Read She Weeps Each Time You're Born Online
Authors: Quan Barry
She Weeps Each Time You're Born (26 page)
In the end the French navy was too much. At the signing ceremony, he could feel his ancestors crowding the room. What choice did he have? The French had made it clear they would keep blockading the Perfume River, bombarding the coast. His signature felt like ashes in his mouth. Sign and become a French protectorate or be destroyed.
What an emperor will do for his people, keeping them from the worst possible harm. Even when his imperial court turns on him. Even when his own regents demand it. In the end you do what you have to do and you do it with honor. The Son of Heaven lifted the cup and drank. Opium and vinegar. Like so many emperors before him, he felt the poison burn all the way down.
But the story doesn't stop with the suicide of the emperor. In the days that follow the entire household is killed, all those loyal to the Son of Heaven. They say my great-great-grandparents drank from the same cup, Great-Great-Grandmother tottering to the spot on her own two feet when their turn came, Great-Great-Grandfather standing beside her with his treasure tucked away in a small velvet bag hung around his neck. The sudden realization as the poison aerated his blood that he'd always been whole.
With her finger Tao lightly traced the outline of the moon on the window. But their daughter, my great-grandmother, had been smuggled out of the palace months before, she said. My great-grandmother, a little girl with a stony face and the
sweetest-smelling feet. She was raised in an orphanage. Rabbit could see a vein beginning to bulge in the side of Viet's temple. Then how do you know any of it is true, he hissed. Even in the dark Rabbit could see his face twisting in strange ways, the dark blood lumping under the skin. She watched as it grew bigger and bigger, the vein knuckling on the side of his face to the size of two, three, four fingers, five, and counting. How do you know, Viet screamed, the lump bright purple and half the size of his head.
Rabbit bolted upright in her seat. Outside a series of paddies floated by, the rice gently waving as if underwater. Inside the van was silent. Up front Viet peered off up the road. Tao was slumped asleep in the back, mouth closed, the moon in the sky following them south.
Hours later, just before dawn, after they had walked the muddy fields they had come all that way to stand in, Rabbit will see for herself. It will happen on her way back to the van that will carry them back to the thirty-six streets of Hanoi's Old Quarter, the portraits of the dead rolling through the district. As Rabbit, more tired than she has ever been, is about to climb in the van, she will look over at Tao standing in a nearby stream, Tao humming to herself, face calm as a cloud as she balances on one foot while washing the other, each of Tao's feet perfectly formed but small as fists. Even from where Rabbit is standing she will catch the scent on the wind. Tao rubbing the dirt from her soles, her feet fragrant as roses.
From the Latin for “terrible,” “cruel.” Atrox, atrocis. When did the word come to take on such scale? Endless pits gouged in the earth. The Americans in the hamlet of My Lai, some of them shooting themselves in the feet to get out of it. The South Vietnamese with their tiger cages, their filing a man's teeth down to the gums. And what happens if we don't remember? What happens if we never knew? Too many of us are here in the dark because in the rush and clamor of blood the third reptilian brain takes over, the one that says I do not recognize anything of myself in you, and so you are less than nothing
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N THE WAY BACK TO HANOI, RABBIT WAS SURPRISED BY HOW
many wandering ghost temples they passed. In the daylight each one was clearly visible. A few of them looked weather-beaten but still intact. The intricate scrollwork flared off their roofs in the Chinese style. In the night she hadn't realized there were so many, each one a sanctuary for the dead. How long do they stay, said Linh, turning around in her seat. Rabbit was tired. She could barely bring herself to answer. It had taken them thirteen hours to get to My Kan. It would take them another thirteen hours to get home. As long as they need to. Qui looked at Linh and nodded. In the front seat Linh turned to Viet. Uncle, she said quietly, please pull over. He glanced in the rearview. I will find us a spot, he said. Eventually they came to a banyan tree growing by the side of the road, the one tree sprouting several trunks as if it were a whole grove. Viet pulled over and parked the van in its shade. After the others climbed out, Qui pulled the curtains shut and unbuttoned her shirt. Rabbit was so weak from the few hours spent in My Kan she could barely lift her head.
Listen. There are things we know that we cannot say. For example, if you were to ask him, Viet will say he has never been married, that he has never had a child, but in the last room of the museum down in Saigon there are shelves lined with jars, pale bleached things held in suspension. The room is overwhelmed with them, in places the jars two deep, each different in its own way. Some contain two-headed cows, others dogs and cats with massive deformitiesâprehensile tails, the stumps of extra heads growing out of odd places, one a fetal pig, but the moony thing has flippers. Work your way toward the case that contains human fetuses, somebody's baby preserved in formaldehyde. The children are grotesque and seem to shine, their skin luminous and unfinished. Many are conjoined, some at the head, others in the body, their shapes alphabetic and strange. Because of the long years of defoliants, unnatural clouds sprayed without mercy, ours is a land with the highest rates of deformity. How these creatures must have killed their mothers, torn them open in the long hot night of their births. Rest assured that there is no one in there, each one just a vessel, nothing more. Pick a jar off the shelf and clasp it in your arms. Sing to it. Rock it to sleep, the liquid softly sloshing like blood through the heart. Despite their monstrousness, they are unmistakably human; one with his intestines on the outside of his body floats sucking his thumb
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HERE WERE STILL TOURISTS WANDERING THROUGH THE OLD
quarter when the van arrived back in the city a little after ten at night. The humidity hung in the air, the mugginess like being trapped in a net. Viet turned onto Hang Giay. Linh waved at the old woman on the corner selling postcards and potato chips. A small fire burned in a basket at her feet.
None of them noticed the shiny black car parked across the alley, its windows tinted, the great wooden doors leading into the courtyard reflected in the car's glossy paint, the strange car the color of night. None of them gave it any thought as they arrived home, the car simply melting into the landscape.
Viet pulled up out front. The wooden doors looked darker than usual. Sometimes the doors still seemed like they were part of a living tree. On occasion the wood sprouted burls, grew new knots, an occasional twig forking out of the grain, the twig often topped with a small green leaf. Each morning the guard on duty checked the doors for growths, taking out a pocketknife to prune any.
Qui slid the van door open and climbed out, her white hair briefly scraping the ground. She fished the iron key out of her pocket and unlocked the gate. Linh finished putting her shoes on and jumped out of the front seat. Qui gave her a look. Linh sighed and turned to bow to Viet, placing one hand in the palm of the other. Uncle, she said. Thank you for expanding my knowledge of the world. He nodded. Yes, thank you, said Rabbit. Before climbing out of the van, she reached forward and patted his shoulder. For an instant she flashed on a woman in horrible pain, a body stuck inside another body, the pelvis starting to crack, Viet with both hands up in the darkness all the way past the wrist. Quickly Rabbit pulled her hand away. Thank you, she said again, then climbed out.
In the courtyard the parakeets began to caw the few words they spoke to everyone.
Xin chao
, said the female. Hello, said
Linh. She reached her hand out, and the bird landed on her finger. Where is the other lady, said the male, the one named Apple? Rabbit looked around. Already she could hear the van motoring back down the street. She ran out through the wooden doors and looked in all directions. There was just the old woman on the corner with her small fire going. Rabbit rubbed her eyes. Tao was nowhere to be seen, though the faint smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
Rabbit closed the doors behind her, the sound like joints filled with water. Isn't that how you prefer it, said the male bird, no word of thanks, no gratitude? Rabbit nodded. No, you're right, she said, as if trying to convince herself.
Linh pointed to something in the sky. Is that the North Star? Rabbit and Qui both looked. They were surprised to see anything at all, the thing faintly purple and twinkling. No, it's a satellite, Rabbit said. There's too much light here for stars. Qui clapped her hands. It's bedtime, said Rabbit. The three of them walked into the house. I never see anything, said Linh petulantly, her fatigue obvious. The three of them climbed the stairs. Be thankful for that, said Rabbit.
Even before she entered her own room, Rabbit could see a long shadow quivering on the floor. Not tonight, she thought, but there he was, the scratch rivering down his cheek. He was sitting on her bed, his legs knotted in the lotus position. His hands were in the fear-not position, both palms facing her, his right pointed to the sky, his left straight down. In the moonlight everything took on the same silvery hue as the room inside her head. You may never see me again, Son said flatly. Rabbit's heart went cold. He never lied.
Quietly she closed the door. Tell me what to do, she said. He got up off the bed. Life will decide, he said. He turned to her and
smiled. She was twenty-four years old. He was still a child. She went to him and got down on her knees. He put his arms around her. Outside the moon had slipped behind a bank of clouds, but the room was still strangely bright. It took her a moment to realize. The light was coming from him.
Rabbit closed her eyes. Gently Son kissed her on the forehead, on each cheek, then on the mouth. With his fingers he traced a path through her freckles. For the second time in a lifetime, Rabbit's heart flooding.
What she will always remember long after the moment is over: the image of his hands in the fear-not mudra as he sat on her bed. The hand position derived from the story of the Buddha's stroking the head of an elephant sent to kill Him, the elephant maddened by alcohol, but the great beast falling to its knees at the feet of the Buddha because of the Enlightened One's radiance, His right palm open toward the sky signaling there is nothing to fear, His left lowered to pet the fallen head of His killer.
When she opened her eyes, Son was gone. The sliding door leading out to the balcony was open. There was just the taste of honey on her lips.
Qui knocked on the door and poked her head in. The female parakeet was sitting on her shoulder. The bird's color looked startling in contrast to the white of Qui's hair. Lady, said the parakeet. Are you all right? Yes, said Rabbit. She was still down on her knees. Tell the truth, said the bird. When Rabbit didn't answer, Qui entered the room. She closed the sliding door, untied the mosquito net hanging from the ceiling, and draped it around the bed, then helped Rabbit up off the floor, undressing her before tucking her in and pulling the sheet up to her knees. Close your eyes, said the bird softly. Qui began stroking her hair. After a few minutes Rabbit reached for her. Light from the darkness. Comfort beyond anything imaginable, the sweetness erasing any bitterness she'd felt. The bird began to sing:
Beloved, stay with me. Do not go home!
Your leaving makes me weep inside
And the collar of my dress is wet with tears as if it has rained
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Oh my beloved, stay. Do not go home!
When Rabbit gets out of the van, she can hear bells ringing. In the distance the night sky is lit up with fireworks, the sky softly purple like a bruise. They are ten miles south of the City of Peace in the hamlet of My Kan. As they move about there is the feeling of walking through water, everything slow and deliberate, the earth spongy under one's feet. Look at me, says Linh. She holds her arms out like a tightrope walker and tiptoes around as if she weighs nothing at all.
So, says Tao. Her voice is casual as if they have come all this way on a whim. In the sky a full moon sits at twelve o'clock with a halo around it, the halo so sharp and clear one could mistake it for a second moon. What happens next? The smoke billows in and out of her face without end, though she doesn't appear to be holding a cigarette. Shhh, says Rabbit. She is already turning and walking out into the middle of the field. Overhead the dual moons shine like a double-yolked egg.
Rabbit stops and twirls around three-hundred and sixty degrees. Flatness in every direction. A small creek gurgles by the roadside. Nothing. No landmarks. No houses. No animals. Something is wrong with the earth and everything smells scorched. She twirls around again only faster. This time as she moves she catches glimpses of figures slipping over the horizon. The sound of fireworks intensifies. The burning smell gets closer. She twirls faster. The field fills with voices. Anger and fear. She is spinning so fast the world is a blur. Something swoops down out of the sky. Rabbit stops. Through the dizziness she can see the ruins of a building in the purple light. When she regains her equilibrium, she begins to walk toward it.
It's a Catholic church. She can tell by the broken steeple lying on its side, the roof mostly missing, exposed ceiling beams running crosswise. Bowls of dried grass lie in piles where things have nested. Other pieces of the building are scattered in the tall weeds. An iron bell sleeps hidden in the brush. When she raps it
with her knuckles, the metal rings as expected. Tap it twice, the metal doesn't sound at all.
Rabbit picks her way inside. The wooden floor is cracked and furred with plant growth and animal droppings. By the door is a marble font filled with debris and a single plastic shoe. Nothing is left inside. The windows are all missing, just one shard of blue glass hanging in an alcove over the altar. Probably the remnant of someone's holy robe or maybe the ocean somebody walked on.
