Desolate Grassy Hill:

  Trần Thanh Hà

  Grandma reserved a small area in her yard for planting vegetables, such as spinach, Chinese plantains, fish mint, and amaranth. She put up a thick reed fence around the garden so chickens couldn’t sneak in and eat the plants. Most of her days were spent watering, pulling weeds, and sowing seeds. Everything she planted had medicinal value, she said. In the summer, she boiled and ate purslane and spinach because she believed they cooled down one’s body. But our family normally consumed only a little of what she grew because it all tasted rather plain and slimy. If I had a minor fever, Grandma would chew some unpleasant-smelling Chinese plantain leaves and place them on my forehead.

  On Aunt Sửu’s wedding day, the young men in the village trampled down Grandma’s reed fence so that they could sneak into our yard to watch a Hong Kong martial arts movie that my father was playing inside. The following morning, Grandma went out and saw shoe prints, trampled vegetables, and cigarette butts everywhere and cursed loudly until my mother told her to stop. In the afternoon, Grandma busied herself repairing the garden. Uncle Thao, my father’s younger brother, brought her a bundle of reeds from the other side of the hill and made a new fence for her.

  “Just stay inside, Mom,” my father suggested. “You don’t need to tire yourself out gardening.”

  Grandma sighed. “Don’t forget to pee in the trough at the back of the garden,” she reminded him in a gentle voice, “so I can use it to water the plants.”

  To reach Thao’s house, one had to cross a hillside full of léc grass that was taller than one’s head. The frightening léc leaves grew bigger, greener, and thicker near a creek and they were the only plants in the forest with sharp, blade-like edges that could easily slice your fingers. But Thao did not clear the léc grass. He simply stomped it down, cracking the stems and eventually marking a path over them. In the dry season, villagers who collected léc leaves for their pigsties and wild animals used the path. When it rained, leeches and snails would sometimes take over the path and people avoided it for a while. Eventually, young leaves would rise from the roots of trodden-down léc and quiver in the wind.

  In our village, Thao was the last person to return home from the war. Everyone thought he had died. By the time he arrived at our gate with a worn bag slung over his shoulder, his wife Hồng had already remarried and had two children. She lived with her new family next to the market, separated from us by a river and a street. Grandma hugged Thao and sobbed while mumbling stories from the past. My mother and Aunt Sửu remained motionless, sobbing. He stood in front of the altar Hồng had erected in his memory and said nothing. The muscles of his left cheek quivered. He did not look like the man in the photograph on the altar. Thao’s left cheek now had a discolored patch of skin and several small scars.

  At the market, Grandma apprised Hồng of Thao’s return. When she came to meet him she knelt down and bowed to him. The muscles on his left cheek trembled faster.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Try to live a blissful life with your new husband.”

  Hồng left and never came back.

  After coming home, Thao built his own house. The tall, thick léc grass that surrounded it made it impossible to see from a distance. He hoed the soil to plant sweet potatoes and cassava. The soil was fertile so it didn’t take him long to produce a good harvest. Sugar apple and mango towered above the léc grass. It was said that Thao had asked the local authorities for permission to clear the other side of the hill to plant eucalyptus trees, but his request was denied. Mr. Bính, the village chairman, said the area was riddled with unexploded bombs and nobody could be responsible if someone was injured.

  Thao asked my father to put in a good word for him, but my father said, “It’s not easy.” “You’re right—not easy.” Thao nodded in agreement and left.

  In the late afternoons, buffalo herders listened to the sound of a flute wafting in from the other side of the hill. The melancholy music drowned the entire léc hill. The buffalo herders stood to listen and forgot that the day was ending, that their stomachs were empty, and that their bodies were trembling in the cold twilight. When the music stopped, they led their buffaloes home and talked among themselves: “Thao looks scary but he plays the flute so well.”

  According to Grandma, Hồng used to be the most beautiful girl in Thượng village. She had rejected an arranged marriage simply because she fell in love with the sound of Thao’s flute. It was as if his flute had magical power. Whenever Thao played at an event, all the village’s young women became enchanted. Thus the village’s young men once threatened to break all of his flutes and forbid him from playing in public.

  As the Lunar New Year approached, the lemon trees in Thao’s garden yielded their first fruits. Their enticing aroma filled the air. The sweet scent attracted bees that danced among the white flowers. Thao sat pensively, gazing wistfully at the léc grass bent by the wind. The muscles of his left cheek quivered.

  Once the lemon flowers in his garden bloomed, Sửu occasionally asked me to go to Thao’s garden and bring back some flowers for her to wash her hair with. She was addicted to the scent of the white lemon flowers boiled with honey locust fruit because it lingered in her hair for several days. Lemon flowers bloomed seasonally, but Sửu enjoyed them all year round because she asked Thao to collect the fallen flowers, dry them in the sun, and save them for her.

  “I was able to get married thanks to Thao’s lemon flowers,” Sửu once said jokingly. She proudly thought of her generation as romantic, stating, “And your generation is so materialistic, so forget about lemon flowers. Tell your father to buy you a few gold bracelets to attract men.”

  Sửu was unattractive; she had a dark complexion and bulky figure. She spoke in harsh, clipped sentences. After obtaining an associate’s degree in agricultural studies, she worked as a technician. She was by no means a refined, elegant woman, but whenever a man in the village flirted with her, she would pout because she thought he was out of her league. She said she preferred educated men. She was over thirty but remained single. Eventually, she consented to marry an engineer at my father’s company.

  Grandma often asked me to pick some of the vegetables from her garden to take to Thao, and whenever I did, she told me stories from before he was a soldier: how he had caught fish and asked her to cook mixed vegetable soup for him, or how skillful he was at hoeing the earth. Oftentimes, my mother had to interrupt and tell me, “Run there quickly and come back to do your homework.”

  Thao didn’t come to my house very often, but when he did, he brought a dozen eggs and some wild game meat—porcupine or weasel. We spoke only briefly and he left quickly.

  “Thao, you should get married,” Sửu once said. “You’re not an old man. I’ll introduce my former classmate to you . . .”

  Before she finished her sentence, he glared at her and she accidentally broke the lipstick she was holding in her hand. She frowned.

  “He’s such a weirdo,” she said after he had left. “Nowadays, many women will marry a man whom nobody pays attention to. Although a small part of his face is burned, he is still a man. It’s better to be married than to be single. He works hard and lives a frugal life. It won’t take him long to become wealthy. Well, maybe he still loves Hồng, but she is already remarried, so what’s the point of his waiting for her?”

  “Stop talking nonsense, and hold your tongue,” my father reprimanded Sửu.

  “I’ll say what I like,” Sửu argued vehemently. “Do you think you really care about him? If you did, you wouldn’t let him live in the woods all by himself. Why don’t you try to get him a certification of disability? You could put in a good word with the village officials so that he can rent the léc hill, instead of leaving it for weeds.”

  “I told you already. There are lots of unexploded bombs there.”

  “Bullshit! You don’t give a damn about Thao’s life. You care about something else. You’re such a hypocrite.”

  “Don’t be idiotic. Shut up!” my father bellowed with rage.

  “Who do you think you are?” Sửu wouldn’t comply and continued mocking him. “Don’t raise your voice with me. You can’t shut me up. I know very clearly about the thousands of things you’ve done wrong. I even know about the enlistment letter with your name on it and how you evaded it by going abroad while scheming to get Thao drafted in your place. All your success today is due to your brother’s willingness to enlist on your behalf. It might have been better for you if Thao had died.

  “You . . . you . . . you . . . ,” my father stammered and his face turned red.

  Sửu turned and walked away.

  “I’m so unfortunate, so unfortunate . . .” Grandma whined.

  My mother said nothing and bit her lips while sitting alone in her bedroom. My father got on his motorbike and raced to the center of the district, although it was a Sunday.

  A year after Sửu’s wedding, she suddenly returned home. My mother pulled my aunt into her bedroom. My mother’s face was pale.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “I was stupid,” Sửu cried and replied. “I should’ve remained single for the rest of my life. Getting married was a mistake.”

  My mother was terrified and looked around the room.

  “Lower your voice and tell me what’s going on,” my mother whimpered.

  “I was born under an unlucky star,” Sửu wiped tears from her face and explained. “People laughed at me for still being single in my early thirties. I married an educated man, I get to wear nice clothes, and everybody thinks I live an enviable life. But my husband is impotent. After finding out I was pregnant, he beat me.”

  “Gosh!” my mother exclaimed, with her face in her hands.

  “I’m going to get a divorce. I don’t care what you all say,” Sửu later announced in front of the entire family.

  “You’ve disgraced this family! You’ve thrown mud on my name!” Grandma screamed. Then she started crying.

  “It’s a dishonor to the family,” my father said nothing for a while and then started. “You can’t hide it. In the future, villagers may come here to see whom the baby looks like.”

  “I don’t give a damn about what people say. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Sửu defended herself.

  “Is this something you are proud of? Go downtown and listen to the gossips about you and your husband. You might not be ashamed, but I am.”

  Sửu looked at her big belly and sobbed. Our family treated the day like a funeral.

  In December the following year, the lemon flowers bloomed in Thao’s garden but Sửu no longer asked me to get her any. When the cold autumn breeze danced through the green léc grass, chills rose up my spine. The early evening drizzle often shrouded the village and surrounding areas in a thick layer of fog. Grandma warmed her hands next to a fire all day long. When Grandma went to bed, my mother had to put burning coals under her bed to keep her warm. She, for a while now, hadn’t reminded us to pee into the trough at the back of the garden. Long, grayish-green amaranth flowers had begun to emerge between the pink-flowered weeds. The reed fence trembled gently in the wind. My mother threw the wooden handle of a rusted hoe into the fire, and Ki, our houseboy, later sold its iron blade to a scrap dealer.

  Sửu’s baby was beautiful but he often wet the bed. No villager came to see him like my father had warned. Mr. Bính, the childless village chairman, came to claim the baby as his, but Sửu smiled and said, “He’s my son, and nobody else’s.” Then she put the baby into a cradle, covered him with a white mosquito net, and sang a lullaby: Go to sleep, little heron. When you grow up, find a good girl to date.

  “Keep an eye on the baby for me,” she then said to me. “I need to run out for a second. I’ve been staying inside since he was born. It’s boring.” She tied up her hair, covered her face, and left. She came back a few hours later yelling, “Crazy! Thao is crazy!”

  My mother rushed into the living room from the kitchen. Sửu removed her face covering and said, “There’re several unmarried women in this village, so why did he choose that disgusting Nền? Marrying her is like wearing a neck shackle. Everyone will ridicule him for the rest of his life.”

  Nền moved in with Thao. Her house had been near the school. Nobody ever saw her husband, but she had three children. School kids often dropped by her house to ask for drinking water, or unripe papayas and guavas to eat with chili pepper salt. Some kids even stole some eggs and one of her hens. Nền saw them do it but didn’t discipline them. She simply told them not to steal. But the mischievous kids wouldn’t stop.

  Nền was a frequent topic of gossip among the men who sat around killing time. They slapped each other’s backs and joked, “Nền is so easy. Just make up stories about your miseries and she’ll pity you and let you have your way with her.”

  The women in the village despised Nền. They called her a slut, a whore, a bitch. Nobody ever came to her house except for the school kids during the day.

  Sửu gently shook Grandma and complained about Thao. Grandma was sitting quietly in the kitchen warming her hands by the fire, and she seemed not to listen. Her eyes were blurry as if filled with smog. She smiled and showed her gums. Every now and then she asked my mother, “When is the anniversary of Thao’s death?”

  “He’s still alive, and he has come back,” my mother rubbed her eyes and reminded Grandma gently.

  “Oh, I see,” Grandma said. Her eyes brightened a bit and then became blurry again. My mother and Sửu looked at each other and remained silent.

  The hill was empty except for a few buffalo herders. They crouched in their cloaks made from dry leaves while the cold wind turned their skin ashy. The sound of Thao’s flute meandered through the léc green leaves. Accompanied by the late afternoon’s drizzle, it sounded melancholic. None of the buffalo herders said a word. They held each other’s hands and looked at the little house on the other side of the hill where a streak of smoke curled up and wafted away.

  Longing in Vain:

  Nguyễn Hương Duyên

  Mom sat on a corner of the bed facing the window and Dad by the tea table. Outside, waves rippled in playful succession. Dad’s empty stare landed on his teacup. After a long while, Mom sighed quietly. Dad remained seated, motionless.

  “Why did you come back? Have you forgiven me?” asked Mom, in a soft voice. She seemed on the verge of sobbing.

  “It’s time for me to come back,” Dad exhaled loudly and answered in a deep voice. “I’m glad that you are not with anyone.”

  Mom let out a sob. The bones protruding from her skinny shoulders trembled. Dad stood up slowly and walked outside. The waves continued to murmur, accompanied by whispering winds.

  Dad finally came back. He was my father but also a stranger. He looked rather relaxed and confident as if his twenty-year absence from the family had been merely a routine adventure that Mom, my brother, and I had no right to complain about. His return meant there was a male voice in the household. Mom became happier and more energetic. I, on the contrary, felt deeply hurt and wallowed in self-pity and resentment. During my childhood, I had longed for his presence and protection. Dad, where were you during those years?

  Mom never told us the reason behind his absence or where he was. My younger brother Tít and I grew up as witnesses to the sorrow Mom endured due to her love and longing for Dad. He left when my lips were only first beginning to babble the word Daddy. Back then, I ran after him, grabbed his shirt and beseeched him to hold me. That stormy afternoon lodged itself in my mind and haunted my sleep every night until I became an adult.

  Our house was located on a sandbar where the river spills into the sea. If you walked through our village past a poplar forest you would reach the ocean. The quaint little houses seemed to nestle closer to one another when the sea was turbulent. The river flowed beneath the shade of coconut trees out to the ocean—as dictated by the laws of nature. The river isolated us from a bustling town that stood across its banks. For my entire childhood, I thought that if I could cross the river I would be able to find Dad. At night, when the moon shyly peeked above the horizon, Mom would stare across the river as a breeze rustled the leaves of the coconut trees.

  Despondency welled in Mom’s eyes as she watched the current slip past. Those melancholic eyes were burned into my adolescent mind. Dad remained elsewhere. Day after day, some unspeakable secret weighed Mom down.

  “Don’t hate him. It’s all my fault,” she wept and said when I spoke ill of Dad.

  “Tell me why?” I cried loudly.

  Mom remained silent and refused to answer my question, her eyes reflecting more anguish than ever.

  At midnight, it was tranquil but the air was stifling. It made my handicapped brother Tít uneasy and he writhed on his bed because he couldn’t breathe. He was asthmatic and sudden changes in the weather affected his condition. Thus my mother and I had to take him to the clinic near our house. When he saw a syringe, he recoiled and sulked.

  “I don’t want to get a shot. It hurts.” Tít opened his mouth wide and gasped for air.

  The nurse soothed him with a gentle voice, as my mother often did.

  “Be a good boy. Tomorrow I’ll give you a whistle. Be good now! That’s right. You’re doing great. See, it doesn’t hurt at all.”

  Tít immediately returned to his normal self, goofy laughter and all. But normal for Tít wasn’t normal for most. His pupils constantly darted back and forth. Two long, large, welt-like growths stretched from his ears to his mouth and made his lips grotesquely thick and ugly. Tít fell asleep on our way home. Mom carried his eighty-pound body on her back, moving at nearly a run. It started to rain. The teeming rain always ushered in an increase in Mom’s uneasy sighs and festering sorrow.