by Kari Nguyen
I
It is hot. Her black hair, like everyone else's, is fraught with steam. Sweat collects at her hairline and sits above her lip. They need hats, she thinks. Hats would help.
It is the first hot day, and the third at sea. The wind has stopped, for the moment, but the boats carry on. Lang sits quietly. She wears a yellow collared shirt rolled up at the sleeves, back streaked with perspiration. Her cotton shorts she made herself, like much of her clothing. Thanh, her sister, sits beside her. She looks asleep, reclined as she is, head back and eyes closed, but Lang knows she's just resting. Minh, however, has long since dozed off, overcome by the heat and the boat rocking. He sleeps beside her in his little basket, shaded by the brim, and cooled by her hand as she waves a palm frond back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The breeze is pleasant to him, or so it seems, his little face pulled together in a sleepy, contented expression.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
Lang feels a hand on her shoulder, and realizes she's been sleeping too.
“For long?” she asks Thanh, who has shaken her awake.
“No. Just a moment,” Thanh says, although it has been over an hour. She had sensed Lang falling asleep, and had opened her eyes to take the frond from her hand to fan Minh.
“Thank you,” says Lang, and she turns to lift Minh from the basket.
Lang had dreamt of her father. While asleep, she'd watched him slipping out of the family house, returning very late, swaggering in quietly to drop into a sleep on his mat, overwhelmed by Tiger Beer and the exhaustion of worry. He'd reeked of cigarettes and booze. “This business must be done when drinking,” he had told her many times. “That is the only way.” The men would meet late, in back rooms of big houses, talking of boats, of timetables, of money. You had to have money, and Lang's father had a little saved up, just enough for his two daughters. He resolved to get them out, especially now that Lang's husband was gone, gone, gone. But in the dream she'd seen him, her husband, in a back room somewhere, though she'd never been, but he was there, in her dream, clear and alive. He was looking tired, his shirt rumpled and hair longer than she'd remembered it to be, falling near his eyes, deep brown, but empty eyes. How long had they been empty now? He was in a room she'd never been to, never seen, but she could remember the color of the wallpaper, the pattern of faded red roses on eggshell white, and the table in the corner with a giant bowl of — and then she lost the dream memory, just like that.
She thinks again of her father. She pictures him in the family house, the one she'd grown up in, the one where they'd laid out her mother and her grandfather and her husband in death robes and kept quiet vigils with incense and flowers and beautiful portraits of the dead. It was home, but she was running away, as many others were, from a place where they could never grow.
Minh starts to cry. She juggles him softly in her arms, and falls to rocking him and talking softly of cool green jungles and singing dolphins. “It's for a better life,” she whispers. “Forever.” Minh falls back asleep, and so does she. She's dreaming of hats this time.
II
We are standing in her kitchen. I'm leaning up against a counter, watching her work. It's a small, dark kitchen, but she doesn't need much room. An outside observer would note the quickness of her movements and think she has known this place, this house, this kitchen, her whole life. Her long, black and slightly silvered hair is pulled behind her in a tie, following her feet in acquiescence, an old, trusting friend who knows the steps too. She moves from cupboard to cupboard, from fridge to freezer and back to cupboard, and now to the dishwasher where she stores clean bowls and spoons. We don't usually talk when she cooks, I just look on, studying her movement and the way her clothes, the ones she still makes for herself, fall about her: the short pants with the patterns in black and gold, and the matching shirt with no sleeves.
She's making Pho today, Vietnamese beef noodle soup. It was the first dish she ever made for me, and since then I've had many more bowlfuls, both of her making and from other places. I've come to learn that hers is the best.
I know why she cooks Pho. It's love. It's home.
She turns to me. She asks me if I want to help.
III
The girls run screeching out of the house. Thanh, seven years old, is first, hollering to raise the dead, as her grandmother would say, feet beating the dirt, headed for the path toward the river. Lang, though older at ten, is slower and smaller, but she's determined, and she chases behind as quickly as her legs allow.
“Slow down!” she yells.
“Come on Lang!” Thanh shouts back.
Lang is breathing hard but she tries her best to close the distance between them. They race down the path to the river, and Thanh stops when she reaches the top of the bank. Lang arrives a minute later, breathing deeply, the sun glinting off the water.
“Why are you running?” Lang shouts once she catches her breath. She holds her hand to her face to shield her eyes from the sun.
Thanh grins. “Because I know you'll follow!” And she takes off like a shot down the bank.
IV
Lang has been saved, so far, by Minh. His cries in the night have saved them both. Tonight she sobs softly alongside of him, knowing Thanh, across the boat and down the stairs, is in a hell. It had started the night before, and she'd known right away, had woken up, eyes adjusting to see that her sister was gone. She hadn't heard anything, hadn't heard her being pulled away, across the boat, down the stairs, but she'd heard the rumors whispered about others, nearly right from the start, had seen tears on stoic faces in the light of day, and had feared. She wonders if Minh knows fear, if it is something that forms in the womb, like fingernails. She is awake later as her sister creeps back to her, crying silently, and Lang knows her cries not because she hears them, but because she can see her body slumped over beside her, the dark outline of her side heaving up and down. She places Minh in his basket, then pulls Thanh closer and holds her, stroking her damp hair and holding her hand, until nothing else matters, and the anger, for a moment, can't touch.
Later that night the sisters hear a fall to the sea, just across the boat. First it is a cry — mournful yet light, and falling away- and then they hear the heavy drop in the water. Some men call from the boat, and someone moves a light over the sea, but it is too late. A young woman had tied bags of rice to her feet with rope, so that her weight would carry down quickly. A heavy flight. Lang wonders if she'd regretted her fall, in that last moment. She thought she had heard something in the falling cry that wished it back.
The next day, the crew members confiscate rope and secure heavy objects. Thanh holds Minh to give Lang a break. She tells Lang that no matter what happens, she will never leave her.
V
In her kitchen, I'm cutting beef into pieces. She looks over my shoulder, and tells me to put the beef into the water, now boiling in a stockpot on the stove. I carry the cutting board to the pot, and use the knife to gently slide the pieces of meat into the bubbling water. She dips in a spoon and stirs the beef, and then she is taking the pot by the handles to the sink, where she drains out the liquid. She sets the pot back down, and handing me a pair of tongs and a plate, asks me to take the meat back out. I've done it wrong already, I think, and my face flushes as I pull out the pieces, one by one, and place them on the plate provided. “It's part of the cooking method,” she says, as she fills the pot with new water, and she tells me to return the beef to it when the water boils again. I feel better, glad I haven't failed just yet. This second start of liquid will be the base of the broth, the key to the whole dish. “Once it is boiling in the pot,” she says, “we turn it all down to a simmer.”
She takes some ginger, three finger lengths worth, and smashes it once on another board. “Into the pot,” she says, and I toss it in, the strong scent of the ginger sticking to my fingers. Now she shows me star anise. The smell is deep and pungent, like licorice. I pick one up and hold it between my fingers. I'm taken with its star shape, its small size and weight, and the way it contains all of itself so delicately. We take ten pieces and lay them on a paper towel, which she then wraps up in a bundle and secures at the top with a rubber band. I place it down into the simmering liquid, this compact little package set afloat, and I think how nice it is that all the little stars are kept together, able to release their spice and scent without the fear of dissolving away in the heat and water.
We toss in some cinnamon sticks, some salt and sugar, and the carrot, onion, and daikon radish she'd sliced up earlier, the vegetables floating. We leave it all simmering, three to four hours, and wait for the meat to cook. Every now and then we tend it, skimming the skin from the top, dumping the foam down the sink drain, watching the steam rise.
VI
The boats stop in the water, no shore in sight. A larger boat has come to meet them, ready to collect the refugees for the longer journey. They know it is late in arriving, so its presence is a relief. The crews work to secure the smaller boats to the new vessel.
Lang and Thanh wait their turn to jump aboard, standing with the others near the rail, keeping close. Lang holds Minh tight to her chest. She has heard about this. He will be thrown.
Thanh tells her everything will be okay. “You won't be able to jump while holding him,” she says. Then she reaches over to Minh, who is awake, eyes wide and alert, and he takes Thanh's offered finger in his hand and squeezes on. “Pretty boy,” she tells him, and he giggles.
It's their turn now, and Lang is to go first, to be on board when Minh is thrown. There's no going back. She hands the child to Thanh, and then, with the help of a crew member, she climbs over the rail, and jumps lightly to the new boat, where she's helped on deck by strong arms.
Thanh hands Minh to the man beside her, saying something to him that Lang cannot hear. Lang's heart is pounding and she's praying and suddenly she feels the boat beneath her feet, she feels it taking her out to sea, breaking away from the small boat, away from the only family she has left. It's a fleeting moment but she knows it won't work, it can't work, and her baby will be lost, fallen to the sea floor, his brown eyes empty like his father's. But she's standing on firm footing and she watches her prayers flying as Minh is tossed into the air, and it's a good throw and he's high up there and everything else is stopped and it takes just a moment but the moment is eternal and then he's landed, cushioned, in the arms of the man beside her. She can breathe again. He's back in her arms. Minh laughs, and he's still smiling when his aunt jumps aboard. Lang wipes her tears with Minh's hands.
VII
Good broth is essential to Pho. It is that blend of spices and flavors and smells that makes the dish.
Once the meat is tender, we pluck out the bundle of star anise. It has steeped long enough.
We add fish sauce and more salt and sugar to the pot, to taste. It's nearly done.
We take rice noodles, boiled earlier, and heap them into huge bowls. To the bowls she ladles spoonfuls of broth, meat, and vegetables from the pot, and I set the bowls on the table once they are filled. We spoon hoisin and chili sauce into smaller bowls, self-serve style, and add these to the table as well, along with a plate of mung sprouts, cilantro, mint and basil from the garden, and limes we've cut in quarters.
I place cups on the table, and she pours green tea in each one. The door opens, and Minh walks in from outside, dirt stuck to his forehead but he doesn't know, so she goes to him, standing on the tip of her toes so she can reach him, using her thumb to edge the earth from his face, then pats his cheek in approval. “Mom” he says to her, leaning away from her hand, still her son but thinking he needs this less, you know, and he heads to the kitchen to wash up. A moment later he comes back with chopsticks, spoons, and napkins, and he puts them on the table.
Then he walks over to me.
He's sweaty from yard work, but I love that he does it for her, and I wrap my arm around his waist. “Is he sleeping?” Minh asks me, and I nod my head yes, looking back toward the room off the kitchen. He follows my gaze, says, “That's good.”
The three of us sit down to eat, and I tell him I helped make it this time. His mom says, “If it tastes bad, blame it on her!” Her eyes sparkle a bit when she says this, and soon her smile betrays the joke. “You did a good job,” she tells me, and I'm happy as I pile my Pho high with basil and mung.
I breathe it in. I start with the broth. It's warm going down.
VIII
The sea was there to save them. It transported their boats, orchestrated their escape, and pushed them toward a free life. But the sea was a living thing, and something that couldn't be counted on.
Lang still has the nightmares. She always will. Sleep for her is far more dangerous than waking. It is often the same dream, played out with slight differences as to plot or appearance, but always real. Another black night, the moon tucked out of sight by black haze, but still she can see. Thanh is walking along the ship's low railing, unable to sleep. The sea is restless, churning in ancient conversation. The boat dips sharply to the side, and Thanh loses her footing, then regains it, grabbing the rail for support, grateful not to have fallen overboard. But the thought is short-lived. The dip comes again, the other side of a roll, and sharper this time, and her hands release the rail, tossing her off, discarded, to dark water. In her dream Lang is standing on the deck of the righted boat, looking down to the sea, and her husband is down there, pulling Thanh under, and Thanh struggles for only a brief second, and then they are gone, under the waves, and Lang hears desperate cries and looks around her —
But she's home now, and the crying is all hers.
IX
There are some stories you want to tell. There are some stories you don't. But they are all there, just below the surface. It takes just a scratch, sometimes, to reveal a gash.
I am lucky. I've never lost a sister, or a husband. I've never had to leave my family, or my home. I've never feared for my life, or a child's life. Lang made it. And now she's here, cooking Pho. She wonders, afterwards, why I wrote everything down: the ingredients, the directions, the special tips. Why I want measurements. She doesn't cook that way, she tells me. It's all in her head. The soup, the stories, even her family. I understand, but still, I want to write it down. To pass on. To remember. Because it's important. And I don't ever want to forget.
“When you lose so much you never forget what you have,” she says.
I write it all down.
X
We're done eating now, and Minh pushes himself away from the table. He's going to shower. Lang and I take up the bowls and the spoons and the chopsticks and the leftover toppings and bring them back to the kitchen. I offer to do the dishes, but then I hear a little voice from around the corner. He's talking to his dad.
“Did you have a good nap, buddy?”
“Mmmhmm,” says the little, sleepy voice. I can picture him on the edge of the mattress, the one on the floor of the guest bedroom we use when we stay over, rubbing his eyes, perhaps one sock about to come off of his foot.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Let's go see Mom and Grandma. They'll give you something to eat.”
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The story is fiction, but much of it is inspired by actual events. The family Pho recipe has been altered slightly, to suit the story.
Appears now at fwriction : review.
Much thanks to Danny Goodman!
http://www.fwrictionreview.com/post/12597948015/star-anise-by-kari-nguyen
I’m honored that “Star Anise” was selected as the second prize winner in the Eighth Glass Woman Prize. Thank you to Beate Sigriddaughter for recognizing this story and for her amazing support of women writers!
This story was also selected as a Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers Honorable Mention in 2011.
Thanks also to Michelle Elvy for reviewing the piece for Fictionaut Faves!
http://blog.fictionaut.com/2010/09/20/fictionaut-faves-920-perfect-pho/
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A classic story, but unique in your telling, rich with details of the culture and the individuals and their stories. The boat trip and transfer are riveting with the sense of whole lives balanced on a knife edge.
Thank you David! I appreciate it very much.
Having embedded myself in writing and reading flash fiction so much in the past year, I often forget how rich and full a longer story can be when handled properly. You've done so here, Kari.
Great story, good writing, graphic details, the different scenes woven together creating a cinematic depth of perspective. I agree with David about the "lives balanced on a knife edge" during the suspenseful transfer scene. And I could taste the anise in the beef noodle soup.
Well done. The metaphor of the Pho is woven well and the palpable struggle for a better life is very involving.
The little description of the waking child at conclusion is a gem. Enjoyed.
Sheldon - Your positive feedback is amazing. Thank you!
JMC - “cinematic depth of perspective” – I love that. And I’m glad you connected with David’s comment. Like you, I also enjoyed "lives balanced on a knife edge."
Larry - I’m so happy you liked the closing scene. It’s one of my favorite parts.
Kari, a beautiful, highly charged and thoroughly human story, so perfectly woven around the making of pho. It brought me to places I have not visited for years and left me hopeful. I'm speechless now.
James, I’m glad it meant so much. The fact that it did means so much to me. Thank you, kind sir.
This is sparkling, fresh writing with a natural cadence that lives and breathes in the moment..talking softly of cool green jungles and singing dolphins..She's dreaming of hats this time..
I know why she cooks Pho. It's love. It's home.. I place it down into the simmering liquid, this compact little package set afloat, and I think how nice it is that all the little stars are kept together, able to release their spice and scent without the fear of dissolving away in the heat and water..
Thanks so much Darryl!
This is magnificent, Kari. My favorite part is when Minh is tossed over to the second boat--you had me so far involved that, if souls had fingernails, mine would have been biting hers. My favorite line is "When you lose so much you never forget what you have." This is so very well written!
I appreciate your comments Beate. Thank you so much!
Kari -- I love the rock of the boat, the smell of the sea and food... I will come back to this soon and take it in more. So looking forward to coming here when it's not something I am doing on the fly... this one deserves time. :)
A very good and touching story.
Bob and Michelle, thank you so much for reading!
Kari, I am back and ever so glad I had a long time to let this simmer. I've re-read this story now, and I think I'll do it again. This piece is really marvelous. It is so well crafted, I love every single part. In particular, the way you weave the present-day cooking scenes with the history of Lang, her incredible story. The rhythm of this story is damn near perfect. 'Back and forth, back and forth' (so many details in here like that one that make it so).
There are so many beautifully crafted moments in here, and the transitions are flawless. I especially love the part where Minh is thrown - I was tense and wondering, scared yet had to read on - and how that perfectly rendered scene follows with this:
'Good broth is essential to Pho. It is that blend of spices and flavors and smells that makes the dish.'
That is so well timed. After that breathless moment on board, to come to this calm sentence, one that reassures the reader that the broth/story is almost complete.
Besides the transitions back and forth, and the suspense, the details in here are remarkable. Some of my favorite parts:
the 'dream memory' of her husband with all those details of the wallpaper that she loses at 'a giant bowl of — '
I know why she cooks Pho. It's love. It's home.
“Because I know you'll follow!”
the scene with one sister comforting the other, -- 'stroking her damp hair and holding her hand, until nothing else matters, and the anger, for a moment, can't touch.'
She wonders if Minh knows fear, if it is something that forms in the womb, like fingernails. (I think this is my favorite image.)
She thought she had heard something in the falling cry that wished it back. (that scene gives me shivers each time I read it)
the compact package of star anise, set afloat...
Lang wipes her tears with Minh's hands.
There is so much loving detail in this story, like that one. And the resolution, too: everything is complete -- soup, scene, back and forth story.
Can't give this enough stars. Like Sheldon, I am so pleased when I have time to sit down and really enjoy something that takes time to appreciate all the ways it has been so carefully and beautifully told.
Star Anise made my morning, Kari.
* * *
(and having said that, there was one single sentence where I stumbled on the rhythm. It was this:
'He resolved to get them out, especially now that Lang's husband was gone, gone, gone.'
I wondered why the gone was repeated -- the rhythm there was not necessary for me. I think it might work with one 'gone' as that is more abrupt. He is gone. Nothing more. Just an idea -- I read this aloud several times and I liked the short-breath feeling this gave me. Suddenly knowing, as the reader, that he is gone, that this is one more sudden part of Lang's story, a missing piece of her heart... Like I say, just an idea -- you probably have very good reason you repeat the word.)
Michelle, I can’t thank you enough. I so appreciate your thorough read of the story as well as your comments. They mean so much to me. You hit on so much of what I was trying to achieve with this piece!!
Thank you too for pointing out the “gone, gone, gone” part. I can see why you did – it’s odd! I gave myself license to do that there for a couple reasons. If this was part of a novel I don’t think I would have written it that way, but for some reason I thought the frame of this story would support it. I liked it as a companion to the repetition of “back and forth,” I thought it lent itself well to the rhythm of that sentence and the paragraph, and I felt it linked the boat rocking to the dreaming to the memory. It’s meant to be dreamlike. A single “gone” would have been more abrupt, but I wanted to ease into the fact that the husband is gone and imply some distance between his death and Lang’s current journey. I was thinking in terms of Lang’s character too – she is so strong, and her ability to think of her husband as “gone, gone, gone” shows, to me at least, a sort of mournful acceptance that masks a deeper, spiritual pain, and love. I guess that’s why I used three words in place of one.
Ah, interesting about the gone, gone, gone. I can see why you did it that way. For me, it diminished the rhythm of that 'back and forth' -- which I just love. That repetition stands on its own, and I didn't think you needed the next one, but I see how you think it goes with the dream, the rocking boat, her life, etc. I like the abrupt change-up in the middle of that dream para, but I get it this way too.
Either way, I love the way you put such care into this kind of phrasing, Kari -- it really shows in your writing. Just marvelous.
Thanks Michelle. You really have me thinking! I’m going to come back to this, as I might make that change. I appreciate the suggestion!
Love the part about the star anise. I can almost smell the food cooking.
Excellent tight prose. Over 3,000 words and yet not a single word is wasted - each one necessary and adding something to the story.
IX is especially touching.
Tracy, thank you so much for reading and commenting. It means a lot!
Oh, I am so grateful Michelle saved me from missing this. Fine storytelling here.
I’m grateful as well, Lou! Thanks!
Kari, how did I miss reading this beautiful beautiful story until now?? Please, tell me that you're submitting it like crazy? It needs to be out in the larger world. *
Wow, Julie, thank you!
Kari, this is a timeless story, masterfully told. Your writing, your keen eye for sensory detail, exquisite throughout. Thanks for sharing with us here.
Thanks so much, Sara!
"She wonders if Minh knows fear, if it is something that forms in the womb, like fingernails."
Beautifully written and tenderly observed. I'm glad I caught this. *
Kim, thank you!
Just read Michelle's amazing review of this, Kari. Now I'm printing it out to read later. I can't wait.
Kari, there is something about finding oneself in the hands of an excellent storyteller...you know right away, in the first few paragraphs, and you settle, your breathing slows and you just find yourself immersed in the people and the place and the journey.
Someone said "magnificent" and I will say it too. This is a timeless story, it's The story, I think and there are countless variations on it. You capture everything so beautifully here. Your characters are real to me. I feel what they feel. When your readers are no longer observers, but are engaged, feeling, you know you have written a successful story.
I don't know what you think you can learn from me. You are a remarkable storyteller. I feel I learned from you, reading this. You have it all, a keen eye and ear and heart.
"She wonders if Minh knows fear, if it is something that forms in the womb, like fingernails." (how perfect and gorgeous, wise and sad is that)
and this which makes your title resonate with meaning:
"I think how nice it is that all the little stars are kept together, able to release their spice and scent without the fear of dissolving away in the heat and water."
This whole story is so rich and moving.
"When you lose so much you never forget what you have."
Yes. This story made me cry. It's a wonder. I'd give it a thousand stars if I could.
Kathy, I can’t thank you enough for your comments.
I've just come here from the Glass Woman Prize website - congratulations, and I'm so glad I got to read this beautiful story - one I won't forget.
Congratulations, Kari! This story is so deserving.
“When you lose so much you never forget what you have,” she says. Wonderful writing, Kari, rich, layered, the scenes on the boat are subtle yet so rich in color and flavor... finally read this piece and I'm glad I did. And it's nice to read a longer piece, you leave the room with so much more...
Martha, Kathy, Shelagh, thank you all!
This is beyond amazing. How did I miss it on the first go-round? It will stay with me. The best stories do.
*
Too kind, Susan. Thank you!
Yes...missed this earlier.
Beautifully crafted, the sections like steps of a recipe, each building on what came before. The memory of place/family/culture embedded in the Pho image is carried through with perfect balance. An absolutely perfect line: I think how nice it is that all the little stars are kept together, able to release their spice and scent without the fear of dissolving away in the heat and water.
"Good broth is essential to Pho"
Yes, and pacing and voice and restraint are essential to good stories.
Glad to catch this here *
Doug, I'm grateful for your read and your words. Thanks a ton!
jesus. this is spectacular writing. can't believe i missed it. such grace, poise, and power in the words. oh my.*****