Two Silver Dollars
At the first sight of blood spurting from Master Nguyen's neck, Ven collapsed against the tree, A half-fainting. The stricken look Dan gave her reminded her of her duty. She would not allow the scene beneath the mango's branches to steal her will to fight. Anger seized her throat, and she fought the urge to scream, shake her fists at the Heavens above, or confront the enemies below. For the sake of her young husband, she concentrated on formulating a plan to save both of their lives.
From the ground rose the acrid smell of spilled blood, like the stench of a slaughterhouse. Magistrate Toan puffed out his chest. In his hand he still held the sharp scimitar. Kneeling, he wiped the blood off its blade by stabbing it repeatedly into the soil. A soldier approached the bamboo posts, where the corpses dangled like marionettes whose strings had been cut. Before each grave site, he placed a small wooden board inscribed with the death sentence.
Ven glanced at her husband. Never before had she seen a child weep in such total silence. Above them, the indifferent sun scorched the earth with rays strong enough to wilt the mango's leaves. Another soldier moved down the walkway, carrying three round plates the size of Ven's hat and made of woven rye straw. He grimaced when he came to the severed heads of Master Nguyen and his two wives. Using his thumb and forefinger, he lifted them by the hair and placed one on each tray. As Ven looked down into the dull, bloodstained face of Master Nguyen, she felt a wave of nausea and she, too, broke into silent tears.
Magistrate Toan moved among the bodies, using his sword to cut the ropes that tied them to the poles. Deliberately, the old man spat on the gore-encrusted torsos, aiming at the raw flesh of the necks, where the ruptured arteries could be seen. The soldiers pushed the corpses belly-down into the open graves. No sticks of incense eased the passage of their spirits. Their expensive clothes were torn, and their claylike bodies showed through the tatters. Under the old man's direction, a guard flayed the skin that bore the tattooed map from Master Nguyen's back. Only then did the magistrate allow his men to complete the burial.
Once the last shovel of dirt fell upon the graves, the troops left the garden, taking the victims' heads with them. Ven followed Magistrate Toan with her eyes and saw him climb into the dark sedan, where Master Long waited. Almost as an afterthought, Magistrate Toan opened his window and ordered his men to place his enemies' heads at the entrance of the house. Soon the three trays hung from the branch of a fir tree under the hot sun, a cautionary example for the villagers.
Ven watched the car roll down the pebbled road, trailed by the team of soldiers on foot and by the truck bearing the remaining prisoners. She lost sight of them, and once again the garden was immersed in loneliness.
That night they hid in a clearing behind the single remaining wall of the kitchen. Ven lay on her back, studying the dark sky. The waning moon did not rise until the time-teller's third round. Dan cuddled against the fold of her arm, sleeping. Ven watched him, and the signs of his ordeal broke her heart. After their weeks as beggars, his once-round body was now angular and bony, as small as a bird's. Ven held his hand in her rough fingers, pressing it against her nose. In the impenetrable stillness she inhaled his faint, childlike warmth.
Her head throbbed as though a handful of rocks were forming under the flat surface of her brow. They rolled restlessly from one side to the other each time she tilted her head. Ven gritted her teeth and pounded her temples with her fists, moaning. She had been out in the sun for too long in the past few days, she thought. Overcome with exhaustion, she drifted into a restless sleep.
When Ven woke up, the sun was rising in a cloudless sky. Dan sat with his back to her in the shade of the brick wall. He had found a bunch of taro in the ashes of the kitchen garden, and he was picking out the tiniest bulbs from the tangle of roots, popping them unpeeled into his mouth, and crunching them. In a pile near his feet were the larger corms, which contained a bit more nutrition.
Ven remained on the ground, unable to move. A fever spread through her body like fire. She was desperate for a drink, but her withered tongue was unable to form the words to ask for one. She concentrated on her husband's back, making a slight rustling noise with her hands in the parched grass to get his attention. At last she managed a single hoarse word.
“Please!”
Dan turned around.
“Water,” she whispered.
Dan regarded her as though she were a stranger. Then he got up and disappeared from her view. Returning with a clay bowl of water, he stooped and held the cloudy liquid to her lips. She drank a little, clutching her head to prevent her brain from bursting.
“Come, Ven,” the boy said. A look of worry showed through the dirt that covered his face. “Have some taro roots with me. I don't know how to cook them, but I have saved the biggest pieces for you.”
The water replenished her strength, yet the awful pain persisted. Until now, she had never thought about herself. She bit her lower lip and said nothing while her mind churned. She had no money. The last copper pennies were gone long ago. But her poverty was not the issue, for she did not even feel strong enough to walk to the town and fetch a doctor.
Ven got to her feet with effort. The hammering in her head grew worse. Leaning on her husband, she took baby steps toward the garden. She remembered the purple Ricinus leaves that used to grow along the back fence. Every farmer knew this wild herb got rid of a headache faster than any bottled medicine. Gratefully, she found the plant had survived the conflagration. She laid its fronds against her forehead and held them in place with a turban of black cloth. Exhausted, she returned to the kitchen and collapsed into the shadow of the wall, where she sat as immobile as an earthen jar.
Under her direction, Dan smashed a knuckle of gingerroot into the juice of a lemon that he had found on the burned ground nearby. Ven straightened to unhook her clothes. With his palm the boy smeared the ginger-lemon paste over her body. Its heat suffused her skin in waves. As she drifted in thought, her husband's prayer echoed in her ears. “Dear gods, please save my Ven.”
She woke sometime in the afternoon, feverish, bathed in perspiration. The headache, far from dissipating in her sleep as she had hoped, had gotten worse. Her breath rasped, and her limbs shook with a palsy.
Dan sat some twenty paces away and watched Ven. Her quivering body and the unusual heat that emanated from her filled him with dread. When she looked at him, her narrow eyes held none of the tenderness he yearned for.
“I cannot take care of you any longer, young Master,” she said.
“No, do not say that,” Dan cried. He sprang to her side and touched her face with affection. “Eat some food,” he said. “You will feel better soon.”
She shook her head. When she spoke, her voice was like the wind. “I have thought of nothing but you in my sleep, and now I have come to a conclusion. This is not a simple decision for me to make, nor will it be easy for you to accept. Trust me, poor child, I know your anguish. Fate has inflicted a great misfortune upon you, and your life has not been of sufficient length to bear yet another. Oh, Dan, if only I could, I would not hesitate to cut the flesh from my body to feed you.
“My strength is fleeting. I am seized with a terrible illness, and I cannot be sure how much worse it may grow. It is called malaria, and I have had it before. Perhaps this time it will overcome me. But before Death turns me cold, I must find a way for you to survive.” She paused, catching her breath.
“Stop! I am scared,” he screamed.
“You must listen to me, young Master,” she said. “I need you to understand. I belong to you, and I shall remain with you so long as life runs through my veins. Only Death could part us, and now I can feel it in my bones. Before I die, I want to find you a home that can give you food and shelter. I must not wait too long. We cannot escape this place, so we must find a way to ensure your safety among your enemies, even as they are searching for you. And where could I hide you? Where is the very place in this village that no one will look for you? I have found the answer. Indeed, my sole consolation is the fact that, at the height of my malady, I have come upon a plan to save you.”
Dan did not fully understand what she said, but he sensed her seriousness. “Do not send me away,” he begged her. “Come and sit with me. We will have lunch together, Ven.”
She stood up and searched for her straw hat, which lay nearby with the rest of her clothes. The boy watched her with fear in his eyes. He gathered the taro roots in his hands. “Please, Ven. Eat something. You'll get your strength back. Then we will leave here together.”
Ven sat up and faced the burned wall. Her shoulders shook. In a flat voice she said, “I can't, young Master. You eat the food. I would not rob you of your last meal in this house.”
The boy froze in consternation. “What do you mean, Ven? Where will I eat? Who will I live with?”
Ven buried her face in her hands. “Tonight you will eat at the house of Toan, on the floor with the rest of the servants.”
Dan stepped back, transfixed with horror. The taro roots fell from his hands. “No, no,” he wailed. “I cannot go to the house of Toan.”
“We have no choice. To save you, I must sell you to Magistrate Toan's family. If I die, you must pursue revenge for your parents and me. If I survive, I will be right here watching over you.”
Dan ran out of the kitchen. Ven somehow found the strength to catch up and seize his arm. The boy struggled to get free. Despite his screaming, she did not release his wrist. He fell to the ground. “I hate you,” he moaned, beating her feet with his fists.
Ven lifted him across her shoulders. His weight temporarily threw her off balance. She rested against the wall, waiting for a wave of dizziness to pass. “I am sorry,” she muttered. “Let us go while I still have some strength. Since I can no longer offer you any assistance, I must break off my relationship with you.”
With the boy sobbing against her neck, Ven gathered his clothes and tied them in a bundle. She put her straw hat on her head to shield her burning eyes from the torrid sun. As she eased through the back fence, she moved so slowly that she thought she would never reach the road that led to town.
Ven carried her husband for almost half an hour before weakness threatened to make her fall. The afternoon was drawing to a close. Her shadow fell on the wet surface of a rice paddy, stretching out the length of a palm tree above the green sprouts. In the distance, a pair of oxen moved their weary feet along the earthen levees to search for grass. She saw the dark outlines of a couple of magpies that rode atop the cattle. Backlit by the sinking sun, their feathers shimmered like drops of black ink.
Ven stopped and swung the boy down from her shoulders. Holding him by his upper arm, she led him across the fields. Beneath their feet, the drying mud was bumpy with the imprints of hasty footsteps.
“Do you really plan to sell me?” Dan whined. Tears melted the dirt on his face into black streaks. “Have pity on me, Ven. I don't want to die like my father. I want to live.”
She walked faster.
“Please, Ven,” he said. “I do not want to be without you. I already miss you so much. Please let me stay with you, just one more night together, I beg you.”
The entrance to the village came into view from behind a row of areca palms. On the right was the house of Toan. Several haystacks, like bald hills, sat outside its front gate next to a group of jackfruit trees. As a farmer, Ven realized that in order to gather that much rice straw, Magistrate Toan must control hundreds of acres.
She felt as though she were about to enter a tiger's lair. How would she face the enemy? What would happen if Magistrate Toan or his son recognized them as the missing fugitives? Only fate could decide what would happen next. She felt light-headed. Hunger and illness once again overcame her.
She stood at the gate, holding her husband's hand. Red tiles covered the top of the entrance, which was supported by a pair of black wooden posts. Two enormous iron doors, also painted black and ornamented with white porcelain carp—a sign of prosperity—closed on each other and were secured with an iron hook. Thick walls of sun-dried bricks bordered the compound's three acres. Beyond the gates, a long courtyard led to a two-story house. Its front porch overhung a doorway decorated with images of dragons and phoenixes, painted blue and red against the golden panels of the doors.
Ven turned away. It was impossible. Her husband was right: she needed to eat and rest. Somewhere in her head, a much louder voice urged her to carry out her plan. Sweat broke out on her back as though she had been pulling the plow across the field all morning. She lifted the front panel of her shirt and wiped her forehead. Slowly, she turned to face the large gates.
She saw no one inside. In the front yard, a handful of pigeons pecked lazily at a bowl of rice crumbs. Next to them, a row of leafy-stemmed orchids with large, droopy flowers bathed under the harsh sun.
“It must be done,” she muttered to herself and inserted her fingers through the peephole to unhook the gates. Turning to her husband, she said, “You wait here. From now on, if anyone asks, I am your mother, and your name is Mouse.”
“My name is not Mouse,” the boy argued. He was looking inquiringly at Ven. “It's Dan. My daddy said in the old language it means tiger, not mouse.”
“You were born in the hour of the rat, were you not? The magistrate's men are searching for a boy named Dan Nguyen. As long as you remember that your name is Mouse, you will be safe. Understood?”
“Yes, Ven.”
Ven strode through the gate, looking neither right nor left. Her husband leaned against the wooden post and watched her.
From the kitchen, a brown dog dashed through the courtyard toward her. It jumped forward, aiming its sharp fangs at her throat. Ven let out a shriek. She fell on the ground, waving her hat to protect her face. Her voice echoed in the empty garden, while the dog's barking roared like a thunderstorm. “Help me, please, somebody!”
No one answered. The dog lunged to bite at her feet. Ven used the hat as a weapon to fend it off. The animal snapped its jaws and tore the straw brim into shreds. “Help me, anybody!” she implored.
A woman dressed in a black silk outfit rushed out from the back of the kitchen. Her hand held a large bamboo stick. In the corner of her mouth hung a toothpick. Despite the horror of her predicament, Ven watched the young woman with astonishment. Even though she carried more weight on her stout frame, her face bore the features of the maid Ven knew. Song cracked her cudgel on the back of the beast. Shouting, she chased it across the courtyard until it disappeared under a lilac bush.
Once the animal was out of sight, Song returned to the intruder. Seeing Ven's sickly pallor, she dropped the staff from her hand. Her toothpick also fell at her feet. “Are you ill, Mistress?” she asked Ven.
Ven pushed herself up from the ground. Blood welled from the wounds in her right hand where the dog's teeth had punctured her skin. She tore a piece of cloth from the front panel of her shirt, then wrapped it around her palm.
Song stared at her. “Why have you come here? Are you mad? Didn't you hear that Magistrate Toan has just executed thirty fishermen? Leave now, before he returns and kills you, too.”
Ven took the maid's hand to steady herself. “That monster!” she exclaimed. “Heaven will damn him for betraying a dead man's last wish. But the devil has never seen Dan or me. No one in this house has. Please, Song, you must help us. Don't tell anyone the young master's identity.”
“Do you think I am your enemy?” cried Song. “I am and always will be a faithful servant to the Nguyen family. Why are you here in this house of calamity? And how can I help?”
A sad smile brushed Ven's face. “As you can see, I am not well,” she said. “I can no longer care for my husband. Bringing the young master to this house is the only way to save his life, since no one would think of looking for him here.”
Song clasped her hand to her mouth to hide her shock. Ven wondered what had possessed her to be so frank. It was a great risk for her to trust the maid, but she had no other choice. She said, “Song, for the short time that I have known you, you have shown nothing but great kindness. Please help me protect the last bearer of the Nguyen bloodline. I will owe you my deepest gratitude.” She fell on her knees before the maid.
From inside the living room, a woman's voice stirred in the hot air, as scornful and haughty as the afternoon sun. “Who is out there, Fifth Mistress? If it is a beggar, do not waste your time. If you want to give anyone our leftover rice, feed it to the pigs instead. We do not need those beggars to glorify our family name. Do you hear me?”
Ven caught the frightened look on the girl's face. “Fifth Mistress?” Ven asked. “Which of the men granted you that title, the father or the son?”
“My life now belongs to Magistrate Toan,” the girl replied. “If you want to leave the young master here, you must make an arrangement with his first wife, the old mistress. Come with me.” She turned from Ven to lead the way.
Across the long courtyard they went, until Song left Ven to wait on the front porch while she disappeared behind a panel of doors. In a large room that resembled the backstage of an opera house, the peasant woman stood alone, peeking through the entrance.
“What took you so long out there?” Ven heard the same sour voice shrill beyond an ivory partition that shielded the room behind it. Its surface was decorated with a mosaic sculpture of a nude model made from little pieces of blue jade. The girl in the picture reclined on a beach and seemed to smile and wink at Ven.
On the right and left sides of the screen, a pair of ancient verses were engraved into the wooden beams of the house and glossed with a layer of golden paint. Its original color had since faded, and the ink had become rusty. Above the inscriptions hung an advertisement for baby formula cut out of a French magazine. The fat, happy faces of the babies in the photographs were as foreign to Ven as the tin cans that bore them.
In the far corner of the room, Ven saw an ornate mahogany cabinet. Behind its glass door was a china bowl filled with chicken eggs that were waiting to be eaten. The dish sat atop a white marble tray.
Ven shifted her view to the rosebushes nearby. Their white flowers, blooming broadly under the encouraging sun, were within her reach. Despite her dismal situation, she studied the petals and could not help admiring their fragile beauty. How simple and untroubled they were, in contrast to the rest of the house. She looked at her hands. Under the blood-soaked bandage, the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding.
Song pushed the partition aside. Ven remained on the front porch, looking through the door. She would not dare cross the threshold. In the center of the room, she saw an elderly woman, dressed in lustrous black satin. The old lady reclined on a bench, holding a cup of tea. Ven recognized the emerald glow of Master Nguyen's soup bowl in her bony fingers. She concealed her anger by keeping her eyes low. A child about six years old played at the old lady's footstool. She held in her hands a bottle of colored liquid and a small metal loop. In the soft light of the room, the little girl made soap bubbles by twirling her loop through the air.
Magistrate Toan's first mistress scrutinized Ven through sunken gray eyes. Thick saliva, a mixture of betel juice and limestone powder, filled the tiny cracks on the old lady's lips. From afar, the sharp look in her eyes, the wrinkles on her thin face, and her shockingly red mouth reminded Ven of a monkey in an expensive costume. Ven fell to her knees and knocked her head against the stone ground.
“Who are you?” the old lady asked. Her voice echoed through the cavernous room.
“I am a beggar, Great Lady,” Ven replied.
“Our door does not open to beggars. Leave this place at once.”
Ven looked at the old mistress. “I am not here to beg for food,” she said. “I have a small affair to discuss with you.”
“What sort of affair?”
Standing in a corner, Song said, “She wants to sell her seven-year-old son to the house of Toan.”
“Why does she not speak for herself?” the old woman asked. “Where is the boy? I do not see anyone but that beggar woman.”
Ven crawled on her knees across the marble floor to get closer to the old lady. Her mouth was dry from the fever. “The boy is waiting by the gate,” she said.
“Seven years old,” the old lady said, sipping her tea noisily. “He is too young to be a servant in this house. What can a starving child do that could be worth the rice that we feed him?”
“I can teach him the duties and responsibilities of a skilled servant, Old Mistress,” Song replied.
The old lady gave Song an angry glare. “You are now a mistress,” she said to the girl. “In front of the servants, you should behave like a lady. You do not teach somebody to be a slave. It must be innate, like an ox born to plow the fields, or a dog to guard houses.”
Ven implored, “Have a heart, Great Lady. Think of it as a good deed for your life in Heaven. Only a small payment will save a hungry child and his mother.”
Master Long came into the room, carrying a book. He removed a Western-style felt hat and fanned himself; then he touched the little girl's black hair and asked, “Why is a beggar in our living room, First Mother?”
The old lady answered, “She is selling her son. A small household affair, which need not trouble you.” Turning to Ven, she ordered, “Bring the boy in. I want to see if he is fit to serve my first grandchild. A seven-year-old slave is worth three silver dollars.”
Ven thought of Dan waiting outside. Her protective instinct rose, and she considered leaving at once. Seeing her uncertainty, the old lady said irritably, “Well, go, will you!”
Ven did not forget to bow to the old mistress before leaving the front porch. On her way out, she picked up the stick and her torn hat. This time, she was ready to fight the dog if necessary. It hid somewhere behind the tall brush and growled at her.
At the wooden gates, Dan sat and waited for her. He jumped up as soon as he recognized her faded brown shirt. Ven waved for him. Seeing the blood on her hand, the boy gasped in fear. His face bore a sadness so expressive it seemed part of his personality.
“Come with me,” she said to him. “The old mistress wishes to see you. Please behave yourself, and don't forget anything that I have taught you.”
She turned to the house, looking back now and then to make sure he was behind her. The boy plodded along. His eyes were glued to the thick shrubbery, from which the dog's snarling could be heard. Soon they were at the front door of the main living room.
Master Long sat on a chair on the front porch, watching Ven and her husband through the thin lenses of his spectacles. Without a word, he grabbed a handful of rose petals to wipe the dirt off his leather shoes. Then he scattered the bruised flowers on the floor and resumed reading his book.
Ven pushed the boy onto his knees, facing the old mistress. On the bench, the old lady lay with her eyes closed and her mouth open, making little snorting sounds in her throat. Song stooped and whispered something in her ear, which roused the woman from her nap.
“My grandchild, where is she?” she asked, searching the room with her ancient eyes. Once she spotted the little girl, still playing with her bubble toy nearby, the old lady smiled, and she recovered her poise. “Where is that beggar and her son?” she asked.
“This is my son, Old Mistress,” Ven replied. Her hand rested on the boy's shoulder, keeping him on his knees.
“What is your name?” asked the old lady, looking at Dan.
The boy searched Ven's face before he answered, “M-mouse.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
Anger appeared on the old woman's face. She kicked the footstool. “Ill-bred scoundrel!” she screamed. “Always address me as Old Mistress, do you understand?”
Dan shrank back, more in surprise than fear. “Yes, Old Mistress,” he said.
“Your mother also told me that you are seven years old,” the old woman went on. “From the look of those tiny hands and feet, I think you both lied to me. It is inherent in a beggar's blood to lie. You just cannot pull those tricks on me and expect to get more cash. I can see that this boy is six years old—much too young to work in this house! However, I have pity for your wretched condition, and my grandchild needs a servant. I will buy this slave despite his age. But because of his inferior quality, I will only pay two silver dollars.”
“Have mercy on us, Great Lady,” Ven cried. “My son is seven years old. He was born in February, the year of the rooster. We would not dare to lie to you.”
“Shut your mouth,” the old lady snapped. “I have decided. If you do not like the price, you can take him with you and face the famine together.”
Sitting up in his chair, Master Long snapped his fingers to get Dan's attention. “Come over here, Mouse,” he ordered.
Dan seized his wife's hand and stood his ground. Ven pushed him away from her. In a solemn voice she said, “Come now, the master calls for you. You should run to him.” Step by step, Dan moved toward the man as a convict draws near his guillotine. The images of his father's death still burned in Dan's memory.
Master Long reached out to grab the boy's thin arm and pull him closer. Terror deepened on Dan's face. Lifting up the child's shirt, Long examined his torso, carefully checking his front and back. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he said, “Go back and bid farewell to your mother.”
Ven knew that Master Long and his father would continue searching for a boy with a tattoo. Thankful for her father-in-law's wit in his final moments, she muttered a prayer for him under her breath.
Old Mistress whispered to her grandchild, “Little May, that boy is my gift to you. He is now your new servant. Do you like what grandmother gives you?”
The little girl laughed, clapping her hands together and spilling the soap liquid on the floor. She glided and pirouetted across the room until she came face-to-face with her new present. Shyly, she reached out and wiped a tear off his face. Dan stepped back.
“Don't cry,” the girl whispered. The plastic loop in her hand traced along the side of his cheek, forming a small bubble that smelled like flowers. He forgot himself and grinned at her.
The old lady turned to Song. “Fifth Mistress,” she said. “Go fetch Tutor Lo for me. I need him to draw up a contract for this drifter to sign. One must be careful of a derelict's capricious mind.”
When Ven left the great house of Toan, two silver dollars clinked inside her pocket, next to the contract. She remembered the cold touch of the black ink on her mangled hand when she laid her fingerprints across the document. She recalled the boy's hysteria as he clenched her torn shirt, and the strong hands of the servants who had pulled him away from her. She could not stop crying.
That night, and during many nights that followed, Ven battled her illness in the burned ruins of the old kitchen. Hidden in the murky stillness of the abandoned house, she slipped in and out of consciousness, having a recurrent nightmare in which she was tied to a bamboo post in front of a shallow grave. Several times she woke to her own screams. The crescent moon above her became the gleaming scimitar. Her body pressed deeper into the ground in those confusing moments, and the delirium intensified. She shrieked and wept until she lost consciousness.
After several weeks, she felt her strength begin to return. Ven went to the community hall to beg for food more substantial than the morsels she found by scavenging through the garden. There, she learned from the gossips of the Cam Le Village that the house of Nguyen was haunted. Tales were rampant of the ghosts that dwelled in the ashes of the mansion. Many a villager had heard the unearthly screams at night. Now, hardly a soul dared to pass by the ruins of the once stately house.
In Ven's mind, it was a place she could never leave. Each day after begging for alms in the village, she returned to the place of woe and watched the moon stroll across the night sky.
Slowly, the dusty road in front of the mansion fell into disuse. Weeds grew up to cover the shattered entrance with their greenery. Even the few remaining walls continued to disintegrate with the torrential rains. Fallen mango fruits covered the bare earth, rotting under the sun.
However, at night, when the silver moon spilled its eerie light over the treetops and a faint mist rose from the quiescent land, the cries of the ghosts would echo clearly, lingering in the gentle wind like a never-ending song.