hoping to talk to Tâm, but some of my classmates had seen him helping me with the bike, and everyone was making fun of us.

  “Tâm and Hương are a couple. Hương and Tâm are a couple,” they chanted. They whispered and laughed. I felt awkward. Tâm must have been embarrassed, too. After class, he walked home with a group of boys. For several days, I cycled past them, longing to stop and talk to him but didn’t dare to.

  I tried to focus on my end-of-year exams. No matter what I did, Tâm’s face still appeared in my mind; so did his deep voice and his laughter. I realized that I missed him. As the days dragged on, I resented him, for making my mind wander, for creating this big hole of emptiness inside of me, the hole I didn’t know how to fill.

  Time crawled by. A week passed; the lotus flower had withered; I gathered the fallen petals, dumping them into the trash. I changed my route going home, to avoid seeing Tâm and his friends.

  Tonight, at my desk, I opened my notebook. In front of me was a difficult math question I had to crack.

  A knock at the door. Miss Nhung came in. “Hương, a boy is here to see you. Said his name is Tâm.”

  “Oh.” I jumped to my feet. “Tell him to wait, Auntie.”

  I leaned against the door, dizzy. Hurrying to my closet, I pulled out my favorite shirts. I picked one up, tossed it aside and chose another one. I put it on, only to change my mind.

  I went out to the living room. Tâm wasn’t there. Perhaps I’d taken such a long time that he left? Uncle Đạt and Miss Nhung sat in our oil lamp’s light, talking and working on the sandals, looking like lovebirds.

  Grandma came to me. “He’s outside.”

  “Did you give him a hard time?” I stared at her.

  “No, but please—”

  I raised my hand and headed for the door.

  Under the bàng tree, Tâm stood, his hands behind his back. He was tall, taller than I’d remembered. Moonlight scattered around him, glowing on his face.

  “Hi, Hương,” he said.

  “Hello.” I stepped toward him, my arms and legs too clumsy, I didn’t quite know what to do with them.

  “Yours.” On his palm was my handkerchief, clean and folded into a rectangle. “It still smells like the lotus . . .”

  “Keep it if you like,” I said, surprised at my offer.

  “A gift?” Tâm grinned. “Then in return, I need to give you something.” He drew his other hand out from behind his back. Lotus flowers. A bunch of them, magnificent and half-opened. “Had to go back to the boatman. Bought these in exchange for his forgiveness.”

  “You’re incredible.” I laughed. The lotus nestled their budding promises against me. I forgave Tâm, too, for not talking to me during the entire week.

  We stood in silence. I looked down at the flowers, admiring them.

  “You said I could borrow some books.” Tâm smiled at me.

  I nodded, glad that he remembered. The more he borrowed, the more reasons I’d have to talk to him again. “Come inside. I have quite a few for you to choose from.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll just wait out here. . . . How about lending me three of your favorites?”

  “What if you’ve read them before?”

  “Then I’ll read them again.”

  Indoors, I handed Grandma the lotus. “He gave me these so I’d loan him some books. You may not know him, but he’s an avid reader.”

  She arched her eyebrows.

  I ran to the bookshelf.

  “War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy?” Tâm said when I gave him the first. “I’ve heard so much about this.”

  “Tell me what you think when you finish reading. It’s long.” I showed him the other two. “Not sure you’ll like these though.”

  “Oh, love poems by Xuân Quỳnh and Nguyễn Bính? They’re my favorite poets.”

  “Now . . . don’t try so hard to be nice. Not everybody likes poetry, I know. I can change them for fiction if you want.”

  “No, no.” Tâm’s eyes were sincere. “I like poetry, really. Love poems suit my mood for now.”

  “Oh.” Heat rushed to my face, and I had to look away.

  “Sorry, Hương,” Tâm whispered. “Our classmates . . . I want to talk to you every day in class but don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “You won’t embarrass me.” I gazed up at him, dazed. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

  “Me, too.” Tâm smiled.

  “I think you should know something.” I bit my lip. “My grandma is a trader.”

  “So our classmates said.”

  “Did they wa
rn you against visiting me, too?” Bitterness rose up in my throat.

  “Well, I don’t care,” he said firmly. “People have the right to trade.”

  I’d heard no one talk like Tâm. During class time, my teachers had been denouncing traders and capitalists, saying that they were cặn bã của xã hội—dregs of society that had to be mopped away.

  We walked side by side on the neighborhood lane, he carried the novel and I the two poetry books. The sky had absorbed the sun’s heat and released its stars. A full moon spilled light onto our path.

  “Where do you live, Tâm?”

  “In Đống Đa Quarter.”

  “That’s far away.”

  “Not too far, and walking does me good.”

  Several kids ran up to us, dashing through the narrow gap between Tâm and me. They galloped away, dragging their laughter with them.

  I smiled, shaking my head. I used to do the same, making fun of couples.

  “I’ve been thinking about your father,” Tâm said, “and about the bird he carved for you. He must be a very special person.”

  I nodded and told Tâm how dear my father was to me. I talked about Uncle Đạt’s journey through the war and how he’d brought the Sơn ca back to me. I talked about Uncle Thuận’s death, my mother returning from the war, Grandma’s job, and Uncle Sáng’s strange behavior.

  “I’m sorry,” Tâm told me. “It’s even more incredible to me now, how good you are at school despite all of that.”

  “I’m not that good. I should study harder.”

  “Don’t you believe it.” Tâm’s shoulder pushed playfully against mine. “The math test yesterday, you’re the only one who got a perfect mark.”

  “You didn’t do too badly yourself. You got ninety-eight percent.”

  “I wish our teachers would stop reading our marks aloud.” Tâm sighed. “They embarrass those who don’t do so well.”

  “I know.”

  “Want to know something else, Hương?”

  “What?”

  “The boys in our class say you intimidate them by your good grades.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say. But I think they’re wrong. You’re not intimidating at all, on the contrary. . .” Tâm left his words hanging in mid-air.

  We’d turned back, and now I found us standing under the bàng tree. Some minutes of silence passed.

  “You should go in,” said Tâm. “We don’t want your grandma to worry.”

  I nodded and gave him the books. His fingers brushed against mine.

  “Good night,” he whispered. “Sweet dreams.”

  The look on his face was so tender that I turned and fled.

  Grandma asked countless questions about Tâm, and when I said he was very good at math, she softened a bit. Still, she told me not to go any place where the two of us could be alone.

  “You think I’ll let bad things happen to me, the way they’ve happened to my mother, Grandma?” I fumed.

  “Oh Hương, you’re young and the world is complicated. Just be careful, please.”

  “I am careful. And you need to trust me, Grandma.”

  “Darling, I trust you, but other people have to earn my trust.”

  Grandma had learned about my mother and Uncle Sáng’s fight. She’d stopped sending food for a while, but as Auntie Hoa’s pregnancy advanced, she didn’t want the baby to go hungry.

  Two evenings a week, when my mother was on her night shift, I was on duty, bringing food to Uncle Sáng’s apartment. Though my uncle knew Grandma was sometimes waiting downstairs, he never invited her up. He acted as if it was our responsibility to supply him food. He never asked about Uncle Đạt, whom he’d only seen once at a tea stall. Miss Nhung had arranged the meeting, from which Uncle Đạt came back seething. He said Uncle Sáng was stuffed with propaganda rubbish.

  It seemed that among the siblings, Uncle Sáng was the luckiest. He’d emerged from the war okay. When Grandma escaped from her village, she hadn’t had to leave him behind.

  “Mama spoiled Sáng,” Uncle Đạt told my mother. “If you think about it, she always had a soft spot for him, her youngest son.”

  Uncle Đạt was right. Uncle Sáng had had plenty of time to bond with Grandma on her long walk to Hà Nội, and he used that bond to manipulate Grandma.

  I disliked seeing Uncle Sáng and felt relieved when Tâm started to accompany me on the food-delivery trips. His uncle had bought him an old bicycle, and he overhauled it, fixing a soft cushion onto its back. I got to sit behind him as he rode his bike into the evenings. We chatted along the way, and I learned about his family. His parents were farmers. They worked hard to send him to Hà Nội to live with his uncle so he could prepare himself better for university. Tâm had a younger sister who wanted to outdo him in everything. Of his grandparents, only his mother’s father was still around. He was a difficult man, who was ill and preferred to be alone, in his room. Tâm wondered whether his grandfather was crazy. Sometimes he’d overheard the old man weeping and mumbling to himself.

  “Perhaps something bad happened to him? Did you try to talk to him?” I said, thinking about my mother after her return.

  “I did, but he called me by all types of names. He even tried to beat me up.”

  “How terrible! Did you ask your mother why he’s so unhappy?”

  “She doesn’t have much to tell. He’s never let her get close to him. It’s hard to believe she’s come from such a man. She’s totally the opposite.”

  Tâm went on to say he missed his parents and sister but felt lucky to be living with his uncle. His uncle’s wife had died several years ago, and the kind man had never looked at another woman since.

  “My uncle told me true love only happens once in your life,” Tâm said.

  I thought about Uncle Đạt and Miss Nhung and the blossoming of their love. The artificial legs had finally arrived. Uncle Đạt had hated them at first, but with Miss Nhung’s help, he learned how to use them.

  “Uncle Đạt doesn’t drink anymore,” I told Tâm. “Miss Nhung visits him every night to make sandals and talk.”

  “They’re a good team, just like us, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.” I thumped his back, blushing.

  “Tay em têm trầu, lá trầu cay xứ Nghệ . . .” Grandma’s singing voice filled the kitchen with light. This folk song, about a girl inviting her visitors to eat betel quid, used to be my mother’s favorite. I stole a glance at my mother, hoping she’d at least hum along. No sound escaped her lips. It seemed her silky voice had been robbed from her.

  Uncle Đạt walked to the dining table, looking tall and manly. The gauntness on his face had disappeared, replaced by a healthy glow.

  “Looking good.” Grandma poured steaming vegetables into a big bowl set on the table. “You’re doing well, Son. Just in time for the engagement party.”

  “What?” I gasped.

  “Haven’t you heard, Hương?” My mother lowered the rice pot onto the table. “Đạt and Nhung are getting engaged.”

  I rushed to my uncle, embracing him.

  “Hey, easy, easy.” My uncle laughed, putting his hands on my shoulders to keep his balance. “I’m very happy, and so thankful.”

  My mother pulled up a chair and helped my uncle sit down.

  “To be honest, I was afraid Nhung’s parents would say no.” Grandma distributed the chopsticks. “Turned out the girl had done lots of convincing. We have our ancestors’ blessings.” She looked up at our family altar, where incense sticks were smoldering, spreading fragrance around the room.

  “Still can’t believe my luck,” my uncle said. “For so long, I didn’t dare to think Nhung would want to see my face again.”

  “You underestimated her, Son.” Grandma ladled rice into our bowls.

  “I guess I did,” my uncle said, nodding. “Do you think Sister Hạnh will be able to come to the party, Mama?”

  “I need to write her
. I know she wants to see you and celebrate with us.”

  I wondered when we’d be able to visit my aunt in Sài Gòn. Her family was doing well; Uncle Tuấn had become a senior army officer.

  “I hope Tuấn isn’t involved in those reeducation camps or in punishing Southerners.” Grandma sighed. “Northerners or Southerners, we’re all Vietnamese. I wish that everyone could now live in peace.”

  “You think,” whispered Uncle Đạt, “that Brother Minh might be in one of those camps? If he went to the South, he might have fought alongside the Americans.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t.” My mother put fried spinach into my bowl. “He knew we would be drafted. He wouldn’t want to fight against us.”

  “What if he was drafted himself? What if he had no choice but to fight?”

  “I don’t care what Minh did,” said Grandma. “I don’t care, as long as he’s alive. But I have to find him, otherwise I won’t be able to close my eyes when death comes and takes me.”

  “We’ll find him, Mama,” said Uncle Đạt. “And now the war has ended, he’ll look for us.”

  “I just telexed Mr. Hải again, he’ll let us know once Minh sends any news to our village,” said Grandma.

  Uncle Đạt turned to me. “Someone looks very happy these days. Something wonderful is definitely blossoming.”

  I swallowed my rice, not knowing what to say.

  “Tell Tâm to come in,” said Grandma. “You two can talk here, you don’t have to wander around the streets.”

  “You mean it, Grandma?” I grabbed her hand.

  “What choice do I have?” She shrugged. “When your granddaughter is ngang như cua, you have to give in.”

  I grinned. “Yes, you’re right, Grandma. I’m stubborn as a sideways-walking crab, but I learned it from someone.”

  My mother burst out laughing.

  “Plenty of stubborn crabs in this family.” My uncle chuckled.

  Grandma looked nervous. She was pacing back and forth in front of the National Hospital of Obstetrics, sweat drenching the back of her shirt.