In the summer of 2000, the Mekong Delta sun was scorching, as if it would bake you alive. I squatted on the edge of my small plot of land, clutching half a piece of cassava left over from yesterday, so hard it could break your teeth. In the distance, the bamboo door of the thatched hut creaked in the wind, and from within came my mother's intermittent coughs, each one more urgent than the last, like dull knives cutting into my heart.
The rice in the field had just sprouted ears, sparse and scattered; it was clear the harvest would be poor. The land next door had changed hands; my father had gambled it all away last month. Now he spent his days hiding under the banyan tree at the village entrance, either smoking with his neck hunched over, or being verbally abused by creditors. When he saw me, he lowered his head like a child who had done something wrong—but the debt he owed was enough for my sister and me to work for ten years without eating or drinking.
"Brother Qiang."
My younger sister, Ruan Ayue, came over carrying a tattered bamboo basket filled with freshly dug wild vegetables. They were vibrant green and looked fresh, but they were rough on the throat. She was only fifteen; she should be learning to read at the village school, but now she followed me to the fields every day, her hands tanned dark by the sun.
"Mom coughed up blood again just now," Ayue said in a low voice, her eyes red. "The village doctor came and said… said if we don't go to the town hospital soon, then…"
She didn't finish her sentence, and I didn't respond. The town hospital? The entrance fee alone would be enough to bankrupt our family. Yesterday, the creditors came knocking and took the few Vietnamese dong notes that Mother had hidden under her pillow—money Ayue had secretly saved for six months to buy medicine for her mother. Mother had been lying on the bed, her back hunched over like a shrimp, too weak even to curse.
I broke off a small piece of cassava and chewed it slowly. The starch had a very faint sweetness; the earthy taste was more pronounced. A-Yue looked at me and suddenly asked, "Brother, are you really going to China?"
I didn't turn around, staring at the few drooping rice stalks in the field. A-Wu from the village entrance had found me a few days ago, saying he knew "connections" and could take me to Guangxi, China, where "there's work everywhere; even carrying a brick is better than digging in the village." He spoke so casually, as if crossing that river was as easy as walking across the village bridge. But I knew it wasn't easy—last year, someone from a neighboring village was supposedly swept away by the river, their body never recovered.
"Can I not go?" My voice was terribly hoarse, like parched earth. "With things like this at home, if I stay, am I supposed to watch over Mom…"
Before I could finish, my throat tightened. A-Yue squatted down, took the largest wild vegetable leaf from her basket, and handed it to me: "Eat some of this; it's softer than cassava."
I took it and slowly chewed it. The astringent taste spread across my tongue, forcing out a few tears.
Just then, the door to the thatched hut creaked open, and my mother stood there, leaning against the doorframe, so thin she was just skin and bones, her coarse cloth clothes swaying loosely. Seeing us, she forced a smile more like a grimace, and said in a hoarse, almost inaudible voice, "Qiang, come here."
I quickly ran over and took her arm. Her skin was like old tree bark, rough to the touch. "Mom, why did you come out? Go back and lie down."
"I won't lie down." My mother's hand gripped my arm tightly. "I heard what Wu said."
My heart tightened; I thought she was going to stop me. In our village, smuggling was a taboo; if a child took that route, the whole family would be ashamed.
But my mother sighed, reached into her bosom for a long time, and pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief. She unwrapped it layer by layer, revealing a rusty silver ring—her dowry from years ago. "Take this," she said, pressing the ring into my hand. "If things get really tough over there, pawn it and get some money for the journey back. Don't be like your father, don't do anything foolish."
My hand ached from the ring, and tears streamed down my face onto my mother's hand. She quickly wiped my face with her sleeve, saying, "Why are you crying? It's a good thing for a man to go out and make his way in the world. Remember to send word home, even just saying 'I'm still alive' will do."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Lying on the creaking bamboo bed, I listened to my mother coughing in the next room and my father sighing outside the door. Moonlight filtered through the bamboo, casting jumbled shadows on the floor, like my thoughts at that moment.
I touched the cloth bag close to my body; inside was the money I'd secretly gotten from selling our only water buffalo—enough for half of A-Wu's "deposit." The rest would have to wait until I got to China and worked for a month to pay him back.
In the dead of night, I quietly got up and slipped a few crumpled Vietnamese dong coins under my mother's pillow—money I'd saved from my meager savings, not much, perhaps enough to buy a packet of the cheapest herbs. Then I slung my patched canvas bag over my shoulder; inside was only a change of clothes and the silver ring my mother had given me.
Reaching the doorway, I glanced back at the thatched hut. In the darkness, it looked like a weary old man, squatting by the edge of the field. I knew that once I left, whether I would return, and when, was uncertain.
Under the banyan tree at the village entrance, A-Wu was already waiting with a dozen or so men. They were all young men like me, their faces either numb or filled with the same panic as mine. No one spoke; only the buzzing of mosquitoes filled the air.
A-Wu, a cigarette dangling from his lips, saw me arrive, stubbed it out on the ground, and said, "Let's go."
We followed him, like a group of silent shadows, disappearing into the reeds by the river. In the darkness, the tributaries of the Mekong River gleamed with a somber light, and the occasional bark of a dog drifted from afar, quickly carried away by the wind.
I glanced back one last time in the direction of the village; it was pitch black there, except for a faint light flickering from the direction of my thatched hut—perhaps my mother had gotten up and was waiting for me to walk away.
The reeds stung my face, and I clutched the silver ring in my pocket tightly, following the people ahead, step by step toward that border river that led to neither life nor death.