Quan Barry - She Weeps Each Time You're Born

Except for the color of her hair Qui hadn’t aged since the night they pulled Rabbit newly born out of the ground. If anything her face looked even younger. Her complexion that never burned was still bright and soft as the skin of a baby, only now her long silvery hair gave her an unearthly glow. On occasion Rabbit had trouble remembering how Qui used to look.

Qui propped the bicycle against the wrought-iron fence. The front of her blouse was dry in the early hours. She swung the basket off the seat and put it down next to the metal drum where the two of them kept a small fire burning as they worked. Their tabletop was a piece of cardboard covered in plastic, which they balanced on bricks they’d scavenged from a work site. Rabbit could still hear the sound of the Russian’s ring singing in the air from when he had brushed the metal earlier with his hand.

Suddenly Son popped up from behind the fence. He glowered at her. The scratch on his face flared as if fresh. Rabbit put her fingers in her ears. More and more he wasn’t the boy she remembered, the quiet boy who’d slept in his mother’s arms, the boy on the roof of the pilothouse searching the stars. As she herself moved into young adulthood, he’d become her second conscience, a being who knew things about her that no one else knew, the secret thoughts racing in her blood.

As swiftly as he appeared, Son disappeared without a word behind the gate. Rabbit took her fingers out of her ears. The reverberating sound of the Russian’s ring on the metal fence had gone dead.

The morning passed slowly, the July heat like moving through water. Across the street some of the men in the concrete pit had taken off their shirts, the sweat raining down their bodies as they lifted their legs in the thick mud. Rabbit tried not to stare. A delivery man carrying some packages stopped on his way out of the dorm and bought a tea. What’s in there, she said. The man wiped his brow and held his cup out for more hot water. For a moment he stared at Rabbit, the strange freckles spotting her face. Mostly just beds, he said. Rabbit couldn’t tell if she felt disappointed or not.

A few minutes before noon Rabbit stoked the fire with an old broom handle. The sparks flew loose, the air rippling over the barrel. Each day she and Qui set up under the cinnamon tree, the fragrant trunk twisted and crumbling. The men who had paved the road had orders to cut down everything, but they left it standing. It was then that the tree stopped producing seeds, the shallow roots damaged by the heavy road equipment and the run-off. There were still patches of green sprinkled through the canopy, but mostly the tree was dead. Over time the wood of the trunk was growing less and less fragrant, though the woman who sold pancakes across the street still pounded a few wood chips into a fine powder at the start of the business day.

When the lunch hour came, a group of Vietnamese workers walked over from across the road. Then Rabbit was taking money and pouring hot water, Qui squeezing the lemon in and adding just the right amount of honey. As always there wasn’t much talk, just the quick exchange of bills. Qui and Rabbit had been selling tea for the past year. Under Doi Moi , individuals were allowed to start their own businesses, and private enterprise was flourishing. Today the line seemed longer than usual. Rabbit could see Van standing among the workers, holding the rag in his hands. As always Van waited until the other laborers had been served before hobbling forward. Some days they ran out of lemons before his turn came. Rabbit wondered if Qui’s silence made her seem all the more approachable to him. Van with one hand missing all but its two primary fingers, his hand like a fractured smile.

Ever since the first week they’d set up on Duong Khiem, Van appeared every noon with a red chrysanthemum that he presented to Qui. In the midday sun he would stand and carefully unwrap it from an old rag he kept damp to keep the flower from wilting. When he learned Qui didn’t speak, he stopped saying anything. He would simply touch his forehead with his two remaining fingers before holding out the great whorled bowl of the flower. Qui always took the chrysanthemum with a small smile and tucked it behind her ear. In her silvery hair the flower gleamed like blood on snow. Each night in their one room near the bus depot Qui would carefully remove the flower. Rabbit never saw where she put it. In the morning it was never on top of the trash heap by the door or in the small chest where Qui kept the few things she treasured — the chipped blue rice bowl from the grave where Rabbit was born, the burlap sack filled with bones that Phuong had carried out of her floating house once long ago. By morning, each blossom was gone.

The line inched forward. Van held the flower out and touched his forehead. Where he got red chrysanthemums in Hoa Thien in the northwest corner of the country nobody knew. The other men stood in the shade of the cinnamon tree. Through the leaves the sun dappled the ground. Then the twenty minutes were over. The workers filed back across the street. Qui began to tidy up. There would be one more rush when the workers went home before sunset. Van would be back with just his sad little smile, his mangled hand. As she did each day, Qui would hold out a second cup to him, but he never accepted it. They both knew he didn’t have the money. He would simply touch his forehead and smile. Qui would nod, her silvery hair tinted indigo in the twilight.

Rabbit took a deep breath. For a moment she thought of her father, the strange red diamond marking Tu’s face, and the night Qui had touched the birthmark with her fingers, her long black hair cascading over both of them like a blanket as their bodies rocked back and forth. Abruptly Son popped up behind a crate. You’re too young, he whispered, then disappeared again.

They were still tidying up from lunch when the first truck turned up Duong Khiem. Something was wrong. The Russians never came back early. The pancake seller across the street boldly stood up to watch. Two men in the concrete pit stopped moving altogether. Only Rabbit averted her eyes. She could hear the tired sound of feet scraping the pavement as the men filed past in silence on their way through the gate and up the steps into the dorm. Most of them gripped their cigarettes with all of their fingers.

Within minutes a second truck turned the corner. The men off-loaded with their frozen stares. Rabbit let herself look, but she didn’t see him among them. She watched as a pack of dogs jumped out. Something in her stomach began to tighten.

Fifteen minutes later the last truck roared up the boulevard. This time only a few men got off. They seemed more distant than the others, their faces hardened as if they had come from the very ends of the earth. A handful of them were spattered from head to toe, some with bits of matter dried in their hair. One of them was so spattered it was as if he had bathed in it. His cold wolf eyes were the only part of him that wasn’t bloodstained. A silver ring encrusted with blood gleamed on his finger. Briefly the knot in Rabbit’s stomach loosened.

Son was sitting on the curb holding a piece of tree bark in his hands. He watched Rabbit as the men walked into the dorm. The blood-soaked specter with the icy eyes was the last one up the steps. You should have been there, Son said. He held the bark up to his nose and inhaled deeply. It wasn’t a criticism, just the truth. Rabbit felt her eyes burning.

The day dragged along. Across the street the school rose a few feet. Some stray customers bought tea. The honey started to harden. The sky grew dark and menacing, but for the time being the rain held off. Qui began to pack up. At the bottom of the basket there was a single lemon left, the thing hard and misshapen. Rabbit tucked it in her sleeve. Maybe she would use the rind for something, add twists of the peel to a soup. With the broom handle she raked through the fire, spreading the ashes around until it went out with a small hiss. A strand of smoke curled up into the air. Rabbit helped Qui load their things onto the bicycle. Van nodded to them before heading the other way down Duong Khiem.