The Cascading, Book II: Fellow Girl

by CW Ullman

  My Ling hugged her to her chest and wished she had been able to spare Di.u this hopelessness. She was anguished and felt stupid for thinking this moment might have ever played out differently. When My Ling first brought out the string for the cat’s cradle, Di.u exclaimed that she had learned the game from her mother.

  Di.u once gushed to My Ling, “Wait ‘til you see my mother play, she is really good.”

  When Dao suddenly realized a new reality, she asked My Ling, “Who is going to take care of us; both our parents are gone?”

  “I will. I will never leave you,” My Ling replied, hoping this would be true.

  The three of them were sighing in their grief. My Ling looked over at a rocking Huyen. Her arms were tightly crossed and her face was pinched and wet with tears. My Ling reached out to lay her hand on Huyen’s shoulder who turned away and almost growled.

  Huyen was angry. My Ling saw her as hurt, but Huyen had been harboring a suspicion that her mother was not alive. She did not know why she felt her mother had passed, but she imagined that My Ling knew about it and might have been part of the reason her mother was dead.

  In Huyen’s village there had been a woman with children who had taken in a child when the child’s mother died. The villagers thought it an act of beneficence until it was discovered she had killed the mother for the express purpose of having the child for herself. What made it worse was that she had come from a series of villages where she had killed other mothers to take their children. To Huyen, My Ling was the same as that woman.

  Huyen thought My Ling got preferential treatment on the pirate boat and with Mr. Pok. She always rode up front in the van, he always talked to her, and she got to fire the gun. When the boat needed fuel he took her and she was the only girl allowed in the wheelhouse. He may have beaten her once, but Huyen thought she deserved it. She did not trust My Ling and did not want to be touched by her.

  After the three girls cried themselves to sleep, My Ling stood watch, hoping not to see Colonel Cin again. While she empathized with the girls, she also felt a weight had been lifted from her. She had not realized the burden of keeping the secret of their deceased mothers from their daughters. For the first time since she had left the pirate’s boat, she felt relieved. As the sun came up, she fell asleep.

  When she awoke the boat was motoring up the river in the middle of the channel and on either bank was thick vegetation hiding monkeys. Mr. Pok, who was in the wheelhouse, motioned to My Ling to come to him.

  “We are very close to my farm and we’ll be going ashore very soon,” Mr. Pok said.

  “I have two things to tell you,” My Ling said. “Last night I saw Colonel Cin.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Pok excitedly asked.

  “Yes, he was on a white or gray horse. He looked at the boat for a long time and then left. He had a lot of men with him.”

  “How many men?” Mr. Pok inquired.

  “I’m not sure, but it was over a hundred,” My Ling figured.

  “Which way was he going?” Mr. Pok wondered.

  “Up river,” My Ling replied.

  “Well, he has to go by land and cross mountains. We’ll beat him to my compound,” Mr. Pok thought aloud. The boatman was noticeably nervous at the mention of Colonel Cin. “Was there anything else?”

  “He was very evil looking and…he wore a black beret,” My Ling said feeling foolish for mentioning the beret, especially with the quizzical look on Mr. Pok’s face.

  “For a minute I forgot you were in the fourth grade,” Mr. Pok sarcastically said.

  “Sixth grade,” My Ling corrected.

  Mr. Pok rolled his eyes and asked, “What’s the second thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “I told the girls about their mothers.”

  Mr. Pok’s eyes widened at her response, “Am I going to have any problems?”

  “They are very sad, but I don’t think they will be a problem,” My Ling answered contritely, though silently worried about Huyen.

  She left the wheelhouse and became aware of the U.S. sailor’s metal tins in her shirt. Every time she felt them, her stomach tightened. She blamed him for everything that had happened to her. She remembered how he pushed and dragged her while she was onboard the ship, his fakery of making her feel safe, and the smirk on his face; it all provoked a seething resentment and hatred for him. After killing the gunman in Phnom Penh, she knew she could kill the sailor.

  She came back to the sleeping girls with bowls of watered noodles and awakened them. The sisters ate, but periodically Di.u would let the dish rest in her lap and look forlorn. She spooned the noodles to her mouth while tears ran down her cheeks. A crying Dao would stroke her back and when her little sister shivered with grief, the older girl brought her head to her chest.

  In contrast, Huyen bristled with crossed arms. She had moved away from the others and would not touch her noodles. She stared down and talked to herself. My Ling went to her, but when she touched her shoulder, Huyen again twisted away.

  “I hate you,” Huyen spit out. “You should be dead, not my mother.”

  My Ling looked to the wheelhouse and saw Mr. Pok staring back at them.

  “Huyen, I didn’t know what to do. I was trying to protect you,” My Ling offered.

  “No, you weren’t. You’re a liar.”

  My Ling situated herself on the far side of Huyen so Mr. Pok could see the exaggerated expressions of happiness on My Ling’s face as she tried to explain to Huyen who looked down, not seeing.

  “Huyen, I promise I will take care of you. I will get you back with your family in Vietnam. I will get all of you back-,” Huyen interrupted her.

  “I don’t have family,” Huyen blurted out. “My aunts all hate me…my mother died and it’s your fault. You wanted us for yourself. You killed my mother.”

  With the emotionally dichotomy of having to beam a smile at Mr. Pok while suppressing the horror of being blamed for Ha’s death, My Ling’s eyes began to tear.

  “Huyen, how can you say that?” My Ling pleaded.

  Huyen would not talk and stared at the floor.

  My Ling saw Mr. Pok turn away, and it allowed My Ling to relax her face and to elucidate what happened.

  “Huyen, I know you are mad at me, but the men on the boat killed Binh and your mother,” My Ling uttered.

  “When?” Huyen asked, surprising My Ling.

  “…When they tied the man to the rope and threw him into the ocean.” My Ling added.

  Huyen stared down at the floor, “What man?”

  My Ling was at a complete loss, realizing that she had never told the girls about the keelhauling. Because Binh wanted to spare them the awful truth of the horrors happening onboard the ship, the girls were unaware of all the abominations going on outside their compartment. Adding to the illusion that things were fine, every time Binh, Ha, and My Ling came back into the girl’s room they faked smiles.

  “You’re lying,” Huyen said through gritted teeth. She lifted her head to look accusingly at My Ling. “You’re making this up. I hate you. I will never go with you.”

  Huyen moved away from My Ling who looked to the wheelhouse to see if Mr. Pok was watching. Luckily, he was talking with the boatman.. Unable to catch her breath, an anxiety-ridden My Ling felt desperate and deflated. That Huyen hated her caused My Ling to sink into a helplessness that was disorienting. Her attempt to explain all that transpired was subverted by Huyen’s accusation that My Ling was “making it up.” My Ling realized she had been making it up, yet how could she explain something so incomprehensible she could hardly believe it herself? Huyen hated her. The girl My Ling held in her heart as the most vulnerable and frail, in need of the most protection, hated her. At best, her intention to save Huyen was now seen as a kidnapping. For the first time since My Ling had been with Dao, Di.u and Huyen, she felt alone. She longed for her parents and whispered, “Father.”

  She looked up to see Mr. Pok coming toward them. He looked angry, so My Ling moved between him and Huyen
. When he got to the girls he stopped.

  “We will be at my farm in a few minutes. I want you to help unload the boat,” he ordered. He noticed Huyen was looking away. He reached around My Ling and slapped her. “Huyen, did you want to take another Mekong bath?”

  She shook her head holding her hands up to deflect anymore slaps.

  “Good,” he finished.

  The boat was slowing down and Mr. Pok called for My Ling to come to the wheelhouse. He asked if there were going to be any problems and she shook her head. As always, when she was in the wheelhouse, she looked for the violin and noticed that it was missing. She scanned the inside of the wheelhouse, but could not find it anywhere.

  The upper portion of the Tonle San was narrower than its lower segment. It cut through the highlands of Cambodia causing more rapids and greater difficulty for navigating or anchoring. The boatman was nervous about getting the van ashore while keeping his boat intact.

  Mr. Pok exclaimed, “There. See it? That’s the dock where we can load the van off.”

  The boatman guided the vessel up to the dock, changing gears from reverse to forward a few times, until they could secure the boat. He and Mr. Pok jumped to the dock and tied the boat to posts sticking out of the water. When it was secured, the boatman turned off the engines. He and Mr. Pok attached a series of hooks and ropes to the van, then fastened them to a hand boom that winched the van up from the deck, and onto the dock. The girls helped carry an assortment of cargo to load into the van. When they were done, Mr. Pok put the girls in the van, and pulled My Ling aside.

  “I told the boatman you were good on the violin and before he leaves he wants to hear you play. Hurry up and go below and play him something and then we’ll leave,” Mr. Pok ordered.

  My Ling was stunned by the request, but thought about what she should play, and wondered if she would be any good. She had not played for a long time and worried the rust would show in her performance. She went below the deck into a compartment where the boatman was seated on a chair. The violin case was on a table and when My Ling entered, he pointed to the case. She undid the leather ties, opened the case, and was shocked.

  My Ling was staring at an eighteenth century Santo Serafin. She delicately picked it up and looked into the F hole to be sure. On the inside of most violins is a small piece of paper glued to the back wall of the instrument identifying its maker. Since she started playing at the age of six, she had developed a keen interest in the history of violins. Because of her father’s wealth, she attended symphonies and concerts all over Southeast Asia and India. When the concerts ended, she went back stage and asked the violinists if she could see their instruments. The experience of seeing hundreds of violins taught her how to distinguish a seventeenth century Gasparo da Salo from and a sixteenth century Linarolo.

  Santo Serafin violins had an unmatched degree of elegance. Serafin had trained in Venice, Italy, with other violin makers before going out on his own. All the years that he had put in as an apprentice showed in his instruments.

  “Where did you get this Serafin?” My Ling asked smiling.

  “…Auction.” The boat man lied. He had stolen it when estates were raided after South Vietnam had fallen to the North. “Can you play it?”

  My Ling picked up the instrument, tucked it under her chin, and worked the minor tuners near her jaw. She then turned the peg box just below the scroll to get the right key. It was hard to tune because she did not have a piano to key against.

  When she was done, she began to sway as she always did when she played and produced the opening movement of Felix Borowski’s “Adoration.”

  The girls in the van were talking, when Dao shushed them, “Listen.”

  The air filled with the Santo Serafin singing the piece. The girls were astounded by the beautiful melody. The boatman below was slack-jawed watching this eleven-year-old produce a melody more beautiful than any he had ever heard. She came to the end of the piece and slowly stopped swaying. Her eyes were closed and she was lost in the serenity.

  Then from behind her, Mr. Pok slapped a wad of cloth into her mouth and taped it shut. He held her while the boatman took the violin and bow from her hands. The two men tied her arms to her body and her legs together. After they placed her on the floor, Mr. Pok counted out two hundred U.S. dollars to the boatman.

  “Cash and the girl. We’re square?” Mr. Pok asked.

  The boatman nodded and shook Mr. Pok’s hand finalizing the deal they had made when first meeting at the water front in Phuoc Tho. The boatman would not have gone up the Mekong for cash alone. He wanted the eleven year old girl. Now, he felt the deal was that much sweeter because she could play the violin he had stolen.

  From outside the boat My Ling could hear little Di.u shout to Mr. Pok who was on the dock untying the boat, “We have to wait for My Ling?”

  “She’s not coming. She decided to go back to Vietnam with the boatman,” Mr. Pok said.

  Huyen was on the dock with Mr. Pok and My Ling heard her say to the sisters, “I told you she was a liar. She killed our mothers.”

  My Ling wiggled trying to get loose while the cloth in her mouth muffled her screams. The boatman, who was passing her to go to the wheelhouse, kicked her in the stomach and put a finger to his lips to quiet her. She could hear Di.u crying for her from the van just as the boat motor belched to life.

  As she felt the boat move, My Ling again muffled a scream to no avail and cried in frustration. She was being separated from the girls, who now believed she was abandoning them and worse. The boat motored on and My Ling went limp on the floor sobbing into the cloth in her mouth. She remembered when they were sitting in the van in Phuoc Tho, the boatman came up and stared at her for an uncomfortably long time. She now surmised that he was looking her over, weighing his purchase.

  She fought against the robes and tried to pull her arms and legs loose, but her struggle only served to make the bindings tighter. She thought if she could roll to one side of the cabin, she could work her way up to a standing position using the wall. The slight rocking of the boat gave her momentum allowing her to maneuver to the closed door. She got to a seated position, tucked her legs under her, and slowly wormed her way up the door. Once she stood, it was hard to stay balanced because her legs were bound together. She scooted to the corner and thought to herself, “Now, what?”

  She looked around the room and found a knife on a table. She got herself in position and then hopped toward the table. On her last hop the boat swerved and she fell into the table, knocking it over and falling to the ground. While she was inching toward the blade, the door to the compartment opened. The boatman looked at her, the table and the knife. He righted the table, put the knife in a drawer and tied her leg ropes to the chest ropes, flexing her knees backwards so she could not straighten them out. He then slapped her.

  “If you try to get loose again, I will throw you in the water,” the boatman threatened.

  He pushed her to the center of the floor and left. She yelled unintelligibly through the mouth gag. After an hour she tried to free herself, but for all her effort she only managed to became exhausted. The boatman came back into the room.

  “I’m going to take the rag out of your mouth, but if you scream I’m going to put it back in,” the boatman warned. “Understand?” She nodded.

  He pulled the rag out and she tried to make her case.

  “The girls need me. I promised them I wouldn’t abandon them,” she pleaded.

  “They’re not my concern. You’re mine now; I bought you from Pok.” And then he said something that was almost torture. “I know your family. They used to live in Binh Da. I’ve been in your house. Your father is Colonel Nyguen and your mother is Be’(Baby). If you want to see them again, you’ll have to do what I say.”

  “How do you know them?” My Ling asked.

  “I used to buy rice from your father’s company and take it down the Mekong to the big ports,” he continued. “Your father was hard nosed. There was not much pr
ofit in dealing with him.”

  He turned and left My Ling with the knowledge that someone knew her family, her father, her life. She was joyous beyond belief, but it was tempered with the thought of the girls. She was torn between getting back to her family or going back for the girls. What made her mind up temporarily was the thought of her mother. She missed her mother’s hugs and her scent when she enveloped My Ling in her arms. When her mother hugged her, she always held My Ling’s head and stroked her hair. My Ling thought of her attention, her affection, and it made her long for her mother even more. Then she thought of the girls who would never again know the caresses of their mothers. They were with Mr. Pok and who knew what he would do with them? She had to get loose and save the girls. She was exhausted from the emotional conflict, the robes, the hopelessness, and the crying which eventually took her to sleep.

  Her dreams were nightmares from the last two months: the girls crying and reaching for her, Binh and Ha being shot, the shark under her legs, Lieutenant Ba, the sea spout, and more. Of all the horrors that had befallen her, the one she kept seeing was the sailor on the boat. In her dreams, his smirk became a maniacal grin and the identification metals became as large as violins. The I.D. tags were in her mind when she was jostled awake by the boatman’s foot pushing on her back. He was seated in front of her. She noticed the absence of engine noise.

  “I’ve tied the boat off to a tree in an inlet. I’m going into Virachey to see if I can find some fuel. I’m going to loosen your legs. If you try anything stupid while I’m gone, I’m going to drown you in the river,” he threatened.

  She realized quickly this might be the only chance she had to get loose, but she did not want to tip her hand. “I don’t want to be here alone. What if the…Cham try to steal the boat?”

  “The Cham are on the run. You’re staying here,” he ordered.

  “How long are you going to be gone?” she pleaded in false desperation.