Out of the Dragon's Mouth (7 page)

Later, at the drinking well, she saw Kien and blushed. He ambled over to her, his buckets clanging.

“Want some help?” He reached for her bucket. “I had to leave early this morning to get the sea cucumbers. I thought you would probably be tired after last night.” He looked down at his feet, waiting.

“Oh, that's all right.” She tried hard to pretend that she hadn't missed him. She didn't want him to think he couldn't go get them without her.

“We could go catch sea cucumbers early tomorrow morning if you'd like.” Kien lowered Mai's bucket down the well. She heard the splash as it hit the water, and then Kien raised it slowly so that it wouldn't tip.

“I enjoyed the music last night. I didn't know you played guitar,” Mai told him.

“It was my father's. He used to play it for my mother. When he left, he gave it to her as a remembrance.” Kien's voice dropped and Mai regretted her question. She didn't want him to be sad because of her. His music had brought her so much happiness.

“But how did you learn to play it?”

“I taught myself. It's not hard. I could teach you.”

Mai's eyes widened in surprise. “But that would take up so much of your time. I couldn't.” No one had ever offered to help her like this.

“Yes, I insist. After dinner tonight. Let's take the water back now so we can go line up for food. Maybe that American girl will be back and you can learn some English.”

The bucket had never felt as light as Mai walked alongside Kien back to their tent, where, after delivering the water, they began the long trek to the Red Cross tent in the center of the island. Kien extended his hand to her again when they approached the rocky crossing, but Mai shook her head. “No, I need to do this on my own,” she said, and much to her surprise, she did. By this time the rays of the midmorning sun had turned the sand into hot coals, and they were forced to wade in the ocean to cool their scorched feet.

As they approached the middle of the island, the sparkling white sand lost its luster and faded into a dingy brown, contaminated by a swelling city of refugees. Mai stepped around a pile of discarded tin cans and thought about how beautiful and unspoiled her end of the island was.

When she and Kien arrived at the food tent, the American girl, Miss Cindy, was there, her blonde hair swept up in a ponytail, her sun-tanned arms holding up the letters of the alphabet, a throng of children at her feet. Mai edged over to the outside of the group and stared intently at the letters. They were very different from Chinese characters with their straight black lines, which she had learned to write at school; they were more round and flowing, like Vietnamese letters. Kien stood next to her and, together, they repeated the letters. If only she had something to write with so she could study them back at her tent.

She stood shyly watching the class until it was over. Then she approached the American teacher. “I would like to learn English, please,” she said.

Miss Cindy smiled at her. “Everyone is welcome,” she said in Vietnamese.

“Thank you. Can I come tomorrow?” Mai asked.

“Tomorrow after breakfast. Right here. What is your name?” Miss Cindy took out her notebook and pencil.

“Nguyen Mai,” Mai whispered, her eyes lowered.

“Great,” said the teacher. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Mai, clasping her hands and bowing. She was going to school again.

Mai thought of her school in Vietnam, the one Grandfather had built. How proud she was when he visited the school, arriving in his chauffeur-driven Cadillac, a distinguished-
looking man dressed in a dark suit and tie, standing straight as a soldier as the students all marched in lines out of the school to greet him. She'd stood at attention with the others, her bobbed hair neatly combed, her white blouse tucked into her navy blue skirt. How she loved going to school and learning about anything, especially Chinese folktales.

Her favorite was the story of the two Trung sisters, heroines of Vietnam's rebellion from the Chinese a very long time ago. She loved the way they had led the nobles and captured many citadels and declared Vietnam's independence. She dreamed that one day she, too, would come back to Vietnam, charging in on an elephant, a saber in her hand, like the Trung sisters, the Communists running from her as the Chinese had retreated from them, her family bowing down to her in admiration.

A woman could change things. She could help her country, and some day she would. Women were not drops of rain, as the Chinese poet said, some falling purely by chance on luxurious palaces while other fell on muddy rice fields. This view was one her mother had taught her, but she didn't want to be like her mother, running to serve Grandmother's every whim, her life not her own, her children left in the care of a nanny. She would be like the Vietnamese women of old, warriors, judges, and traders. Women with power.

“It's time to go.” Kien nudged her and she awoke from her daydream to the sight of her countrymen: old men with wispy beards; young mothers with hungry children clinging to them; once-proud men, their heads hanging in shame, waiting in line for their noon meal like beggars. Her eyes grew hard and she thought,
I'll never forgive the Communists for what they have done to us.
And she took her place in line.

Nine

The rhythm of the waves lapping the beach at nightfall failed to lull Mai to sleep as she lay curled in her hammock, a knot in her stomach. She closed her eyes. What was that? Something was moving near her. She opened her eyes. A figure floated toward her. It was Sang. But he was dead. She closed her eyes, praying he would disappear. But when she opened them again, he had moved closer. She could see his face now, twisted in agony. Sand poured from his mouth. His hands clawed the air.

“Help me. Help me,” Sang screamed. “Don't leave me in this well.” About him was the stench of decay and death.

Terrified, Mai hid under her blanket.

“You and your uncle will be punished,” Sang's ghost called. And then he disappeared.

Mai couldn't move. If only Small Auntie had had a funeral for him, perhaps some chanted prayers to usher his spirit into the next world; that probably would have satisfied him. What did he want from her? She'd had no part in his death. With no body to cremate and no monks on the island to chant prayers for him, would Sang be forced to wander the four corners of the earth, weeping and wailing, looking for vengeance, unable to go into the next world? Grandfather had told her that this was what happened to people who died violent deaths and were not given a proper burial.

“Hiep, are you awake?” She peeked over the edge of her hammock at him, the moonlight seeping in underneath the brown plastic canopy that sheltered them and casting a silvery shadow on Hiep's closed lids. She watched his bare chest move up and down. He seemed to be sleeping, but how could he have slept with Sang's ghost in the tent?

“Uncle Hiep, wake up. I'm frightened.”

Hiep opened his eyes and looked up at her. The ghost had disappeared, but the odor of decay remained.

“Mmm. What's the matter?”

“I had a bad dream, except it wasn't a dream. I was awake and Uncle Sang's ghost came to me. Can't you smell him?”

Hiep reached up and touched her hand. “Don't be afraid. Just a dream,” he murmured, half asleep.

“Uncle Hiep, listen to me. We're in danger. He's after us.” Mai grabbed Hiep's arm and shook it. Hiep opened his eyes again in annoyance.

“I can't sleep,” she said. “Uncle Sang's ghost was here. He threatened us. Didn't you hear him?” Mai climbed down and crouched on the ground next to Hiep, who was stretched out in his hammock.

“Shh! You'll wake the others.” Hiep rose, grasped Mai by the elbow, and guided her outside the tent, where a slight breeze sliced through the sultriness of the tropical night. “Mai, are you feeling all right? What did you eat today? Maybe it's upset you.” He leaned close to Mai, and she could smell the odor of fish on his breath.

“Uncle, I'm not sick, and I'm not imagining this. Uncle Sang is out to get even with us. I think he blames you and me for his death.”

“Mai, don't be foolish. Go back to sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning. Maybe I should go see Small Auntie.” Hiep's voice softened as he brushed a tear from Mai's chin.

“What good will that do? You know how Small Auntie feels.” Mai grabbed Hiep's hands and wouldn't let go.

“You don't believe those stories. She can't hurt us.” Hiep removed Mai's hands from his and took a step away from her. “Sang is dead. Now come on and go back to sleep. I'm tired.”

Mai knew she had made Hiep angry, but she was upset that he didn't believe her. Perhaps he was right. So much had happened to them since they'd left Vietnam she didn't
know what she believed. She tiptoed back into the tent,
careful not to disturb the others as she climbed back into
her hammock, expecting to lie there sleepless until the
morning light. She closed her eyes, afraid of the phantoms sleep might bring, and was relieved when the sun slipped into the tent and she heard Hiep call her name.

“Mai, I'm sorry about last night,” he said, but Mai was not ready to forgive him, and she turned her back to him and pretended to be sleeping.

“Mai, wake up. Let's go see Small Auntie.”

She peered at him through half-open eyelids but did not speak, knowing that her words would be useless.

“All right, I'll go myself. You stay here.” Hiep strode out of the tent.

The words
don't go
stuck in her throat and a cold fear wrapped its icy tentacles around her.

She had avoided Small Auntie's boat yesterday as she'd lugged their tins of food back to the tent, cutting a wide swath around it. She'd seen a few curls of smoke from the cooking fire, a couple of holey T-shirts laid out to dry on some bushes, and a large oil can perched on a rock. Someone had propped Small Auntie's ragged broom against the peeling hull of her boat. A child's dép peeked through a mound of sand next to a tin can with a string threaded through a hole in its side. There'd been no sign of Small Auntie or the children. Mai was relieved not to see her, but she worried about the children. Where were they? Was Small Auntie too distraught to care for them?

Mai knew how grief could affect a person. Her cousin Trang, a year younger than she, had drowned in the Mekong while swimming with her three older brothers. Mai had been playing with two of her cousins under the banana trees behind their house. She heard a voice shouting for help, and only then did she look across to the path that ran by the Mekong and see a boy running and waving his arms.

“Trang,” he gasped. “She fell in the river. We can't find her.”

Mai had run inside for her grandfather, who alerted her father and Trang's parents, and they'd all rushed to the water where Trang's eldest brother was pointing to the spot he'd last seen her, but all they saw was the blue-gray water rushing by, its current swift and unforgiving.

Mai remembered standing on the shore with Trang's parents and her own mother and father, watching as the rescue boat plied the water for Trang's body. She could still see the silhouettes of Trang's parents, bareheaded on the river's bank, standing in silence as they waited for some news of their daughter. Trang's three brothers stood in a row next to them, their heads bowed, their arms clasped behind them.

“You have all been warned about the river in the rainy season,” Mai's father chided at dinner that night.

Mai's mother wept as she sat beside them. “Only seven. I hope they can find her. Poor girl.”

“She might be caught in a deep hole. Who knows? This is what can happen if you do not obey your parents.” Mai's father's face was stern as he spoke the words, but his eyes were misted.

The next afternoon when the unsuccessful search ended, Mai saw Trang's mother slap each of the brothers in the face. “You are no-goods,” she cried, pounding the oldest son in the chest with her ball-like fists. “You do not watch your sister. Now she is gone forever and her spirit must wander.”

The boys did not recoil. The nanny, a young girl of thirteen, stood by, trembling, her head bowed, her face covered by her hands.

“And you, your only job is to watch my daughter. Go, you are a disgrace. You bring bad luck. Leave the village and never show your face again.” Trang's father's voice raged with grief and anger.

The nanny, cowering, crept away, carrying her small bag of belongings, her wide face smeared with tears.

Mai had come to know that anger was a part of grief, and that someone had to be blamed. She was afraid for Hiep. Small Auntie would not absolve him of her husband's death, but would try to punish him, instead of intervening for him with her husband's ghost. Why had he gone to see her?

Sometimes Hiep could be so stubborn, like the time he'd insisted he knew the way to the zoo, refusing to ask for directions, and they had been lost for over an hour. She had sat quietly in the back seat of the car as he drove, with a cigarette butt between his fingers, one hand on the steering wheel, his other arm dangling out the window. After what seemed like all morning, the sun glaring on her through the side windows, the plastic seat covers sticking to the backs of her legs, he had turned to her and laughed.

“I think we're lost, Mai. Do you know where we are?”

Mai, her back stiff from sitting so long and her mouth dry as the paddies in winter, had answered him sharply. “Uncle, I don't know where we are. I'm only a kid. Ask someone for directions.”

He arched his eyebrows in surprise at her retort, but he pulled over to the side of the road and stopped a young boy on a bicycle, asking him where the zoo was. She could see the boy, balancing a bundle of firewood on the back of his bicycle, point back down the road they had just travelled. Twenty minutes later, they parked at the zoo and Mai saw her first elephant, and when her new shoes hurt, her uncle had carried her piggyback.
Would she ever have such fun again?

Mai hurried to get dressed and eat so she could go to English class. Though Hiep had not returned, she was not going to miss it waiting for him. The class had already begun when she arrived. Miss Cindy, the teacher, was writing some words on a chalkboard propped against a palm tree. A group of children and adults sat cross-legged on the ground in front of her. As she pointed to the words and pronounced them, the class chanted them after her. “Dog, cat, mother, father.”

The list went on. Mai joined in, though the sounds were very different from Vietnamese. Then Miss Cindy wrote a phrase on the board.

“My name is Miss Cindy. What is yours?” she said. She pointed to Mai and smiled.

Am I supposed to speak?

The teacher nodded and waited.

Mai answered, “My … name … is Mai.”
What's that next phrase? I can't remember.
She looked at Miss Cindy for help.

“Go on, Mai. Now ask your neighbor: ‘What is your name?'”

Mai turned to the girl next to her. “What is your name?” she said, enunciating each word.

And so they went around the group, each person stating his name and then asking the next one what his name was.
This is fun
, thought Mai. English class flew by.

After an hour, Miss Cindy closed by teaching them a song. “Would you like to learn an American song? How many of you like baseball? Baseball is very popular in America. We sing this song at every game. It's called ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game.'”

Mai listened as Miss Cindy sang the song. She couldn't understand the words, but she liked their happy sound. Though she had never been to a baseball game, she hoped that when she got to America she would get to see one. She would ask Third Uncle. Maybe he would take her. Miss Cindy sang the song again, phrase by phrase, and the students echoed each phrase.

“You have done very well today. See you in the morning,” she said, dismissing the class.

Mai walked down the beach, singing “Take me out to the ball game” softly to herself. Hiep was sitting in the tent eating a bowl of rice when she arrived back at camp.

“Hiep, what happened?” she asked.

“You were right,” he said, suspending his chopsticks in midair. “She wouldn't listen.”

“What did she say?” Mai asked, but Hiep just shook his head. “Did you see Minh? How are the children?”

“She's turned them against us. They ran and hid behind her when they saw me.” Hiep ran his hands through his hair.

“Oh no,” Mai moaned. How unfair of her. Somehow she would have to find Minh and speak to him when he was alone. Surely Minh didn't hate them. “What did she say?” Mai repeated.

“She chased me away with her broom before I could say anything. She's crazy.” Hiep's voice rose.

“I knew you shouldn't go. I'm afraid of her.” Mai sighed in despair, for she had grown to love the children, and it had been hard for her to leave them. Now Small Auntie would keep her from seeing them and Sang's ghost would haunt her. She didn't think life could get any worse. What were they going to do?

“Uncle Hiep, we must write Third Uncle right away. We need to get out of here as soon as we can. Where's the money he sent? Let's go to the market and get a pen and paper.”

“Shh, Mai.” Hiep peered around the rice bag partition to see if anyone had come in, but there were only a few of the women outside, tending the cooking fires. “It's in here.” He reached into the elastic waistband of his shorts and pulled out the American bill. “I wouldn't leave it in the tent. Someone might take it.”

Mai smiled knowingly as she touched the waistband of her pants
, where her lucky gold bracelet was hidden. He was right. She trusted Kien and Lan, but there were others just like Small Auntie who were interested only in money.

“I'll go to the market and we'll write Third Uncle a letter tonight. Maybe he can help.”

Mai felt relieved at Hiep's words. Just then Kien came in, followed by Lan. Hiep stuffed the bill back in his pocket as Lan approached Mai.

“Mai, I was looking for you. Some of the girls are knitting and they said they would teach us how, if you'd like to learn.”

Mai looked at Lan in confusion. Lan held a ball of yellow yarn in one hand and some knitting needles in the other. What did she need to knit for?

Lan explained. “You're going to America, where it snows. You'll need some warm clothes, some hats, some gloves, a scarf. That's what the girls are knitting. It's fun.”

Mai shrugged her shoulders. “I'll try,”she said, “but I've never been any good at needlework. My nanny tried to teach me embroidery, but I always poked my finger and made the stitches too big.”

Lan laughed. “This is easier than embroidery and the needles aren't sharp. You'll need to get some yarn and needles at the market, though.”

“Come with us, Lan,” Hiep interrupted. “This afternoon. You can help Mai find what she needs.”

Mai noticed the way Hiep's voice rose with excitement as he spoke to Lan. She looked over at Kien, who was talking to a round-faced young woman with high cheek bones, and a feeling of jealousy came over her as she turned to Lan, trying hard to ignore him.