Out of the Dragon's Mouth (8 page)

“Oh, please come with us,” she pleaded. Lan smiled and nodded her head in assent.

Ten

Later that afternoon, when the heat of the day had subsided and the leaves of the palm trees rustled from the beginnings of the onshore breeze, Mai, Lan, and Hiep headed for the market in the middle of the island near the Red Cross headquarters. Refugees squatted in the sand hawking pots and pans, cooking utensils, tin cups and plates, and cans of cooking oil, much of which had been sold to them by those fortunate enough to be leaving the island.

Mai was excited, for she had never been there, and she almost forgot about her nighttime apparition until they came near Small Auntie's boat, tilted to one side at the edge of the beach and the jungle. She stopped and wouldn't go any farther.

“What's wrong?” Lan asked as Mai stared at the boat.

“She had a nightmare about Small Auntie's husband. She thinks he's going to hurt us.” Hiep motioned to Mai to keep walking, but she wouldn't, for it was not just the sight of the boat—the paint peeling from its sides, the wooden hull beginning to decompose in the tropical heat and humidity. Something was very peculiar. What was it?
The smell.
That was it. The smell of decay. Sang's ghost must be very close.

And then she saw him. Floating over the bow of the boat, staring at them.

“Look. There he is. By the boat,” she screamed.

Sang's ghost moved toward them. Mai could see his face twisted in agony. “You can't escape me. I'm coming to get you,” he called. And he started to run toward them.

“Hurry, Uncle Hiep. We've got to get away. He's after us.” Mai turned around and bolted toward the jungle. Hiep and Lan ran after her. The ghost gave a haunting scream and disappeared.

“Mai, stop it. You are having delusions. Maybe I should take you to the clinic,” called Hiep.

“Didn't you see him?” Mai crouched in fear, peering up at Hiep. “And couldn't you smell him?”

“I don't know what's wrong with her,” Hiep said to Lan.

“Could it be malaria?” Lan suggested, touching Mai's forehead with her fingertips. Lan's touch was soothing to Mai, but she pushed Hiep's hand away.

“I don't have malaria and I'm not sick.” She did not like to be treated like a child.

“The only thing I can smell is smoke and sea air,” said
Hiep. “Now come on. If you're not sick, then let's go to
the market. This was your idea.” He pulled Mai's arms and brought her to a standing position, then dragged her forward, past the boat. Mai noticed a woman's face, her eyes dark and angry, a murmuring sound coming from her lips, peering at them over the rails of the deck.

“Look, Uncle. It's Small Auntie. She sounds like she's casting a spell on us.”

But Hiep continued walking despite Mai's protests, and before long the market came into view: the beach lined with men and women squatting in the sand, bamboo baskets before them filled with pots and pans, black with use, there for the asking if you only had money or something of value to trade. The sellers called to them when the trio stopped to inspect each basket.

Mai remembered going to Can Tho with her father,
watching the fishermen hawk their wares at the floating market, the women with their
non-l
á
s
covering their heads, their boats sinking low in the water from the weight of the coconuts, bananas, and dragon fruit. The sun had cast a pink spray on the early morning throng, on the stilt houses with thatched roofs that sat high on spindly legs along the river's edge. She remembered the taste of the warm egg noodle soup Father had bought her. Her favorite breakfast. Her stomach growled.

“You want a nice Timex watch? Very cheap,” a young boy about Minh's age implored, holding up his arm, on which he displayed three watches.

Mai looked down at him and saw an empty T-shirt sleeve where his other arm should have been. Next to him was a young woman, maybe his mother, a basket in front of her piled high with dried fish, the tails crusted from the sun. Mai watched Hiep walk over to a blanket spread with pads of paper and pencils. He began to barter with a hunchbacked woman. He pulled the American bill with the
50
on it out of his waistband.

“Too big, too big. I can't take this,” she complained, shoving it back at him. Hiep looked around, wondering what to do.

She pointed to a fat, white-haired man sitting on a rickety wooden chair. He was blowing rings of smoke into the air from a cigarette he held between two gold teeth, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark black sunglasses. “Take it over there. Get it changed,” she said.

Hiep approached him. “Can you exchange this for me?” He held the worn American bill in the palm of his hand.

The man just grunted and pulled a wad of bills from his shirt, counted out a short pile, and handed them to Hiep. He took Hiep's money and slid it into his wad. Hiep started to ask him a question, but the man turned and blew a puff of smoke in the air, dismissing him.

Glancing at the bills in his hand, Hiep frowned and returned to the middle-aged woman.

She cackled at his bewilderment. “Of course he cheated you. Is that what you're wondering?”

Hiep picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and handed her a bill.

“One more,” she demanded, sticking out her hand as Hiep frowned and pulled out another bill. She stuffed the money in the top of her blouse and gave him a gap-toothed smile. He clutched the pencil and paper and turned to Mai and Lan.

“You could have gotten it cheaper,” Lan said, raising her eyebrows when they had stepped away from the woman.

Hiep didn't answer, just followed Lan to a gaunt young woman, with a child on her lap, selling balls of yarn and knitting needles, while Mai trailed behind, fascinated by the goods she saw in each basket.

The child, chewing on a strand of yarn, smiled at them. She looked like Nhu, with dainty fingers and toes, her hair a dark halo encircling her little round cheeks, her eyes dark and darting, two baby teeth protruding from her lower gums. Nhu. Would she ever get to see her again?

“Getting teeth,” the woman explained, brushing a lock of hair out of the toddler's eyes. At that, the little girl, clad only in a ragged T-shirt, her golden bottom bare, started to screech and fling her feet.

“Could I hold her?” Mai asked.

“Here.” With a sigh, the woman picked the child up under her arms and handed her to Mai, who knelt and took her. The tiny girl searched Mai's face with her large dark eyes and stopped crying while Mai held the small body against her chest and patted her back. The child's skin felt soft as silk against Mai's, and she could feel the tiny gasps subside as the child settled herself into her chest and lay her head on her shoulder.

“Shh. Shh,” she whispered to her as she rocked back and forth. How she missed holding Nhu. She wondered if Nhu missed her. The girl's mother looked up at Mai and smiled with relief, and then turned her eyes to Lan, who was examining the knitting needles and the balls of yarn.

“What color would you like, Mai?” Lan asked. “This blue is pretty, or how about this green?”

Mai peered over the child's head and looked at the yarn. Red had always been her favorite color, but she couldn't see any red yarn, only blue and green. Perhaps the green. It reminded her of the banana trees and the mango grove behind her home on the Mekong. Blue reminded her of the ocean, which was all she ever saw when she looked out at the horizon searching for a glimpse of her homeland, and if she ever got off this island, she never wanted to see the ocean again. It surrounded the island, its deceptive aquamarine waters locking them in, confining them, stealing their freedom. A prison in paradise.

“Green,” she said.

Lan took the ball of yarn and picked out some small knitting needles. “These will be good for making a warm hat or a scarf,” she said.

“I'd like to make a scarf first,” Mai said, imagining the cold wind of Chicago whipping around her neck.

Hiep bartered with the woman for a few minutes, and then handed her two bills. The woman smiled and pressed the knitting needles and yarn into Hiep's hands. Mai felt the child asleep on her shoulder and wished she didn't have to give her back. She stood in the sun, nuzzling the girl's head with her chin, comforted by the small body in her arms. How she wished she could rest like this in her mother's arms, safe and secure, unafraid, no one haunting her sleep.

“Goodbye, I have to go now,” she whispered in the child's ear, handing her back to her mother. The toddler stirred and opened her lids briefly, her eyelashes dark and delicate, then closed them again, her bow-shaped lips forming a smile as her mother placed her on a blanket.

When Mai stood to leave, she saw a familiar small
figure talking to an old woman selling mangoes. His head was turned, but she could see his profile—the strong chin, the wide nose, and the shock of black hair that covered the back of his neck. His shoulders were narrow, his waist even
thinner. A pair of navy shorts draped themselves around him, just below his knees where a pair of stick-like legs protruded. His tanned feet were bare. It was Minh. She hadn't seen him since his father died.

She crouched on the sand, pretending to examine the yarn so he would not see her. Lan and Hiep had already gone off in another direction. She wanted to talk to Minh. Would he run from her? She had to take that chance. She looked over at him. His back was to her. She walked over to him, wondering what she should say.

“Minh?” she said.

He turned, startled. His cheeks were sunken, his lips cracked and dry.

“Minh, how are you? I've been so worried about you.” The words rushed out before she could stop them.

Minh just looked at her. Then he spoke. “I'm not supposed to talk to you.” His eyes were hard, but his chin quivered.

This is so unfair
, Mai thought. “Please, let me talk to you,” she said.

Minh started to say something, but his eyes darted to the side and his head turned to look at Small Auntie. She was walking toward them, her face as dark as the storms that swept in over the ocean.

“I've got to go,” he stammered, and left Mai standing in the sun staring at him.

Small Auntie yanked his arm and yelled at him. Mai wanted to tell Minh she was sorry, but Small Auntie shook her fist and barked some angry words at her she couldn't understand. Embarrassed, afraid, Mai looked around for Hiep and Lan. Some of the sellers were packing up their goods to leave. A few people hovered over baskets, bartering. Where were her friends? They hadn't left her, had they?

“Mai, where have you been?” Hiep's irritated voice echoed in her ear, his lean frame looming over her, his lips pursed, and she looked up at him with relief.

“I saw Minh. I tried to talk to him and then Small Auntie came along. She took him away.”

Lan put her arm around Mai's shoulder and pulled her close, her hot breath fanning Mai's cheek. “You just have to let them grieve. Sometimes people need to be left alone.”

Mai looked at her and pulled away. Lan didn't understand; no one did.

“Let's get in line for our food. It's time.”

Mai brightened, knowing that Lan was trying to take her mind off of Minh. But it didn't work. She had to talk to Minh. As they left the market, she clutched the ball of yarn and knitting needles in her hands and plotted how she would be able to talk to him without Small Auntie finding out. Maybe Minh would be the one to intercede for them with Sang's ghost. She would go to see him when he was alone. Yes, that was what she would do.

She glanced at Hiep, who was walking with Lan, the pencil balanced behind his ear, the writing paper stuffed in the back pocket of his pants. Tonight they would write a letter to Third Uncle. He might be able to get their names moved to the top of the immigration list. She passed by the tall timber pole with the metal loudspeaker atop it that every morning blared out the latest list of those chosen to leave, and a remnant of hope returned.

Eleven

Mai lay in her hammock, her short legs draped over the side, her thin arms resting on her chest, watching Hiep hunched over the pad of paper, his fingers tight around the pencil, writing to Third Uncle. The oil candle flickered. Light was a precious commodity on the island, for when the moon waned, the tent was as dark as the hold of the ship they had crossed on.

Hiep had saved some tin cans from their rations and, with a piece of string and some cooking oil from the market, he had made a candle by pouring the oil in the can and draping the strand of string in the oil for a wick. Using a stick from the cooking fire, he lit the candle as Mai watched. Back home, their family had been the first in the village to have electricity, but now Mai had become used to living without it; she hadn't missed it until Sang's ghost had come to haunt her, and now she moved closer to the light, suddenly wary of the dark and what might be lurking there.

The wind had started to moan outside, and Mai knew that the monsoons, the seasonal southwest winds, would soon be lashing the island. At home the monsoons had brought the rain that filled the rice paddies so that the villagers could plant the slender green plants for the new crop. When the storms came, she had been safe inside her brick home listening to the drops drumming the tile roof. Here there were no rice paddies and only a thin tarp overhead to shelter them from the constant downpour. But they could put out their tin cans to catch the rain. No more shortage of drinking water.

“Tell Third Uncle about Sang's ghost,” she pleaded. “Tell him we need to get out of here.” Hiep's face was tense, and, ignoring her, he continued to write.

They had to get away from Small Auntie too. When she had first grabbed them from the crowd stumbling onshore from the fishing trawler, Mai had felt relief and gratitude, but when Small Auntie had asked for payment, and refused to let them stay with her unless they paid her more, Mai could see that her smile had only masked the greediness in her grasping heart.

She watched Hiep form precise Chinese characters with his pencil for as long as she could, but, exhausted by the lack of rest the night before, she succumbed to a fitful sleep.

That night, Sang's ghost appeared along with all the children—Minh, Diep, Huong, Nhu—and Small Auntie, swirling around in a dark mist, calling to her in a clamoring chorus. She was standing on the ocean's shore, the white-tipped waves crashing at her feet as if they were attacking her, the palm trees furiously waving their fronds, the biting sand swirling in circles in the air. She tried to decipher what each person was saying, and then realized that their mouths were all forming the same words: “You will be punished.”

She cowered on the beach, whimpering, “No, no, it's not our fault. You must understand.” But their hollow red eyes pierced her with their anger and she covered her face with her hands, listening to the whoosh of their bodies circling over her head, echoing “Mai, Mai.”

Just then Kien, flashing a silver sword, strode into her dream, yelling, “Leave her alone, evil spirits.” They fled from him, dissolving into the sea, as he sheathed his sword and folded his sturdy arms around Mai, pulling her close.

A warm glow enveloped her when his gentle hands caressed her. She reached up to touch his face but he disappeared, her frantic hands raking through the air.

“Kien, don't leave me,” she called, but he didn't answer.

Neither did the others, and after a restless sleep where a large eagle with Small Auntie's face landed on her head and pulled her eyes out with its talons, she woke in the morning, her body limp. Would no one protect them? She stepped onto the dirt floor of their tent and slipped her feet into her dép before walking outside.

“Did you finish the letter?” she asked Hiep, pouring a cup of water into a pot fashioned from an oil can. She added a handful of dry rice to it and balanced it on a rock over the cooking fire. Hiep pulled a bent envelope from his shorts pocket and showed it to her.

“It's right here. I'm going to take it down to the Red Cross this morning.”

“Do you think it will do any good?” she asked, stirring the rice with a stick so it wouldn't burn.

“Maybe. Third Uncle is a very important man.”

Mai thought about what Hiep said. Yes, Third Uncle was a very important man, but she wondered how important he could be in a new country where he didn't know anyone. In his letter, he hadn't told them what he was doing. Maybe he was too ashamed. She could picture him overseeing the rice farmers for her father, but in America, in the city, he might be reduced to sweeping the streets, or washing vegetables in the dank cellar of a Chinese restaurant. She hoped he could help them, but what if he couldn't? Then what would they do?

Mai looked up at Hiep, who was standing by the fire with the letter in his hands staring at her. There was something he wasn't telling her. “What is it, Uncle Hiep? What's wrong?”

Hiep cleared his throat, shifting his eyes to see if anyone was listening. A few young women squatted by cooking fires several feet away from them. “I saw Sang's ghost last night,” he whispered in her ear, cupping his hand to his mouth to keep his words from floating away.

Mai gaped at Hiep, her throat dry, unable to speak. So she had not imagined Sang's ghost. He was real.

The smell of burnt rice brought Mai out of her stupor and she trembled as she lifted the pot from the fire. “What did he look like?” she asked.

“He had on the ragged shorts he died in, he was fuming, and he called my name. I'm sure it was him.”

“Hiep, mail that letter right away. Talk to the man at the Red Cross tent. Maybe there's a way we can get off this island and go somewhere else, a place where Sang and Small Auntie can't find us. What about Pulau Bidong? Isn't that where Fourth Uncle landed?”

Pulau Bidong was a much larger refugee camp. When
it became overcrowded, the escape boats were turned
away
and sent to the much smaller island, Pulau Tengah,
instead. Fourth Uncle and his family had escaped before Mai and Hiep, and they'd been overjoyed to find his name on the list of refugees tacked to the Red Cross bulletin board. But one of the Red Cross workers had told them that Pulau Bidong had over twenty thousand refugees on it and would not be taking any more.

Hiep sighed. “They made it, but that camp is full. I'll go send this letter. Then I'll pick up some food. We've got to stock up. The monsoons will be here soon, and it will be impossible to get to the middle of the island.”

“Here, drink some water before you go.” Mai offered Hiep a tin can filled with water, but he shook his head. She twisted a strand of stray hair around her finger as Hiep turned to go. What would become of them? She didn't know if she could bear to wait several years to leave this island, as some of the others had.

She thought of the ones who had given up hope. Suicide. A young man whose pregnant wife and three children had drowned on the journey across the ocean had only lasted a month on the island. Alone and depressed, he had walked into the sea at night, two weeks ago. The tide had returned his bloated body to the beach three days later, where it had lain in a tide pool, its filmy salt-crusted eyes wide open, staring into the morning sun, waiting to be discovered by the first passer-by.

She had not seen his body, but she had heard Lan and the others talking about it one evening when they were sitting around after dinner. “I would never be that depressed.” Lan's voice had wavered, her words unconvincing.

Mai had heard of suicide from her father. A elderly village official had been accused of stealing tax money, and rather than face Mai's father, he had taken poison in his tea. Mai's father had sternly denounced the man and the act of suicide.

“You should not take your fate into your own hands. Chu Phu has brought shame on himself and his family. No one will want to marry into that family now. He has brought a stain on their name.”

Mai remembered these words, but she found it hard to be hopeful, and she understood how easy it would be to give up. Maybe, in some cases, suicide was not as wrong as Father had said, but she could never do anything that would dishonor her family.