The Age of Poisonous Water
Dưới đây là ba chương đầu bản dịch (chưa bao gồm tất cả chú thích) tiểu thuyết Tuổi nước độc của Dương Nghiễm Mậu, nhà văn lớn cùng thế hệ với Thanh Tâm Tuyền. Câu chuyện được kể ở đây cũng rất liên quan tới câu chuyện của Ung Thư.
The Age of Poisonous Water
- Dương Nghiễm Mậu
CHAPTER 1
The sky turned cold, shrinking and wrinkling as if withdrawing into itself. People moved lightly, like a cat stealthily slipping into blankets on a winter night. The streetcar clanged its bell and pulled away from the stop. I shoved my hands into my pockets, watched the traffic, then crossed over to the post office. At the mailbox, I reached inside my jacket, pulled out the letter, smoothed it flat, and dropped it through the slot. I peered in to make sure—it had fallen through. Where to go now? I stepped back outside, lingering in front of the post office, staring across the empty street. The lakeside, quiet in the early morning, felt desolate. The roasted peanut vendor hadn’t yet set up his stall beside the stone bench near Báo Thiên Tower. I figured I should find something to eat. Suddenly, Hiền appeared beside me, asking, "Where are you going, looking so absent-minded?"
I turned, startled to see her. She wore a long silk tunic dress, a black wool sweater snugly hugging her figure.
"I just mailed a letter to my uncle," I said, "and was wondering where to go next. What about you? What brings you out so early in this cold?"
Hiền smiled. Her lips looked dry, her cheeks flushed pink, and fine hairs glistened softly around the edges of her ears. Her voice was bright as she replied, "I came down with my brother to run some errands, and now I’m thinking of heading to Đồng Xuân Market to buy a few things. Want to come with me?"
"Me, go to the market? That’s for women who want to snack, not men."
"Snack? Men don’t know how to snack? Come on, I’ll treat you to some bún chả, or bún ốc, or xôi chè. Whatever you like."
"Not a bad idea," I said, nodding.
Hiền’s voice chimed again: "So, are you coming or not?"
"Then let's go."
I stepped off the curb and headed towards the town hall, but stopped suddenly when I didn’t see Hiền. I glanced back—she was still standing on the post office steps. When she noticed I had paused, she stepped down and walked over, frowning slightly as she asked:
"You seem off somehow. Are you busy? Do you have an appointment or something?"
"No, you said ‘go’, so I went, and you stayed behind. That’s all."
"I don’t believe you."
We started walking together. We passed the entrance to Chí Linh Garden,[1] where the memorial looked freshly repainted—a bright yellow covering the map of Vietnam. That raised mound was a bomb shelter, probably built when the Japanese bombed the French.[2] They had left it as it was and built a war memorial on top of it.
We moved past the town hall gates. I hadn’t slept in days, worrying over this and that. My little cousin was gravely ill. I hadn't heard from my uncle in far too long. And my friends’ wavering decisions left me unsettled.
Hiền stopped at the tram station.
"Let’s wait here for the tram."
I stood next to her, hands in my pockets. Beside us, an old man in a long coat and leather cap was coughing intermittently. Beyond the low wall, a group of young men in shorts and white undershirts played volleyball, their shouts mixing with the sound of their feet hitting the ground and the ball smacking the court.
"It’s only the start of the season, but I’m freezing," I said.
"You’re so weak. Maybe you’re not well. I feel just fine. Even when I put my hands in cold water in the morning, I don’t feel a thing."
"You’re always the best, aren’t you?"
The tram, dragging two packed cars, arrived with its bells ringing incessantly. The crowd was so dense that baskets hung out of the windows, and people were crammed on the steps. The old man next to us, trembling, tried to find a way to squeeze in but couldn't. He muttered in frustration, clearly vexed. Hiền turned her face away. No one got off, and the tram pulled away.
"Let’s walk to warm up. Can you manage that?" I asked.
"I’m afraid..."
"Afraid someone might see us? Come on, it’s not like the old days."
After a brief moment of hesitation, Hiền agreed.
"I’ve never gone out alone with you before. It’ll be fun, and we won’t notice the distance. Walking all the way to the market for some bún chả might wear us out, don’t you think?"
"Well, at least we’ll have something to remember later."
For no particular reason, a wave of emotion washed over me. Something to remember—I smiled. We crossed the street and walked along the lakeside, where the path was less rough.
"If your uncle knew you were out with me, would he scold you?"
"We’re not exactly on a date," Hiền hesitated, turning to look me in the eyes. "Don’t you think? I mean, we’re not..."
She trailed off, walking briskly and evenly. I asked, "Not what?"
Hiền turned back, her face flushed. I thought of Thịnh.
"It would be so fun if Thịnh were still around. Back then, we used to go out together. Now that we're older, we just can't do that anymore."
"We don’t even know if Thịnh’s alive or dead in there. Every now and then, my mom and I would mention him and cry. My mom’s planning a marriage for Nghĩa now; it looks promising since Nghĩa seems willing. If things settle down, everything will be different by the time Thịnh returns. Who knows? Maybe he’ll come back with a wife from Cần Thơ."
"That’s possible. It’s easier to marry down there. If I’d been older back then, I would have gone too."
Hiền fell silent, and I began to imagine a desolate southern land. Endless fields, with no houses in sight, and farmlands without boundaries. Dark rubber plantations and laborers trapped in lives of misery, just as so many had described that distant land I had never seen. On Hàng Gạch Street, there was a recruitment office for laborers heading to the South. I’d seen men without work go there to sign up, receive a small bonus, pack their things, and wait to be sent off on ships. I imagined them leaving without any thought of ever returning. They would have a new life. But what would that life be like? What had happened to the young men who left for the South when the first shots were fired against the French? What would have happened if I had gone with them?[3]
The fighting wasn’t just in the South anymore. Gunfire echoed across the entire country now. The war was no longer as straightforward as it had once seemed. The idea of resistance, of liberation from foreign invaders, had changed—those changes now made the decision to participate fraught with contradictions.
Hiền asked, "Do you regret not going? Why don’t you go now?"
"Go where?"
"Out there. Someone told me to go out there."
"I don’t want to go out there, and I don’t want to stay here either."
We had passed the shops on Hàng Đào Street and were now on Hàng Ngang, where the fabric shops had thinned, replaced by rows of confectionery stores. Suddenly, a commotion arose. People on the left side of the road hurriedly crossed to the right, murmuring quietly, their faces anxious and uneasy. I stopped. They pointed across the street. I asked a shopkeeper standing nearby, "What’s going on?"
"An assassination," he replied.
The man gestured toward a figure lying motionless on the sidewalk in front of a traditional medicine shop. A felt hat lay upside down, about an arm's length from the body. No one dared to approach. Curious onlookers paused briefly, casting anxious glances before hurrying away, as if fearing they might somehow get entangled in the violence. The stranger continued:
"No one knows who fired the shot. One moment, there was a bang, and the next, the man was on the ground."
Hiền tugged at my arm, and we slipped away from the crowd. Farther down the street, we saw a police car and an ambulance rushing in the opposite direction, sirens wailing. Passersby stopped for a moment, bewildered, but soon returned to their business, buying and selling as if nothing had happened. Hiền looked frightened.
"The city isn’t safe anymore. Just a few nights ago, there were gunshots right near my house. My mom was restless, and I couldn't sleep either. Then I heard about a grenade exploding at the Kim Phụng cinema. Horrible. Why would they throw a grenade at people just trying to watch a movie? Who would dare go to the theater anymore?"
We had arrived at the market entrance, where a black French policeman was swinging a bamboo pole, shooing away street vendors. Groups of people scattered. As we entered the market, the noise of vendors calling out and the chaos of the crowd surrounded us. The crowd was so thick that I had to pause, letting the tide of people flow around me before I could make my way inside. But once inside, I lost sight of Hiền. I wandered past the fruit stands, through the food stalls area, and finally ended up near the flower and pet section, but Hiền was nowhere to be found. I searched in vain, straining to see her in the bustling, endless stream of people, all moving like a river in flood. If a grenade were to explode here... I wandered for a while longer, then tried to make my way back out, figuring that Hiền was probably somewhere nearby, also looking for me. Outside the market entrance, I stood watching, scanning the faces of passersby, but none were familiar. The sun was now high, and the crisp coolness of the morning had begun to fade. My palms were damp with sweat. I left the market and made my way home.
The quiet of the morning still lingered in the house. My grandfather was sitting on the wooden divan, draped in a thin burgundy quilt. He glanced up as I entered. My four-year-old sister sat by the stairs, playing idly with pebbles. My aunt came up from downstairs and asked, "Did you send the letter to your uncle?"
"I dropped it off this morning. At the latest, he should get it the day after tomorrow."
"I am getting anxious. I don't understand why it's taking your uncle so long to come back this time. I’ve heard that the roads aren’t safe lately; even traders are scared."
"This morning, there was another assassination in Hàng Ngang."
"Who?"
"No one knows who or why."
I went upstairs and curled up on my bed, thinking of Hiền in the crowd. The midday heat was growing more intense, and I drifted in and out of a light sleep. In my dream, the crowd was frantic, and a man's face, covered in blood, flashed before me as he ran, screaming wildly, only to vanish moments later. In that chaotic sea of people, I tried to call out to Hiền, but no sound came from my mouth.
A train passed over the bridge at around ten o’clock, its whistle long and drawn out. I lay awake, listening to the distant sound. In the afternoon, Trương came by, and we went for a walk.
We followed the path under the train bridge, heading toward the Two Ladies Shrine, then veered off towards Bến Nứa. At the bridge, we stopped to watch a group of Moroccan soldiers leading their horses from Gia Lâm. Trương, surprised, remarked, "The French are using horses in battle again?"
"Maybe they’re opening up a front in the mountains, where vehicles can’t go."
Lines of soldiers and horses streamed down from the bridge, heading towards the Citadel. Traffic was congested, piling up at the junction. I looked down Hàng Đậu Street, where the towering water tower still stood. On either side, tall walls rose precariously, still bearing the scars of fire and gunshots.
Trương asked, "Have you seen Vịnh? I wonder if he’s left yet."
"I haven’t seen him, but I doubt he’s gone. He acts all resolute, but deep down, he’s hesitating, conflicted—a kind of insecurity. He thinks he’s different, but really, he’s just as uncertain as the rest of us. We’ve told ourselves not to deceive ourselves. If you chase a goal you don’t believe in, what’s the point? What do you think?"
"He’s trying to escape from himself. I worry we’re too full of doubt. But at least he wants to act, and that’s something. The conclusions will come later."
We left the crowd behind at the bridge and continued uphill. Bến Nứa was still desolate—a wide open space where a few kids were practicing riding bicycles. A dilapidated gas station stood in ruins, and on the low embankment road, wild plants grew unchecked. The charred remains of a car lay rusting, belly-up. In the distance, the river narrowed, partially obscured by tall weeds growing beyond the bank. Long Biên Bridge loomed gray in the distance, its pillars suspended above the water, where tiny cars crawled slowly along.
When we reached the entrance to Hồng Phúc Alley, we stopped. A crowd had gathered at the brick steps leading from the embankment road down to the alley, which opened onto Hàng Than Street. The steps were tall and solidly built, flanked by two thick walls, and children had climbed up to sit, clustering the space. Suddenly, shouts erupted from the embankment above:
"There it is!"
"Hey, kids, get out of the way or you'll get killed!"
"Move aside!"
The people on the brick steps, along with the children, scattered hurriedly to either side. From where I stood, I saw a black soldier barreling down the embankment on a racing bicycle. He hunched low over the handlebars, speeding down the slope. The bike jolted as it hit the brick steps, momentarily losing balance, but somehow managed to stay upright. It landed at the bottom, and he continued riding on. Sitting up straight, the soldier raised a hand, waving in response to the cheers and applause from the bystanders.
Trương chuckled and said to me, "He’s got a death wish."
"Imagine being a man with a homeland, but not allowed to live in it. Taken by white men to fight their wars in a place like this—what else is there to do but toy with death?"
He probably thought of himself as some heroic knight. One day, that bike will break, or it’ll crash and impale him, or maybe it’ll throw him off, and he’ll die. So simple, so final. I imagined him laughing, dying in the most peaceful way. I pitied him. Maybe the battlefield didn’t scare him anymore, or maybe it scared him so much that he sought another kind of death—a death found in reckless play.
People were still waiting, but after a long while, there was no sign of him returning. They began to speculate: "He’s probably gone back by now. The boy must be exhausted after riding all afternoon." It took a long time before he reappeared, looking as though he had just returned from battle.
"That guy’s wild when he’s in action. He treats death like it’s nothing. He really put on a show today. Last time, he wrecked two bikes so badly the rental guy refused to lend him another."
"Well, he pays for the damage, so it’s not like anyone loses out."
"He’s crazy, though. Could spend that money on booze or women, but instead, he pulls stunts like this. Funny guy. He’s real kind, though—last time, after he got tired of riding, he sat down and let the kids tease him and bought them candy to share. I’ve never seen a Frenchman like him. Well, he’s African."
"Look! There he comes again! Get ready!"
He was pedaling towards us, hunched over the handlebars, his thick lips stretching into a wide grin. Sweat glistened on his rough, black skin. He shot down the slope, the bike wobbling dangerously, almost tipping over. This time, as soon as he hit the road, the front wheel twisted, and he fell. The bike crashed on top of him, and the crowd cheered. Despite the fall, he was still laughing. He struggled to his feet, and someone nearby helped him pick up the bike. He muttered, "Merci, merci," and checked the tires, squeezing them before laying the bike down to pump them up. Children crowded around him as he worked.
Trương tugged at my arm and said, "Quite the circus act."
"War makes people go mad," I replied.
"He’s lost all freedom, except for the freedom to die. Makes you wonder what it was like for our fathers who were shipped off to Europe to fight the Germans, against people they had no quarrel with."[4]
"I doubt anyone thought much about it. They fought just to stay alive. Once you're at the front, breathing in gunpowder, all thoughts vanish. Imagine soldiers from the same army, with no personal grudges, split into two groups and ordered to fight each other. Whoever wins gets to live. They’d still fight just as fiercely. It’s just self-preservation."
We walked uphill towards the Tiger rubber sandal factory, then turned down Hàng Than. Trương asked, "Do you think I should go with Vịnh? He says he wants me to come along, so he has company."
"Have you answered him yet?"
"No, I told him I’d think about it. But honestly, I haven’t really thought at all. I’ve got my old man and little Thu to take care of. My father expects me to finish school and start earning a living. You guys probably don’t have these small concerns weighing you down like I do."
I stayed quiet as we continued down the sloping street.
"It feels like we are being poisoned by illusions. When my uncle came back from the resistance,[5] I was surprised and asked him why. Wasn’t the heroic life out there captivating enough? He just laughed. Perhaps he was tired or too old for it now, I said. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. Maybe you think life out there is grand, that fighting in the resistance is honorable. But where does it lead?’ He wanted to return to take care of the children. He didn’t trust them anymore—everything was falling apart. We don’t know what we’re doing. That’s the answer I would give you."
"I’ve thought about it over and over, but it feels like I’m chasing my tail. The things we’ve learned from books might make sense in some other society, but they don’t fit here. Even when Vịnh keeps going on and on about class struggle, I just don’t see it. There are farmers, but no capitalists. Clearly, there is a ruling class, but even our wealthier peasants don’t live much better than the general population, sometimes even worse than people in industrialized nations. Outside, they’re just waving the banner of anti-colonialism, but the goal they are aiming for is something I can’t accept."
"Do you know what our soldiers brought back from Europe?[6] Rubber “women” things—the French handed them out for masturbation. The French used them, but we didn’t."
Trương burst out laughing, and I added, "Our people were amazed. They passed them around, saying, ‘The French really are civilized.’ Our society keeps getting shaped by outside forces, always chasing trends, always lagging behind. That thought worries me. As for Vịnh, it’s up to you. I’m in a position to go with him, but I won’t. He knows that, so when we met recently, neither of us mentioned it. He probably thinks I’m a coward."
As we walked further down the street, we came across the French soldier again. His face was scratched and bleeding, and he was carrying his broken bicycle, with one wheel bent, slung over his shoulder. He puffed on a cigarette, sweat dripping down his grim, expressionless face. "He’s not dead yet," Trương remarked.
The soldier’s swaggering walk and long strides gave off an air of defiance, but I imagined that later tonight, in the solitude of the night, he would cry, missing his wife and the scorching homeland he had been forced to leave behind. I suggested to Trương that we stop by a small bookstore. Inside, I saw old pre-war magazines for sale, and two kids were there asking for Người Nhạn Trắng, issue six. Recently, serialized novels like Tam Quốc and detective stories were becoming popular again, sold for just one đồng each.
We continued to Hàng Đậu Garden, where we each drank a glass of rice water before Trương headed home. I said to him, "Maybe I’ll come over and stay the night tomorrow."
I wandered down towards the hospital, passing by a brothel where a group of French soldiers were lined up, waiting their turn. I continued on to the gate of Hàng Than school, where I waited for my two younger cousins, then led them home. The evening was slowly descending over the city.
CHAPTER 2
As soon as I stepped into the room, I could hear Vịnh’s voice, though I couldn’t make out the words clearly. When he saw me, he stopped speaking. Trương, who had been lying on a canvas chair, got up. Vịnh put down the book he had been reading. I asked, "I thought you’d already left. Why are you still here?"
"I missed the intended trip. I’m still waiting for contact, but it’ll only be a day or two more."
Vịnh fell silent, looking at me for a moment before sitting down. I turned to Trương.
"And you?"
"Same as usual," he replied.
Trương lay back down on the bed, and I found a chair to sit beside him. None of us spoke. I wasn’t sure how to steer the conversation. Lately, there had been many things among friends that we preferred not to discuss. We had learned to remain indifferent to each other’s private lives, perhaps a lesson in wisdom we had picked up over time.
Trương continued to juggle his studies and teaching. Vịnh had been in the same first-year university class as Trương, but this year he had taken a break for what he called "activities"—something he had mentioned to me before. Meanwhile, I had been struggling through the first year of high school, left behind by my friends.
The last time I saw Vịnh, he had looked serious and told me, "You have to get out…"
We had gone for coffee that day, but I hadn’t expressed any attitudes or opinions about what he was planning to do. I was cautious and had retreated into myself. I knew I was living in a web—suffocated by an atmosphere that felt oppressive—but despite knowing this, I couldn’t find a way to move, let alone break free. So I tried to throw myself into work, hoping to fill the void and stop thinking. But I couldn’t even manage that.
In past gatherings like this, we used to dive into the issues of the day eagerly. But now, when it came to personal choices, we preferred to remain silent. Suddenly, Vịnh put down his book and spoke up:
"Have you guys heard the news about Hoạch's death?"
"Which Hoạch?"
"Tall Hoạch, from back then."
"He was drafted, right? Went to officer training and just graduated as a second lieutenant."
"Yeah. He died in Vĩnh Yên.[7] He’s the perfect example of young men with no ideals. I can’t understand how someone like that could even live."
I interrupted, cutting off the direction of the conversation. "Here we go again, assigning him a class label. How do you know he didn’t have any ideals?"
"Did he? When the resistance broke out, he was scared and stayed in the city, but always talked big about the resistance, about patriotism, about compassion for the people. When he was about to be drafted, he jumped at the chance to get a rank by going to officer school. Once you’ve joined, you have to fight—that’s the least expectation. But as soon as he heard gunfire, he threw down his weapon and raised his hands, shouting, ‘I was forced into this!’ Do you know what he said to the troops out there?"
"How do you know?"
"The one who led the victorious side told me. Hoạch begged for his life, saying that it wasn’t his fault, that he was still loyal at heart. But they shot him anyway. People like him are useless..."
"That’s so cruel. He probably had a family."
"Cruelty? In war, there's no such thing. He deserved to be shot. No point wasting food on someone like that. Whether you like it or not, you need ideals to live."
"Ideals! But let me ask you..." I paused for a moment, stood up, and walked over to sit at the table directly facing Vịnh, looking him in the eyes. "Do you have ideals?"
Vịnh stood up and laughed loudly. That smug posture made me want to punch him in the face. I held back my anger, grabbed the book from the table, and tore it in half, throwing the pieces to the floor. The ripping sound was enough to make Vịnh turn serious. Trương sat up abruptly. I leaned forward on the table, speaking just loud enough for him to hear:
"Stop that disgusting laugh—and if you must laugh, do it somewhere far away from your friends. I can’t stand that attitude."
"Have you forgotten you’re about to head out there?" he asked.
"I know. And I hope you find whatever it is you’re after. But is it really any different out there from here?"
"I don’t need you to tell me what to think. But what about you? What are you doing here? What will you do, other than bury your head in books and dream of a revolution that’ll never come?"
"Fine, think what you want. Like I said, when caught in the same net, every fish is the same. The only difference is whether they’re fried or made into salad. I know I can’t do anything. I’m weak—so weak that I can only think about something small, like a home, perhaps…"
I was overwhelmed with emotion, almost collapsing onto the table. Vịnh stood by the window, gazing down at the street, watching the people pass by. I lit a cigarette, letting the smoke fall over the table. Vịnh picked up the torn book, stuffed it in his bag, and left without saying another word. I turned to Trương, "I’d like to have dinner with you."
I hadn’t been home for three days. I’d been staying with an acquaintance, and today, thanks to friends, I came back. I had quit teaching over a month ago and didn’t know what to do next. The actions and attitudes of many people had made me uneasy. Some friends had been drafted or left to join the fight. A few had found ways to slip away and avoid it. The war was a looming presence, its atmosphere thick and inescapable. The constant pressure on my mind made it impossible for me to focus on studying. Even finishing the second part of my exams—which I wanted to complete this year—felt like just another chore before I could move on with my life.
Among the friends who were once close, each of us had now taken a different path. There was Trương, Vịnh, Trịnh, Lâm. Thịnh had left when the first shots were fired in the South. Trịnh had been gone for over a year. Lâm stayed in the city, but I hadn’t seen him since he proposed to Hiền six months ago. That left just the three of us: me, Vịnh, and Trương. Soon, Vịnh would leave too. And before long, either Trương or I would follow. We had all built our own worlds, our own prisons.
I sat motionless in my chair until it was time for dinner. During the meal, Trương shared some unexpected news:
"I just got word from Thịnh."
"He’s alive?"
"Yes, alive, currently in Zone Three."[8]
"I need to tell Hiền and her family right away. After all this time, no news, no replies… finally something real. It’s hard to believe."
I thought of how overjoyed Hiền would be when she learned that her brother, Thịnh, was still alive. We had all been there to see him off when he left. As a joke, Thịnh had leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "You’ll have to wait until I come back before you marry her, you hear? At the very least, let her big brother have a big drinking bash. If not, when I get back, I’ll make both of you lie face down and give you three lashes."
Our love wasn’t a secret—both Hiền’s family and our friends knew about it. Several years had passed, and yet, we still hadn’t married. Life had become more complicated, filled with worries and distractions. Since the day Thịnh left, nothing had really changed between us, despite all the turmoil. Our love was steady, with the only disruption being Lâm’s proposal to Hiền—a betrayal that left me regretful and hurt. I never thought Lâm would fall for the same woman I loved.
After dinner, I lay down at Trương’s house and drifted into a brief sleep. In my dream, I clung to myself while dreaming of someone else. By late afternoon, I made my way back home.
I walked through the crowd, brushing past people, my mind completely blank. I passed sidewalks and street corners, hearing the murmur of voices and sounds rising up. When I reached the entrance to my alley, I had to climb over a pile of stones that the public works department had dumped there to repair the road. I picked up a stone, absentmindedly rolling it in my hand. As I reached the doorstep, the French dog rushed out to greet me, nudging at my hand. Without thinking, I struck it on the head with the stone. It yelped and scurried under the bed.
Inside, I saw my grandfather sitting there, counting silver coins and looking out. I braced myself for the inevitable lecture—a long tirade I didn’t even fully understand but knew was coming—just so there would be some noise to break the dead silence of the attic.
"So it’s that no-good Ngạc back again, is it? You’re as wicked as ever! If that dog had died, would you just carry on, wasting, destroying, wandering around? Am I here just for you all to take revenge on?"
I climbed the stairs as he kept grumbling. Too tired to bother with anything else, I flopped down on the bed, clothes still on, my head burning like I had a fever, my breath stifled. Darkness closed in around me, and for a moment, I thought if I lay still for another minute or two, I’d pass out or die, unable to move.
Downstairs, I could hear people paying their daily installments, their voices sharp and haggling, mixing with my grandfather’s loud, nagging complaints, sounding like an old woman’s scolding. In the yard, my uncle’s children were fighting and arguing noisily. The youngest was crying again, and I could hear my aunt trying to soothe him. He’d had pneumonia for two months now. I had sent two telegrams to my uncle at the port,[9] but there had been no reply.
I grabbed the feather duster, tiptoed down to the yard, and whipped each of the five kids three times on the backside. They immediately sat down, trembling, staring at me in silence. Every time I saw their faces or heard their voices, I felt an overwhelming urge to grab a piece of wood, a stick, anything, and hit them until my hands went numb. But afterward, pity always crept in. Annoyed, I went back inside.
My grandfather was still counting money, stuffing the notes into an old biscuit tin. "That Nhiêu Hai still owes two days. Khán’s missing one. And that hag Thêm’s playing hide-and-seek, thinking she can get away without paying…It’s already such light interest, but they take advantage of my kindness, trying to cheat me. Heartless things…"
Seeing me come in, he paused for a second before continuing. "Where have you been the last few days? Go off all you want, but the moment you come back, you stir up trouble. What’s that about?"
"If I beat them until they cry or scream, at least it’ll drown out the bickering and cursing around here. Better they cry now than grow up to mimic all of this later. I can’t stand it anymore..."
"There you go again, sounding just like your father."
"I know all too well. Even my father couldn’t stand it, let alone me. This place was so filthy he left just to get away from it."
"Why don’t you leave then? Filthy! You still stuff that filth into your mouth, don’t you? Am I eating it all alone? You ungrateful wretch! I’d kill you all if I could..."
"Ah ha! Ah ha!"
I stood at the stairs, legs spread wide, laughing loudly.
"Maybe you’ve killed someone before, and that’s why my father went mad after witnessing it..."
"Shut your mouth!"
Ignoring his outburst, I walked over to the small room. My aunt was holding my younger sibling, gently placing her hand on his chest. His breathing was labored, and his thin skin clung tightly to his fragile frame. His small ribs curved beneath his flesh. "How’s he doing?" I asked.
"The same," she replied.
"Maybe tomorrow we’ll hear from Uncle."
Feeling a pang of sorrow, I tossed the feather duster aside and ran upstairs, burying my head in the messy pile of blankets. I drifted into a restless sleep. When the maid came to call me for dinner, my throat was so dry I couldn’t respond right away. It took me a moment to finally tell her I wasn’t eating. I asked her to turn on the desk lamp before she left.
Lying there, I realized how absurd I was—trapping myself in a place I despised, that made me sick to my stomach. Yet it was only by living here that I truly understood why my father had gone mad. My grandfather, a stingy, scheming, cruel man, had spent years lending money, pawning goods, and managing small loans for the poor in Under-Bridge and Bắc Qua markets. For years, his entire existence had been reduced to cursing people and counting money every afternoon. As for my grandmother, no one had ever spoken a word to me about her. My uncle, disgusted by it all, had left, choosing to work on a ship for a French trading company at the port instead of staying in this miserable house.
My father had gone mad and disappeared. It was said that my grandfather had once raped a servant girl. When she threatened to report him to the police, he strangled her to death. After that, my father left the house. A while later, he returned, carrying a small child in his arms. He handed the baby to my grandfather and said:
"Here’s your grandchild. You’re going to raise him for me."
"When did you get married? I haven’t even finished raising that bastard Ngạc, and now you bring me this?"
"I raped someone, and she gave birth to this child, so you have to raise him. He’s your grandchild."
"Throw him out on the street. I don’t know anything about this."
"Do you know that you raped the servant girl?"
"You damned fool."
"And do you remember how you strangled her to death? Let me remind you. Ah ha! So much on your plate that you’ve forgotten what your own son still remembers. You tied one end of a rope to a post, made a loop, and slipped it around her delicate, pale neck. That poor girl had been forced into service because her parents couldn’t pay off their debts. And you wrapped the belt around her, spread your legs, and pulled the rope tight—pulled until she thrashed about, her tongue sticking out, foam gathering at her mouth. That young body you held so close went limp, soft just like noodles. Then you hung her from the rafters and cried out that the servant girl had committed suicide. No one accused you because you bribed the soldiers. The dead can’t speak, and even if her spirit seeks vengeance, its cries will never rise from hell. But I know. I could testify and have you thrown in prison right now. So, raise this child to atone for your sins. He has no papers—you can claim him as your own if you want."
My grandfather fell silent and hired someone to care for the child. A year later, my father returned again, carrying another baby. He placed the child on the bed, holding a knife in his hand, and said to my grandfather:
"Raise another one for me."
My grandfather looked at the baby, then at my father’s bloodshot eyes and the firm grip he had on the knife, saying nothing. The next day, my father came back, smashing things in the house, grabbed me by the shoulders, stared into my face, then suddenly burst out laughing. After that, no one ever heard from him again. That’s all I was told.
The two children grew up, and my grandfather sent them to a vocational school. When they tried to come back home, he sent them off to a monastery in Thái Hà. One of them, Hùng, was brash and loud. The other, Thân, always seemed angry, as if holding onto some deep resentment.
I’ve always harbored a grudge against Hùng—because, to my mind, it was his mother who had tried to kill me. I sat up in bed as the old memories of that tragic sequence flooded back, one after the other. The clinking of dishes downstairs signaled that dinner was over. My grandfather was calling for Tùng, my uncle’s third child, to come and massage his back before he went to sleep. If I stayed still long enough, I would soon hear him yawning.
"Why?"
I had asked myself this question countless times since returning here, never able to pinpoint why I still lingered in such a house. I stayed here, hiding it from my friends and even from the one I loved. I often thought that if they saw how I lived, they would look down on me. After much thought, I realized the only reason I remained here was because of my mother—the woman who died when I was two years old. I had learned about her through stories my father told my aunt before he went mad.
My mother passed away while my father was still at home. Every year, on the anniversary of her death, he would weep. She was the only person I respected and loved, the reason I stayed in this house and didn’t want to leave.
I pitied my father, but I resented him for not caring about my future. He left me to grow up in a life that felt dirty and soul-crushing. I often wished my grandfather would die, even though he was the one who paid for my education. Since the day I found out about everything, I no longer spoke kindly to him. I referred to myself as "I" instead of "grandson," treating him like an outsider, a delinquent without manners. I didn’t feel a shred of guilt about it. My anger stemmed from the belief that my grandfather’s filthy way of living had corrupted me, depriving me of the love and affection that every child deserved. This existence had caused me unspeakable pain and left me yearning for my mother, imagining her as a pure, almost mythical figure, untouched by the grime and depravity I faced every day.
My aunt tried clumsily to take care of my younger siblings while my uncle—honorable and knowledgeable—was the one who saved me from being killed by Hùng’s mother. If I had died, Hùng would have inherited everything. He had a birth certificate claiming he was my father’s son. The attack happened one afternoon when I returned from school. As I reached the alleyway, an older woman—Hùng’s mother—hit me in the face with a porcelain basin. I passed out, barely able to cry out a few faint words.
My uncle managed to capture the woman and bring her to the police, where she claimed to be my father’s second wife. The incident left me with a long scar on my cheek—a constant reminder of my grudge for Hùng. His mother was imprisoned but later released and married someone from the mountains.
I never gave much thought to my grandfather's wealth—accumulated from the sweat and tears of the poor, through exploitation—just as I could never forget the curses he would spew every afternoon.
I sat at my desk, straightening my books. Hiền’s letter sat there, and thinking of her made me think of Thịnh, who was still alive somewhere out there. From the bridge came the echo of a train’s whistle as it slowly rolled into the city. The evening train was late, likely due to a mine or stretches of track being sabotaged. The long train, packed with soldiers in the rear, rushed to cross the bridge. The acrid black smoke wafted through the window, making me cough terribly. A lone sentry was patrolling the bridge, pacing back and forth. It had been a long time since I’d last heard the deep, mournful sound of a bugle. The gray train cars and the ever-present signs of war have darkened daily life.
At night, the city’s lights would sometimes flicker off in unison with the sound of explosions or the crack of gunfire from an assassination attempt, enough to keep anyone on edge. After these incidents, the sound of military boots would echo beneath the train bridge, and the night would be filled with the grinding of armored vehicles on the asphalt. These hulking machines, with their guns pointed at piles of rubble, cast long, menacing shadows over the ruins of the city.[10]
Hanoi: the constant surges of fear in darkness sharpened my awareness of life’s uncertainty and the precariousness of existence. Every day, the war only grew more intense. And amid this chaos, we were growing up—living, loving, and grappling with our passions, our romances, and our anxieties about both the future and the past.
I often lied when people asked about my hometown, family, or relatives. I would say my entire family had been wiped out by gunfire, and that my homeland, Thạch Thất in Sơn Tây, had been swallowed by war for the past three or four years, making it impossible for me to return. I painted myself as a victim of the war. But the truth was, I was merely a spectator, consumed by theories and conflicted thoughts in these tumultuous times. Perhaps, for those who had lived too comfortably, war too became a kind of adventure.
Stuck between two competing sides, I longed for a reason to get involved, to have a purpose—to push out an invading army. At the same time, I grew disgusted with those in the city who were profiting off the blood and sweat of their fellow countrymen.
I yearned to be that young adventurer, wandering in search of new sensations. As I climbed into bed and turned off the light, I could still hear my aunt’s lullaby and the faint clang of the watchman’s bell from the guard post near the bridge.
CHAPTER 3
I left the shaded streets of Cửa Bắc, lined with ambarella trees, and made my way down the slope of Hàng Than, waiting for the streetcar to Yên Phụ. The late afternoon sky was awash with red clouds, glowing brightly as the sun dipped lower. My thoughts drifted to Hiền, and it seemed likely that I’d be staying for dinner at her place. Once on the streetcar, I stood at the back, where the passengers were lively, the dim lights inside flickering as the bell rang intermittently. As we passed the Hòa Giai Temple, I could hear the rhythmic beat of the wooden fish and the murmuring chants. From the Tiger rubber sandal factory,[11] the car sped through a grassy stretch by the levee, and across the Phúc Xá field, a few small fires flickered in the distance.
I stepped into the familiar house just as Hiền was closing the shop for her mother. When she saw me, she stopped what she was doing and, in a half-scolding tone, said from the doorway:
"Why haven’t you come by in so long? Mother’s been asking. I told her you were probably busy studying for exams."
"You’re probably right. And I’m starving."
"Perfect timing then."
I greeted Hiền’s mother, who was inside lighting the candles on the family altar.
I sat alone in the large rattan chair in the corner of the outer room. A strange calm settled over me as I watched Hiền moving about outside. I felt a quiet contentment. I couldn’t quite recall when we had fallen in love, but by now, we shared so many memories, so many bonds that had quietly grown into a life of their own. As I sat there, my thoughts wandered to a possible family life. Wouldn’t it be better if I just married Hiền and lived here? Yet strangely, neither of us had ever truly discussed getting married, starting a family, or settling down together. And suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a sense of things falling apart. I felt powerless. Even if we did marry, would I be able to bring her happiness—or even find it for myself? The bombs, the smoke, and the suffocating tension from the constant threat of death not far from us made me painfully aware of the smallness of our fate and the uncertainty of life. So many anxieties and fears pressed in on my mind incessantly.
Hiền came in with a pot of tea. Her mother joined us. Trương's words echoed in my mind.
"Ma'am, I just heard from a friend. There's news about Thịnh."
"What news?"
"He's alive, and he's currently in Zone Three."
"Oh, heavens... I recently had a dream about him, and it's left me so unsettled. How can we send him word? It's been so long... I thought I’d never hear from him again."
"We'll write when someone heads that way. By now, he must look so different—probably aged a lot," Hiền said.
"Such nonsense you’re talking, as if it could be any different! If it weren’t for the war, he’d have a family and children by now. And you too—you still seem like a little girl. These few years feel like an eternity... but I suppose he’s still the same. I wonder what he’s doing now. Is there any way to send him a message?"
As the conversation went on, memories of Thịnh resurfaced—his quirks, his habits, the tender affections of a mother for her son. Though he was the second-born, Thịnh always held a special place in his mother’s heart. She believed he alone inherited the bloodline of his father, a man who had spent years evading capture, in and out of prison for his revolutionary activities, before dying in exile. The sorrow of losing her husband had lingered in her heart, unshakable. From the time he was young, something in Thịnh made his mother recognize that connection. Perhaps it was for this reason she loved him more. Thịnh's older brother, Nghĩa, led a more stable life, content with a civil service job. He was indifferent to everything, focused on small, mundane pursuits, dreaming only of a simple, modest existence. While events swept Thịnh into them with fiery passion, Nghĩa withdrew, staying close to their mother, envisioning a quiet family life of his own making.
To me, Thịnh always seemed like a proud, self-assured figure. As we sat down for dinner, I said to Hiền:
"What if I left like your brother?"
"Are you trying to scare me? You can still go if you want to. Do you know someone’s already asked me to go out there?"
"Go out there?"
"Why not... but I haven’t had time to think about it."
"Vịnh is leaving soon, too."
"And you?"
"I might."
"I know. Back then, it was Thịnh that said—oh wait, who was it again? Anyway, I heard you had a girlfriend working out there as a medic. They say back when she was in the city, you’d pass by her house dozens of times every night. Then she took pity on you and invited you to stroll down Cổ Ngư. You didn’t see her again after that evening, so you got lovesick and quit studying, didn’t you?"
"Ah, curious enough... perhaps I should just go after her then."
I laughed, looking at Hiền. Her face was half-hidden in the soft light. Her deep black eyes gazed intently at me, her hair draped over one shoulder, and she was absentmindedly brushing it with her hand, smoothing the strands.
"Why do you look so much thinner lately?"
"You’re mistaken, I’m fine. Life’s comfortable... no worries."
As usual, Hiền’s mother urged her to set the table and invited me to stay for dinner. Like before, I sat on the bed, eating off a wooden tray. I ate heartily.
By the time I left, the streetcars had stopped running. Hiền walked me to the corner near the Ideo printing house.
"Have you heard from Lâm lately?"
"No. Let’s not bring that up anymore."
I said goodbye to Hiền. The streets were dark and quiet. In the distance, the faint whistle of the power plant pierced through the night air.
I had read about four pages on the stone bench when Trương arrived, walking up from the direction of Quan Thánh. It was a quiet Saturday afternoon, and there were only a few people strolling around the Botanical Garden. The poinciana trees had started to bloom, signaling the beginning of summer. Trương sat down beside me, casual and calm as ever.
"I just got word that Vịnh was arrested."
"Arrested..."
I stopped reading and closed my book.
"He got caught in Phùng. He planned to go from there down to Chương Mỹ, then to Trầm and Bương Cấn, but he was picked up right after stepping off the bus because he looked suspicious. I’m thinking of visiting him tomorrow to see what’s up."
"Why don’t you just leave him be?"
"Leave him? Why? Do you know anyone in that area? It’s in Đan Phượng district."
I reopened the book to the page I had been reading, but I only stared blankly at it.
"Getting caught again. Idiot."
"They pick up anyone unfamiliar. The garrison knows everyone in town. One unfamiliar face and they get suspicious. If cracks and spills about the cell in the city, names and all, we’ll all be done for. I’ve been trying to find you for days. What’s with your address on Hàng Than? I couldn’t find you there. Couldn’t catch you at school either. Where are you staying?"
"Ah, well..."
I tried to change the subject. I knew hiding things was troublesome, but I wasn’t sure what to do. The Hàng Than address was just an acquaintance’s place. When Trương mentioned Vịnh, I felt uneasy. I suddenly thought of an old friend named Trần Văn Hoàng, who I had recently run into. He mentioned he was now working as a secretary in Đan Phượng. Maybe he could help. I told Trương about it and added:
"Tomorrow morning, let’s meet at the Kim Mã bus station at 8. Wait for me there. I’m worried about going anywhere these days—God forbid we get caught in one of their random conscriptions and get shipped off immediately. Anything new on your end?"
"Frustrated. I’m done poking around corpses."
"So what will you do? Maybe it's better to lie low."
"I want to break free."
"Break free? Like Vịnh? You all think that’s the answer. You throw yourselves into secret activities in the city just because you have a bad conscience about the resistance. You see so many people involved and feel left out. You want to be part of a larger movement just to feel protected by the collective force. Personally, I don’t think it’s necessary. We’re stuck in the middle, but that doesn’t mean we have to pick a side."
"But it’s the crowd. Maybe Vịnh was right."
"And then what? How will history unfold?"
Trương let the question hang as we stood up and began strolling along the narrow paths. The April heat was stifling. I thought about his family and asked:
"How’s Thu? He left the countryside and came here, didn’t he?"
"Yeah, he wants me to bring her and our father here too. They can’t take it there any more—too much oppression. By day, the French, with the help of local officials, squeeze the people dry, and by night they retreat to their garrisons, leaving the villagers to fend for themselves. The guerrillas return under the cover of darkness to tax, indoctrinate, and kidnap. It’s endless. Whenever the French receive a tip-off, they show up too late, and it’s the villagers who get interrogated and beaten. Last year, the French raided the village and killed my mother. I want to bring my father and sister here, but it’s not much safer, and well... life is tough."
"We shouldn’t have to worry about these things, but the reality doesn’t allow us to turn away... we’re young... and people go on living so indifferently..."
"Indifferent? It’s a filthy indifference—parading around in luxury, laughing amidst the dead. Is that what you’re telling me to do?"
"I don’t blame them. Maybe they’re just sick of the war. If they can forget for a moment, they do… One should do something."
"Do what?"
"That’s what I keep asking myself. No ideal really captivates me, everything feels temporary. I feel like I’ve lost something, or maybe I never had it to begin with. I want to find it again."
"Maybe it’s all because of the books. Maybe we just need to start living."
Our conversations always went in circles, full of questions with no answers—or maybe we didn’t want to face the answers.
Trương’s life was tough, and he was constantly dissatisfied. He was the son of a wealthy landowner who owned several brick kilns in Văn Điển. The comfort of his former life allowed him to witness the suffering and grudge of the poor. The war destroyed everything. His father and younger sister struggled to make ends meet. Trương left the countryside for the city, studying while trying to survive. But when small responsibilities began piling up, he struggled. Perhaps we were all like that.
We walked toward the end of Quan Thánh Street. The afternoon sun shimmered on West Lake. From there, I headed down Northern Gate, making my way back to Hàng Đậu.[12] Trương invited me to a café on Ngõ Trạm. The afternoon light faded gradually. In the dim glow, I stared at my reflection in the coffee cup: dark shadows danced across a weary, somber face. Trương smoked, exhaling toward the ceiling. We sat in silence until it was time to part ways. I trudged back along Citadel Pathway. The city briefly came alive in the evening, only to quiet down again. The streets along the citadel were deserted. The soft clink of a street vendor’s tools echoed in the intoxicating stillness. Nearby, French soldiers sang drunkenly outside dance halls on Eastern Gate. The rickshaw drivers hung about, ready to pick up passengers.
As I turned toward Cống Tréo, a voice in the dark shouted, "Stop." Two French gendarmes, rifles pointed, flashed their lights in my face, demanding my papers and searching me.
"Where are you going at this hour?"
"I’m visiting an acquaintance."
"Don’t you know this road is off-limits after curfew?"
"Sorry, I didn’t realize."
One of them patted me down from head to toe. In the distance, I heard a woman scream from the shadows near the bridge. I shuddered and hurried on. I turned into Under Bridge alley. At the entrance, I spotted the Chinese-Vietnamese girl who lived next door, stretching as she exercised. Her pale skin and firm, round breasts—ever since I saw her bathing, I had wanted to sleep with her. I often caught glimpses of her tempting figure. When I got home, my grandfather was putting his money box back into the cabinet. He looked at me but said nothing. My younger cousins, who had been idling around, fell silent and scattered as I walked in.
I asked my aunt, "Any news from uncle?"
No reply. I sat down for dinner, listening to the clatter of dishes. The dog sat by my grandfather.
Later, I went upstairs to read by lamplight. Thoughts of Vịnh lingered as I slowly drifted to sleep.
The next morning, I got up and dressed, heading downstairs while my younger siblings were still asleep. My grandfather lay in bed, coughing faintly. I held the hand of my little cousin who was ill and said to my aunt.
"I won't be home for lunch. It's Saturday, maybe uncle will come back."
I gently opened the door to the alley and softly closed it behind me. The mixed-blood Chinese girl was already awake, stretching and doing exercises. I asked myself, Why didn’t I dare to embrace her?
I went out to the street and had steamed rice rolls. The chili and vinegar made my eyes water, I winced as if it was cold, and the vendor lady smiled at me.
I took the tram to the lakeside, then transferred to another tram heading to Kim Mã. Trương waited for me at the phở shop at the terminal. I gazed at the faces of the prostitutes sitting there. After eating, I went out to have a hot cup of green tea. The morning lighted up with a cigarette, the sky was strangely calm and serene. At that moment, I heard the bell ringing inside the Hôtel des Monnaies,[13] the gates wide open, and a convoy of prisoners poured out. The country folk, young and old, were packed inside the trucks, surrounded by bayonet-wielding soldiers. The trucks sped away, horns blaring, kicking up thick clouds of dust and smoke that nearly choked me. The station was deserted, and the rickshaw puller said:
"There’s no one going anywhere. Only people fleeing to the city. No business, so the vehicles run empty, sometimes there isn't a single passenger. Abandoning fields and gardens to come here, but there's no rice to eat. Even if the bombs don’t kill us, we’ll end up eating each other...”
On the bus ride with Trương, there was only one other passenger, who got off at Diễn. We traveled the entire route, and when the tram left Cầu Giấy, it had to stop for inspection. An old man joined us there as a travel companion.
The tram traveled swiftly through the fields. We saw military posts with tall mounds and flagpoles reaching up. After four checkpoints, we arrived at Phùng.[14] Truong's watch showed 10 o'clock, throughout the ride everyone was lost in their own thoughts, no one wanted to say a word; I had the chance to observe the rural scene post-chaos, activities along the main Hanoi - Son Tay route. We got off at the desolate station.
The stone roads of the past had turned into dirt, with large potholes, shattered during the French attacks by trenches and mounds. Later flattened, the big wheels, tanks crushing the surface, the roads constantly worn by military vehicles. The rural people were scared, retreating to the market verandas.
I told Trương:
"Let's go down there for a bit."
We took a look around, this was once a district capital, now turned into a ward with administrative and military offices. The devastation was evident from the outside. The communal houses, temples, and shrines had all become fortresses.
Trương said: "Just crossing the Đáy River here, and you're already in an uncontrolled area. The French only hold this side of the river and the main roads, but from here down to the Thá junction, things are still quite chaotic, even though it’s the plains. We stopped by a tea shop, had some bánh tẻ before heading in. The district headquarters was set in a temple surrounded by four or five tall guard posts. The buildings, made of corrugated iron, were encircled by barbed wire fences and a moat. When we reached the district gate, two soldiers stopped us, and I asked for Mr. Hoàng.
I claimed to be his foster brother wanting to meet him, and the old soldier led us inside the district headquarters. We walked across an empty field overgrown with wild grass until we reached a long corrugated iron building. The soldier pointed us toward the first house and called out:
"Mr. Hoàng, you’ve got visitors!"
From the window, I saw Hoàng, shirtless, sitting on a canvas chair, winding up a phonograph just as a reform song began. Hearing the call, Hoàng stood up, came outside, and greeted us.
"Well, well, what wind blew you here? Luckily I’m here today. Please, come in."
I introduced:
"This is Mr. Trương. And this is Mr. Hoàng, both friends."
Trương and Hoàng shook hands, and we pulled up chairs to sit down. Hoàng put away the phonograph and put on a shirt.
"You must have some business to be here?"
"I’ve got a favor to ask of you."
"This place is dull as can be. ‘On the edge of heaven and earth’ you know."
After some small talk, I began telling Hoàng about Vịnh’s situation and asked him to inquire about it, and, if possible, intervene.
"I work here in administration; arrests and security matters fall under the military. If there's something I can do to help, I will. Please, stay while I look into it."
Hoàng hurriedly dressed and left immediately. I sat with Trương, looking around the corrugated iron-roofed, wood-paneled room. It was a makeshift soldier’s camp—likely used to house officials and their families for security reasons.
I wound up the phonograph and listened to a folk song, Cò Lả,[15] until Hoàng returned.
"Good news. I spoke with the commander. It seems your friend was imprisoned for a few days and took a beating. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear about it sooner. Here, anyone who’s arrested is bound to get roughed up... it’s just part of their duty..."
We followed Hoàng to the outpost stationed on the dyke, across from the district headquarters. We walked along a narrow path at the base of the dyke, flanked by barbed wire fences and overgrown with wild grass. French soldiers as dark as charred posts patrolled with rifles, pacing back and forth inside the perimeter. High watchtowers with searchlights and gun barrels pointed downward gave me the impression that we were in a dangerous battlefield, where a fierce clash could break out at any moment. None of us said anything. Trương lit a cigarette, passed it to Hoàng, and then to me.
After crossing a concrete bridge, we reached the outpost. Hoàng spoke to the guard, who then led us inside to the office. The Vietnamese deputy commander greeted Hoàng warmly. Hoàng introduced us, and after a short wait, two soldiers brought Vịnh in. The deputy commander apologized:
"We deeply regret not knowing sooner that this gentleman was a friend and innocent. Given the current security situation, we have to fulfill our duties..."
Vịnh looked gaunt—though he had always been thin, now he appeared even more emaciated. His face was hollow, marked with bruises, and his eyes were sunken deep. We silently understood the pain he had endured. As we prepared to leave, we asked about Vịnh’s belongings, but nothing remained. I put a hand on his shoulder and asked:
"Can you manage to walk?"
Vịnh didn’t reply. We thanked the deputy commander and took our leave.
Back at Hoàng’s house, we gave Vịnh a glass of warm milk and let him rest for a while. When Hoàng stepped outside, Vịnh said:
"They're trying to conquer this way, but they’ll fail. It’s the people who suffer."
As the sun began to set, we thanked Hoàng and caught a ride back to Hanoi. In the carriage, Vịnh coughed relentlessly, exhausted, leaning against me as he struggled to breathe.
"Nothing’s been accomplished. Hadn’t even set off before they beat you half dead. When will you go again?"
"Don’t ask again. Don’t try to lecture me. I can’t stay here and watch everything pass by like the rest of you."
I took Vịnh all the way home and stayed the night. The first to cry when they saw him was his elderly mother, followed by his sister. I explained to them about Vịnh:
"We just got back from Phùng. He’s weak, probably needs some medicine."
I sat down to eat at the small wooden platform in the quiet, desolate house deep in the alley of Yên Thái. Vịnh barely ate, coughing throughout the meal. All three of them looked concerned. I said, "It’s lucky they didn’t send him to Hôtel des Monnaies. Who knows when he would’ve gotten out, or if he’d even survive."
Vịnh stayed silent, filled with pent-up frustration. Huệ, his sister, confided:
"I told him before—he should have stayed with the two of us, his only family. Our father is gone. Mom’s old; who knows how much time she has left. But Vịnh didn’t listen. He hasn’t done anything to help the family. Instead, he’s made us worry even more."
As she spoke, she wiped her tears with the corner of her shirt. I felt sorry for her.
"Business is tough these days. It’s really disheartening. Back then, we worked so hard to send Vịnh to school, hoping he’d earn some money to help us out. Wouldn’t it have been better if he had taken a teaching job and kept studying? But every time I brought it up, he’d yell at me, saying that a man should be concerned with bigger things. I always thought: if you can’t handle small things, how will you manage the big ones? You tell me."
Vịnh said nothing. After finishing his bowl of porridge, he lay on the bed, turning his face into the shadows.
I took the mortar and began pounding betel for Vịnh’s mother. I watched her wrinkled hands, those deeply lined fingers, thin and dry, gently moving the string of dark rosary beads. I thought about all the time, all the hours mothers like hers had spent, running their fingers over those beads again and again. A circle, bound by those small, round beads. If I were to measure the long, heavy years of hardship, endurance, and pain that had been condensed into these remaining days of her old age—there could be no greater courage than that.
How many mothers have given their youth to raise their children, only to find, later in life, that they no longer hold any authority. Life opens up for each bird to take flight. All the hopes for a peaceful old age surrounded by children and grandchildren—those too have been swept away in these times.
The sorrow has been so overwhelming that even the tears can no longer gather to roll down their cheeks. And perhaps, there is no longer any hope for a future like the blessed past of those who lived before the turmoil. That distant, glorious past has now become nothing more than a world for people to retreat into, escaping the harsh reality closing in around them. Vịnh’s mother’s eyes seemed to be filled with that same sense of loss. She paused in her bead counting and said to me:
"The chaos has gone on for too long. I want to stay in the countryside to take care of our ancestors' graves, but even there it’s not peaceful. The children are struggling, and if times were calmer, Huệ would already have a family by now... she works too hard."
"Yes, ma’am, it’s hard to say what will happen. Life keeps getting tougher. To be honest, we’ve never really known what happiness is."
"I wonder if peace will come soon. Sometimes I think I’ll never see it in my lifetime. And Vịnh—he doesn’t care about anyone. It makes me so sad..."
When the lights were turned off, and after lying in bed for a long while, I noticed Vịnh turning restlessly.
I asked softly:
"Still awake?"
"Yeah."
"Let me ask you, Vịnh, do you think all of us have to shed the small ties that bind us in order to become something extraordinary? Or are we just living in some feverish delusion, bewitched by sorcerers?"
"You suppose..."
"You might think I’m wrong. But I still need to express it. As for whether you accept it or not, we have no authority over each other."
"Each of us is responsible for ourselves, I know that full well."
"I don’t believe it. Responsibility is shared. It’s not all lost yet. The individual can’t break free from inherent obligations unless we’re lying to ourselves. Think about it, so you won’t have regrets. We don’t have a church bell tower to confess and repent under. That is certain."
"I’m sick of everything you all stand for. Stop dragging history back if you don’t want to be cast out. I want to be among those creating new history..."
"I want to think a little more about the uniqueness of each person—individuality still being there even when they’re lined up, wearing the same uniform, speaking the same language. But what forces people to think the same way if not self-deception? Unless they’re no longer human. In that case, each person bears responsibility—wherever they are." After saying that, I felt as though I had lied to Vịnh—but it was a kind of lie that was too honest. That’s how I saw it. I hadn’t done anything for anyone either. I’d always been cruel to my grandfather, powerless to help my aunt and uncle or my younger cousins. I wanted a family like Vịnh’s, so I could help a mother or a sister. Only favorable circumstances give people the opportunity to develop virtues. I knew I wasn’t like Vịnh, or Thịnh, who were passionate about something, and committed to it. At least Vịnh lived with a purpose, with something he was passionate about, something essential for a life. I was on the verge of tears, thinking about my father and mother.
Late into the night, Vịnh coughed. I turned away, looking at the dim oil lamp flickering at the family altar. Around midnight, I heard dogs barking and the heavy boots of a patrol passing by. I opened my eyes, staring into the darkness. Huệ woke up to prepare her bundles of fabric just as the neighbor’s clock struck five. She lit a fire to cook porridge. Vịnh’s mother got up to light incense and recite prayers.
I had a bowl of sweet porridge before heading home.
The following week, I went to school regularly—the dreary days dragged on. I tried to focus on my studies and forget many things. My uncle still hadn’t returned. Every day after school, I would hold the hand of my sick sibling and quietly ask my aunt, "Is she still the same?"
My grandfather had a fever. The servant standing at the door told me:
"Grandfather is sick. You need to go get Mr. Canh, the herbalist, for him."
I looked at her and snapped, "I know."
My grandfather was lying in bed. The smell of herbal medicine filled the house. He had grown weak, slowly counting his silver coins, no longer muttering curses about the people who were late paying their debts. I didn’t feel like asking after him either. But I remembered to do one thing: shouting at the younger cousins to sit quietly in their own corners.
In the afternoon, I sat upstairs studying. When I got tired, I lay down to sleep. One noon, I had a strange dream where my father returned, his eyes wide open, asking me, "Have you gone mad too?"
Just as I was about to explain myself, I suddenly woke up, my body aching as if in a fever. Every meal, I’d come downstairs, sit by the tray, and gaze at the faces of each family member.
One night, unable to sleep, I thought about opening the door and going to the house of the mixed-blooded Chinese girl next door. Desire stirred within me. I got up and opened the door, but when I saw a soldier patrolling the bridge with his rifle, I shuddered. I stood at the door, looking across at the roast meat stall under the bridge. The charcoal fire glowed brightly, and the smell of roasting fat was intoxicating. I swallowed and went back inside.
[1] Chí Linh Garden: formerly known as Paul Bert Garden, it housed a Statue of Liberty (1887-1890) and a statue of Paul Bert (1890-1945). In 1945, the mayor of Hanoi, Trần Văn Lai, renamed it Chí Linh (Most Sacred) Garden and had the Paul Bert statue removed. Lai recognized the garden’s connection to the legend of the Golden Turtle returning the sword to Lê Lợi at Hồ Gươm, and the surrounding streets were named after heroes of the Lam Sơn uprising, including Nguyễn Xí, Trần Nguyên Hãn, Lê Lai, Đinh Lễ, and Đinh Liệt.
[2] In June 1940, following France's capitulation to Germany, Japan pressured French authorities to permit the stationing of 6,000 troops in Tonkin in exchange for recognizing French sovereignty over Indochina. After the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941, Japan expanded into Southeast Asia. On 9 March 1945, fearing French disloyalty, Japan launched a coup in Indochina, but surrendered on 15 August 1945, after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
[5] After the Battle of Hanoi on December 19, 1946, the Viet Minh withdrew into the mountains north of the city, signaling the start of a long and drawn-out guerrilla war against French forces. This retreat marked a shift from conventional fighting to a strategy of resistance from rural strongholds, which would characterize much of the First Indochina War.
[7] Vĩnh Yên was located 30 miles northwest of the capital and at the tip of the French defensive triangle. From 13 to 17 January 1951, the Battle of Vĩnh Yên saw French Union forces deliver a decisive defeat to the Việt Minh, marking a turning point in the war, which had previously been dominated by a series of Việt Minh victories.
[8] Zone 3 (Khu 3): An administrative and military region established by the Democratic Republic of Vietnam from late 1945 to early 1948, used for coordinating military operations and building armed forces during the early stages of the First Indochina War.
[9] Hải Phòng.
[10] Between 19 December 1946 and 17 February 1947, around two thousand young civilian militiamen, fueled by patriotism but poorly armed and inexperienced, held their ground in the narrow streets, houses, and shops of Hanoi’s old quarter. French tanks and paratroopers advanced under the cover of artillery and air bombardments. By the battle’s end, the Democratic Republic of Vietnam had lost approximately a thousand civilian fighters and soldiers, and the old quarter was left in ruins, largely abandoned until 1948. Though the French regained control of the capital, the battle enabled the DRV to relocate its national capital to the countryside.
[11] The Tiger Rubber Sandal Factory was an important cultural icon in the 1940s, especially during 1947-48, with booming sales across urban and rural areas, from occupied urban areas to the countryside.
[13]Hôtel des Monnaies or Nhà Tiền: Originally a mint established by the French colonial government, it was converted into one of the largest prisons in Indochina in 1947.
[14] A town in rural Đan Phượng, more than twenty kilometers from the Old Quarter.
[15] Cò Lả is a traditional Vietnamese folk song that originates from the northern region of Vietnam. It is part of the hát ru (lullaby) and quan họ (folk duet) traditions, often sung in a soothing, gentle melody. Its lyrics translates roughly as: “The stork glides softly, softly it flies/ Flying from the manor/ Out to the fields wide./ Oh, dear, do you know,/ Do you remember,/ Or have you forgotten?”
Anh Hoa dịch
một phả hệ
"la vie est ailleurs, pourvu que je soit un autre"
