Late Blossom

by Laura Lam

  That morning Uncle Muoi took us to my grandmother’s grave. She was buried next to my grandfather, who had died when my mother was a little girl. The large mound of earth was still fresh next to my grandfather’s old cement tomb. Uncle Muoi assured my mother, “I will soon arrange to have the new mound covered in cement as well. It’s my responsibility and you need not worry.” My mother sobbed loudly for a long time. I placed a lotus on the mound and wept silently, thankful that my grandmother was now at peace.

  Hung’s tomb was in the same plot of land and made of white cement. Squatting at its foot I called out his name. If I hadn’t left the village he would still be alive, because I had regularly looked after him. Weeping, I talked to him now. I told him how sorry I was to have abandoned him. I sat for a long time, sensing his presence. I could hear his voice, his laughter, his feet stamping when we ran together in the open field to chase dragonflies and grasshoppers. I could hear him fall from a seizure and see bubbles oozing from his mouth… but he would soon get up and we would play again. But not now. His face, his smiles, his soft voice, his pale skin, his fragile frame… so dear to me. My dear cousin! My dear friend! I had never intended to leave you.

  Dzung had been buried at a secret location, his grave unmarked. It wasn’t possible for anyone to go there for fear of harassment by the local authorities. I wanted to go anyway, but my mother cut in, “You may not get into trouble, but after we leave, Uncle Muoi and everybody else in the family will suffer. You’re not to go!”

  Instead, I asked Uncle Muoi to show me where the grave of my adopted brother Son was. He took me through fields of reeds and bamboo, but when we got to where he thought it was, the ground was flat, completely covered with thick reed. I tried to hide my distress – how could he have “lost” my brother’s grave? He must have sensed it because all the way home he was very sad.

  * * *

  Uncle Muoi and Gai started their day at four-thirty in the morning. Soon after, his two younger sons, Thanh and Minh, followed them into the field. They had a hot breakfast of rice porridge, eggs, fish, condiments, and fresh fruits. Mother and I had breakfast with Mo Muoi and their younger children. Mo Muoi told us Uncle Muoi had become the hamlet chief on the order of Constance Garrison. One of his duties was to maintain security for the hamlet by reporting the whereabouts of “Viet Cong” in the village. I asked her, “Does that mean Uncle has to report on his own nephews?” “You know he would never do that,” she said. Then she changed the subject and asked about my father and my paternal grandmother in Sai Gon.

  While we were out in the rice field, Gai instructed me to sit inside the thatch hut. There I watched the men and the buffaloes ploughing the muddy ground. At lunchtime we ate sticky rice seasoned with roasted sea salt, fresh coconut flakes, and palm sugar. Everyone drank hot tea from a flask but, thanks to Gai, I was given my favourite drink of young coconut juice.

  After lunch I announced, “ I am going to walk over the muddy field with my bare feet, going from one end of the field to the other like I used to do. I will love it!”

  “No, Little Sister!” my cousins warned me, “You know that dozens of fat leeches are down there and they will glue themselves onto your legs, and those awful creatures will suck your blood out. No, we will not let you sink your feet into the water. Absolutely not.”

  The thought of leeches horrified me. I realized how much I had changed in four and a half years. This thought was accompanied by a growing sense of guilt. Why should I be better off than my cousins, my blood cousins? What had I done to deserve such a privileged life, while they were enduring hardships? Sadly, their pattern of life would go on, with little opportunity for changes – day after day, season after season, year after year, generation after generation. Only I had the opportunity to move on toward a better life.

  * * *

  Dai brought over two giant prawns the size of lobsters and gave them to Mo Muoi. While they were being prepared, Dai and I had a long talk about life in the capital, about what I was studying in school, and so on. We’d maintained our contact through writing, but some letters, it turned out, were lost on their way to the destination. That afternoon, the sadness was obvious in his eyes when he arrived from the jungle, for he was still grieving over the deaths of dear friends and neighbours.

  Dai had to leave after lunch. He promised to tell Hinh about our visit and would see us again before we returned to Sai Gon. I followed his hurried footsteps. He disappeared into the woods and suddenly I was struck with fear – I feared for his life and even imagined him dying, like Dzung. I tried to blot out such terrible thoughts, but they kept coming back, night after night.

  Thanh offered to accompany me to the old family house. Under a full sun, we walked briskly along and from time to time stopped to rest under a large tree. I was trying very hard to calm myself. The first two days had already filled me with much sorrow. Now I was about to enter my childhood home, to find the remnants of those past years. The house now belonged to the family of Mrs Hoang, who had been our immediate neighbours previously. She and her husband had two sons, both of whom had already joined the NLF.

  Mrs Hoang caught sight of Thanh and me as we came along the edge of the rice paddy leading to the back of the house. She stood by my coconut tree and waved at us with a smile. I told myself that both of us – the coconut tree and I – would be seventeen in the following spring. My feet started to feel awkward, as if they were being pulled down by an unknown gravity, and I was a bit dizzy. Before we reached the guava tree I stood still and took three deep breaths, in an effort to control my emotions.

  “Look at you!” Mrs Hoang greeted me. “You’ve grown up! You’re blooming! I am so happy you are back, Hoa Lai. Everybody had been wondering if we would ever see you again. Come in!” She took my arm and led me into the kitchen hut, “Let’s have some tea first! Then we will have a chat.”

  While she was making the fire to boil water, I darted into the main house and glanced at everything quickly. The Hoangs’ furniture consisted of two bamboo beds, a wooden table with four footstools, and a hammock. I stepped into the kitchen as she pointed to the three terracotta burners near the back wall, “I still have one from your mother’s. The other two had been destroyed by bullets.” I sat quietly in the hammock, contemplating my previous existence in the room – traces of my family were still there. I stepped out and went to the coconut tree. My arms stretched out to hold its trunk – now bearing several bullet marks. I gazed up wistfully at the clusters of green coconuts at the top. I tried to hide my tears and turned away from the house.

  As she walked out with the tray of tea and sweets, Mrs Hoang asked how my parents were. I told her briefly that my father worked in an office and my mother had a sewing job at home, and that both were very well. I added that mother would come around later to visit her. “And how is your grandma?” asked Mrs Hoang, who had placed the tray at the foot of the guava tree. I started to cry.

  “Is she not well, dear?” Mrs Hoang asked.

  I wiped away the tears and answered, “Yes she is very well. She is happy living with us again. Just …just now, when you put the tea tray there, it reminded me of her days in this house, in the vegetable garden, I mean.”

  Mrs Hoang sighed. “Oh! I understand, you’re feeling homesick for those times… We all remember her, your grandmother. She is such a dear person and everyone loves her. I don’t imagine we will have the privilege of seeing her again, not in this shattered village. She has no reason to come back. Have some tea now before it gets cold!”

  She went on to say that my grandmother had been very protective of me. “When you were a baby you were her nugget of gold. She always kept you very clean. You had a bath and fresh clothes every day, and whenever I wanted to carry you she made me wash my hands first!” She let out a loud laugh, then said, “And you, when you began to talk, oh! You chattered like a sparrow… You were her little sparrow and she adored you, her little Hoa Lai. Drink your tea now! Have some little cakes! I made them just this m
orning. Later will you take some back for your mother too?”

  Mrs Hoang talked about the vegetable garden, which now contained only mint and lemon grass among masses of weeds. My mind went back to the days my grandmother and I worked together along the vegetable paths, when she showed me how to recognize and pull out the weeds. And how we sweated from the heat! She had jasmine tea and I had fresh coconut juice for our breaks. It was there, at the foot of the guava tree that I asked her all my questions and she told me her stories.

  “Grandma, why are the caterpillars and the worms eating our eggplants? I just hate them.”

  She would smile, and after a moment of silence, answer, “Well, while we are taking a rest, I want to tell you this story and you may understand.” At this she launched into the cautionary tale of Chau Chau, the greedy grasshopper, and all the trouble he had caused the other animals, until the Buddha himself had to intervene and pass judgment. And now, all these years later, I could hear an echo of her gentle voice as if she were sitting there, under the guava tree.

  We left Mrs Hoang’s house – my old house – before sunset. The intense heat had reduced and the air was cooling slowly, with occasional breezes. Thanh and I walked along a winding country road beside the large stream where Dzung and I had gone fishing years earlier. The stream’s surface sparkled with the lingering sunlight. The wavelets of an incoming tide were washing the reed-filled bank and making steady lapping sounds. In the distance a farmer was moving back and forth in the middle of the current, chasing his white ducks. On the other side of the road, the paddy field was already taken over by flocks of white storks, immersing their beaks into the water searching for food. Others stood quietly – each perfectly balanced on one leg. We sat down on the bank and I told Thanh about Dzung and our fishing days. He listened quietly, only asking an occasional question. With our feet in the water, we watched the last remnants of the sunset and the hazy sky. We sat this way until darkness fell.

  I stepped into the slow moving stream and dipped my hands into the warm water. I held them gently against my face. My feet rested on pebbles while the duckweed brushed against my knees. I saw Dzung and me, with our bamboo baskets, our fishing gear, and our straw hats… Our world had been one of cloudy morning mists, golden sunlight, gentle breezes, heavy falls of rain. We walked along that riverbank, we sang, we laughed. And we parted.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon and the bright sun was shining in the front yard of Uncle Muoi’s house. My mother and I were sitting on a wooden platform talking to Mo Muoi. Uncle Muoi and Gai were working in the back garden. I thought I heard the sound of an aircraft engine and waited for someone to say something, but the sound faded. At that very moment Uncle Muoi came in, alert but calm, and instructed us to go to the underground shelter. Mo Muoi cried out to Thanh and Minh who were still outside, urging them and their younger brothers and sisters to go underground. My mother and I rushed to the shelter. There we observed a lot of water at its bottom. Thanh said there might be leeches inside the shelter, but nobody seemed afraid. They all jumped in, the children excited as if it were a great game. I was hesitating at the edge of the shelter and my mother scolded me, “Are you more afraid of bombs or leeches?” I forced myself into the deep shelter. The water was above my knees.

  Uncle Muoi and Gai had gone back outside to look at the sky. In deadly silence, we heard very clearly the roaring of an engine, coming in from Thanh Chau. Above the ground Uncle Muoi and Gai shouted out, “Bomber! Bomber!” I raised my head above the shelter and Gai pulled me out for a quick look. I could see a giant grey fish diving into the air below it, making a deafening noise, with a trail of black smoke behind its tail. Then a second fish appeared with the same deafening sound and started diving toward the tree- tops.

  I ran back to the shelter and heard Gai shouting, “Another bomber! Two of them now…they are just above the trees!” For one moment I thought of the leeches but it didn’t matter any more. In a few minutes, a series of high-pitched whistling sounds passed above us, followed by two powerful explosions. Uncle Muoi and Gai fell backward into the doorway. The first two bombs, they thought, must have dropped near their rice field. Immediately after that the ground was shaken by a series of explosions. Terrified, I covered my ears with my hands while my skin turned ice cold.

  The dark underground shelter came alight with flashing fire from the orange flames in the sky. Then part of the house’s roof blew off. Black smoke came from all directions, accompanied by a sickening odour. I pressed my stomach in with my hands. While the explosions continued, my ears buzzed, my head hurt, and my limbs were shaking. My entire body felt like it was being pressed down by a giant force. I had become part of the shuddering earth. I called out to Quan Yin.

  Suddenly there was complete silence. My mouth had gone dry with a bitter taste, and I was desperate for something to drink. I had forgotten the leeches until now when everyone in the shelter started to touch their legs. Thanh pulled something off my knee and I immediately realized what it was. He held up the black leech, still wiggling, and dripping blood. The rubber-like creature was shiny and resembling a tiny eel. My mother pulled two leeches off her legs. She remained cool, reminding me to check myself thoroughly from head to toe.

  When we came out of the shelter, the first thing I heard was the cursing of my grandmother’s elderly neighbour, Mrs Lua, standing on the road, “The God of Lightning who slays evil people will strike you all, and the King of Hell will punish you, Constance the lackeys!” She continued her wailing, “You all are a bunch of demons, most wicked demons. I am too old now to have any fear…”

  The minute she saw me, she rushed over. I gazed at her tear-stained face and shattered expression. I hugged her, and she gave me a sad smile. The short path from Uncle Muoi’s house to the main road was buried under muddy soil from the badly damaged road and broken tree branches. All the trees had been blown up. Only their trunks were left standing – leafless and bare – as witness to human cruelty.

  I walked further out to the main road in front of Uncle Phan’s house. Its surface was broken and large lumps of earth lay scattered all over the muddy ground. Most of the road was flooded with water. Floating in the river were piles of partially burned palm leaf roofs and walls from various houses. We checked at Uncle Phan’s and learned that no one had been killed. Everyone sighed with relief. However, we learned later that one of the neighbours had been killed. Missing her child in the shelter, a mother had panicked and against all advice had leaped out onto the road to search for him, where a bomb obliterated her.

  Uncle Muoi went around the village in his sampan to check for casualties. A couple who had been working in the rice fields lost their lives. One family of five had lost all its members because a bomb exploded right above their underground shelter.

  For the remainder of our visit, my maternal relatives refused to let me or my mother out of the house. Whether this was because they feared for our safety or because they wanted to spare us the horrible scenes following the raid I can’t say. I was hoping to get onto the roads and walk down to my old school near Constance Garrison. I wanted to put my bare feet on the monkey bridge and watch the wildlife beneath. I had also planned to ask one of my cousins to go fishing with me along the village streams. But it was not to be.

  * * *

  Dai arrived with Hinh in a sampan one evening to see us, their heads carefully disguised under water-palm leaves. It was raining and cold, and Mo Muoi had kept firewood burning in the large stove. Hinh wiped the rain from his forehead and greeted me with a smile, “Hello Little Sister!” I shouted, “Big Brother!” and took his arm. Hinh looked exactly as he had years earlier. He wore his usual black uniform, with a rifle at his side. His skin was dark and smooth, his eyes bright and shining. He had a confident and calm look.

  Mo Muoi prepared dinner for us. We took our seats on the living room divan. Hinh always sat with dignity and his voice was clear and even. He asked me what I planned to do after I had finished school. I
told him I didn’t know and he advised me not to take any kind of job that involved politics. Dai cut in. What I did with my future, he said would be entirely up to me. Aunt Di Nam would have liked me to continue my sewing work – a perfectly suitable career for a young woman, she said.

  The discussion shifted to the war and the foreigners. Uncle Phan’s wife, sitting in a hammock, joined in, “Before there were the French, and now we have the Americans. Have you seen any Americans in Sai Gon?”

  “I’ve never met any, Auntie, and I don’t plan to,” I replied.

  Gai looked at me straight in the eyes and warned me, “Stay away from all Americans, Hoa Lai. You know that they rape women in rice fields and sometimes kill them, but the Sai Gon prostitutes are after them. You know that, don’t you?”

  The remark brought me up short. What did he know about the Americans? Or the rapes of women? Or the prostitutes? Or me?

  “Little Sister,” he went on in a low, hostile, insinuating voice, “I hope never to find you doing what those women in Sai Gon do.”

  He was all but openly accusing me! I stood up and went out through the back door, followed by Dai, to the orange tree next to the banana grove. There, Dai tried to apologize for Gai, “It is the war. The war and the Americans, and the people who collaborate with them in Sai Gon. Gai isn’t accusing you of anything personal. He is just afraid for you.”

  I finally calmed down and we came back inside. Gai, however, had gone off.

  * * *

  I woke up at the rooster’s crowing. Still lying in bed, I was visited by Uncle Phan’s youngest daughter, Sac. She brought freshly steamed glutinous rice cakes, known as “banh tet”, for me and my mother. I got out of bed, greeting her, and started unwrapping the banana leaves. The condensed sticky rice, green from the banana leaves gave off the most delicious aroma. This particular savoury cake contained mung bean paste, meat, red beans, and coconut flakes. My mother used to make them with Mo Muoi a few days prior to each Lunar New Year, and I was a little surprised that Uncle Phan’s wife had made them this early. It was then I overheard a conversation between Sac and Mo Muoi. Sac confided that she and her mother had stayed up all night to make enough glutinous rice cakes for Uncle Muoi. Why for Uncle Muoi? Why would he need so many? I wondered.