squirming. She forced Rabbitâs mouth onto her breast, but the child turned her head away. Qui sighed. She put Rabbit down on the mat and rubbed her hands together until they were warm. Then she leaned forward and began massaging one of her breasts with her bare hands, moving from the base of the breast all the way to the tip. After a while she began to squeeze the area around the nipple with her thumb and index finger. At first the milk came hissing out. After a few more squeezes it shot out in a thin stream, dribbling uselessly into the dirt. When she finished, she switched breasts, milking the other one until it was bearable. Slowly the last light drained from the sky.
As Qui emptied herself, Rabbit lay on her back on the bamboo mat, her legs and arms rigid. She had a way of crying without moving, only her tiny chest expanding as she gulped the air, refilling her lungs, then the silent scream that turned her facered. Even after Qui finished, Rabbit kept crying as she furiously rubbed her ears.
BÃ and Huyen ate their rice cold, BÃ âs mouth awkwardly hitching up and down like a puppet with a broken string, one side of her face frozen. When Qui was done, BÃ came forward with the mosquito net and laid it over the girl and the fussing toddler, the two of them as if trapped. Once long ago on the rubber plantation, BÃ had seen a Frenchwoman get married, the young woman the niece of the
propriétaire
. The way the woman floated from the front door of the villa to the shiny black limousine, her veil trailing on the ground, her whole being as if swaddled in netting.
They lay in the darkness, BÃ on a mat by the cart wondering where her pipe was, if her dead hand had dropped it somewhere in the brush. She could feel the cold metal of the cleaver tucked safely under her head. In the early part of the night, she dreamed of a wedding party walking through a minefield. The bride was the first to step on one. The noise of the explosion sent a cloud of white doves rocketing up out of the dead trees. The guests froze in place except for the flower girl, who continued to swing her tin bucket as she skipped along through the elephant grass. The child dipping her fingers in the milky white sap, then flicking the droplets into the air.
Qui woke up after midnight. Her braids lay in coils on the ground. Beside her the child was still awake, Rabbitâs eyes focused on something remote. Qui looked off to where she was staring. After a moment she too could see it, a light dancing in the distance. It quivered like fire but was the wrong color, the flame a steely blue.
Gently Qui put a hand on Rabbitâs face and closed her eyes. After a while they stayed shut. The old women were asleep.Qui was mindful not to wake them. She slipped the cleaver out from beneath BÃ âs head, careful not to pull her hair, then moved toward the flame. It was farther off than sheâd thought, the little blue light always winking just up ahead.
When she arrived, Qui could smell something cooking. Her stomach rumbled. It smelled like catfish and lemongrass. They looked up. None of them were surprised that she should be coming out of the forestâa young girl carrying a cleaver, her hair snaking down her back, her exquisite face as if carved from moonlight. The man in the group said something she didnât understand. He tried again in broken Vietnamese. You VC? She shook her head. He pointed to a spot next to where the fish was cooking over a small blue flame. She sat.
There were more than ten of them, a family of Bana. The women wore the traditional skirts, each one long and black with a panel of colorful red embroidery around the middle. The man was shirtless, his loose pants made of the same dark material. They talked in their own language. She couldnât be sure which ones were his wives, which his sisters.
The fire was starting to wind down. A woman sat shaping a lump of clay into a small gray ball. When it was good
As Qui emptied herself, Rabbit lay on her back on the bamboo mat, her legs and arms rigid. She had a way of crying without moving, only her tiny chest expanding as she gulped the air, refilling her lungs, then the silent scream that turned her facered. Even after Qui finished, Rabbit kept crying as she furiously rubbed her ears.
BÃ and Huyen ate their rice cold, BÃ âs mouth awkwardly hitching up and down like a puppet with a broken string, one side of her face frozen. When Qui was done, BÃ came forward with the mosquito net and laid it over the girl and the fussing toddler, the two of them as if trapped. Once long ago on the rubber plantation, BÃ had seen a Frenchwoman get married, the young woman the niece of the
propriétaire
. The way the woman floated from the front door of the villa to the shiny black limousine, her veil trailing on the ground, her whole being as if swaddled in netting.
They lay in the darkness, BÃ on a mat by the cart wondering where her pipe was, if her dead hand had dropped it somewhere in the brush. She could feel the cold metal of the cleaver tucked safely under her head. In the early part of the night, she dreamed of a wedding party walking through a minefield. The bride was the first to step on one. The noise of the explosion sent a cloud of white doves rocketing up out of the dead trees. The guests froze in place except for the flower girl, who continued to swing her tin bucket as she skipped along through the elephant grass. The child dipping her fingers in the milky white sap, then flicking the droplets into the air.
Qui woke up after midnight. Her braids lay in coils on the ground. Beside her the child was still awake, Rabbitâs eyes focused on something remote. Qui looked off to where she was staring. After a moment she too could see it, a light dancing in the distance. It quivered like fire but was the wrong color, the flame a steely blue.
Gently Qui put a hand on Rabbitâs face and closed her eyes. After a while they stayed shut. The old women were asleep.Qui was mindful not to wake them. She slipped the cleaver out from beneath BÃ âs head, careful not to pull her hair, then moved toward the flame. It was farther off than sheâd thought, the little blue light always winking just up ahead.
When she arrived, Qui could smell something cooking. Her stomach rumbled. It smelled like catfish and lemongrass. They looked up. None of them were surprised that she should be coming out of the forestâa young girl carrying a cleaver, her hair snaking down her back, her exquisite face as if carved from moonlight. The man in the group said something she didnât understand. He tried again in broken Vietnamese. You VC? She shook her head. He pointed to a spot next to where the fish was cooking over a small blue flame. She sat.
There were more than ten of them, a family of Bana. The women wore the traditional skirts, each one long and black with a panel of colorful red embroidery around the middle. The man was shirtless, his loose pants made of the same dark material. They talked in their own language. She couldnât be sure which ones were his wives, which his sisters.
The fire was starting to wind down. A woman sat shaping a lump of clay into a small gray ball. When it was good
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