She Weeps Each Time You're Born (18 page)

T
HE ROOSTER AND HEN HAD PRODUCED MORE FAT THAN EXPECTED.
Arun said the makeshift oil would last three more days. Since Hai had poured it in the motor, the smell of cooked chicken wafted over the boat. The smell made their mouths water. They were only allowed a spoonful of rice twice a day and two pulls of water from the jug. They had been out at sea for five days. Sometimes Duc would cut the engine and let them drift to save fuel. Now he kept the boat running. Since morning, the mystery boat Rabbit and Tu had spotted before the storm had been trailing them in the distance. Among the waves the strange craft glinted like a tooth.

Down below deck two of the Cambodians were dying. Their health had been ruined from years in the fields, worms in their major organs. Still, the doctor brought them their two spoonfuls of rice a day. Arun insisted on it. He wouldn't take his until they'd had theirs.

From her spot by the wall, Huyen knew what Qui was considering. Don't, she growled, baring her ruined red teeth. Then everyone will beg for it. The hunger was just starting to kick in. Already Huyen had seen Hai eyeing Qui the few times he came below deck.

Huyen knew that even if they made it to a refugee camp, she herself would never get up from the spot where she lay by the wall. She was just glad not to go the way Bà had—people having to cart her crooked form from place to place, strangers lighting her roadside pyre. When the time came, there would be no ceremonies. They would launch her off the back of the boat, Qui's breasts silently crying, or maybe not. The humbler the send-off the better her chances in the next life.

It was clouding up again and looked like rain. The doctor's wife plied her beads. They were all hoping for water. With the clouds
coming on, everyone who could went up out of the hold. The deck filled. The salt air stung their lungs. Sang was still in her red
ao dai
, her makeup long since faded. Only Arun, Qui, and Huyen remained below deck with the two sick Cambodians. Silently Qui inched forward. The night of the terrible storm was the first time Rabbit had taken any in years.

Qui lifted her shirt and cradled the first man's head to her chest. Arun never looked away. Then for Qui the old feeling again, light streaming out of the darkness. She thought of the night she and Tu had locked themselves together, a different kind of light forming out of the dark. She hadn't known it could give such pleasure. The one other time all those years ago it had been an ARVN soldier on the riverbank of the Song Ma, the river weeds poking her in the back. The soldier had simply popped up out of a thicket. Hello, he said, before looking around and untying his pants.

Qui took up the second sick Cambodian. The man was missing teeth, the remaining ones tainted with rot. His pull was so weak Arun had to help hold the man's head as she milked herself into him, the milk silver in the darkness as it spilled from the sick man's mouth onto the floor.

When the southern soldier cast his arms wide on the banks of the Song Ma, Qui didn't run. The thing was already out and pointing at her. She had seen them before. Men urinating by the roadside. The great sacs that hung on the undersides of the male water buffalo. The occasional bright pink tongue that slipped out of a dog. She knew it was what made men men. She didn't know that when it tunneled its way into you, it burned whatever it touched like salt inflaming a wound. She was barely thirteen. Over the soldier's shoulder she could see the sun struggling through a cloud. She closed her eyes and waited to die.

When Qui was done, Arun laid the Cambodian back down next to the other. Only then did she realize why it had been so
difficult. The second man was dead, his face reposed with the peace of the world, the milk of her breasts dribbling down his chin. Arun didn't cry. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to the dead man's. Then he looked up at Qui and smiled.

The doctor's wife didn't let the children watch the makeshift funeral, but Sang stood in the shadow of the pilothouse in her red dress. For the first time in days she looked calm. The Cambodians had wrapped the dead man's head in his shirt. One of them spoke. Then four of them each took a limb and hoisted him up. For a moment it looked like a prank among sailors. The other man Qui had fed was already up on deck, his eyes vibrant though his frame was still emaciated. Later below deck Rabbit didn't understand why she couldn't hear the dead man's voice. She sat in the very spot where the Cambodian had died. She searched the floorboard looking for a sign of him, listening, but all she could hear were the sounds of footfalls up above.

The sack Phuong had carried on board was lying in a corner. Voices emanated from it in a thick chorus. Then Rabbit understood why she couldn't hear the dead man's voice. The man had transcended. The Cambodian had broken the endless cycle of life and death and was at peace, the sweetness of Qui's milk in his mouth. He didn't need Rabbit. He wasn't ever coming back. He was free.

By mid-afternoon it was foggy. The strange boat that had been following them was lost in the haze. The fog hung thick and mysterious, the world revealing itself in pieces. The children were playing near the back—Son, Rabbit, and the doctor's daughter. Their tongues were starting to itch, though they didn't talk about it. When she wasn't looking, Son would sometimes poke the little girl's boot just to see what it felt like. She pretended not to notice. They were performing a funeral for an
imaginary corpse, the little girl playing the part of the grieving widow. In their lethargy the adults were indifferent to the children's fun. Without warning the little girl wilted, falling to her knees. For a moment Son and Rabbit thought it was part of the game. The doctor and his wife were down in the hold. Hey, Duc called from the pilothouse. Bring her here. He nodded the children in. Son picked up the little girl and carried her over.

Hai stood smoking behind the wheel. He had pilfered all his used cigarettes for their last shreds of tobacco and stood smoking what he'd been able to roll together. Duc pulled a flask out of one of the cupboards. He sloshed it around before unscrewing the cap. What is it, said Son. Duc held the flask up to the little girl's lips. Buddha water. Some of it spilled down her chin. Rabbit could tell it was regular water. The voice she'd heard before in the pilothouse started up again inside her head. She winced. Take whatever you want. Just don't hurt me, the voice wailed. What is it, said Duc, but she didn't say anything.

With one last swallow of water the little girl perked up. All better, asked Duc. How did you get this boat, Rabbit said. He stared at her, her eyes blacker than any he'd ever seen. He remembered her looking him right in the face the day they'd gone to hunt otters at the Dragon's Head, her freckled face so stony it made him afraid. The doctor bought it, Duc said. Rabbit looked confused. She closed her eyes as if calculating an equation. Yes, there was something almost surgical in the way the knife punctured the throat, the efficiency of the thrusts, the aim exacting. The voice apologizing over and over as the air hissed out. Saying I'm sorry. I won't say anything. I promise.

What do you know about this boat, said Duc. Rabbit opened her eyes. It was a long time before either of them spoke. Then Duc said in a small voice what they say about you is true, isn't it? Rabbit thought of Phuong's sack down in the hold, the thing constantly babbling. She wondered how many people's bones
were in it. The entire Dinh family tree uprooted and being carried across the sea. She looked out over the water. Fog and more fog, the sun a blur in the west. Well fuck all, said Hai from behind the wheel. I told you he didn't buy it. Someone was calling from the back by the engine. The children raced out, the little girl limping along. Already they could see them needling in and out of the fog.

A whole school was swimming off the portside. The water plumed up out of the tops of their heads. The pod came right up by the boat. Dolphins. They're saying hello, said the little girl. For the first time any of them could remember Arun stopped smiling, the urgency apparent in his voice. What, said Son. Even the Cambodians seemed confused. What is it, repeated Son. One of the men translated. He says they're warning us.

Just then the other boat came racing out of the fog. One minute there was nothing and then it was right behind them. Hai and Duc were busy yelling at the doctor in the pilothouse, An and Tu standing between them. You lied to us, the brothers said. We were each supposed to put in a third. The doctor was wailing that he had to get out of Vietnam. My brothers and sisters got out, he said. There is nothing left here for me.

The other boat was less than a hundred feet away. Clouds of fog passed in front of it as if it were flying through the sky. Rabbit could see someone standing on deck holding a gun. One minute the man was there, and the next he was gone, lost in the fog, then he was back again with another man at his side. I was going to pay, but he wanted more or he said he'd tell the police, sobbed the doctor. Arun was tugging An's arm and pointing. Hai took a swing at the doctor. He hit him in the face. The doctor fell on his knees. They all looked to where Arun was pointing. Beyond the little girl in the strange black shoe a boat was racing toward them. The man at the wheel of the other boat stood with a knife in his teeth.

Most likely the pirates were Thai, but they could have been from anywhere. The occasional Vietnamese word floated across the water. Stop. You can't escape. The other boat wasn't as good, but it had fewer people on board and probably more fuel. Arun ran down below and got the last of the chicken fat. Duc opened up the throttle. They could keep the pirates off for now, maybe a whole day, but eventually they'd run out of gas. The best they could hope for was another storm or dense fog or a commercial ship passing by or land, but even land wasn't a guarantee of anything.

When the doctor got his senses back, he stood up and limped down into the hold. What is it, said his wife. What's happened? From a worn black medical bag he pulled out an old handgun and some bullets. Lord God, she said, crossing herself. Then he pulled out a bundle of raggedy towels. Husband, what's going on? Slowly he worked his way to the center like a surgeon removing someone's bandages. His wife crossed herself. It was a foot-tall ceramic crucifix, the thing cream colored, though the drops of blood adorning His head and hands were painted a deep red, the scarlet tears running down His ribs like falling petals. The doctor kissed it before screwing it onto a metal pole. He handed it to his wife. There was blood trickling out of his nose. Together they crawled through the filth in the hold and came back upstairs hand in hand. Hai eyed them as they made their way to the back of the boat.

Duc wanted the doctor to shoot, but An said the pirates might shoot back and the doctor only had four bullets. He told Sang to round up the children and keep them below deck along with the other women. Son didn't want to go, but his sister had him by the neck, her grip like iron. Down in the hold he could smell joss burning. Phuong had set up a small altar with a bowl of hardened rice ruined by seawater and a few small portraits. It was too dark to make out any of the details in the faces. Son
could just see the poses. Men and women looking head-on into the camera, their faces frozen and unsmiling.

The sack was lying on the floor at Phuong's feet. Make an offering to the spirits, she said. Son knelt beside his mother. Though he wanted to be on deck with his father and the other men, he knew now wasn't the time. Phuong handed him a joss stick. He clapped it in his hands. Smoke clouded the air. The scratch on his face started to itch. Rabbit could hear one of the voices in the sack wailing that the mandarin was just a man. Who will look out for us, the earth's meek, the voice said. Above deck the doctor and his wife stood waving the dead figure of their god at the enemy. Below Phuong called on Quan Am, the many-armed Goddess of Compassion, to hear them.

Nobody heard the shot over the incessant roar of the waves. In the fog, the gun's flash was barely perceptible. From below deck they could hear the doctor's wife screaming and feet pounding the boards as someone ran toward her. In her red wedding dress Sang gathered the little girl Minh in her arms. It's all right, Sang said. Just hold on to me.

The doctor and his wife had been standing on the starboard side, the wife waving the crucifix in the air. The other boat was close enough they could see two men leering at the front. One of them was holding a whip. The second man held the gun, steadying it with both hands. His shoulder jerked back as he pulled the trigger. Then the doctor crumpled. The wife dropped the crucifix. It shattered on the deck. Her screams brought some of the Cambodians. When Arun saw the blood pooling under the doctor, he put his hands over his eyes.

They all knew what would happen if the pirates boarded them. The pirates would ransack their possessions, taking all of their valuables. The marauders would beat and kill some of the men. Sang in her red
ao dai
would be passed around. Qui would be kept alive as a slave. The pirates would take everything and
leave the survivors adrift to die at sea. Even Huyen might be raped.