When I returned, Plum kept a shy distance from me. I pulled her closer.

  “Why don’t you go see the doctor? Do you want to die?”

  “I will, but I’m waiting until next week. Is there anything new in my village?”

  “Someone was electrocuted.”

  “Who was it? Do you know his name?”

  “I heard his name was Bình. He was holding a sprinkler in his armpit while watering some plants, and unfortunately, there was an exposed wire that got wet.”

  Plum looked down and clicked her tongue. She said when she left the village, Bình was destitute. Things were just starting to improve for him when he died so tragically.

  “The fork in the village road has been paved with asphalt. From now on, Green Plum won’t have to wade through mud to get to school.” I switched the topic.

  “Good to know,” Plum mumbled to herself. “Who knows if I can take care of her forever?” Suddenly, Plum’s eyes beamed. “Hey, why don’t you get married? You can’t keep wandering forever.”

  “Who would marry someone so dull as me?” I asked.

  “Come on! Don’t play dumb with me. If you want to marry my sister, I’ll be glad to be your matchmaker.”

  I burst out laughing.

  Plum seemed annoyed. “I know I’m the black sheep of my family and they have disowned me. They’re all decent people, so becoming my brother-in-law isn’t a bad idea, is it?”

  “Geez. How did we get here?” I shook my head.

  “So what don’t you like about Green Plum?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t met her in person and thus know nothing about her. You have been very protective of her, and now, out of the blue, you want me to marry her. What if she doesn’t like me, or slaps me, or chases me away for being rude?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. If you can love Green Plum truly, I’ll tell you where to find her.” Plum grinned, withholding her cough.

  “I can’t promise anything. Believe it or not, marriages are matters of fate. Who dares to promise anything like that?”

  “I do believe in destiny. I think you should marry a countryside girl.” Plum held my hand, her eyes glowing. “I’m a prostitute, and you’ve been very kind to me. You would be kind to your wife and children, wouldn’t you?”

  The old man’s delicate fingers fumbled with the parcels I had placed in his hands. Aiming his nebulous eyes toward me, he said, “Forgive me if I’m wrong. Did Ripe Plum send these things?”

  “No, she didn’t,” I dithered in silence and then lied. “A friend of Green Plum asked me to deliver these things to you on her behalf.”

  “Green Plum has lived in this town her entire life. How can she have a friend who lives so far away?”

  Unwrapping the gifts with his bony hands, the old man pulled out a box of tea and a couple of bottles of herbal balm. Teardrops fell slowly from his blurry eyes.

  “Please don’t lie to me. I’m sure these are her gifts,” the old man muttered. “If you know where she lives, tell her to come home. I want to see her again. The village is better now; she can come home and work for a living.”

  His words both stunned and pleased me.

  “Definitely,” I said. I was worried about Ripe Plum. She was sick, so how could she go home now? I then suggested, “Why don’t you ask Green Plum to write Ripe Plum and tell her sister exactly what you just told me? I’m afraid that Ripe Plum wouldn’t trust my words.”

  “My goodness! Ripe Plum has been gone so long. Please tell her that I’m getting very old and won’t live much longer. She ought to come home now.”

  “I’ll tell her, then. And I’ll be back.”

  Bidding the old man goodbye, I felt a great burden had been lifted off me. I had no idea if Ripe Plum would dare to return home, but at least she had a home waiting for her. I was so delighted that I forgot my hunger.

  This region had vastly changed since Ripe Plum had left for the city. Dozens of tile-roofed houses had been constructed. Restaurants lined the swamp. After crossing the bamboo bridge, I stopped at a place with the words Homemade Food handwritten on a basket dangling on the front door.

  The owner, a tall and muscular man, welcomed me in. The restaurant had only a few sedge mats on the floor and bamboo tables without chairs.

  “What would you like, brother? Fish porridge? It’s right from the lake—super fresh.”

  The fish flopped around, making a soggy racket, as the man carried them into the kitchen in the back. Left alone, I gazed out the window. Delicate coils of smoke rose from tranquil shops into the sky. Several cars were parked beneath a shady tree on the pavement next to mine. Most of the sedans had license plates from other cities far away.

  A steaming bowl of porridge was set in front of me. I looked up—it wasn’t the shop owner, but a neat and strong-looking young girl in a silk outfit smiling innocently at me. Inhaling deeply, I felt a sweet and pristine calm embrace me.

  I took a spoonful of porridge. My gut relaxed as the flavorful broth touched my tongue.

  “Green Plum, did you get a fan?” asked the owner loudly.

  “I did.”

  The name Green Plum left me flabbergasted. I put down the spoon and turned toward the girl. She was waving a handmade fan made from a dry areca leave.

  “Enjoy your meal. No rush,” she said.

  Green Plum continued waving the fan as she lay down next to my sedge mat. She eased up the hem of her blouse, revealing the smooth, tan skin on her taught navel. She spread her legs suggestively, her thin silk pants leaving little to the imagination. It was an awkward and crass but inviting exhibition. I understood immediately the meaning behind the words Homemade Food dangling outside the shop.

  Green Plum raised her fingers to show me the price. She saw my bewildered face and must have assumed it was in response to the rate. She explained unapologetically, “You know, my dear . . . the price of gold is surging, and so is my . . .” Without finishing her sentence, she continued, “Nowadays homemade food is worth more than fancy meals in the city.”

  I was speechless. All I could picture was the look of longing that sparkled in Ripe Plum’s gloomy eyes the last time I had seen her.

  * * *

  * “Plum” is an intentional translation of the protagonist’s Vietnamese name, Mận, which carries the connotation of something desirable in both Vietnamese and American cultures.

  The Island:

  Nguyễn Ngọc Tư

  A drizzle weaved itself into a curtain of fog, and the Trống Island seemed to sway as the boat docked to pick up Gift.** Gift scanned the horizon but couldn’t see a single thread of rising smoke. The island was serene. There wasn’t a soul in sight. Perhaps the mist rising from the water kept the smoke of the stove from drifting above the trees’ canopy and the moss-covered boulders. On the way there, the boat tossed and jolted as it plowed through the waves, dizzying Gift’s empty stomach and making her feel nauseous. She hadn’t had time for dinner. Oversleeping, Gift dashed to the pier where the boat was waiting. A group of men laughed lecherously at her unevenly buttoned blouse, one lapel down, one lapel up.

  Gift looked at the lustful men, unable to remember if she had put the blouse on herself or if someone else had done it. The men brought her to tiny Trống Island by boat. They said if Gift traveled along a range of menacing rocks, she would find Sáng’s home, which was the most imposing one on the island. Gift couldn’t miss it. The men then maneuvered their boat back into the ocean, not forgetting to tell Gift that Chín Ái passed along his greeting.

  But the man on the island didn’t remember who Chín Ái was, or what gratitude had made him send such a bizarre gift. He usually received things like beef, warm clothes, a radio, and so forth, but nothing that promised sweat and moans. Every month, dozens of boats swung by to ask about storms. Even when the weather forecast didn’t warn of any imminent tempests, the ocean was only peaceful if Sáng said it was. People trusted him the way they believed that underneath placid waves unfathomable perils were concealed. Sáng said he could predict the weather via simple “intuition.” More than once he frantically warned boats from unfurling their sails: “It’s not a joke! A fierce wind!” It was one of the people who survived a storm because of Sáng’s warning who had sent him the sultry gift.

  Gift shook her pants to dry them and looked across the small island, lamenting how dreary it was. Why didn’t humans come here? The house she arrived at was even weirder. Wind permeated every corner of it, leaving it without a cozy nook. Was there something edible in the kitchen? Even burnt rice would be fine. Since early that morning, Gift had had only one bowl of noodles at the Đông estuary. She waved her hands in front of her host’s eyes and confirmed what she had been told. Blind. It was incredible that a blind man could live in this place.

  Gift said that she had been paid to come stay on the Trống Island and play the role of a wife for a day. They said her husband would be a blind man named Sáng, which means “light.” Gift smirked and calculated her price, not offering a discount on account of his disability. All men were men, after all. Gift didn’t care about her journey to an island twelve miles from shore, to partner with a lonely man living on water and beneath the sky. It was like being marooned, Gift thought when she first gazed upon Sáng’s “mansion” nestled amid rocky ridges of vegetation and wildflowers. The rocks were just specs of dust on the surface of the ocean. When Gift got off the boat, she sensed that she had forgotten something—her bulletproof clothing. But she didn’t care because her blind husband looked gentle. Curling herself up in a torn blanket, Gift thought she would sleep a bit. Who said that a wife shouldn’t sleep? As she thought about it, she could already feel herself slumbering. Lying straight on her back would help Gift forget her life—the sound of someone knocking over a frying pan or ripe mangos falling to the ground in the front yard.

  Gift got up when the chickens had returned to their perch on the back roof of the house, after wandering around all day in search of food. Sáng was groping around and stumbling.

  “Stay still, honey, don’t panic. Your wife won’t eat you.” Gift flirted while looking for food.

  He sat down and leaned his back against the door like some neglected beggar. He knew the darkness that sheltered him would eventually be penetrated.

  While rare, it was not the first time he received a woman. There was once a lady who came to stay for only a week before leaving, because she couldn’t endure the suffocating solitude. “I would wait for you if you came to the mainland,” she said as she left. Sáng could only smile. The ocean breeze soon whisked in salty air to replace her scent. It was like waking up after a six-day dream to the sound of splashing waves. The eternity of the ocean was a magic balm that healed all wounds.

  A brisk wind roared in and Gift groaned at the pain of the cold air striking her body. How could she bathe in such temperatures! Pulling Sáng closer to her body on the wooden board, Gift unwrapped herself as the wind slid up her skin, making all her delicate body hair stand on end. Gift nudged her husband to make love to her and warm her up. After clumsily groping Gift’s skin for a while, Sáng sensed a flame burning in every cell of his body. Even so, he left her skin cold whenever their bodies melted into each other. “Because of the wind,” Gift said.

  When Sáng’s hand touched the scar on her wrist, she said, “Oh, this was when I tried to kill myself.”

  The scar resembled a worm lying across her wrist right above the veins, and Gift had numerous different stories for its origin. She said her name was Đào and her old house was located next to a small temple where a grove of cedars rustled beneath rain all year round. Đào’s mother was a vocalist for a group of traditional singers in the Gò Tây neighborhood. They performed at funerals, and thus often got drunk. One time at midnight, the straw heap in the middle of the neighborhood caught on fire. The blaze rose to the sky and gave off a repugnant burning smell. The villagers soon learned that Đào’s mother was still sleeping inside. Half a month later, her father remarried. On his wedding day Đào had joined some other children in the neighborhood to catch mice. As she put her hand in a burrow, a mouse dashed out and one of the boys quickly sliced it, injuring Đào’s hand at the same time. Blood streamed down her wrist, mixing with the mouse’s blood.

  After unlocking from one another, Gift’s hair lingered on Sáng’s neck and she flirted, “Call me Phượng, dear. I didn’t have a father until I turned twelve. One day, my mom brought home a man with prominent facial bones and hollow cheeks; his eyes were mostly white. My mom introduced him, saying, ‘Phượng, this is your father.’”

  Gift explained that her stepfather usually helped Phượng bathe when her mother was collecting money in the neighborhood. Half a year later, her mother found out about his inappropriate behavior and they had a terrible fight. The father was enraged and attacked Phượng’s mother with a cleaver. Phượng stretched out her arms to protect her mother and was slashed. The father was so frightened that he ran away. Phượng’s mother didn’t call the bastard back. His name became a curse word.

  “Hey, I just made up those girls to entertain you. This island is so desolate; it needs a human voice. At Đông estuary, they called me Mỹ Châu. My grandmother loved cải lương*** so she baptized us with the names of the artists. My grandmother was the owner of a rice mill, the wealthiest in Bàu Dừa. There, only us Châu sisters could afford to wear dresses that billowed like butterflies. When I was sixteen I heard that a buyer would stop by the mill to get rice. I had been sitting by the pier reading a novel when someone called out, ‘Hey, dear.’ Looking around, I only saw a blackbird turning its head, listening, and hopping around in its cage. ‘Hey, dear, follow me, an impoverished life is joyful.’”

  “I stealthily slid down into the boat, rolled up my blouse, and unveiled my body. As the boat drifted away, I burst into laughter along with the silver-haired boat owner. Bidding farewell to dresses, I became the thirteenth wife of the grocery-trading boat owner. That is, until the fourteenth wife showed up. I left and took the blackbird with me. The bird sang to me, Don’t cry. What the hell are you crying for? then it flew away, leaving me desperate. That’s why I cut my wrist.”

  “Are you still listening?” Gift asked before turning over on her side. Her heavy thigh was stretched over Sáng’s lower belly. Her cracked heel rubbed against his thigh. Her body reeked, probably because she hadn’t taken a bath since her arrival. Those who came to Sáng never knew that he used his imagination to trace their bodies in the dark. Using their voices, the sound of their smiles, the way they breathed, he sketched their portraits, knowing that they were only smoke when exposed to light. Raising his fingers to the lips of the woman to ascertain her colors, Sáng wondered how old she was, and what her name was, Châu, Phượng, or Đào. Gift was exuberant, not living just one life that lasted only three sentences, like him.

  Light stopped dancing across his eyes when he was seven and got chicken pox. At the age of ten, his mother had pulled him close and said, “If only I had birthed an egg, I would’ve put it in my bag and carried it with me.”

  He had an unknown disease and became blind. Three years later, he woke up and could sense in the darkness that there was no one around him. He was the only one left after the boat, in which he and twelve other people were fleeing the country, went missing. In his first days on the Trống Island, he hoped that in those waves that kept rushing onto the shores, there remained his beloveds.

  As the morning neared, after warming each other up, Gift turned Sáng onto his back and asked, “Why did you run all the way here?”

  He wanted to offer up some gripping story, but couldn’t, so he joked, “I peeped on someone’s wife while she was taking a shower.”

  Gift laughed uproariously. Her left breast was pressed against Sáng’s body, sagging and cold. Sáng heard that question time and again. Nobody believed that he lived on the island because he preferred it. Whenever he had offered, “Because I like it,” other questions always followed. Anyone else who drifted to the island was always caught up in some crime or debt. Or they were misanthropes. They said that on the Sếu Bạc Island, there was a gang of wanted thieves. Everyone knew where they lived, but nobody bothered to go after them. Surrounded by water and sky, listening to the sound of rushing waves every day, humans become docile. After observing how they dug for water, planted vegetables, and raised chickens to eat, the officers acquitted them. If bumping into one another on the ocean, they treated the past as insignificant.

  While fabricating her life story, Gift kept asking Sáng about nothing. The part about drifting across the estuary and becoming someone’s mistress was true, but the rest was only fabrication she added to give her life some glamour.

  When she woke up on the island the next morning, she washed her face, which recalled the pubescent beauty that used to harvest rice stalks at Ngã Hai. One time, a sickle cut deep into her wrist. At the time it made her angry to think about how such a beauty had to labor under the roasting sun all day, her blood mixing with sweat. So she became a prostitute. It may have been a shadier profession, but it was also more lucrative.

  “Since yesterday, I haven’t received any wounds and I’ve enjoyed free meals,” Gift said with gratitude.

  This woman was so blunt, worlds apart from one Út Hên who had turned twenty-six the previous afternoon. The girl from Rơm Market followed her boyfriend to a film studio, where they were making the movie Billowing Grass at an ancient temple. Someone asked her if she would like to act in the movie. The role was simple: a character riding a motorbike that turns her head to tell the main actress, “The enemies are after us.” After shooting, the film crew left abruptly, as did Út Hên. For three years she worked with the film crew, never playing any role but someone riding a motorbike. She never even had any more lines. Film producers, after looking at her breasts and thighs, concluded that she couldn’t land any other roles. But just the other day, she was assigned the part of a prostitute who cut her own wrist. Út Hên thought she would play the role with all her heart. She made a real cut, bleeding so much that it poured through the band-aid and the antiseptic cotton ball. Thinking about the role made her dizzy.