Working in the temple kitchen could be described in one word: hellish. As the weather warmed up and the monsoons came in, the heat inside was intolerable. In the furnace-like atmosphere created by the giant ovens and stoves plust the lack of air-conditioning, rivers of sweat poured from the workers every day, and frequent water breaks were a necessity. Fortunately, the temple knew kitchen workers were critical and allowed them unlimited breaks, as long as the chefs permitted it.
Tâm and three other workers lounged under a rubber tree outside the kitchen one morning a few weeks later, sipping weak iced tea. She was one of only two female workers; the others were strong-looking young men. That didn’t include the head chef and two sous-chefs. Sometimes they took breaks with the workers, sometimes not.
Tâm was surprised how friendly everyone was. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worked in such pleasant company, Bảo excepted. The workers considered themselves lucky to work at the temple, and if the grief and suffering of the war had marked them, they didn’t talk about it. By the end of the first week Tâm felt she’d known them for years. Maybe there was something to the Cao Đài religion.
As she’d hoped, they loved to gossip. Ly, who alternated between kitchen duty and waiting on church officials at meals, put down his tea. “Did you see how Father Nghĩa treated visitors this morning? You would have thought he was Jesus himself.”
The others giggled, including Tâm. Then she said, “I’m confused about something. I know a yellow robe is for Buddhist priests, red for Confucius, blue for Taoists, but what is the color for Christianity?”
“I don’t know,” Thủy, the other female worker, said. “The Catholics I know are always in white.”
“Almost everyone wears white,” Ly went on. “The colors are just for special ceremonies, like when an important leader comes to visit, and the bishop wants them to know how inclusive we are.”
“I see.” But Tâm wasn’t altogether sure she did.
“You see, Cao Đài is based on three religions, but there are five doctrines, which include tenets of the other great religions of the world,” Biên, the other male worker, said.
“Anyway,” Ly resumed his story. “Father Nghĩa said he was anticipating the Catholic pilgrims and tourists who will be visiting this summer, and he wanted the church to build him an altar so he could offer them communion.”
“Really? What did Bishop Huỳnh say?” Bishop Huỳnh was the head of the temple, although there was an archbishop to whom he reported.
“He said, ‘Father Nghĩa’”—Ly tried to imitate the bishop’s metallic voice—“‘you are Cao Đài, not Catholic. Perhaps you should move to a Catholic school down along the Mekong. They will be happy to offer communion.’”
Thủy’s eyes grew wide. So did Biên’s. “What did he do?”
Ly’s eyes filled with amusement. “He got up from the table in a huff and walked out.”
“What did the bishop do?” Thủy asked.
“He folded his arms and winked at me.”
They all burst out laughing.
“Well, Father Nghĩa is pompous,” Ly said, standing and dusting off his black pajamas. “All right. Enough fun. We go back into hell now.”
Tâm had the early shift and was able to go home when most of the preparations for dinner were done. Riding her bicycle was easier now, and she was pleased that her wounded leg was strengthening. Winding through the alleys back to Bà Thảo’s home, though, she still had to dodge children, cats, and women cooking on their hot plates. After a close encounter with a kettle of phở, she admitted defeat and walked her bike the rest of the way.
When she arrived, Bà Thảo was pouring tea, which she placed on a tray and brought to the small front room. A woman sat on a chair. Tâm could tell from her milky but vacant eyes that the woman was blind. Not as old as Bà Thảo but much older than Tâm, she had long hair threaded with gray which was pulled back in a bun. She wore black pajamas and a white tunic.
Bà Thảo introduced them. “This is my sister, Anh. I take care of her a few days a month when Yến goes on her missionary work.” She set the tea down, went back to the kitchen, and returned with a plate of rice cakes. She took Bác Anh’s hands and folded them around the teacup so she could hold it herself.
Yến’s mother. For a reason she didn’t understand, Tâm was taken aback. She remained where she stood, letting the image of the two women imprint itself in her mind.
Bác Anh broke the silence, almost as if she had read Tâm’s mind. “It was from Agent Orange. I was in the fields when they sprayed. An infection set in and I lost my eyesight. When the war is over, I will learn Braille and go to blind school.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Tâm said quietly.
“Why? You are not American.”
“No, but . . .” Confused thoughts swirled through Tâm. She had been fighting Americans. They had retaliated with the poison. Had her involvement indirectly contributed to Bác Anh going blind? It wasn’t logical; she had nothing to do with Agent Orange. Still, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to determine who was right and who was wrong in this war, and what her part was. Perhaps it didn’t matter. It all led to the same results: too many Vietnamese dead, wounded, or tortured. Too many families torn apart.
“Come here, my dear.” Bác Anh smiled. “Let me feel your face. My daughter Yến said you are very pretty.”
Tâm felt her cheeks get warm. She moved over, sat in a chair next to her, and let Bác Anh touch her face with light fingers.
“Yes. I can feel it.” She dropped her hands. “Please, could you hand me a rice cake? Chị Thảo makes the best ones in South Vietnam.”
Tâm handed her one and watched Bác Anh take a bite. Bác Anh smiled, clearly taking pleasure in the sweet. Then: “Tell me, Linh, how did you come to Tay Ninh?”
Tâm repeated her cover story. This time she added to it. “My uncle was Cao Đài. My father didn’t approve. We were Buddhists. But I was always curious. I wanted to find out more. When I recovered from my injury, I came.”
“And what of your family, my dear?”
“They were killed in an American massacre of my village.”
“Ah . . . this war.” Bác Anh shook her head. “Yến lost her brother. Chị Thảo, where are you? When are we going to end this carnage?”
Thảo sat down and rubbed the back of her neck. “Soon, Em. It cannot last forever.”
Tâm spoke up. “You said Yến does missionary work. What does she do? Where does she go?”
Her mother answered. “All Cao Đài are encouraged to reach out to like-minded Vietnamese and try to bring them into the religion. Yến goes once or twice a month to smaller towns in the province.”
“That’s when she brings my sister here, so I can look after her,” Bà Thảo said.
“I’d like to speak to Yến about that work,” Tâm said casually. “Perhaps I can learn something.”
“I don’t know,” Bác Anh said. “She doesn’t like to talk about it. Not even with me. I don’t understand why.” She shrugged.
The serious mood ended when Bác Anh told an off-color joke. Something about two oxen and a man who didn’t know how to drive them. Tâm didn’t hear all of it; Bác Anh spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper. At the punch line, though, Bà Thảo roared with laughter. She had an infectious laugh. Tâm couldn’t help it. She laughed too.