The Mountains Sing

by Que Mai Phan Nguyen

  “There’s one thing I don’t like about becoming a trader.” Grandma squinted her eyes against the smoke. “I won’t be home often to look after you.”

  “I can look after myself, Grandma. Remember how you panicked the other night? It wasn’t necessary.”

  As Grandma turned around to chop more onions, my fingers became a pair of chopsticks, lifting several slices of beef, ferrying them into my mouth. My tongue burned, my eyes watered, but my stomach cheered.

  I quickly wiped my mouth before Grandma could catch me. She tossed pieces of ginger and onions into the beef, her chopsticks danced, mixing them together.

  “I’m sorry.” She added a dash of fish sauce into the beef. “But I’d gone to Thủy’s house and her mother said she hadn’t seen you.”

  “I was playing in her backyard, Grandma. Please, stop worrying about me.”

  “Guava, I promised your mother to take care of you. I can’t let anything happen—”

  “Don’t you see how big and strong I’ve become?” I pulled her up, showing her that the height of our shoulders matched. “And should somebody try to kidnap me, I’d kick their buttock.” I poked my finger into Grandma’s stomach. Quick as lightning, she jumped back, her hand blocking mine.

  I kicked into her groin. She raised her leg, blocking my leg.

  “All right, all right. I shouldn’t have forgotten I’ve taught you the moves of Kick-Poke-Chop.” Grandma laughed. “Let me finish cooking, or else everything will burn.”

  Grandma’s new job gave me freedom. She was gone most of the day, and I didn’t need to be home. After school, I spent most of my time with Thủy, skipping ropes, lying in her hammock gossiping, venturing out to see different parts of Hà Nội. We even walked all the way to the Red River, dipping our feet into the water, the wind whistling in our hair.

  As Grandma turned into a professional con buôn, the Old Quarter became the maze of her secret operations. She had no stall, nor did she carry any of the goods with her. With a nón lá resting on her head, shielding her from the sun, she hung around government stores, looking for customers. Negotiations were conducted in whispers. Once the price was agreed upon, Grandma took her customer somewhere else, where the item was handed over and money paid. All the while, everyone involved had to be watchful. They would scatter and abort the sale whenever a policeman or government guard appeared.

  By now, American planes had vanished from Hà Nội’s sky. Grandma made the most out of the opportunity by working day and night. Dark rings appeared around her eyes. Her skin was scorched by the sun, and she had blisters on her feet. In exchange for the danger she faced, she brought home food, clothes, and books for me. And whenever she was home, she sang.

  “As long as I have my voice, I’m still alive,” she had told me as she recounted how she’d carried Uncle Sáng three hundred kilometers to Hà Nội, on foot. My uncle was a baby then. He was a soldier now. Where was he fighting and was he surviving? Were my parents surviving?

  “Grandma,” I asked one night. “How come Auntie Hoa hasn’t visited us for a while?” Auntie Hoa was Uncle Sáng’s wife and lived in an apartment near the Hà Nội Opera House. Her parents were high-ranking Communist officials.

  “I think we won’t see her for quite a while longer.” Grandma was eating her dinner after a long day of work. It was nearly midnight. She picked up some water spinach with her chopsticks, dipped it into fish sauce, and popped it into her mouth.

  “How come? Isn’t she supposed to take care of you when Uncle Sáng is away, Grandma?”

  “She belongs to a different class. A higher class. So I guess she isn’t bound by any rule.” Grandma shrugged as her chopsticks ferried a couple of tiny shrimps, which I’d cooked with juicy star fruit.

  She smacked her lips after chewing. “Delicious, you’re becoming a chef.”

  “Grandma,” I insisted. “I know Auntie Hoa holds an important Party position, but we’re still her family, right?”

  “Right, but it doesn’t mean she’s allowed to show us compassion. Rumors travel far these days, and she knows I’m trading. I’m sure she won’t visit us for a while. People could run into trouble if they’re caught associating with me.”

  “That’s why our neighbors don’t visit us anymore, except for Mrs. Nhân. I don’t mind but when it comes to Auntie . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, Guava. Nothing matters when I have you.”

  A few days later, I went to Thủy’s shack, bringing her a small plate of bánh cuốn Grandma and I had cooked together. These crepes—thin layers of steamed rice flour wrapped around minced pork and finely chopped mushroom—were her favorite.

  “She’s not here,” her mother said before I could step inside.

  “I’ve got something for her, Auntie.” I lifted the bánh cuốn.

  “We already ate.” She turned away, leaving me desolate in her yard. I tried to think of the reasons for her rudeness. Perhaps I’d forgotten to bow my greetings when I last saw her?

  Next day at school, Thủy avoided me.

  “What’s going on?” I caught up with her on the way home.

  She kept on walking.

  I blocked her path. “Did I do something wrong?”

  She tried to get around me but I reached for her arm. “I saved some bánh cuốn for you—”

  “I don’t want your food.” She pulled herself away from me. “Please, you shouldn’t visit me anymore.”

  “It’s your parents, isn’t it? They don’t want us to be friends because of my Grandma’s job. . . .”

  She bent her head. When she looked up, a proverb spilled out of her mouth, “Cá không ăn muối cá ươn, con cãi cha mẹ trăm đường con hư.” Fish failing to absorb salt spoils; children defying parents ruin themselves hundreds of ways.

  As she left, I wondered whether she expected me to defy my grandmother to earn her friendship.

  That night, I planned to try to convince Grandma to quit trading, only to see her come home with a smile as wide as a river. “A book from America,” she told me, unwrapping a bundle, revealing more than a hundred pages of text, all hand-written. “It cost quite a fortune, but I thought you might like to read it. The novel is called Little House in the Big Woods, very famous in America.”

  “Why should I read something from the country that bombed us?” I looked toward Thủy’s house, hoping she’d change her mind.

  “You know . . . not all Americans are bad. Many have been demonstrating against the war.” Grandma picked up the first page, reading it out loud. The book began with “Once upon a time,” just like a fairytale, and brought me immediately into the mysterious world of an American girl called Laura and her house made of logs, surrounded by great, dark forests where wolves, bears, and deer lived.

  “Who translated this book, Grandma?” I fingered the pages, touching the path that would lead me into the country I knew little about, although its actions were changing my whole life.

  “A professor. He was sent to Russia to study American literature, to see into the minds of American people, to help us defeat their army. He practiced his English by translating this book.”

  “This is his handwriting?”

  “His family hand-copied it, to sell. . . .”

  Little House in the Big Woods helped me forget about Thủy and allowed me to become friends with Laura, with whom I sat listening to her father’s music and stories. Just like my father, Pa was funny and enjoyed working with his hands. Just like my mother, Ma was attentive and loved to cook.

  I adored Laura but also envied her. While my world was full of longing, hers was filled with the presence of her parents, her sisters Mary and Carrie, as well as her dog Jack. But just like me, Laura had her own angst. She feared for her father as he crossed the dark forest, went to town to sell furs and didn’t come back for an entire night. She was terrified for her mother when they ran into a bear, which could have killed them both.

  I had heard rumors that American people liked to ru
le other races, that they didn’t have feelings like us, but now I knew they loved their families, and they also had to work hard to earn their food. They enjoyed dancing, music, and storytelling, just like us.

  Toward the end of March 1973, news of American troops withdrawing from Sài Gòn reached Hà Nội. During class time, my teachers showed pictures of tall foreign men boarding their planes. We clapped our hands, singing songs of victory. It seemed the war was definitely ending, now that we’d defeated the American invaders.

  At home though, Grandma wasn’t so excited. She knew from information circulating in the Old Quarter that fighting was still taking place. With the Americans gone, the war was now among Vietnamese ourselves, the North against the South.

  Whenever I saw a soldier visiting our neighborhood, I was petrified. I tried to focus on my studies, read my books, and pray.

  And I stayed close to Grandma. After dinner and homework, I’d take a little nap and wake up when she came home. While she washed up and ate, I was right by her side, telling her about school and hearing about her days. At government stores, she told me, there wasn’t enough food. Arguments often exploded as people fought for a place in the long lines. More and more people were getting up in the middle of the night to queue, then sell their places to others. People had to offer bribes to get a better cut of meat or some rice without the generous addition of maggots. Everyone around us was doing whatever they could to survive, to live.

  Grandma and I saved as much as we could. Each night, I helped her count the coins and wrinkled notes she’d brought home. Each was black with the sweat of her labor.

  One early evening, Grandma came home with a bicycle. Running my hands over its rusty handlebars, I laughed. In my neighborhood, only Mr. Lượng owned a bicycle, and he was a Party official. I hoped Grandma would let me use her bike sometimes; Thủy would faint from being jealous. She still wouldn’t talk to me, and I’d tried not to look her way. My friends were now Laura the American girl, Pinocchio the wooden boy, and Mèn the cricket.

  Grandma showed me a certificate issued by the Hà Nội Department of Public Security that said she was the bike’s rightful owner. On the bike frame dangled a number plate made of metal, which read 3R-3953. We hugged each other, jumping up and down. To celebrate, Grandma took the evening off and rode me to Silk Street. The moon, round and bright, followed us. We rejoiced at the sight of the five-section wooden house. Under moonlight, it stood ancient and dreamlike—the wooden doors that bore exquisite carvings of flowers and birds, the ceramic dragons and phoenixes that soared atop the roof’s curving ends. Did the home of my ancestors survive the bombings, too? When would I be able to go there and touch the remnants of Grandma’s childhood?

  Now Grandma could get around faster and serve more customers. She expanded her business to sell winter jackets, raincoats, and radios. Some of those were even imported from China and Russia.

  Her trading job helped Grandma learn news about the war. She told me the Northern Army was advancing further south and winning battles. Yet I feared my parents would never come home. We’d heard nothing from or about them. Out of my remaining uncles, only Uncle Đạt had managed to send back a letter, saying how much he missed us. He was okay and heading to Sài Gòn. I wondered how hard it was for Miss Nhung, his girlfriend. She’d been together with my uncle since high school and worked as an accountant. She was one of the few who didn’t care about Grandma being a trader. Miss Nhung visited us often, and when Grandma wasn’t home, she taught me to ride her bike. I hoped Uncle Đạt would soon come back and marry her.

  Months passed. I turned fourteen. Grandma worked and worked. One night, she pulled me close. “I think we have enough to build ourselves a very simple brick house.”

  My eyes grew large. By now, our shack could barely stand against a strong wind. The tin sheets became blazing heaters during hot days and leaked whenever it rained.

  “I might need to borrow, but we’ll be able to repay,” said Grandma. “Let’s plan for three bedrooms.”

  “On this?” I looked around our small shack.

  “We’ll build into the backyard. We need one room for your parents, one for Đạt and Nhung, and one for you and me, you see.” She smiled at me. “Do you want to draw a plan for our house? Just a simple one. What do you think we need?”

  “A bomb shelter!”

  “Oh yes, it’s most important. Shall we have it at the entrance of our bedroom?”

  “But we need three, Grandma.”

  “Ah, for the three bedrooms. Such a thinker you are. How about a living and dining room where we can eat and talk?”

  “And a kitchen and a washroom?”

  “And the best corner, somewhere light and airy, for your study desk?”

  “That could be next to our bedroom window.”

  Just like that, the two of us made the plan for our house. I sketched it and each night, Grandma and I refined it together. We made sure our windows were high up, to avoid spying eyes. Once our drawing was complete, Grandma brought it to the Old Quarter, where an architect drew a more complex plan based on ours. He added details for electric wiring and plumbing, even though we rarely had electricity, and no water could reach our house.

  I couldn’t wait for it to be built. Thủy was still living in her shack, for sure she’d want to pay a visit.

  A few weeks later, Grandma came back from work, grinning. “Found a team of construction workers. Got the permits to buy cement and bricks.”

  “We need permits, Grandma?”

  “Without them, materials would be confiscated on their way here.” She brought her mouth to my ear, her breath tickling me. “We need to build very quickly. The neighbors will be very curious. If anyone asks anything, tell them to come to me.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been to the People’s Committee Unit to get us the clearance to rebuild.” Grandma showed me a document with a fiery red stamp. “Had to beg for it. They wanted to know where the money came from. As they were grilling me, Trương—Thuận’s former classmate—walked in. Trương told his comrades to give me a break. He said I’d sent my four children to war to protect this country from the American invaders, and I should be allowed to rebuild my home.”

  I looked up at Uncle Thuận’s altar. Perhaps his spirit had blessed us.

  “Trương was helpful,” sighed Grandma, “but I should’ve told him he was wrong.”

  “Wrong? What do you mean, Grandma?”

  “I didn’t send your uncles and mother to war, Guava. I nearly lost them when they were little. I didn’t want them out of my sight. Ever!”

  I squeezed Grandma’s hands. We looked out to our neighborhood, where shanties sat silent in the dark.

  “There’s a hurdle we have to cross. Trương told me, in private, that to ease the jealousy of those around us, we should do something for the neighborhood.”

  “Should we offer them food?”

  “Good thinking, Guava. But I’d like our help to last a bit longer. What do you think if we have a well dug and a pump installed where the water tap is?”

  I jumped up, excited at the idea. “The line for water has been ridiculous. I bet our neighbors will be overjoyed.”

  “Don’t bet on it yet. I’ll need to convince them.”

  Several weeks later, Grandma came home early and hurried through dinner. I clapped my hands when she said I could come along to the weekly citizen meeting.

  The People’s Committee Office used to be housed in a charming French-style villa with spacious balconies and large wooden windows. Flattened by bombs, it was now a box of cement and bricks. “Rebuilt in the Soviet style,” Grandma told me.

  My neighbors poured into the stuffy meeting room and sat in rows of chairs. I looked over at Grandma, and her calmness quelled the butterflies in my stomach. She looked graceful despite her sun-roasted skin and bony frame. Her face glowed with confidence. Her long hair was rolled up and pinned behind the nape of her neck, revealing her scars.

&n
bsp; “Thank you for coming.” Mr. Phong, the head of the People’s Committee Unit cleared his voice, and the crowd grew silent. “We have many items to discuss tonight, but first, one of our neighbors has a proposal.”

  Murmurs rose as Grandma stepped up to the front.

  “I’d like to thank you all for your kindness during the past years.” Grandma looked around the room. “When my children and I came here, we were country bumpkins, and you opened your arms to receive us. You helped make this neighborhood our home.”

  Our neighbors stopped talking. I could see that they were drawn by Grandma’s sincere words.

  “As you know,” Grandma continued, “our communal water supply has been giving us problems. We spend hours each day waiting in line, and there hasn’t been enough water to go around. I’ve been thinking about an alternative supply, so I asked a technician to visit our neighborhood. He gathered samples of our underground water, especially under the communal washing area.” Grandma passed a stack of papers around. “In your hands are results of the water tests. If drawn from more than fifty meters below the ground level, the water is good, safe for us to use.” She paused to give her listeners time to scan the papers. People started whispering again, but this time they were nodding their heads.

  “With these results,” said Grandma, “I’d like to make a proposal. Instead of relying on the public water supply, we should have a system to draw underground water out for us. A well and a manual pump would do the job.”

  “This sounds grand, but it costs a lot of money,” a neighbor said aloud.

  “We don’t have enough to eat, how can we afford it?” another one asked.

  Grandma raised her hand. “As a token of my gratefulness to this community, I’d like to pay for all the costs involved.”

  Voices mushroomed all around us. At first, people’s eyes seemed to light up, but as they talked among themselves, their eyes dimmed. Heads began to shake.

  “We can’t accept money from a con buôn!” Mr. Tân, an elderly neighbor sprang to his feet. “Bourgeoisie and traders are leeches that suck the life out of our economy.”

  “Her money is dirty.” Mrs. Quỳnh, a middle-aged woman pointed her finger toward Grandma’s face.