by Kien Nguyen
In front of the community hall, Magistrate Toan announced to the villagers that Big Con had murdered his wife. Of course, everyone realized that was a lie. She was still alive the day Con was arrested, and the whole town knew it. Besides, who would believe a polite and fragile boy like Con could commit such a hideous crime? Still, no one dared to say anything against the powerful Magistrate Toan. To cross him was certain suicide. With no one to speak in his defense, Con was tried and found guilty of murdering Magistrate Toan's wife. He was sent to death row a few days later.
Soon afterward, Con's mother died in utter poverty. As for Magistrate Toan, due to his advanced age, he finally retired. His son, Master Long, took his place as the town's mayor.
At the prison in Da Nang, Con found a desperate way to avoid the firing squad. He signed a contract with the French government to serve in one of its dangerous rubber plantations without salary. To most people, the ranch was a death camp because of its horrible living conditions, incurable diseases, and inhumanely hard labor. Yet to Con, it was his only chance for survival. He disappeared for almost nine years.
To this day, Big Con still chanted a popular song about life on a rubber plantation. Even now, a short distance away, Ven could hear his mournful voice.
There is no way out of the rubber camps
Men enter those gates in their physical prime
Only to leave when they are inches away from Death's door
Ignoring him, she wiped the perspiration off her forehead and returned to the field. To keep her mind busy, she kept repeating a poem she had learned as a child, a traditional farmer's mantra for a successful rice season.
January is the time to celebrate the New Year
She sang the first verse while separating a bundle of shoots, blocking the time-teller's voice out of her head. To her, January was a reminder of the dark wedding chamber where she had sat frozen, waiting for her husband. Her memory held barely a trace of festivity, except for the faded sound of firecrackers and the cheerful slurs of intoxicated guests outside her bedroom window.
February is the time to plant beans, potatoes, and tomatoes
And then wait for Heaven's tears
Turn to March, these plants will be reaped
Let's summon the help and dry the beans in heaps
As she worked alone in the rice field, Ven's voice rose over the tiny sprouts she had just planted. She remembered one day in March as if it were yesterday. Her hands had acquired new blisters from ten long days of peeling peas off their vines. Many of them bore traces of her blood. After all her hard work, her mother-in-law First Mistress had decided that the peas were only worthy of consumption by the chickens. With each handful that Ven fed the fowls every morning, she shed bitter tears, but she knew that to complain would be useless.
April is time to rent a pair of oxen
Her mind chanted the familiar song before the words could escape her throat.
Then it is time to rotate the soil, get ready for May's rice season
She had walked many miles under the hot sun each day since April, turning over the earth with a plow to prepare a seedbed. Under her direction, the water buffalo trudged ahead of her. Encircling their shoulders like a shackle, the wooden implement cut, lifted, and made furrows in the soil. The land, flooded by a copious channel of river water, took on the consistency of dense clay. Like the animals, Ven felt the handle of the farming tool wrapped around the small of her back, pulling her downward until the mud rose up to her knees. She had to use every muscle in her body to keep the exhausted animals in a straight line, even when the stubborn earth refused to yield.
Early in the morning, don't forget to soak the rice until the skins turn yellow
She could hear the time-teller's uneven voice as he mimicked her singing.
When the germination has occurred, scatter these sprouts in the muddy meadow
In a few weeks, the buds will become young shoots. Pull them up from their roots
Then hire the help to plant them in the rice field. Only then can you go home and rest your weary heels
Ven laughed. The optimistic ending of the poem always infuriated her. She moved from row to row, pushing each new plant firmly into the wet earth. Her lips tightened, and the pain in her back intensified. “There will be no rest for a girl named Ven,” she sang out. “Only someday when she is as useless as a crippled old hen.” The time-teller guffawed.
Ven straightened at the distant sound of rapidly advancing hoof-beats reverberating in the otherwise silent countryside. Through a cloud of dust at the end of the main road, she saw a man clinging to the back of a galloping horse. The rider's hands shook the reins, trying to make the animal go faster.
The white uniform he wore was familiar, even though the dust of the road had turned it dull brown. He was one of Master Nguyen's sailors. On his face, Ven detected the wild look she often saw on the condemned servants her father-in-law disciplined on the veranda, slashing their backs with a long whip made from the tail of a ray fish. The horse flared its nostrils. The drumming of its hooves threw a rain of dirt on the time-teller, who slouched in the shade of the bamboo bush. He jumped up and roared in anger, waving his fists.
Ven threw down her bundle of rice sprouts and ran after the horse, waving her torn hat in a vain attempt to get the rider's attention. In seconds, the sailor disappeared around the turn of the road.
Ven rushed to Dan's side. Without a word, she grabbed him by the waist. Her sturdy legs flew across the fragile earth levees that separated the rice paddies as she instinctively chose the shortest way home.
Ven entered the house through the back door, pulling the boy along. The living room was vacant. Third Mistress was out in the front yard, where the gardener was teaching her the finer points of trimming rosebushes. The sadness that had haunted her in the past few days had lifted. Ven could hear her tinkling laughter echoing against the walls of the empty den.
In the middle of the garden, Ven and Dan found her leaning against the gardener's arms. His hands lay atop her delicate fingers, helping her to hold a large pair of scissors. On the ground around them was a carpet of red rose petals. They continued to prune flowers off the vines, creating a cascade of scarlet.
The mud-spattered sailor careened through the front gate. His horse strained against the harness, prancing a few more steps before the rider brought it under control in front of Third Mistress and her companion. The sailor leaped from his saddle. One of his feet got caught in the stirrup, and he fell before them.
“Danger, great danger is falling upon us, Third Lady,” he wailed to her feet, beating his fists on the ground. “Please forgive me, for I am bringing you bad news of the master.”
Ven watched her mother-in-law's face turn white. Third Mistress dropped the pruning shears and grasped the gardener's hands.
The sailor continued, “Master Nguyen and his two wives were arrested last night, along with the rest of his crew. The bearer of the order of arrest was a French magistrate, who led a company of soldiers from the palace. Master did not want to comply, so a scuffle broke out before they were all placed under arrest. During the struggle, I escaped.” He doubled over, gasping for breath.
Third Mistress fell back into the gardener's chest. In a shaky whisper she said to the him, “Take me inside. My head hurts under this strong heat.”
The young man caught her in his embrace, lifted her up, and carried her into the living room. Because of her bound feet, she could not have made the short journey on her own, even if she had not been in shock. The sailor staggered a few steps behind them. As they walked by, Dan took hold of his mother's hand. The gardener didn't seem to see Ven and Dan standing at the doorsill. He brushed past them and deposited his mistress on the divan.
With gentle strokes, the gardener touched Lady Yen's cheeks, massaging her skin until her color was restored. With her large, somber eyes, she searched the room for the sailor.
“On what grounds did they arrest my husband?” she asked.
“The king is missing, and the Royal Court thinks my husband is involved?” Third Mistress raised her voice. “This is the most ridiculous news I've ever heard. Everyone in the Cam Le Village knows that my husband is neither a politician nor a thief. All he was and always will be is a family man and a proud fisherman. Nobody in this town will let this unjust incident harm one of its most beloved citizens.”
The gardener interrupted in a tense baritone. “We have to find out what exactly the French said in their communiqué about Master Nguyen.”
All eyes shifted to Ven, who stood watching the scene in silence. Third Mistress propped herself up on her elbows. A glimmer of hope brightened her eyes.
“Please, Ven,” she said, “you must go right away and find out more news. I can't think of anyone who can handle this job better. No one saw you when you were brought here under your wedding veil, and you are so common-looking that no one would suspect your relationship with the Nguyen family. Song, on the other hand, is too clumsy. And I can't let these men go. I need them here to protect me.”
“I can't do it!” Ven exclaimed. “I don't know how to read or write. What good am I when it comes to reading a news bulletin?”
“You, indeed, are the right candidate,” pressed the lady. “You don't have to be literate to get the news. Just ask someone to tell you what the note says. May I remind you that you are Master Nguyen's and my daughter-in-law? Your unwillingness to help me with one simple request disappoints me and will be reflected upon you for many years to come. However, if you honor my wish, I will be certain that once the crisis is over, Master Nguyen will reward your loyalty and courage handsomely.”
Ven knew that she had no choice. Looking at her mother-in-law, she asked, “Where do you want me to find this information?”
“The news is always delivered either to the time-teller's cabin or to the community hall,” the gardener replied, regarding his nails. His features held a certain refinement, reflected in his red lips and dark eyes. At first glance, he could have passed as a sibling of Third Mistress. “Everyone knows that this is the way news has been carried through hundreds of years. Must you ask such childish questions at this time of crisis?”
Lady Yen raised her forefinger in front of the gardener to silence him. Her long lashes fluttered as she said to Ven, “Go to the time-teller's cabin. Avoid the community hall, since it is probably full of curious spectators. Take Dan with you. I dare not be trapped here with that demanding child.”
Seizing her husband's arm, Ven left the house through the front door. Dan did not resist, looking at her with fear in his eyes.
They had reached the front door when Song called out to them from the kitchen. “Wait for me,” she said, “I am going with you.”
chapter four
The Time-Teller
I do not want you to be alone with that miserable time-teller,” Song said to Ven as they left the mansion. “You have heard the stories about him. I think I should go with you to his hut.”
“If you want to,” Ven replied.
Song pointed the way toward a path in the bamboo thicket. “You remember when you first came here, I warned you not to trust him to report the time accurately?” she reminded Ven. “That's not his worst trait, by far. He is one of the most dangerous men in town, especially when he is drunk.”
“Why don't the elders strip him of his duty?” Ven asked.
“They would rather put up with his misbehavior than face the madman's wrath,” Song replied.
About six months earlier, Big Con had walked into the Cam Le Village a completely different person after having been gone for nine years. At first, people didn't know who he was. His face was a mask of thick scars, running in all directions like a map of the Imperial Palace. His head was shaven clean, like a monk's. He was a small, wiry man, but he exuded the ferocity of a cornered mongoose.
He chose a wineshop in the market, sat down, and started drinking sticky-rice wine and eating pork. In the course of two hours, he drank three liters of wine and downed three servings of grilled meat. Then, staggering, he stood up, spitting saliva through his purple lips as he slurred, “Give me an IOU. I'll pay you later.”
The shop owner was a short, broad woman with a flat nose and black nostrils that flared in apprehension. She shook as though she were catching a cold. “Please, sir,” she said, “I don't have enough capital to extend such large credit. Please pay your balance before you leave.”
He raised his eyebrows like a war god, used the back of his hand to flip the wooden table upside down, and kicked the stool in her direction. “How dare you not trust me?” he growled. “I am Big Con.”
He waited for his words to sink in. The other customers in the shop hid their faces in their food. He stood still for a moment, then continued. “I was born and bred here on this spot. That bastard Toan owes me some cash. I am going to look for him and retrieve what is rightfully mine. Then I will be back to pay you, you stupid mare.”
The woman dried her eyes with the dirty hem of her shirt and said, “I don't dare to distrust you. It is just that I am too poor to sustain a debt as large as this one, Sir Con. My children will surely be hungry tonight.”
He reached behind the counter for two more bottles of wine. Before shuffling out of the shop, he added, “Make another noise, and I will burn this dog shed down to the red mud on the ground. Then you will know what it is to be in debt. If you don't believe me, cluck for the police, old hen. See for yourself which one of us is a wolf, and which one only scratches in the dirt.”
The woman shut her mouth with both of her hands, struggling to turn the sobbing in her throat into something that sounded like an attack of hiccups. He gave her a final glare and walked out. Two curious children followed him, but their mother ran out from her hiding place, snatched them up, and held them to her chest. He looked at no one and headed toward the wide road that led to Magistrate Toan's mansion. It was high noon. A few scattered clusters of cloud skidded across the sky that November day. His face was as red as the sun. The alcohol seeped through his body, turning his head like a pinwheel. He felt gigantic, invincible, and full of anger.
The horrid temperature made him mad. Perspiration pricked the skin on his back like a thousand hungry red ants. He gulped through the two bottles of wine in an attempt to fend off the heat. Instead, it seemed to expand inside his head. He yanked open his shirt to bare a chest that, like his face, was crisscrossed by scars. Swaying, he sang the only song he knew.
There is no way out of the rubber camps
Men enter those gates in their physical prime
Only to leave when they are inches away from Death's door
Big Con had never had the pleasure of passing through the door of Death, he sometimes thought. Heaven as he knew it had rejected him a long time ago. And Hell, he believed, had moved inside his head, so there would be no need for him to claim the devil's throne. His thought of the devil reminded him of Magistrate Toan, and he cursed out loud.
It was then that the people of Cam Le Village first learned the extensive vulgarity of his wrath. He was worse than a fishmonger who had not made a sale all day. He damned Magistrate Toan's ancestors all the way to the powerful man's front steps. Everyone was sure that the magistrate would come out of his library and put a bullet in Con's chest witho
ut hesitation. Big Con, after all, was a condemned man with a prison record.
However, the moment that Con burst through the gate onto his enemy's property, what he instead faced was a vicious dog, the size of a grown deer and just as brown. It lunged at him from behind a lilac shrub. With white fangs dripping with foamy spit, the beast seized his forearm and knocked him off balance with its weight. Con fell off Magistrate Toan's front porch into a thornbush. The ferocious animal continued to snarl and pull at him. Big Con cursed louder. With his free hand, he smashed an empty wine bottle against the hard pavement. The shards gleamed under the harsh sun.
But Con did not use the weapon against his relentless attacker. Instead, kicking and screaming, he scraped it across his own face, making several deep cuts. Like a man possessed, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth gaped. Blood spurted from the wounds, mixing with the sand around him.
To Con, mutilating his face was his strategy. His injuries would make his enemy appear guilty before the police. No judge would believe anyone could be crazy enough to inflict so much damage on himself. Contrary to popular belief, Big Con had never fought a battle in his life. When faced with a confrontation, he simply disfigured himself. The scars he bore were his trophies, telling the turbulent tale of his life.
Seeing the intruder's frantic movements, the dog paused. It seemed to forget even to growl. Then, as if Big Con's behavior were too outrageous even for an animal, the creature retreated under a shade tree and proceeded to lick the blood off its paws. Con continued to cut his face and chest with the sharp glass, screaming. Not a soul on the street witnessed the gory scene; even the sun discreetly hid behind a tuft of white cloud.
A loud explosion shattered the air, drowning out Big Con's frenzied cries. On the front step of his house, Magistrate Toan appeared, holding a gun. The tip of his pistol, pointed toward the sky, emitted a lingering trace of smoke. The dog yelped as it leaped behind a lilac bush.
