Quan Barry - She Weeps Each Time You're Born

Just this morning they had closed up the house on Hang Giay. When the policeman arrived for the first shift, Linh told him they needed a van and a driver. Tong looked confused. There were no official events scheduled. It wasn’t the day just after Tet when every year they threw the doors open and allowed anyone to come and sit under the lemon trees, though the visitors were screened ahead of time and asked whom they wanted to contact. Every year Tong knew what happened at the end of that day, though out of politeness he never said anything. How Qui would close the doors of the house and pull the weary Rabbit to her chest, the official hearer of the dead limp like a rag doll. Then Qui would fill Rabbit back up with her own silvery light.

The parakeets were preening themselves in the lemon tree. Tong was still mulling over Linh’s request. A van and a driver, he repeated. She is too important to just disappear. Linh began to pick something out of her teeth. Child, Linh said, the top of her head just reaching his navel, her chubby cheeks pink as if painted. She looked him square in the face. Do as you’re asked. The year before Rabbit had helped Tong’s cousin find her son. The child had been trapped in a fire as he was playing in an abandoned factory. In the courtyard Rabbit told them the boy died instantly. His soul was so bright, said Rabbit. He will come back to the world as whatever he wishes. Linh stood by the wooden doors still picking her teeth. Tong got back on his moped. In less than an hour a van pulled up out front.

And so there they were heading south to the city of Hue. The sun was in the west. The highway stretched before them. The driver called over his shoulder. We should eat, he said. They had brought food with them but had eaten it all for lunch. The driver’s name was Viet. On the left side of his face a piece of his nostril was missing. All that was left was a clot of white scar tissue, all day long the sound of his breathing whistling in and out of his nose. Linh didn’t even confer with the others. Okay, she said.

They pulled off the highway. Within a few miles they came to a village. The sun had gone down, but there were still people out on bicycles and mopeds. Along the main street the shops were still selling. They passed what looked like a school, then a community center with a great thatched roof and a series of loudspeakers ringing the grounds. Viet pulled up at a small restaurant. In front there was a sign with the number 7 painted on it.

Inside a teenaged girl sauntered over to take their order. The girl’s hair was bleached a brassy orange color and boldly cut in what looked like a western style often worn by tourists. Rabbit realized how long she’d been living in the north. The girl’s accent sounded strange to her ears. Technically they hadn’t crossed the Ben Hai yet, but the girl pronounced several letters in the southern style. It reminded Rabbit of the years she’d spent living on the Mekong, the way the people spoke as if they were singing.

It’s a delicacy, said Viet. He sat systematically rubbing his knees. This town is known for it, he added. Even outside the confines of the van Rabbit could still hear the air whistling in and out of his nose. They were sitting at a corner table in an array of small plastic chairs suited for children. There were a few other families crowded around tables, a group of workers up front. A day’s worth of trash lay strewn all over the concrete floor — scraps of food, dirty squares of coarse gray paper that the restaurant kept piled on the tables as napkins. Shall we order it? Viet lit up a cigarette. Tao reached over and took a cigarette out of his pack without asking. Linh didn’t know what Viet was talking about. Yes, she said eagerly.

Their food came quickly. Bowls of rice. A plate of morning glories for Qui. A steaming bowl of pho ga . Viet slurped the soup down loudly in the way Vietnamese men did, the noise like a drowning man struggling for air. The teenaged girl came over with the tray. There were a few greasy vegetables arranged around the meat. Viet spit on the floor, then picked up his chopsticks and began portioning it out. Qui shook her head. Tao accepted a plate but kept smoking, blowing the smoke out through her pursed lips before inhaling it in through her nose as if to make it last twice as long.

Rabbit ate just enough to be polite. Do you like it, Viet asked. She nodded. It’s salty, she said. Viet nodded. But tender, he said. Yes, said Linh, lightly pulling a piece of meat off the bone. This little one eats like a man, laughed Viet. He reached across the table and put more meat on Linh’s plate. When she finished it, he spooned out some more.

Linh wiped her lips on a slip of paper and threw it on the floor. The teenaged girl pointed her through a doorway at the back. When Linh didn’t return after ten minutes, Rabbit went to look for her. Rabbit had been sitting with her back to the other diners. As she got up she noticed them staring. Some of the men were eyeing Qui. Others sat watching the smoke scroll endlessly through Tao’s face. One young boy sat studying Rabbit and her map of freckles. Chào buôi tôi ông cụ, Rabbit said. Evening, child, an old man replied. Rabbit could see he didn’t have any teeth.

The bathroom was in a stone building out back. When she entered, a cord hit her in the forehead. She pulled it and a bare bulb flickered on, the light scarcely stronger than a candle. The room was mostly empty with a concrete floor and a trough running the length of the wall. In a corner there was a water spigot and a plastic bucket with a small pail. Quickly Rabbit approached the trough and pulled down her pants. When she was finished, she filled the bucket and poured water on the spot where she’d squatted.

Back outside the moon was beginning to rise over the trees. Linh, she called. She could see the light from a fire dancing in the distance behind a wooden shack. She went toward it, almost stepping in something along the way. Rabbit bent down for a closer look. Scattered on the ground were several shallow tubs filled with water, the plastic tubs like something one might wash dishes in. In each, two or three big black fish were swimming in circles. One of the fish was too big to swim, its back sticking up into the air, the fish lying in just a few inches of water, the sound of its gasping strangely human. I hear you, Rabbit said.

Linh was standing by the fire, her eyes as if stuck open, the dimples erased from her cheeks. There was a black cauldron in the center of the flames. A young boy poked the fire with a stick. It was happening off to the side. Again and again a shirtless man lifted what looked like a tire iron wrapped in a towel over his head. At first Rabbit thought he was beating an old blanket, the dust rising in the air from the pale and dingy thing heaped at his feet. A few small children squatted around the fire without pants. One child seemed in charge of the others. In the firelight the muscles of the man’s chest glistened with effort.

Rabbit put her arm around Linh and tried to pull her away, but Linh was rooted to the spot. The sound of the tire iron whizzed through the air as the thing lay whimpering in the dirt. Surprisingly there was no blood pooling around the body. The man was careful to avoid the head and set the hot blood loose. Mostly he worked the haunches, the ribs, the sound of each dull thud strangely wet. Rabbit couldn’t believe it was still alive. Its back was obviously broken though its hind legs kept twitching.

Then the teenaged girl who had waited on their table was standing beside them, her hair a shade of gold in the firelight. It’s a local secret, she said. It’s what makes the meat so tender. The man beat it until it stopped whimpering. He put the iron down and wiped his brow. The dead dog lay in the moonlight on the edge of the fire. Rabbit imagined the dog was nothing more than a skin filled with dark soup. It was the ancient method of tenderizing meat. If you beat something to death, the softened meat separated from the bone even before you cooked it.