The Eaves of Heaven by Andrew X. Pham Read Free Book Online Page A

conspirators over our chicory coffee. The man brought us a platter of fresh vegetables, herbs, and pickled radishes, and two plates with big, fat crepes made from a batter of rice flour, turmeric, and coconut milk. They were crunchy on the outside, moist and slightly chewy in the middle, coddling a steamy center of bean sprouts, mung beans, and a mix of sautéed pork, shrimp, and scallion. We broke the crepes, dipped pieces in a delicate lime-chili fish sauce, and ate them with sprigs of cilantro, fresh lettuce, basil, and
la chua,
sour leaves that tasted like green apples. The scallion oil in the crepe glistened on the fresh herbs like a light salad dressing. Anh fed me perfect morsels wrapped in crisp lettuce. And, as she had promised, the milk-coffee was a fabulous accompaniment. Small, unforgettable decadence. I enjoyed being here with her so much, I couldn’t stop smiling. I had never felt this way. I stole a kiss and tasted tangy sugared lime on her lips.
    We ate, oblivious to the crowd, the bustling shops, the humming traffic, the jostling pedestrians, the chanting hawkers. Rain-water ran green in the gutter. A lavender hue fell over the town, softening the cries of babies, the bells of donkey carts, errant laughter. Even the pale moss-washed buildings lost their edges. The world went all crumbly, and I was keen only on the red curves of her lips, the way she gasped after a bite of chili, the unbelievably delicious warmth of her thigh against mine.

THE NORTH
AUGUST 1940
    6. T HE M ID- A UTUMN F ESTIVAL
    U nder the looming shadow of war, Uncle Thuan performed one of the wisest acts in his life. It would mark the pinnacle of our clan’s ascendancy, and also the dawn of our quick dissolution. He opened his personal treasury, instructed the servants to ready his ancestral estate, summoned the fireworks-maker from Hanoi, and bestowed upon the village an extravagant Mid-Autumn Festival—an event that would be well remembered among those who lived to see the next millennium.
    I was seven years old that year and remembered the great swell of excitement and activities that overtook the estate. At the time, I had two younger brothers and four cousins, all Uncle Thuan’s children from three wives, living at our ancestral estate. My father had decided not to come home for the festival, so I had a wonderful time. It was thrilling for my cousins and me to watch all the carpenters and craftsmen prepare for the celebration. We tailed them everywhere and got underfoot at every opportunity.
    The preparation began immediately after the Rituals of Forgiveness in mid-July, a full month in advance. Walls received fresh coats of paint. Roofs were mended, squeaky doors oiled. Three bedrooms were added to the guests’ wing to accommodate relatives coming from distant provinces. New sleeping mats were laid in all quarters. Moon-gazing divans were built, flower gardens expanded, strolling paths cleared, courtyards repaired. Workers installed additional stoves in the main kitchen. In the garden next to the carp pond and the existing cow-roasting pit, bricklayers constructed earth kilns with unbaked clay bricks for roasting piglets and chickens. A thousand moon cakes were ordered from renowned Chinese bakeries in Hanoi. Gifts of livestock, silk, porcelain wares, and jewelry were purchased and sent out with the invitations to the honored guests.
    Our stockman fattened the piglets to ensure that there would be thick layers of fat on every cut of meat roasted. The resident artist, who was also our tutor, painted many poems in classic Nom characters on long cuts of red banner cloth. The guards spent days polishing the arrays of altar brassworks, serving trays, ornamental relics, giant candleholders of six-foot-tall brass storks, and the whole decorative brass armory. And every night after supper, all the staff and the adult residents of the estate, including the magistrate and his wife, sat down with piles of bamboo sticks, colored papers, paint,