Page 2 of Song of the Crimson Flower

“He left flowers for you every day after you were betrothed,” Lan said, remembering Ba’s story. It was both funny and sweet to imagine her proper, formal father as a youth in love.

“Your father and I were well matched from the start. Sharing my life with him has been a joy, and I want that happiness for you,” Lady Vu said, squeezing Lan’s shoulder. “Ba will speak to the Huynhs and see if they can’t push Tam a bit. It’s long past time to choose a wedding date.”

Three dates had been proposed by the fortune-teller and all refused by Tam. The first had landed in the middle of the rain season, which he insisted was not a propitious time to marry. The next had fallen too close to the Festival of the New Year, which might have symbolized a fresh beginning, but Tam had insisted it would be disrespectful to the gods to celebrate a marriage instead of spending time in reflection and prayer. And the third date—for which both the Huynhs and Vus had pushed—had been in the winter, and Tam did not wish his bride to be cold and uncomfortable in the journey to her new home. No matter that the Huynhs lived only on the other side of the river, no more than a half hour’s journey by palanquin.

Lan had been disappointed each time, but had excused these concernsas proof of Tam’s thoughtful, conscientious nature. “He’s superstitious, and also cautious,” she told her mother now. “Our marriage will be the most important event of his life, and he wants it to be perfect.”

“Of course he does. Ba will speak to Tam’s parents, and by year’s end, you will be a bride.” Lady Vu dimpled. “Just think of the finery you’ll wear and how beautiful you’ll look. The first of your cousins to marry, even though you’re the youngest. How jealous they will be.”

Lan beamed, picturing herself in her festive red wedding clothes and gold headdress. “Will you lend me your jade necklace, Mama?”

“Better than that. I will give it to you as a gift,” her mother said indulgently. “And we will have Bà Trang addtentimes the gold embroidery to your wedding clothes. They’ll be so much prettier than the hideous silks Bà Danh’s great-niece wore at her wedding.” They giggled at the great-niece’s expense and sat up late together, gossiping and planning for the future.

When Lady Vu finally retired for the night, Lan gazed out at the star-dappled river, now empty of her passionate boatman. As a child, she had sat by this window with her grandmother, making up wild stories about all the adventures she would have as a bold, brave young woman. Bà n?i had loved tales of daring quests and far-off lands and had transferred her passion to Lan, encouraging her to dream and imagine herself as strong and courageous as anyone in the old legends. But Bà n?i had died last summer, leaving an empty place in Lan’s heart where her grandmother’s love and her thirst for adventure had once been.

It made Lan feel lonesome and a little sad, wondering when she had changed so much. But she supposed that letting go of her flights of fancy and her desire to see the world came with growing up.And getting married will be an adventure, too, she told herself.

The pieces of her life were falling perfectly into place. Soon, she would make Ba and Mama proud, and she would have everything: a lovely, elegant wing of the Huynhs’ home, servants to tend to her every wish as a cherished daughter-in-law, and Tam, the handsome young man who wove his love for her into the melody of a flute beneath the moon.

2

Long before sunrise and the first rays of peach and gold touched the sky, the river market came to life. Boats swept over the water, packed with nets of wriggling fish, buckets of jackfruit and spiny durian, and baskets of sweet, fragrant pastries wrapped in banana leaves. Neighbors shouted greetings to one another, having seen the same faces and heard the same voices year after year. Men and women who had once played as children on the riverbank now rowed their goods to shore, setting up stalls of wood and bamboo along the sand as their small sons and daughters tottered after them. They wore loose cotton clothing, cheap but comfortable in the stifling heat, as they hammered, tied rope, lined up wares on tables, and carried crates.

Bao would have given anything to be one of them.

He knew it was a hard life. The people of the river market were always at the mercy of nature—one year might bring a drought, and then the next, the monsoon rains might last for months, flooding boats and damaging goods. But they allbelonged, from the oldest man to thenewest baby. They all had a place; they all had someone to love and miss them if they were gone.

He couldn’t say the same for himself.

“Bao! You’re here early,” said Ông Hung, a cheerful, red-faced man in his sixties. In the eight years Bao had known him, the man had only ever worn one outfit: a gray hemp tunic over brown trousers. He stood under a lopsided cloth tent, behind a table lined with gleaming catfish. His many daughters sat cross-legged on the ground around him, their hands and legs stained with fish blood as they cleaned the day’s catch. The youngest, a girl of fifteen, turned bright red when she saw Bao, causing her sisters to titter.

Bao pretended not to notice, to spare the poor girl further embarrassment. He was too tall to stand up straight beneath Ông Hung’s tent, so he stood outside and stooped his head to speak to him. “You look better today, Uncle.” He used the term out of respect, but still it gave him a thrill, like addressing a real family member.

“You know why?” called Chú Minh, an adjacent vendor. He was a short, slim man in his forties, with kind, twinkling eyes above a thin mustache. “After he collapsed the other morning, he finally took your advice and rested yesterday.”

“Mind your own business,” Ông Hung told him good-naturedly. “As the saying goes, an idle man courts the gods’ ill will. Lazing about means less money to feed my family.”

Bao studied the older man’s color. He still looked a bit too peaked for Bao’s taste, but at least his eyes were bright and his movements quick. “Your family wouldn’t want you to work yourself to death,” Bao said. “One day of rest is worth it if it means you can work for years longer.”

Chú Minh grinned, and Ông Hung put his hands on his hips, saying,“Listen to the boy! Wah, so you’ve decided to become the king’s court philosopher instead of a physician now.”

“I’m not a physician yet, just an apprentice,” Bao said, chuckling. “I tie bandages and hold patients’ hands and carry Master Huynh’s medicine bag for him.”

“You’re too modest, son,” Chú Minh scolded him. “That fancy Master Huynh may be a retired court physician, but you’re the one who takes care of us lowly folks. Who else would set our broken bones or treat our coughs? Or tell this old sack of rice to take a day off?” He clapped an affectionate hand on Ông Hung’s shoulder, and the older man grumbled about lack of respect.

“I feel at home here,” Bao said honestly, looking at the bustling market around them. He wouldn’t trade these haphazard tents, these rickety stalls, and the sharp, pungent smell of fish and dust for anything. It was his escape from the servants’ quarters of the Huynh family house, where he slept and studied in a tiny, stuffy room that always smelled of greasy cooking. He had only a thin straw pallet for a bed, a tiny scrap of a table, and a single chair with uneven legs, and still Madam Huynh complained to her husband about the price of keeping a charity orphan like Bao, no matter how gifted he was at medicine. “Everyone in this river market is the closest thing to a family that I have.”

Ông Hung fixed Bao with a piercing gaze. “You’re a good boy, with a good head on your shoulders. What are you, nineteen? If you get tired of treating rich people’s imaginary ailments, come work for me. Learn the business with my sons and marry whichever of my daughters you want.” The girls erupted into giggles, and the youngest hid her face in the flank of a catfish.

Bao cleared his throat. “That is much too generous of you, Uncle.”

“I’m serious. I’d be honored to have you for a son-in-law.” Thefisherman’s eyes narrowed. “Unless another man has chosen you for his daughter?”

Chú Minh’s grin widened. “I think you’ve hit upon the truth. The boy is blushing.”

Bao’s face burned as though the midday sun shone upon it, though dawn had only just crept over the limestone mountains. The girl he loved was still his own, and he would not share her yet—not when he might never summon the courage to speak to her. “Even if I ever wished to make a marriage proposal, I have no parents to speak to the parents of my intended.”

“Do you think that matters to me at all?” Ông Hung exclaimed.

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