Longings, page 23
May’s mother had been married to her father for more than twenty years. Everyone in the region admired her mother for her beauty and kindness. Girls up and down this village could never surpass her embroidery and weaving skills. In the entire region, only Chúng could afford the silver, rice, and wine that Mao’s family requested as a bridal price, after which Mao followed Chúng to join his family. Before their wedding day, the restless clomping of a horse behind the stone fence disturbed Mao and left her sleepless. When dawn arrived, the horse left, and soon the sound of a lip lute arose from the mountain cliff. Its music resonated across great distances. Mao sat up and stared through her tiny window at the misty, opaque sky. Fog fell on the front yard and garden, blurring the short distance from the house to the pond. The sound of the lip lute from afar seemed to her like approaching arrows penetrating thick layers of fog. The notes were melancholic, whining. Mao sobbed quietly. Ever since then she could never bear to hear a lip lute if alone.
One year, two years, three years after her wedding, Mao still hadn’t gotten pregnant. During that time, her in-laws searched everywhere for good doctors who could help her conceive, but after a while, they gave up. They loved their daughter-in-law so much that they couldn’t tell their son to seek a new wife, especially because Chúng was the youngest man in their clan. Eventually, one after the other, her parents-in-law passed away.
When alone, Mao tried to persuade Chúng, time and again, to let her return to her family so that Chúng could marry another woman and have a child. But Chúng declined. Chúng knew that he could easily find another woman to replace her, but he needed to keep Mao the way he kept the gate of his house. Every time he left home to run errands, Chúng would quicken his pace to get back home, fearing that she would be sad if left alone for too long, and with only half a blanket would be too cold to sleep at night.
One year, each family in the hamlet had to send someone to help carry rocks and dirt to build a new road to Thượng Sơn. Every day Mao would wake up early to make Chúng a fine breakfast of sticky rice and grilled chicken and pack him a lunch. As the road stretched further and further along, Chúng had to stay at the worksite and take rice with him to the construction site for the collective meals they ate. He would return home once in a while and console Mao, encouraging her to wait just a little longer before he could come back to her for good. The road was almost finished.
But he didn’t return until the dry season. Without Chúng, the house felt empty. But Chúng didn’t return alone. He was joined by a worker from his construction team. She was a young girl, a few years younger than Mao, hailing from the plains.
Mao quietly moved her things to the third bedroom. She had cleaned the room very often, but no one had stayed there for a long time so it was empty.
When Mao lifted her chest and headed to the door, Chúng stopped her. Mao stared straight into his eyes. Chúng couldn’t stand that look, so he had to step aside and let Mao go. That night Chúng sat peeling banana trunks by the stove, not going to bed until very late. After cleaning the house, Mao didn’t go to bed either but stayed up to slice vegetables for the pigs. They both sat in silence, listening to the sound of the chopping knife. Mao rose to her feet to pour the vegetables into the pot of mashed bran for the pigs before stooping over to add more logs to the stove. Chúng pulled Mao’s lapel, asking her to sit down with him, and they just sat there, side by side, saying nothing. Chúng whittled the handle of a knife, cutting into his fingers until they bled and he had to put them into his mouth. He didn’t know how to begin the story. Mao was staring at the stove, her face flushed by the light from the fire. Suddenly, Chúng became scared of Mao. If she yelled at him, he would feel much better.
After that, the three of them lived together under one roof. They slept separately on three beds in three different rooms. They barely talked to one another. Mao stayed in the kitchen, Hoa took the living room, and Chúng worked in the garden. They sat together only at meals. Every night, the creak of their beds was the only sound to break the silence. Whether they woke up late or early, their eyes were dark with sadness. What miserable lives they were living! What if they all fell ill one day? One night, Chúng sat up, walked to the second bedroom, and reached for the door handle to find it tightly latched from within. Chúng remained there for a while before coughing lightly, but the door remained shut without any sign of someone walking over to open it. Just then, inside the third bedroom, came a sob. It was the sob of a woman burying her face in the pillow because she knew the door to his room was left ajar.
It was cold that night, but sweat covered Chúng’s face.
After May was born, Hoa stayed, which was not what Chúng had told Mao would happen. But Hoa didn’t know how to farm, plant beans, or stoke a fire. When May was two months old, Hoa left May to Mao and went into town to start a fabric store, rarely coming home.
May was as frail as a kitten. From early morning to late evening, Mao carried her on her back. Oftentimes, May sucked Mao’s nipples, biting them until they bled. When May turned two, still unable to crawl over the doorstep, Hoa gave birth to Trài, who replaced May’s place on Mao’s back and took the role of biting her nipples.
Hoa came home less and less often, and never for long enough even to have a family dinner. But she always brought May and Trài a huge bag of candies, shoes, and clothes. But after she left, May and Trài would throw all the candies into the horse stall, and they never wore the new clothes, preferring the ones Mao wove for them.
When May was about to turn eleven, and Trài nine. Hoa visited for what she said would be her last time, vowing never to return. Chúng and Mao didn’t believe that promise, however. That night, she stayed for dinner and slept with the family. Chúng had gone hunting so only Mao, May, and Trài were home. That night May and Trài went to bed early and the next morning when they woke up, Hoa was gone. Mao said only that Hoa woke up early and left. That same night, the family’s only buffalo disappeared. Someone untied it and took it. Without that buffalo, the family would have to plow the field by hand. At noon, when Chúng returned from his hunting trip, May gripped his leg and told him that Hoa had come and they lost their buffalo. Neither Chúng nor Mao said anything. Chúng simply spent several sleepless nights drinking on the patio beside the dogs.
To plant that year’s crop, and the crop after that, Mao and Chúng had to plow the field by hand. Mao’s palms developed calluses as thick as the stable’s burnt candlewicks. Every night, she would stroke the backs of May and Trài until they both fell into a deep sleep.
Eventually, Hoa had been gone for so many years that everyone in the family began to wonder if she actually was gone for good. Sometimes Chúng went into town but never saw Hoa selling fabric in the store anymore. And while Hoa was away May and Trài had grown into adults. Then all of a sudden, Hoa returned. Had she traveled the entire world but, unable to find a place to rest, come back?
Hoa brought havoc to their peaceful cocoon. Chúng didn’t remember anything Hoa had said, and he refused even to listen to her. Only when she asked to take May and Trài down to the plain to visit their relatives did Chúng yell at her. His house wasn’t a deserted guava garden to be used by whoever came and went.
It was difficult to talk to him. After that night, Chúng recognized how old and hollow Mao’s eyes had become. Her hands held the stable’s manger, trembling. He was waiting for her to say something. But she remained quiet, concentrating on her work without lifting her face.
Mao avoided his gaze while he avoided Hoa’s. Hoa was still as pretty as a blooming flower on a balmy day. She was only a few years younger than Mao but looked like her daughter. Hoa looked at Chúng, with impassioned eyes. When she rolled up her pants to wash her feet, she exposed her calves, suppler than May’s. Chúng tried to block the strange ideas that were spilling into his mind. Hoa slept in the second room again without an invitation. Ever since Hoa had left, Chúng had begun sleeping there. Mao was used to sharing a room with the children where she shared the bed with them.
He drank alone again. His back was cold. Behind him, the door of the second room remained ajar. In front of him, the kerosene lamp burned low, its flame smelling like burning wax.
May avoided speaking to her biological mother. May told her father that Hoa was like a stray animal that had lost her family and would leave again whenever the mood struck. Trài was different. He talked with Hoa, which led to May becoming hostile with him. The siblings stopped speaking to each other. When looking at Mao’s hands, May pictured dry tree branches and thought her calluses resembled burnt logs.
Only when Hoa lifted her bag in preparation to leave did May look straight into her eyes. It was the first time she had done so since Hoa arrived, and it sent a shiver down her spine, a jolt to her heart. Those eyes, the ones Mao always said looked like May’s, were swollen and blood red, and her cheeks were deathly pale. But May stayed silent as if her lips had been glued shut.
May couldn’t look at those eyes any longer. Then Hoa left, disappearing into the dry cornfield that awaited harvesting. May sprinted out of the house toward the stream that flowed deep into the woods. Mao was doing laundry there, hanging wet clothes on the huge rocks on the bank. May rushed to her, crying, “Left. . . . She left, Mom! Hoa . . .”
Mao held May’s shoulders. The cold stream slapped onto the rocky shore, splashing their dresses. Mao sighed softly.
May had already met her future husband. One night when she was sitting inside, the sound of the lip lute kept calling and calling. It took all her courage to walk to the gate. The man who played it, Chử, came from Thượng Sơn. He was very young, only one or two years older than May, but she was only as tall as his shoulders. Under the moonlight, May couldn’t see his face clearly but could still sense his fiery eyes that made her body burn. That very first night, May lingered only for a moment before rushing back inside the house. May feared that she would fall if she lingered any longer. Gradually as her fear subsided, May stayed longer and longer. Some nights she stayed until her shawl was soaked with dew. Now May had accepted to go with him to the market on the 27th.
The next morning, Chử would be waiting for her at the intersection a ways from the entrance to the market. It would still be dark when he got there. May couldn’t sleep the entire night. She went to bed late and lay waiting, but the roosters never seemed to start their crowing. She lied to Mao and said that Ly had asked her to go to her house to bake cakes. Mao didn’t say anything, telling May not to forget to greet the elders properly and go to bed before them as she did at home.
When morning arrived, May took the horse out of the stable. The horse seemed to understand May, gently letting her put a saddle on its back. May shivered, fearing that some acquaintance in the village would see her and tell her parents and then May would be scolded. But what should she be afraid of? She wouldn’t be alone, after all.
At the market May saw three or four friends, each with a young man whom May didn’t know. When they saw one another, they said nothing, walking past each other with quiet smiles. When night fell, a group of young men made a campfire in the center of the market where young people gathered, bringing with them whatever food they had prepared to share. May and her friends tethered their horses and joined the group. No one seemed to be shy anymore because everyone was equal and thus had no reason to be reserved. The glowing fire made it seem as if the girls were blushing.
The next day, March 27th, the sun rose behind the scarlet woods. Chử took May’s hand and led her toward the long line of elders. Most young men stopped briefly by the line and then left for other, less crowded areas. They sat down at a liquor shop but hadn’t even said anything to the seller when May blurted out: “Go, please go to another place. Hurry up!”
She pulled Chử up to run as if they were being chased. May had seen, without question, her mother wearing that splendid rainbow dress. Mao was sitting behind the jar of wine. Her face was red. And that unknown person standing next to her? Was he a friend of hers? Was he the one who stopped playing the lip lute once she got married? May dragged Chử away as he stared at her speechless. Chử lived alone with his father since his mother had passed away when he was only a toddler. When he turned six, Chử learned how to play the lip lute from him. He followed his father to a farm when he turned ten. When May’s friends learned of Chử, they said that May was fortunate because if she married him, she could enjoy the sound of Chử’s lip lute, which was even more beautiful than his father’s. And even better, May wouldn’t have to flatter or praise Chử’s mother.
May went home very late that night. When she arrived, Mao was drying her hands over the stove and told May to wash her hands and feet in the cold water. Mao was wearing her simple home clothing but had forgotten to change her shawl, which shared a bright rainbow pattern with the dress. May sat beside her. Mao had asked May’s father to go downtown with Hoa and hadn’t returned yet. Hoa had, apparently, arrived the day before. Yes, Hoa had come back. Was that something to be stressed about? Why hadn’t Mao said anything more?
“Mom, what is your plan?” May asked reluctantly.
“So what do you think I should do?” Mao said, looking at May before turning away, her chin on her knees, her hand stoking the stove, increasing the flames. “My dear, being the mother of someone else’s kids is like being a rock under the pillar of the house.”
When Mao said this, tears welled up in May’s eyes. So, for the past twenty-odd years, her old mother thought of herself only as a rock and didn’t consider May and Trài to be her true children? Did she want to give them back to Hoa the way people returned horses to someone they had borrowed them from? Did she still want to be, at her age, a rock under someone else’s house? May pulled the chair closer to her mother, struggling to say something appropriate despite her broken heart.
It was late but her father wasn’t home yet. The region’s streets had been much improved so it took only half a day to make a round trip to the market. Why was he so late? Without saying anything to each other, both May and Mao stayed awake waiting until the fire died down, and then finally went to bed. As soon as they closed their eyes, May heard the sound of the lip lute floating in the air, just behind the gate, not near the edge of the house as before. May intended to ignore it. She had just seen Chử after all and the smell of his hair still lingered. She was tired too. But the music kept calling and calling. It sounded strange, longer, darker, and more hesitant when flowing over the stone edge like a running stream. Although May had listened to the lip lute countless times, her heart was still pounding. Suddenly, Mao moved from beneath the blanket. Perhaps she forgot to tie the dogs to the horse stable. When she opened the door, May followed her. She should go ask Chử to go home. Go home to rest for tomorrow’s work.
May ran to the front yard, her head hitting the hanging string where beans were being dried. She only wanted to zip out and back so her mother wouldn’t notice. But when she walked to the yard, May came to a dead stop. In front of May, only two steps from her, her mother was standing with her back turned, her head lowered, her shawl slipping off her shoulders, her hands gripping the wooden gate as she spoke to someone. Who?
May grasped the trunk of a nearby pear tree, holding her breath. The weekend moonlight was so soft. A cold wind blew in from the mountain, the old pear leaves falling with a soft rustling noise as they landed on the stone fence.
Under the Blooming silk cotton Tree:
Tịnh Bảo
Since the day Mrs. Ba received the news that her daughter would be released from prison early on account of good behavior, she had to walk faster in public to avoid people’s inquisitive eyes. She didn’t blame them, as country people were simple and sincere, caring and nosy by nature. They tended to exaggerate things to an extreme, though they meant to do her no harm and didn’t realize their words cut deeper than knives.
For the last two weeks, the news had become a hot topic of conversation in the village. Housewives holding their babies in their arms chattered about it in coffee shops. Middle-aged men brought it up while drinking and chewing on a guava after a day of hard labor at one of the village’s many construction sites. Female merchants in the marketplace gossiped about it when they weren’t busy with customers. Even schoolchildren talked about it while playing marbles under the old silk cotton tree. Discussing the news was part of the villagers’ daily routines. Some people talked about it derisively, some showed sympathy, some were skeptical, and some made up stories about Mrs. Ba’s daughter, even though her life had nothing to do with them.
Mrs. Ba slowly wiped the dust from the altar with a cloth. Crow’s feet circled her eyes, caused by her love for her daughter and all the emotional pain she had endured. Every now and then she gazed at the large yellow streaks and stains on the ceiling. She put gladioli in vases, looked at the photo of a man in his fifties on the altar, and sighed.
“It has been eight years. I’m not sure if our daughter is ready to accept all the changes out here when she sees me again, and if she’ll be able to deal with all our neighbors’ vitriolic words and society’s vicious discrimination. I’m very worried. Whenever I visited her in the prison, my heart ached. She was skinny and always had a vacant look on her face. The warden once told me that she had nightmares almost every night and lost her appetite. She was genuinely contrite for what she had done but still had to pay such a hard price!” the old woman said to the man in the photo, her voice quivering.
She quietly looked at the spotless altar and the burning incense and continued, “Life is never fair. Loan sharks and murderers are not punished for their crimes, while my kind, good-natured daughter had to spend her most beautiful years in jail for an act of self-defense. So ironic!”
