Excerpt from A Bend in the River by Libby Fischer Hellmann
Is there a warning the moment before life shatters into pieces? A minute shift in the light? The chirr of a monkey? A heaviness in the air that tastes like disaster? For Tâm Trang and her sister, Mai Linh, washing their family’s clothes in the river, the warning might have been a barely perceptible scent wafting toward them. Perfumed soap mixed with sweat. Unfamiliar. Foreign.
Or perhaps there was no warning at all. Absorbed in their task, the sisters squatted on a narrow strip of shore, scrubbing shirts with their brushes. They slapped heavier items against the rocks, then rinsed everything in the waters of the Mekong. The clothes would dry quickly. The hottest part of the year was approaching, and the combination of summer heat and the monsoons would produce an indolent lethargy that made even washing clothes a burden. Though it was only March, the sisters lifted their hair off their necks to catch the breeze.
Tâm, at seventeen, used her nón lá as a hamper for the clean clothes. At the moment it held only two pairs of tiny pants belonging to her little brother. Hung Sang, an unplanned surprise five years earlier, was now the prince of the family. According to their parents, no boy was as handsome, as talented, as lucky. With his arrival the girls’ status declined. They had become afterthoughts, to be married off quickly. Sang should not be burdened with his sisters’ care. When he grew up, he would have enough to do for his own family and his parents.
Tâm wiped sweat from her brow. Mai, three years younger, nattered on, but Tâm only half listened. She was about to graduate from the Catholic school two villages away, and she was wondering how she would continue her studies. Where would she find the money to pay for university? What would her parents say when she confessed that was her goal?
“I’m sure you know him. Lanh Phuc. He’s handsome. His is the wealthiest family in their village,” Mai said. “Their home has a real roof. And windows. His father makes sampans…” Mai giggled. “I think he likes me, Chị Tâm. I hope Mama and Papa will agree to a match. I can already picture our wedding. Of course, we will honor the Rose Silk Thread God, but it will be modern too. We will have music to dance, and—”
Tâm cut in. “Mai, you can be a silly girl. Dreaming about weddings and dancing? This is a man you may live with the rest of your life. Have you ever shared a conversation? Talked to him about his future, his dreams?” She twisted water out her father’s shirt and dropped it into the conical hat. “All I hear is that he is the son of a wealthy man, and he is handsome.”
Mai was the beauty of the family, delicate and tiny, with large black eyes, silky black hair, and soft skin that glowed white, even in shadow. Tâm had seen the longing on village boys’ faces when she passed. Her parents would have no problem arranging a match for her. Tâm was taller, leaner, and while her face had the same classic features as Mai’s, they were arranged differently. Her eyes did not appear to be as large; her nose more pronounced, her skin darker. She was attractive in her own way, but she wasn’t a beauty. Although older, she wasn’t waiting for an arranged marriage. She wasn’t interested. She wanted to study plants: their growth, foliage, colors, blossoms, how they added to their environment or not. Her Catholic science teacher explained to her that what she wanted to study was “botany.”
Mai, who usually deferred to her older sister, drew in a breath. “You’re a fine one to talk. Do you have a suitor? You reject all the men our parents suggest.”
Tâm sat back on her haunches. When had Mai developed such a sharp tongue? This churlish behavior was new. As Mai’s chị, the older sister, Tâm should be treated with respect. She was about to say so when a wisp of smoke passed over them.
Tâm sniffed. The scent of the smoke was farm-like. Clean. The end of the dry season was approaching. A farmer was probably burning leftover corn husks or rotted fruit from his fields. Except that most farmers usually fed leftovers to their cattle or pigs. She frowned. Perhaps the smoke came from the dying embers of a campfire around the bend of the river. A fisherman or two cooking breakfast before a long day on the Mekong.
A second puff of smoke wafted over them. Stronger. This time it carried with it an acidic scent. Gasoline. Tâm’s jaw tightened. She looked over at Mai, whose eyes grew round.
“Do you smell that?” Mai asked.
When the third gust of smoke reached them, even more intense, Tâm scrambled to her feet and beckoned to Mai. “Leave everything. We need to go home.”
Excerpted from A BEND IN THE RIVER Copyright © 2020 by Libby Fischer Hellmann. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
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