Apocalypse Hotel: A Novel (Modern Southeast Asian Literature) (16 page)

“Huh?” The soldier lied and said, “We call them worms.”

“Well then, when you go home please convey this old grub’s compliments to your old worm!”

Hoa didn’t know many funny stories. She just recounted that her home village was famous for a special kind of steamed sticky rice cake artificially enhanced with earth. But she’d only heard people talk about it; she’d never seen it herself. Hoa was transfixed by the stories; it was as if she were a five-year-old child, as if she’d never lived at all. Living in a simple village, she’d joined the army and been sent straight off to war just before she’d turned seventeen. She hadn’t had the chance to see anything of the world around her. Her pitiful expressions of bewilderment made Miên and Giềng want to shield and coddle her even more.

That bewilderment and honesty had also touched the men. The young male signal corps soldiers and drivers passing by sent gifts and inquired after her whenever they had the chance.

One afternoon, a young soldier named Nguyễn Đức Hùng arrived at their hut just before he fainted. He was stricken with fever, but had forced himself on, forced himself to track down Station M8. To pass out alone in the middle of the jungle would have almost certainly meant death.

The three women ran out, grabbed him by his arms and legs, and half-carried, half-dragged the soldier, as big as a bear and as long as a python, into the hut. They applied a cold compress to his forehead to fight the fever. They lit a warming fire when he was seized by chills. Timely medicine and hot porridge brought him back to his senses. The next morning, Hùng was able to sit up, and he told them that he was from Thai Bình Province, the land of playboy-hobos
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with a pole in one hand and a sack in the other. Just one day later he was up and accompanying Hoa as she gathered bamboo shoots for making broth.

Right away, it was as if Hoa had suddenly turned into a totally different person. Gone was her bewildered appearance. In place of it was the animated and mischievous expression of young woman overflowing with happiness. She brought a bundle of wildflowers to the hut and put them in an ammunition canister. Then she begged and pleaded with Hùng to copy the song “The Music of Ta Lư Instrument”
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into her notebook. The two of them mingled their voices in song.

The three women made Hùng rest in the hut for a few more days, not feeling that he was healthy enough to leave yet. Another reason was that Miên didn’t want the young couple to part so quickly after coming together. She was uneasy about how Hoa would be when he finally did leave, but she didn’t have the heart to stop their love, so she left it to the heavens. But to this day Miên has regretted her decision. Maybe if she’d told Hùng to get back on the road then he wouldn’t have died. But that’s fate. And fate is preordained.

That day Hùng and Hoa had once again gone into the forest to gather vegetables. Around lunchtime Hoa came running back to the hut. She’d stumbled and collapsed, crawling and dragging herself madly until she reached the door. Her eyes were filled with insanity. She was almost totally dumb, only managing a few incoherent groans as Miên and Giềng shook her, trying to bring her back to her senses. “What happened, Hoa? Where’s Hùng?” Hearing Hùng’s name spoken aloud seemed to snap Hoa out of her trance. She sprang straight up, agitated as if she’d totally lost her mind. The two women had to hold her tightly as she babbled incoherently and pointed toward the forest, signaling for the two women to follow her. Miên turned to Giềng and told her to grab a gun and a grenade for each of them. Then the three of them carefully worked their way into the jungle, Hoa guiding them along the path.

That morning Hoa and Hùng had gone into the forest to gather vegetables and bamboo shoots like every other day. And, just like every other day, they’d used it as a pretext to make love in the wilderness. Every time Hùng would say, “It’ll be too hard on you if you have a child in a war zone, so let me . . . ,” but each time she’d keep him tight inside of her.

“I’m not worried at all,” she’d say. “The other women and I will raise our child until the day peace arrives, then I’ll bring him back to you.” The truth was that Hoa had already felt the presence of another heartbeat inside of her, a presence still unformed yet nonetheless stirring somewhere in her cells, in her veins, in her flesh.

They had lain together until they realized that they still had to collect vegetables. They were near a small stream, and Hùng remained hidden on the bank, keeping watch as Hoa took a dip to wash herself. Then it was Hoa’s turn to stand guard as Hùng bathed. He gave his snub-nosed rifle to Hoa to hold, climbed down to the edge of the stream, stripped off his clothes and piled them along the bank, and then dove into the water. From above, and from not too far away, Hoa could make out his powerful, symmetric body. The fact that men such as this were fighting in this war was something to be proud of and, at the same time, something to regret. At that moment, Hoa suddenly knew how mothers must feel. She knew that she could bear any of the thousands of losses and tragedies that the war could pour down onto her, anything at all if only young men like this could be sent to the rear, sent to study in a foreign country. When the war was over, the nation would surely need such young men.

But what she saw next made her tremble. A squad of four enemy scouts suddenly appeared at the bank of the stream. They kicked at Hùng’s clothing until they saw his dagger. One of them picked it up and dragged the blade across his palm as if testing its edge. Then he gestured to Hùng to swim back to the bank.

Hùng was still half submerged in the stream, unarmed and totally naked. Hoa almost called out, almost started to open fire at the scouts so Hùng could run for it, but logic quickly prevailed. This area of the forest had been considered free of Viet Cong for a long time. There weren’t any documents or letters in Hùng’s clothes. He’d just be seen as a North Vietnamese soldier who had become separated from his unit.

Hùng threw himself into the water and started swimming downstream, away from Hoa’s hiding place. Spitting vulgarities, the scouts ran along the bank in pursuit. There were a few points at which the stream ran too shallow to swim, and Hùng had to run. The soldiers scrambled from rock to rock, clustering in the center of the stream, and surrounding Hùng. He ran into one of them, shoving him over, and smashing the scout’s head down into the water, so he lay motionless. But the others had regrouped and a moment later they were dragging Hùng’s writhing body up onto the shore, bruised and bleeding. As they questioned him, they rained kicks and punches down on him until he lost consciousness. When he came to, they started again. Hoa knew why they didn’t use their guns. They didn’t want the sound of a gunshot ringing out in the forest.

What happened in the end Hoa never could have foreseen. She’d assumed that the scouts would drag Hùng off to a POW camp to continue their interrogation. Instead, the scout with the long dagger slashed it deftly across Hùng’s stomach. A horrifying scream burst from his mouth. High above, Hoa ground her teeth, nearly passing out. Two of the scouts shoved their hands into Hùng’s abdomen and dug out his organs. They lit a fire, roasting and eating his innards right there. His testicles were split between two of them who were probably higher ranking.

This feast—which stretched so far beyond the limits of the bearable—finally ended. The squad of scouts dumped Hùng’s corpse back down onto the bank of the stream, gathered their comrade—half-living, half-dead—and left.

The three women carried Hùng’s corpse back and buried him near their hut. Hoa moved in and out of a daze, as if something had broken in her. She brought flowers to his grave and moments later would go out, take the flowers back off of the grave, bring them to the hut, and stick them in a cup of water.

More than eight months later, the three of them were hoarding powdered milk and dried food to prepare for the child’s birth. They’d resigned themselves to the powdered milk. But they knew that the dry foods would be necessary as well. That way, if they ran out of milk they could cook them into porridge. They stockpiled whatever they could beg off of the generous soldiers driving through the area. Everyone was worried. Everyone sympathized and showed compassion. Anyone who had anything gave it freely. Not a single soul refused.

At the same time, nobody dared to report the pregnancy to their unit. Hoa was showing. And she was scared. She was scared that she’d be disciplined and sent back home. The whole nation was surging forward, all of its momentum rushing toward the front. Even young girls of fifteen and sixteen were writing applications in blood to join the war. She would be a solitary big-bellied woman, returning to the rear, heading against that flow of soldiers. It was an image she just couldn’t bear. Nonetheless, she was still secretly proud to be bearing, within her body, a single drop of the blood of a soldier such as Hùng. That drop would grow into a person, and revenge him.

Neither Miên nor Giềng had any idea how to deliver a baby. They carefully questioned every man that came through the station. “It’s easy,” one guy told them. “I’ve been forced to deliver babies twice, because the hospital was far and my old lady gave birth too quickly. We didn’t even have time to step out the door and my old lady was already yelling, ‘Honey, honey, it’s already out.’ I had to stick my hands out to catch it so the baby wouldn’t fall onto the ground. I also cut the cord myself, and buried the placenta with my own hands.”

Other soldiers gave them alcohol, antibiotics, and bandages and advised them to sterilize the scissors and knives beforehand.

Then one night Hoa’s labor pains began. She gritted her teeth tight, and let the tears overflow silently as she bore the pain. The two other women lit a large fire in the middle of the hut, started a pot of water boiling and tossed the scissors and knives into it. Hoa squirmed until morning but still couldn’t give birth. Finally, Giềng lit three sticks of incense and quickly ran out to stick them in front of Hùng’s grave. “Oh, brother Hùng, you were wise in life and are powerful in death; come to the aid of your child and its mother and we will burn incense for you regularly and give you anything you want.” The whole incense pot suddenly burst into flame.
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Giềng ran back, crying out about what had happened, telling Hoa that brother Hùng was helping them, to go ahead, give birth now.

A violent tremble ran down Hoa’s body. The sound of a baby’s cry rang out. At the same time the firewood in the stove cracked and burst. Flames leaped into the air, reaching out to the sheets of parachute cloth hanging from the walls. They caught fire and ignited. The pot of boiling water overturned into the stove. Giềng quickly snatched a blanket and tried to beat out the flames, as Miên shouted, “Give me the scissors!”

Giềng abandoned the fire and frantically groped around the smoke-filled stove. She pulled out the scissors, which were caked in ash, and handed them to Miên. There was no time to wash them again, so Miên cut the baby’s umbilical cord with the soiled blades.

“Where’s the thread?” Miên called out again.

Giềng again turned away from the fire, which was now spreading up to the window, and ran to find some string. After she’d given Miên the thread she spun around and once again flung herself at the fire. The parachute cloth was burning all around, creating a glowing halo of fire that encircled the newborn child. Newborn infants all look pretty much the same: chubby and pinkish, grimacing like monkeys, with pale white eyebrows and eyelashes. But this child was different. Every facial feature was already etched distinctly. It was a beautiful face, set from the moment she came into the world.

“Heat some water,” Miên ordered calmly. In reality, she was as frightened as any of them. Giềng couldn’t give all of her attention to fighting the fire; at the same time she couldn’t just let the hut burn down. She carried in the thermos of hot water, poured it out into a basin, and mixed in some cold water. Then she abandoned Miên, who was washing the child, and returned to her battle against the blaze that was spreading to the hut’s bamboo walls. She threw water on the flames. She used the blanket to beat them. The whole hut was filled with smoke. The eyes of the three women as well as of the newborn baby were overflowing with tears.

Finally, Miên finished washing the child just as Giềng got the fire out. Giềng turned to lovingly pinch the baby’s cheek, leaving behind an ashen smudge.

“Go wash first, you’re covered in ashes!” Miên scolded affectionately, pushing Giềng out. Hoa turned to look at the two women and the child, and smiled feebly.

When Miên left the hut, she buried the placenta next to Hùng’s grave and prayed to Hùng, asking him to bless the mother and child, and everyone there, with luck. She prayed for peace to arrive quickly, so that these women and the baby could return to their homes.

Just over three months later, Hoa died unexpectedly. It was a dreadful death. Her mind had become so muddled and dull that she wandered into the minefield that she’d helped plant around the cave mouth—the mine field meant to prevent the enemy from capturing the storehouse if it was discovered. Hoa was disemboweled by one of these very mines. Miên and Giềng ran outside and tried to shove her heaving intestines, frothing with blood, back into her abdomen. Throughout, Hoa remained totally conscious. Repressing the pain, she sputtered out a request to the two women: “My sisters, raise my daughter for me. When the war’s over, take her to my village, or her father’s, and give her to her relatives to care for.”

Hoa fainted for a moment, and then regained consciousness, as if she had passed away but then suddenly remembered something important and came back to say, “On her birth certificate, register her as Nguyễn Thị Mai Trừng.
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When she grows up, she’ll punish the wicked.”

Miên confessed to me that at that time she’d been a bit frightened. Nonetheless, she’d had to respect Hoa’s final request and had named the girl Mai Trừng. She wondered if Hoa had truly believed that the war would stretch on so long that the child would grow up and carry a gun to avenge her mother and father? No, of course she would grow up during peacetime. And peace arrived. The rivers, the mountains, the sky, the earth, it was all ours now. Our people reunited with us. What wicked people were there left for her to punish?