“Not a month later, the Koh Kong forces merged with the central forces who had been fighting Lon Non’s men. But then, in an act of great betrayal, the central forces turned their guns on us. We fled the bloodshed and ran toward Việt Nam. During the flight, all nine of my family members were killed.”

  Sáu Khên stopped talking. He lifted his glass to his mouth and emptied it down his throat, as though he were drinking poison. The wine didn’t flow into his mouth, but into his eyeballs, and into his dark, glowing skin.

  Năm stared at Sáu Khên, unconsciously waving her hands as if shooing something away. Her hands knocked against the wine bottle, sending it down to the floor. Nobody picked it up, so the wine flowed out.

  “Nine people? Gosh! How could you live with that?”

  Sáu Khên took the bottle, muttering, “Displacement, war, and people were just like worms. Now, in retrospect, I don’t get it—how could I survive? But the pain was part of the healing. If we hadn’t been hurt, we all would’ve died after the war ended. You know this.”

  “So you don’t hold any pieces of the Khmer Rouge in your heart? What did you tell Ba’s wife that got her so agitated?”

  “I didn’t know I had upset her. Mr. Ba and I are friends. So during dinner, I told her who I was. She didn’t let me finish my story but became furious. I had to swim away in mid-conversation.”

  “Nine people. Gosh! Pour me some more.”

  Năm drank as if she were dehydrated.

  “But if I hadn’t fled when I did, I would’ve killed ninety or nine hundred people.”

  “Damn it!” Năm just mumbled the phrase over and over and then drank several more glasses in a row. The thirst crawled into her fingers and her hair.

  Then she collapsed.

  Tears were filling Vân’s eyes. But what if he was making up this story? Was he plotting something? Năm was sleeping and Vân’s husband wasn’t at home.

  Vân gripped a knife.

  The man leaned forward to look at Năm. He grasped her shoulders and, putting his face next to hers, he touched her cheek with his.

  “You could never kill me. My family brewed wine for twenty years. And don’t you know that I’m a ladies’ man? I could woo any woman. But when I look at you, the man inside me dies. You’re neither a woman nor a man. You’re iron. You’re a rock. You’re a stone—a kind of stone that holds no glittering crystal; tough, tough for a thousand years, ten thousand years. If it weren’t for women like you, many more Khmer Rouge soldiers like me would’ve smashed in more heads. Thank you.”

  He hit his head on the table several times and then fell asleep right there. His hands still on Năm’s shoulders on the dinner table.

  Vân dropped the knife. She cleaned the empty wine bottles and put away the dried squid. She set up the mosquito net so it covered both Sáu Khên and her mother. He was so drunk. Any man who boozed with Năm fell asleep right at the dinner table. They often slept next to each other like that, like men.

  * * *

  **** The Vietnamese often refer to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, as Nam Vang.

  ***** Famous second-century Chinese generals.

  Innermost:

  Phạm Thị Ngọc Liên

  Sometimes, happiness is just paint that covers what is rotten inside.

  One afternoon, while we were about to have dinner, Aunt Bảy pulled my mother outside and whispered into her ear. I heard my mother cry out like a chicken lost from its chick, “No! No! You’re lying!”

  Bảy said something else, and my mother burst into tears. I placed the stack of dinner bowls on a tray. Then my older brother Hai and I dashed to the doorway. Bảy waved her hand and said, “You two stay right there and don’t come out here!”

  My mother couldn’t speak; sobs welled up in her throat. Finally, she turned toward us and said, “Go back inside,” and pulled Aunt Bảy to the hedge where they could continue their conversation. When my mother returned, she looked like a completely different person. Her face was pale, her eyes lifeless and her expression disheveled. Without looking at us, she said, “You two go with Aunt Bảy to find out where your dad is. Then come back and tell me.”

  Bảy led us to the street, called a tuk-tuk, and told the driver to take us to the pier. After we had crossed the river, we walked past rows of coconut trees and turned onto a small road beset by Malabar spinach.

  “See that house with the bougainvillea? Your dad is in there. Wait right here,” Bảy pulled us aside and enjoined us. “When you see him walk out with someone, keep shouting loudly and make sure he doesn’t run away. Don’t ruin this—we want to catch him red-handed. If he escapes, you’ll be spanked. Do you hear me?”

  My brother and I stood on the corner and waited for our father to emerge. The sun went down quickly and darkness surrounded us. Frogs croaked all around. A chilling wind blew in off the

  river.

  “What is Dad doing in there, and why hasn’t he come out yet?” I asked.

  My brother and I huddled against each other to keep warm and eventually fell asleep on the ground. Suddenly, somebody twisted my ear and I woke up. My brother also had his ear twisted to jolt him awake.

  “Good for nothing!” Bảy stood with her hands on her hips and scolded us. “I told you to keep watching and you fell asleep. He’s gone. Let’s go home.”

  My father was an elegant and refined man. A real gentleman. Back in the day, my grandparents didn’t want their only son to follow in their footsteps by becoming a farmer, so they sent him to school in town. He was very handsome and didn’t look like the typical farmer’s son. He was good at singing and playing stringed instruments, which made him popular, especially among the girls. That was why he played more than he studied. His habits cost my grandparents a fortune, and there was no bright future ahead for him. A true wastrel.

  Thus his parents decided to arrange my father’s marriage. This was part of a typical countryside person’s life trajectory: get married, build a home, and start a career. My mother was by no means a meek and gentle woman, though. Although she was a country girl, she was known for her sharp tongue and acidic wit. My grandparents considered her the perfect woman to tame and control my father.

  “He needs a wife like her to keep him in line,” my grandfather remarked. Then, he told his son to stand in front of the family altar and said, “You have two options: either get married or stay single and be disowned. Take your pick.”

  The wedding took place soon after.

  During their ten years of marriage, under my mother’s oversight, my father became the person my grandparents had always wanted: caring, responsible, and hardworking. Everything had been fine until one day when my father fell in love with a woman named Khuyên. She was a widow and a single mother in the neighboring town. My mother considered it disgraceful because Khuyên was neither young nor beautiful. She was my mother’s age and worked as a lowly seamstress. Everyone concurred that Khuyên was in no way near as attractive or graceful as my mother.

  My mother called Khuyên “a minx.” Whenever my parents fought, the word minx slammed into my ears and heart, over and over. “Please lower your voice,” my father pleaded, “or the kids will hear us,” but my mother kept yelling and screaming, breaking things and bawling.

  Hiding behind a dresser door, my brother and I covered our eyes with our hands and trembled with fear, like geckos that had lost their tails. Often, my mother rushed toward us and pulled us out from our hiding spot.

  “Kill me! Kill your children!” she yelled at my father in front of my brother and me. “Then do whatever you want.”

  My mother was furious because my father had taken his lover out somewhere. That night, after we returned home with Bảy, my mother flung the dinner tray onto the floor. Vện, our neighbor Mr. Chín’s dog, gobbled up the food. Mother sat on one end of the large wooden couch, her eyes suffused with anger under the soft neon blue light while my father sat on the other end of the couch with drooped shoulders. He admitted his adultery, stating, “I thương you and our children, but I yêu her.”******

  Once I grew up, I realized that my mother would never forgive him for saying that. There is a fine line between the words thương and yêu, but the distinction is clear-cut. My father married my mother, whom his parents had chosen for him, to fulfill his filial duty. However, at no point in the past ten years did he yêu her.

  “You’re very good and kind,” he said wistfully, “and I can’t blame you for anything. But Khuyên and I are more compatible.”

  Upon hearing his words, my mother felt as if she were being strangled. Outraged, she was determined to take revenge. That is simply the power of love. My father, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the ongoing fighting between him and my mother and continued to see Khuyên. My mother tried to catch him red-handed in the middle of one of his adulterous trysts but always failed because he constantly changed the location where he and Khuyên met. Bảy tried unsuccessfully to help my mother find him but finally gave up, saying, “Let him be. He’ll come back to you eventually after he gets bored with that woman. You are legally married to him with two children. You can’t lose him. Don’t worry!”

  After Bảy refused to accompany my mother on her “adultery-

  catching adventures,” my mother made us accompany her. She had become a completely different person. She was skinny. The veins on her face popped out when she ground her teeth, and her eyes were reptilian in how they darted about. She was like a ferocious storm that threatened to destroy everything in its path.

  One summer day, my brother and I were playing in a lychee tree when she summoned us down.

  “I don’t want to go with you!” My brother looked into her eyes and screamed.

  “Neither do I!” I said, hiding behind his back.

  “So, you don’t want to go with me, do you?” She glared at us and smirked. “I’ll chop you into pieces and kill you myself!” She held a large butcher knife in her hand. Its dull metal blade was terrifying.

  My brother extended his arms behind him and held me tight. “Mom, please, please don’t kill us!” he shrieked. “We’ll go with you!”

  We followed her to Khuyên’s house. When we arrived, my father was inside sitting on a large wooden couch, eating lunch. A slight woman with a gentle face was seated next to him. Seeing Khuyên’s dome-shaped belly, my mother yelled and stormed inside.

  What happened next was like a horror movie. I don’t want to remember it. I’m not completely sure but I think this is how it went down. My mother raised the knife. Khuyên fell to the floor. My father slapped my mother in the face. Blood flew everywhere. My terrified brother jumped up and down, trying to bite my father’s arm, screaming like a siren that drowned me into unconsciousness.

  My half-brother was never born. Nobody knew where Khuyên went after being discharged from the hospital. My father came home and became as quiet as a mute. My brother lost his mind. The doctor said that he was in shock—that he was too sensitive to withstand repeated mental trauma. My grandfather had a heart attack when he heard about my brother’s insanity and refused to look at my father after the incident.

  My father said nothing to defend himself from my family’s accusations. He tried to find the best doctor possible to help my brother, hoping that he would recover one day. He showed respect and deference to my mother, doing whatever she wanted him to do, except for sleeping in the same bed with her.

  My brother’s mental debility didn’t get any better. Each summer, it became even worse.

  Ten years have passed, and my brother’s shouts still echo inside our house, as if he were still a boy. My father weeps when my brother kicks things around, or bites and pinches himself. In such moments, my mother goes to the back garden and sobs. I don’t know if she feels remorse for what she did, but I wasn’t moved by her tears. On the contrary, I felt sorry for my father. I had a boyfriend and understood how vexatious it would be to live with someone you didn’t love.

  I also understood my father’s tormented feelings about Khuyên’s reaction to my mother’s jealousy. Although my mother caused Khuyên’s miscarriage and the latter had nearly died in the hospital, when she regained consciousness, Khuyên admitted that everything was her fault and requested the judge to exonerate my mother. Back then, I wasn’t mature enough to understand all that was happening, but in retrospect, I still think my mother was too cruel. When Khuyên left to live elsewhere, I forgave her for having dared to love my father, a married man.

  For the last ten years, my parents have lived together with their crazy son. From the outside everything may look normal, but deep inside it is tempestuous. My father has aged rapidly; his refined, handsome physical features are long gone. His face now projects sorrow and wistful glances.

  There were afternoons when we went fishing with my dad, and my brother didn’t act agitated but seemed as sweet as a child. He meticulously attached the bait to the hook and cheered jovially when we hooked a fish. Sometimes, he rested his head on the rice paddy dike’s soft green grass and fell asleep like a baby. In those moments, I saw my father look at him carefully, turn his face and secretly wipe away tears. From behind, I saw his shoulders tremble as he sobbed. This saddened me tremendously, and I wanted to cry out, Dad, Dad!

  My mother was even more miserable. Her resentment and pride made her do whatever it took to possess my father’s heart and body, although it was a withered heart and a detached body. My father did whatever she wanted, just like a robot. They walked side by side at wedding receptions and parties. He was polite; my mother smiled gleefully. Who dared say that they were not a happy couple? But nobody looked deeply into my parents’ eyes to discern their true feelings.

  One morning, my mother asked me to go to the adjacent village to buy some wine and a few areca leaves. When I returned, she had already cooked a pot of sticky rice and boiled a rooster. She quietly placed the offerings on my grandparents’ altar and told me to go to the rice paddy to invite my father home.

  When he returned, my brother was sitting on the floor holding a grasshopper made from palm leaves and smiling naively. My father stood next to him and quietly looked down at the floor.

  “Please have a seat on the wooden couch,” my mother said to my father in a low, gentle voice.

  I stood behind the door and watched everything play out. I was perplexed and my heart ached. My mother burned incense, respectfully bowed four times in front of the altar, and turned toward my father. Then, she slowly knelt down and said, “Please forgive me. I am a sinner. I bow to you three times to ask you to let me live in the temple.”

  Tears rolled down his face, and he nodded in agreement. My mother had decided to do penance in the temple and spend her days chanting and praying. I realized that this was the best solution for them because they would no longer have to pretend to live happily together.

  Sometimes, I missed her and secretly visited the temple. I stood behind a pillar or a wall to look at my mother from afar.

  “Don’t disturb her,” my father had instructed me. “Don’t take your brother with you to the temple, because if she sees him, she’ll be distracted.”

  I obeyed him, although I felt a little uncomfortable. How could he be so unaffected by her becoming a nun? Ultimately, he was responsible for my mother’s sins.

  On my wedding day, as I joined the procession of vehicles driving away on the asphalt road, headed to my new home with my husband, I looked back and saw my father standing alone next to my insane brother in the twilight. Tears trailed down my face. Until that moment, I had never felt I would make him suffer.

  He had forgiven my mother and permitted her to become a nun so that she could leave everything behind and focus on her prayers. But every day, my father had to witness my mentally handicapped brother. He had chosen the most severe punishment: to face his unforgivable sins until the day he died.

  * * *

  ****** The verbs thương and yêu in Vietnamese are commonly both translated into English as love. However, in this context, thương is associated with unromantic love, while yêu is associated with romantic, passionate love.

  On the Rạng Riverbank:

  Trịnh Thị Phương Trà

  A snippet of information brought me—a journalist working on an article for a newspaper’s Tết edition—to her home in the late afternoon on New Year’s Eve. The dilapidated house was nestled behind a bleak, barren garden with a few banana plants, some orange trees, and lemongrass shrubs growing beside weather-ravaged walls.

  Her back was stooped and her hair was braided in a headband. Mịch stared at me in bewilderment. I told her I had traveled a thousand miles to hear her story. She smiled and then said, “Well, my life isn’t worth that. It’s quite late now. Let me go make us dinner.”

  I followed her to help wash vegetables and prepare the rice. Beside the flickering fire, she told me that perhaps I was blessed by the heavens to have been able to travel so far, and that our encounter was serendipitous because she had been cherishing the memory of her husband for fifty years. She then sighed. “You know, I’m not the only one to endure such loneliness. I’ve thought it over. Tonight is the right time to share.”

  My face certainly revealed my confusion. She raised her two index fingers and brought them next to each other in front of her eyes. The stove’s flames seemed to be dying, making her wrinkled, trembling fingers cast dark, blurry shadows across her face. The streaks danced apart and came back together. One fell down, the other pulled it up.

  “It’ll come like that. It’s my turn for now,” she said.

  She repeated herself and then with the expression of someone being shocked out of sleep, poked the fire, making the rice pot boil more vigorously, the water overflowing the top and sizzling into the flames.