Nguyễn Tuân: Quê hương
Kỳ thứ tư của công việc bắt đầu ở kia (bản dịch novella ấy cũng vừa hoàn thành). Tiểu thuyết Quê hương của Nguyễn Tuân ban đầu đăng phơi ơ tông trên báo Hà Nội Tân Văn từ tháng 1 năm 1940, sau được nhà xuất bản Anh Hoa in thành sách năm 1943 (cùng năm với ở kia). Dưới đây là bản dịch hai chương đầu.
Quê hương
- Nguyễn Tuân
I
His friend had recommended this secretary job as a way for him to kill time, to idle away his days for as long as he could. And indeed, life at the French-owned machinery shop—still in its early days of advertising—was leisurely beyond compare. Bạch rarely needed to touch pen or ink. The office boy polished the glass cabinets daily until they shone like mirrors. The rattan wastebasket, meant for scraps of paper, rarely held enough to warrant emptying. The inventory ledger remained pristine, with only a few pages removed. The French proprietress, clearly prepared for the losses of a fledgling business, wore an air of patient resignation, holding out hope for a future when customers might swarm the shop. She never once questioned Bạch about the rise or fall of inventory. Each morning, as she entered the shop before making her way to the workshop in the back, she would offer Bạch a carefully measured, performative smile. Often, catching him mid-bite into a breakfast pastry with a book open on his desk, she would pause and ask:
“Are you studying?”
“No, madame, just reading,” Bạch replied, somewhat awkwardly, ready to slip the book back into the desk drawer. But the Frenchwoman waved him off:
“Don’t bother. If there are no customers, you’re free to read. So, what do they say in those books?”
“They’re about literature and travel, Madame.”
“Which is to say, everything and nothing at all. That’s how books are written these days. Nothing kills time better than books—especially those adventure novels.”
Bạch wanted to counter this hackneyed opinion of someone who, despite a rudimentary education, possessed only a superficial, trend-driven grasp of literature—a view often paraded by petit bourgeois Frenchwomen eager to signal they were “in step with the times.” He wanted to explain that some people read travelogues not for idle amusement but as nourishment for their restless, yearning souls—that the authors of such works poured their wandering hearts onto ink-stained pages with far deeper intent. But he thought better of it. After all, she was merely a shopkeeper, not an audience in a salon or lecture hall. And besides, he harbored a quiet fondness for her. Cheerful and well-mannered, with a flair for pleasantries, she brought to mind the French women and girls he had encountered in those lean years when his ship, caught in the throes of the economic crisis, discharged its sailors and left him stranded ashore, piecing together odd jobs.
The Frenchwoman cast a passing glance at the glass cabinets, where polished chrome and brass fixtures gleamed under the light. Turning toward the workshop, she remarked with casual cheer, “My husband has quite the collection of adventure and travel books. If you’re interested, I could lend you a few. Fortunately, I haven’t had them bound in leather yet—books are outrageously expensive these days. Eighteen francs, sometimes thirty.”
Bạch smiled, thanking her politely, and thought to himself, “Women like her might dabble in something as light as Maurice Dekobra at best.”
His gaze lingered on the brass and copper trims of the display cabinets, their edges catching the light in sharp relief. For reasons he couldn’t name, he regarded them with an almost tender intensity. The geometry of it all—the straight lines, the precise curves, the perfect angles—spoke of meticulous craftsmanship. Every piece gleamed, pristine and unmarred by tarnish or rust. The sight triggered a vivid recollection of all the small brass details he had encountered in other places—a steam pipe in the locomotive car of a train; smooth brass wheels, polished by the calloused hands of a stoker deep in the belly of a ship; a handrail glinting faintly on the stairs that rose from the deck to the bridge, the wood below worn pale and dull, catching the morning sunlight at sea.
He saw, too, the brass letters riveted onto ship hulls—bold, imposing characters that seemed to defy the restless tides. The salt from years of voyages had dimmed their luster, corroding the proud edges. And then, the oversized brass numbers, each one broad as an open hand, stamped onto the fronts of train engines. Thick dust, carried by endless tracks, had settled over them in a stubborn film, masking their once-glinting surfaces.
A restlessness stirred his whole body. For over a month now, his daily life had shrunk to this monotonous rhythm: from home to shop, from shop to home, over and over again.
One late afternoon, the wind picked up violently, shaking loose the old leaves and scattering them across the asphalt road of Trường Thi. Pedestrians quickened their pace, hurrying past the shop as their silhouettes seemed to glide faster than usual.
The office boy glanced at the clock and began sliding the heavy shutters, preparing to close up for the day. Bạch had already closed his book—or to be more precise, the novel he had been reading. He marked his place with an order form, slipped it into the drawer, and sat back. Another quiet, dreary, mind-numbing day was drawing to a close.
Suddenly, the sharp, solid clack of Western-style boots echoed against the pavement, stopping just outside the shop. Thinking it might be a friend dropping by as usual, Bạch got up and stepped to the door. There, standing in the entrance, was a French soldier.
The soldier fixed his gaze on the radio transmitter displayed in the center of the shop, paying little attention to Bạch. The frosted glass panel on the transmitter, marked with voltage numbers and electric currents, glowed softly in a crisp yellow square. A needle rested motionless, its fine black line sharp against the faintly translucent glass. Bạch followed the soldier’s gaze to the transmitter, noting the quiet precision of the machine.
The soldier, as though suddenly remembering himself, turned to Bạch with a polite shift in expression, removed his kepi, and spoke with unexpected courtesy:
“Excuse me, sir… sir, I’d like to trouble you with something.”
There was something about the young legionnaire that immediately evoked a sense of goodwill in Bạch. His unexpected politeness seemed like an exquisite adornment on a figure otherwise marked by hardship. Gesturing toward a seat, Bạch invited him to sit.
“Would you like to use the machine?” he asked.
The legionnaire smiled awkwardly, almost painfully. He removed his kepi, gripping the brim as he tapped it repeatedly against his knee. Its crown, a perfectly round patch of crimson felt, often jokingly called the “midnight sun” whenever such a hero of the Foreign Legion sauntered into a theater or tavern. Bạch glanced at the clock. Five minutes to seven. The soldier, too, raised his wrist to check his watch. The legionnaire straightened, as if steeling his nerves to deliver his request with the utmost refinement. But Bạch, anticipating him, cut in smoothly:
“If you need anything regarding the transmitter or its accessories, please feel free to ask. It’s no trouble at all, even though the shop is about to close.”
The soldier finally spoke, his voice tinged with emotion: “Sir, I’m Jack, stationed at Chùa Thông. My sister, Caroline, is traveling tonight from Hong Kong to San Francisco. Before leaving for America, she promised to sing a ballad for me on Hong Kong Radio. She is a professional singer, performing annually at major theaters across Europe and America.”
Here, Jack paused, his dreamy gaze meeting Bạch’s. Then, with a soft, almost reproachful tone, he asked: “You’re still listening to me, aren’t you?”
Bạch didn’t flinch. Lighting another cigarette, he stared into the ashtray, its gray residue emitting the last curling tendrils of smoke from a dying stub. He smiled faintly and urged Jack: “And then?”
“And then… well, today I got a day’s leave, so I came to Hanoi. I only wanted to find a radio so I could hear her voice again. Caroline sings beautifully, you know. Her voice is so warm.”
Bạch stood, walked over to the radio set, and turned to ask Jack: “Do you know what time Miss Caroline is supposed to sing on the Hong Kong station?”
Jack fumbled in his pocket for a pale lavender envelope, faintly perfumed with violets: “Nine o’clock tonight. The Empress of Canada departs Hong Kong at that time… She’ll perform on the radio at eight, just before she gets into the motorboat to board the ship with her manager.”
Bạch interrupted: “Hong Kong is nine degrees east of Hanoi in longitude. That means there’s a one-hour time difference. Please, come here.”
Jack and Bạch both bent slightly toward the radio set, which crackled and sputtered, occasionally producing a sharp pop. The needle moved sluggishly, tracing an arc from west to east across the faded yellow glass panel etched with the names of cities around the globe.
Adjusting the two round dials, Bạch murmured under his breath: “Hong Kong at twenty o’clock means nineteen o’clock here... If your sister Caroline keeps her promise, you should hear her voice soon.” He smiled, stealing a glance at the legionnaire, who was sitting tensely, his gazed fixed on the needle as it quivered.
“The Hong Kong broadcast wavelength is thirty meters... Mr. Jack, pull your chair closer. There, see? That’s the Hong Kong Radio Station.”
From the radio emerged a Chinese orchestral prelude, vaguely reminiscent of the Nhì Voòng melody. This was followed by a solo performance on the erhu, accompanied by the rhythmic clack of wooden clappers. Then came the voice of a female announcer from Hong Kong Radio. As the sounds filled the room, Bạch felt a wave of distant nostalgia. He was transported to the raucous nights of Sạch Sồng Chổi, where bawdy songs sung by women mingled with the clinking of glasses and drunken laughter. Those were the years of the Sphinx, the ship where he toiled as a laundryman, docking twice annually in Hong Kong to load coal, passengers, and cargo. During his brief shore leaves, the island’s labyrinthine streets unfolded into endless liquor and fleeting lovers. Back then, he was still a man bound to storms and restless wanderings.
Bạch gave the radio dial one final twist, locking it onto the station. Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he cheerfully turned to Jack: “Once this introduction finishes, your sister will begin singing. I would be honored to hear her voice. But if you’d prefer privacy, I can leave you alone in this room for the moment.”
Feigning a move to retreat, Bạch gestured respect for the intimate connection about to be shared between the soldier and his sister across the vast distance. But Jack stopped him: “Thank you, but please stay. My sister sings for everyone, not just for me.”
The opening prelude on the radio had not yet finished when the speaker emitted a series of popping sounds, like a handful of corn kernels tossed onto the taut surface of a drum. The orchestra’s music dropped in volume, its clarity fading, overtaken by a new, strange melody. Bạch listened intently and recognized the distinct sound of Hawaiian instruments interwoven with the whispering, wind-like tones of another instrument evocative of willow trees swaying by a seaside. It was unmistakably Filipino music. Adjusting the dial with a furrowed brow, he turned to Jack, irritation in his voice: “The Hong Kong broadcast overlaps with Manila’s. There’s always interference. The Philippine station transmits with much stronger signals.”
Carefully, almost painstakingly, Bạch adjusted the dial, turning it clockwise, then counterclockwise. The faint strains of the Hong Kong orchestra struggled to emerge, entangled with the wailing tones of Hawaiian strings. Bạch’s frustration outpaced even Jack’s, the effort to tune into a distant sister’s voice feeling like his own trial. The pendulum clock ticked steadily, mirroring Jack’s wristwatch, as longing etched itself onto Jack’s face.
Bạch knew why: the shop’s radio was simply too weak to capture Hong Kong’s signal with precision. But he couldn’t bring himself to voice this to Jack. Instead, he kept fiddling with the knobs, holding onto the faint hope of somehow catching the distant melody. At this point, Bạch’s efforts were less about Jack and more about himself. His curiosity had been piqued.
Since waiting for his sister, Jack had smoked several cigarettes, crushing the half-burnt stubs flat under his shoe. Each time the radio emitted faint sounds—half Western, half Mandarin—he would grip Bạch’s arm tightly, lean in, and his eyes would light up with fleeting hope. But that brightness vanished just as quickly, dimmed by disappointment. Jack sighed wearily:
“My sister Caroline sings beautifully. Before I joined the Legion, I left home just to follow her on her tours, to always be close to her voice. The inheritance from our parents allowed her to train with vocal coaches and hone her craft. Maintaining such a voice takes immense effort, and poverty can easily rob you of it.”
The clock now read 7:35 p.m. From the radio came a faint voice, one Jack and Bạch both suspected might be Caroline’s, but it was fleeting—more absent than present, as though seeking to escape to an unreachable place. Jack, disheartened, pointed at the clock:
“Thank you so much for your help, but I think it’s futile now. My sister is probably boarding the ship already, heading out to sea. I’ve troubled you enough.”
“Don’t give up just yet. I’m sure we’ll find her station.”
“It’s no use, Sir. The song my sister Caroline meant to sing tonight is just a lullaby—I’ve heard it countless times back home. It’s short, barely ten minutes even with the refrains. By now, even if we manage to find Hong Kong Radio, someone else has likely taken her place. She’s probably on the ship’s deck, juggling instrument cases and hats, trying to settle into her cabin. Poor Caroline—she must have imagined I was listening intently. But in the end, it’s only strangers scattered across the world.”
Suddenly, Bạch felt as though he had let down an old friend, as if everything had gone wrong because he had lacked the sincerity and reverence the moment deserved.
As they reached the main street and walked roughly two hundred meters to an intersection, Jack removed his kepi and prepared to bid farewell. Bạch held his large hand for a lingering moment:
“I’m not ready to part ways just yet. It would mean so much to me if you joined me for a meal. We could sit in silence, or you could talk endlessly about your sister, Caroline—it doesn’t matter. Tonight, I feel a terrible emptiness. Perhaps our shared sorrows could merge to create something quietly warm. I’ve been drifting for so long. You’ve crossed paths with me during a rare moment of pause. My work these days is nothing more than a way to pass the time.”
Bạch’s voice softened with emotion, a rare break from the cold detachment he had carefully cultivated to keep others at arm’s length. Jack clasped his hand tightly:
“I truly regret it, but I must catch the truck back to Chùa Thông now.”
“Let’s share a glass of wine at a nearby tavern then. I want to mark this evening’s sorrow. We’ll raise a toast to Caroline, wishing her calm seas on her journey.”
(còn một đoạn)
Anh Hoa dịch
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