“Yes, Mother’s cooking was famous throughout the whole region. Thus, anyone who had a big banquet would call on her. Do you remember once when she cooked catfish porridge for everyone in the family?”
“Yes, I can still smell the nice aroma of fresh chopped ginger, dill and green onions, crushed pepper and fresh hot chilies in fish sauce. I still remember the large ceramic barrel under the eaves where she put the catfish to use up slowly. The fish jumped friskily all night.”
Vu stops, as if he would cry if he continued. The two brothers often goofed off around that great pot of fish. One time, playing war with other kids in the hamlet, he had taken the role of the mighty hero Dinh Bo Linh. Wanting to impress the neighboring kids, he had demanded that his mom cook porridge as a treat. Of course she refused, because no one would ever spoil a child by doing such a crazy thing. The next day, waiting for his mother to go to the market, Vu had emptied a whole bag of powdered chili into the container of fish and had killed them all. After this wicked act, he had sneaked over to his grandmother’s. Back home, his mother had taken control of the situation. She was forced to turn her anger into something useful, so she had cooked close to twenty fish to make a huge pot of porridge to treat the little army of the hamlet’s Dinh Bo Linh. More than forty little guests were invited to enjoy the fish soup and many sweet desserts. His older brother, on behalf of “Warrior Vu,” had stood up to announce the reason why “Warrior Vu offers his army a victory celebration.” When the party was over and the kids with their full and happy tummies had left, Bac was punished. He had to lie facedown on the mat in the middle of the room, to receive on his buttocks twenty strikes from a bamboo stick for the crime of abetting the killings. Meanwhile Vu, unabashed, enjoyed safety in his grandmother’s protective arms, even though he had missed a meal of tasty fish soup. In exchange he had good beef soup and other goodies. Four days later his mother had come and called out from the street:
“Vu, I forgive you. No more running away; come home.”
This memory fills his heart with nostalgia. He thinks to himself, “He always took punishment for me. He always had to extend his arms to help carry heavy burdens. Not only during childhood, but until now, too…”
Instinctively he looks down at his brother’s hand on the table: the hand of a real farmer with coarse fingers, all brown from sunburn, nails dark from tree sap. By contrast, his fingers are fair, like those of women during childbirth. It has been twelve years since Bac left his family in the city, turning the management of his carpentry store over to his son-in-law, in order to live in the countryside with the pretense of caring for an unmarried, childless aunt on his mother’s side, but in reality to raise Nghia, the daughter of Miss Xuan. The day Miss Xuan died, Vu had sent word for him to come, because he could not find anyone else to assume this responsibility. It was already too much for his wife to take in Miss Xuan’s son. Moreover, everyone knew that Van disliked those of her own sex. She could be friendly for a while with a few women who were clueless or ignorant, taking advantage of them or turning them into her pawns, but in her heart she wanted no friendship with any female whatsoever. She could befriend only men. She had real feelings only for those of the opposite sex. She loved him, and, besides him, she wanted a regular contingent of men around her from different walks of life; this flock of men, old and young, all circled around the city beauty like little satellites orbiting a sun, ready to serve her as needed. They admired her beauty, concealing their lust in their afternoon or midnight dreams. Thus, Miss Beauty To Van — without having a throne — had always enjoyed the pride of being a queen. Though without an official title, there had been no absence of a bright halo highlighting her name. And so heaven could not endow her with enough kindness to care for an orphaned girl. There was nothing else to do but to turn to his own family. He had asked the driver to deliver a letter of one sentence: “Dear brother, I need to see you right away, the sooner the better.”
The car had left early, returning to Hanoi at dark with his older brother. At night, after dinner, they had gone to the garden to smoke. Bac had asked: “Will they let the child live peacefully in the countryside? Don’t forget that the farther you are from the capital, the darker it is. It’s easier for hoodlums to strike.”
Vu had replied, “I think farther is safer for the child. She’s a female, not someone who will extend the patrilineage, therefore she won’t be on their radar. Farther away, they pay less attention. Less attention — less viciousness.”
Then the older brother had agreed: “If so, all right. If you gather enough clothing for the girl, I will take her immediately tonight.”
“You don’t need to go immediately tonight. The driver needs sleep. But tomorrow morning, I will ask the driver to take you and the little girl very early. However…”
Then it was Vu who was hesitant.
He was bothered by imposing on his brother to leave his family and his work to move to the countryside, to a life without prominence, without all the regular means of living comfortably. From supervising a large carpentry business in three hamlets, he would be forced to harvest, to garden, to pull a rickety cart to sell jackfruit, guava, pineapple, pomelo, and lichees. No longer enjoying the position of boss with staff to make your meals and get you drinks, he would have to live in a house with three large rooms in the dim light of oil lamps; he would have to cook his own meals in a kitchen filled with smoke from husks and straw. He would endure the absence of his wife and kids and his trade, because he was a craftsman with golden hands: everything he made was considered across the region as a piece of art. His mother-of-pearl-inlaid furniture was not for use but was regarded as heirlooms for children and grandchildren. Every family tried to buy some work of his — a sideboard, a buffet, or a sofa with kneeling feet — so that they could proudly boast to their neighbors, “They are Mr. Bac’s!”
Thinking of all this, Vu had become embarrassed: “However, I think…really, I have done you wrong.”
Bac had shaken his head. “Don’t be concerned. I have known my fate for a while. When you were at the northern front, Mother was sick for six long months. Before dying, she reminded me, ‘Your brother at old age will encounter much hardship. Don’t leave him alone. Others may say: “Each brother has his own fate,” but in our family we must follow this: “Brothers are like arms and legs.”’”
Then, he had put out his cigarette and gone to bed. The next day he had taken the child to the car when the dew was still wet.
Twelve years had passed; Bac had become a real farmer, just as Vu had predicted, even though he did not harvest. His monthly rice ration from the city came from his wife, who bought it and took it to him; this had given her opportunities to visit him. In the countryside, he had taken care of the gardens; he had raised poultry and had twelve beehives. All day, from morning to night, he had had no lack of things to do. Thus, he had raised Nghia since she was two; she had become a young woman who knew how to care for a house, how to help the father push a cart to sell fruit or animals on market days. The neighbors called them the “carpenter father and daughter,” because Bac had brought some of his tools, and, when he was free of chores, he would engage his hands in carving. The aunt had died seven years earlier at eighty-two, but Bac had remained in the countryside with the young child.
After some silence, Vu asks, “How is she doing?”
“She is healthy and a good girl. She is sweeter as she grows up. I fear she is too sweet and shy.”
“Like mother, like daughter. Her mother was as sweet.”