The Mountains Sing

  I thought I’d expected the worst. But not this. Not a rickety-looking building stripped naked of all doors and windows. Not rotting walls with propaganda posters about family planning and drug addiction plastered on them; not makeshift partitions poking out of the house’s floor, like bones of a fish.

  The smell of rot drifted to my nose. The garden was now a patch of brown earth harboring large holes, over which clouds of green flies were buzzing.

  “Open toilets.” Mr. Hải sighed. “Fertilizers are expensive; human dung is now gold.” He waved away some flies. “When the families moved into this house, they fought and fought about the division of dung. Finally, each dug their own toilet.”

  “This used to be heaven on earth.” My mother clenched her fists. “Let us go, Mama. I can’t stand it.”

  But Grandma was tearing herself away from us, hurrying toward the house’s door. There, an elderly woman had just appeared. Her hair was white. She felt her way across the large veranda with a walking stick. Arriving at the five steps that led down to the yard, she threw the cane aside, crouching down on her hands and knees, crawling like an animal.

  “Let me give you a hand.” Grandma helped the woman to her feet.

  Stepping closer, I gazed at the woman’s face. A protruding forehead. Teeth that looked like those of a rabbit. The butcher-woman. She’d viciously attacked Grandma and had been determined to catch her. She was the one who’d driven my family out of our ancestors’ home so she could take it over.

  If Grandma loathed the woman, she didn’t show. She held the woman’s hand, guiding her down the steps.

  “Who are you?” The butcher-woman gazed up at Grandma with her white eyes. Her withered hand reached up to touch Grandma’s face. She sniffed at her.

  “I’m visiting a friend in the village,” said Grandma in her Hà Nội accent.

  “No wonder you smell nice, not like the rats that live here.” The woman winced. “Oh, my bones hurt.” She thumped her back with her fist. “Lead me to the toilet closest to the kitchen, won’t you? I must produce my daily quota, else my bastard of a son will punish me with his rod.”

  Grandma led the butcher-woman to her toilet. For the pain Grandma had suffered, she could’ve pushed her former enemy into the hole filled with human waste, but she helped the woman secure her footing and left her there.

  As we turned to go, I looked back at the white-haired woman squatting on the ground, a cloud of flies her company. “Heaven has eyes,” I said. “Cruelty dispensed, cruelty returned.”

  A buffalo cart arrived. Grandma loaded it with bundles of flowers, bags of fruits, and incense sticks. Mr. Hải got onto the cart, pulling us up. We waved good-bye to his family, then moved off in silence.

  Nam Đàn Forest opened its green arms to receive me as we got off the cart. Grandma found a bush where flowers were showing off their petals. “Sim berries.” She handed me a couple of the purple fruit. I put one on my tongue; its sweetness melted into my mouth.

  The deeper we walked into the forest, the lighter I felt. The path became narrower, surrounded by tall, swaying trees. We pushed through a thicket, and I found myself in an open area ringed by shrubs. Wildflowers spread out their red, yellow, white, and purple petals, leading my eyes to five mounds of earth—the graves of my great grandparents, Grandpa Hùng, Great Uncle Công, and Mrs. Tú. Grandma had moved all of them here, so they could be together in death.

  Grandma knelt, her palms in front of her chest. She brought her head to touch the ground and stayed there for a long while. I followed her, tears warming my eyes.

  My mother and I arranged the flowers in front of the graves. We unpacked the bags, heaping the fruits on large plates.

  Mr. Hải lit a bunch of incense. Receiving smoldering sticks, I raised them high. Their smoke unfurled toward Heaven, bringing my prayers to my ancestors. Their death and suffering taught me about love and sacrifice.

  “Please help us find my father,” I whispered. Whether he was alive or dead, I needed to know.

  When we reached Tâm’s village in Hà Tĩnh, we found him standing outside the lane of his house, waiting for us. He was wearing a shirt I’d sewn for him, using some of the skills I’d learned from my nữ công gia chánh—homemaking class. His face lit up when he saw me, and I knew why I loved him. Over the years we’d known each other, he’d grown into a tall man. The sight of him still made my knees go weak.

  He helped everyone else off the cart, then turned to me, picked me up, twirling me around. As heat rose to my face, he whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

  I begged him to let me down. Children had gathered around us, their hands over their mouths, giggling.

  Tâm guided us through the winding lane. “My parents are so excited to see you.” He squeezed my hand. A man and a woman appeared under the bursting colors of bougainvillea outside a brick house. “Chào bà, chào bác,” they greeted Grandma and Mr. Hải.

  Tâm’s mother reached out to my mother and embraced her. “I’m so happy you could come, Sister. Your daughter has your beautiful features.” Her eyes shifted to my face, and I blushed.

  “Come in, please come in,” Tâm’s father told us.

  “Thank you for the gifts you sent us,” said Grandma. “I’m glad to meet you at last.”

  The coolness of Tâm’s house welcomed me in. It was a friendly home. Plants flowered next to sunlit windows; tasteful paintings adorned the walls.

  “Lành, the trouble maker,” Tâm introduced me to his sister. I liked her smile instantly. On her hair was the pink headband I’d sewn, as a gift for Tâm to give his sister. She looked to be of my size, and perhaps I could try to make a skirt for her.

  In the kitchen, pots were steaming; pans were sizzling. Tâm’s mother returned to her stove. I rolled up my sleeves and joined Lành in washing vegetables. Surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous at all. It was pleasant to talk to Tâm’s mother and his sister. Their laughter relaxed me, and I found myself laughing, too.

  After the food was ready, we first offered it to Tâm’s ancestors. We arranged plates on a copper tray, decorating them with red roses and white lotus etched out of tomatoes and onions. Tâm carried the tray to the living room where his father was serving tea to my mother, Grandma, and Mr. Hải.

  I helped Tâm put the food on the table in front of his family altar. He edged next to me. “Today I’ll ask my ancestors to accept you as my wife. I can’t wait until next spring.”

  I pinched him. “Don’t be so impatient.”

  He pinched me back. “Be a good wife.”

  As we tried to hide our giggles, Tâm’s mother walked past us, arm in arm with an elderly man. He was stooped, his hands and legs trembling. He looked to be in great pain.

  “My father,” Tâm’s mother introduced him to Grandma, my mother, and Mr. Hải.

  Grandma looked up. Her lips parted. “Ôi trời đất ơi!” She called for Heaven and Earth. She looked terrified. More terrified than I’d ever seen her.

  “Ôi trời đất ơi!” Mr. Hải exclaimed, and the next thing I knew, Grandma had collapsed onto the floor.

  On Tâm’s bed, my mother massaged Grandma’s forehead.

  “Wake up, please,” I begged.

  Grandma’s eyelashes fluttered. But what was happening? Why was she crying?

  Her body shook. “No, it can’t be true,” she whimpered.

  I wanted to reach out for her hands, but Mr. Hải pulled me away from the bed. “Hương, give her some time.”

  I stood shivering next to the wall, watching my mother trying desperately to comfort Grandma.

  Mr. Hải paced back and forth.

  “Great Uncle, what’s going on?” I asked him.

  “Hương, I’m not sure . . .” He shook his head.

  “What? Tell me.” I clutched his arm.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  Mr. Hải looked at me. His eyes were wide. The corners of his mouth twitched. He brought his hands to my shoulders and
held me for a long moment. Then he pulled me to him. “I’m really sorry, Hương. . . . Tâm’s grandfather . . . Tâm’s grandfather is Wicked Ghost.”

  “No!” I pushed him away. “You’re wrong.”

  “I wish I were, Hương. I worked for him. I knew him—”

  I backed away from the room. I ran, passing Tâm, his parents, and Wicked Ghost. I darted under the flowers and out to the village road.

  “Hương . . . Hương . . .” Tâm was behind me, his voice above the wind. But I raced faster. I couldn’t go back to him. I could no longer love him. He was the flesh and blood of Grandma’s worst enemy.

  We left for Hà Nội the next day, much earlier than planned. The public bus was packed with people. I felt empty. My mother tried to console me, but her words couldn’t give wings to the sorrow heavy in my heart.

  Did Tâm know about Wicked Ghost and not tell me? Had he lied to me?

  Back home, I placed the Sơn ca on the family altar. Kneeling, I bowed, my forehead touching the ground. I prayed for my father’s soul to come home. I accepted now that I’d never see my Papa again. I accepted now that those I loved so dearly could be taken away from me so suddenly.

  Tâm came to see me. I turned away from him. He began to follow me home from university. I ignored him. I said nothing when he told me he’d been ignorant of his grandpa’s past. I gave him my silence in return for his words of apology.

  No matter how hard I tried, though, I found myself mumbling Tâm’s name whenever he was not with me. I missed our talks, our laughter, our fights. At the same time, I feared that if I accepted Tâm back, it would be a betrayal of my grandma.

  Summer departed, then fall, and winter arrived. Tâm braced against the cold, cycling alongside me. He talked to me as if nothing had changed. He told me about the results of his research; he was studying rice. Farmers in his province were planting a new variety that he’d developed. I wished I could tell him about my writing. Without him, my new poems lay silent in darkness.

  One cold, rainy day Tâm wasn’t waiting for me outside my class. I hung about, expecting to see him turning up late, his smile lighting up the rain and his voice wrapping me in its warmth. Night came, but the night didn’t bring him. The roads home were long and colorless.

  Time seemed to stop moving. I could hear my own heartbeat. The slightest noise startled me. I saw Tâm’s face everywhere I looked, but when I reached out for him, he was nothing but thin air.

  Six days went by. I cycled home alone. Winter never felt so cold. It was colder than that November day many years ago, when I hid with Grandma from the bombs, muddy water up to my waist. I was frightened then that I would die. Now I was terrified that I would have to live on without my soul mate and best friend.

  I pedaled slowly through my silent neighborhood, where brick houses had replaced the tin-roofed shacks. Our bàng tree had grown tall.

  Pushing my bike inside the house, I found Grandma sitting by the dining table, her palms cupping something in front of her. So lost in her thought, she didn’t even look up when I came in.

  I sat down next to her. “Grandma, are you all right?”

  “Tâm and his parents . . . they were just here to see me.”

  She opened her palms. A magnificent necklace.

  I reached for its gold chain. The ruby glimmered in my hands. Grandma’s story came rushing back. “Great-Grandma had this in her pocket,” I said. “Wicked Ghost took it from her. It’s our family treasure.”

  Grandma nodded. “That terrible man, he stole it and kept it all those years. He only told his daughter the truth about his past before he died. Tâm’s mother . . . she found out about the necklace and insisted that it be returned to our family.”

  “Wicked Ghost died, Grandma? When?”

  “Last week. Yes . . . he’s dead. He’s dead, and it’s impossible to undo his sins. Wicked Ghost didn’t just hurt other people, Hương, he inflicted pain on his own family. He used to beat his daughter so savagely. Many people in our village thought she wouldn’t survive his beatings.”

  I thought about Tâm’s mother, her smile, and her tender words. She was a beautiful lotus flower that had risen from a pond of mud.

  Grandma shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it when she handed the necklace over to me. She could’ve gotten a fortune for it, but she said it’s important we have it back. She said she wished to be able make it up to us, for the misery her father had caused. I told her it was not her fault. She was his victim, like us.”

  Grandma reached for my hand. “Hương, I’ve been thinking . . . Tâm has nothing to do with what happened. I used to believe that blood will tell, but blood evolves and can change, too. Young people can’t be blamed for what their ancestors did.” She smiled. “Tâm is a good man, Hương. I’ve seen how he made you happy. He told me today you mean everything to him, and he won’t give up on you.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, in front of his parents, so that says a lot. I understand how difficult this has been for you. But I also know that true love is rare, and once we find our true love, we must hold on to it. What I’m trying to say is, Hương, my darling, if you want to see Tâm again, you have my blessing.”

  A light radiated from Grandma’s eyes. Even her wrinkles were soft. There was no longer sorrow on her face. She looked peaceful and calm; as peaceful and calm as Buddha.

  I stood up. I drew Grandma to her feet. I hugged her.

  My Grandmother’s Songs

  Nghệ An, 2017

  I place the Sơn ca in front of Grandma’s grave. The children kneel down next to me. Tâm strikes a match, igniting a bundle of incense. He turns and beams at me.

  “I know Grandma is proud of you. I am too, my love,” he says as the smoldering incense wraps us with its fragrance.

  “You helped make this possible, Tâm.” I hold out a stack of paper, thick and sturdy. It is my family’s story, told by Grandma and me.

  “Can Great-Grandma read this in Heaven?” asks our son Quang, his hands patting the cover.

  “When we burn it, the smoke will send it to her,” our daughter Thanh says. She believes it because she loved to listen to Grandma as much as I did.

  I raise the copy of my manuscript above my head. Grandma once told me that the challenges faced by the Vietnamese people throughout history are as tall as the tallest mountain. I have stood far enough away to see the mountaintop, yet close enough to witness how Grandma became the tallest mountain herself: always there, always strong, always protecting us.

  I close my eyes. Grandma’s gentle face appears before me. I’m glad you wrote down what we went through, Guava. I can’t wait to read it.

  “I miss you, Grandma.”

  Fire flares up in Tâm’s hands. Our children help feed the pages to the flames.

  Wisps of smoke curl upward. And in the twirling ash, I see the Sơn ca moving. It is flapping its wings, craning its neck, calling my grandma’s songs toward Heaven.

  Acknowledgments

  The Mountains Sing is inspired by the experiences of my own family and those around me. I am grateful to my parents, my relatives, and many other Vietnamese who have shared with me their personal stories and continue to inspire me with their courage and compassion.

  I am indebted to my teacher—thầy Trương Văn Ánh—from whom I first learned English in eighth grade. I didn’t know that one day, it would be English, not my Vietnamese mother tongue, that would give me a voice when it comes to historical fiction. My husband, Hans Farnhammer, believes in me and encouraged me to quit my salary-earning job to become a writer. Peter Conners, BOA Editions, and the Lannan Foundation paved the way for my international career with the publication of my poetry book The Secret of Hoa Sen, which I translated from Vietnamese, together with the poet and professor Bruce Weigl. A scholarship from Lancaster University’s M.A. in Creative Writing program granted me the chance to research and write this novel. I am grateful for the guidance of my mentor Sara Maitland and the feedback from othe
r writers at Lancaster, especially Philip Caveney, Zoe Lambert, Graham Mort, Anne O’Brien, Laura Morgan, Michelle Scowcroft, Mary Chism, Joe Lavelle, and Suzanne Conboy-Hill. Insights from the war veterans Đinh Văn Tùng, Nguyễn Văn Bảo, Trần Minh Quang, Bruce Weigl, John Havan, Wayne Karlin, and Tracy French have been invaluable.

  Master John Havan, who was himself a novelist, taught me Kick-Poke-Chop self-defense. He had invented this technique for surviving real-life attacks. Helle Kafka journeyed with me from the start of this novel. Beth Phillips expanded my reading horizons by giving me a job at the library of the American International School Dhaka, Bangladesh. Special thanks to Mr. Cường Nguyễn and Mrs. Thảo Đỗ, for the inspirations they provided me. The talented and generous novelist Viet Thanh Nguyen gave me much-needed encouragement and introduced me to my wonderful agent Julie Stevenson, who heard The Mountains Sing despite the distance of many oceans between us. My sister-in-writing, Thanhhà Lại, worked with me over late nights and early mornings translating Vietnamese proverbs. Paul Christiansen and Dr. Eric Henry gave input to my translations of complicated Vietnamese words and phrases.

  I am incredibly lucky that The Mountains Sing finds its home at Algonquin Books. My editor, Betsy Gleick, is brilliant, warm, and very supportive. It has been my honor to work with her, as well as with the many other capable and caring people at Algonquin, including Brunson Hoole, Michael McKenzie, Anne Winslow, Randall Lotowycz, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Stephanie Mendoza, Debra Linn, Lauren Moseley, and Kendra Poster. This novel also benefited from the keen and careful reading eyes of Chúc Mỹ Tuệ (Teresa Mei Chuc), Eva Maaten, Abby Muller, and Chris Stamey.

  I am grateful to organizations and individuals who lent me strength when I needed it most, especially the Australia Awards scholarship program, the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network (DVAN), the Djerassi Resident Artists Program, Rick Simonson, chị Tuyết Nga, and the amazing writers who read and provided such heartfelt blurbs for my novel.