LatinosUSA

A short story in Vietnamese by Mai Thảo
Translator: Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm
[Published on Văn Nghệ BIỂN KHƠI]
[Tôi xin tặng bản dịch này cho anh Nguyễn Hưng Quốc , with whom I have found the courage to translate Mai Thảo. Thank you anh!]

Alone, Chu heads for the road. Tonight again their date did not work out as planned. Hiền said she was tired, sorry but Chu knew she was lying. Exhaustion is a woman’s form of evasion.

Hiền’s bedroom was on the third floor, in the middle of town. The window looks down into the main road. A multi-level house, accessed by a private balcony, with an elevator that takes you up, the whole bottom floor is divided into various stores. Glass panels lit up splendidly by neon lights during the day. At night, gloomy light filters through the iron grilled roller door at exactly after six in the afternoon when the live-in security guard would pull them down to lock up. Chu turned up in the middle of the commotion as doors came down amid the silence. The security guy at the door opened it up again to look out. His tired eyes watch Chu pay the taxi driver.

“I want to see Miss Hiền”.

“Miss Hiền is never home at this hour”.

Chu steps onto the pavement, looking up he smiles before adding:

“The light is on in her room. Just let me go up and we’ll see”.

The small room occupied by the guard and his family is a small space that sinks below the level of the main road. Strewn cups and ceramic tea pot. His wife leaning against their bed head, sitting still, in a state of rest not sure if she is asleep or not. The child fast asleep on an old grass mat across the patterned tile floor. Chu turns his head to look at the sleeping child, he smiles as he enters the dark hallway. The child and the mat reminds him of the small verandah of an ancestral home divided like in nature, three leaves, three rooms and two fruits. In his childhood, Chu remembered the night he had waited for a long time on the verandah of that house, watching Hiền sleep soundly in the moonlight. Now, parts of his life have been replaced with messy complications, so many one-ways standing in his way back to the past, Chu can only remember a few scattered memories like that. The dark corridor he is now in triggers no memory. People miss little, in the middle of a city. Limited emotions are confined by barriers like walls and rooftops, dry like bougainvillea. The short walk to the elevator had barely enough room for the return of old images. They are somewhere. Out of town. In the past. But then he can come here, to this place. Chu pressed the button to open the elevator door with the single image: Hiền sleeping soundly in the moonlight. The lonely image, passes by, floating, like a deserted island in the middle of a boundless pool of yellow. Chu finds himself unexpectedly sad. He lowers his head. Inside the narrow elevator shaft like a box, whoosh it takes him up.

Hiền’s room, Chu has to walk back and forth a few times before he can find the number. Here a couple of times already, and still the identical rooms get him mixed up. The doors are painted in a milky white colour. The room number pops up in copper. Chu’s hand gravitates towards his collar, he fiddles with the top button of his shirt as he readjust his cravat.

“Hi Chu, I didn’t know it was you. Where are you heading?”

Where else? Chu thought as he stepped into the room. The full-length tall boy mirror throws Chu’s outline right back at Chu standing there looking lost looking into a room dressed as opulent as the beauty of a young woman. The full face of the city zoomed in in full focus. Gleaming highways. Traffic slithering along, slips away like snakes. Low benches covered with large flowers. The lines of Hiền’s eyebrows are defined by the infinite sharp flick of her eyeliner. Heeding Hiền’s invitation, Chu sits down on one of the chairs. Unable to compose himself all of a sudden. He needed a minute to focus on his composure. To face a woman who is supposed to be Hiền. A childhood friend who he used to watch sleep in the village moonlight. Another memory came to Chu: that night Chu woke Hiền. The moonlight cuts a cool line through the paved yard. Two kids holding each other’s hand heading for Chu’s home. Another roomy paved yard. Huddled together were husbandry laborers threshing rice. The smells in the dark were more playful than during the day. Soon dawn will bring with it the preparations for the harvest, plots of fat and ripe ears of rice, cheerful voices rising louder and louder, one song after the other, the notes of their voices flying higher and higher, to after settle, perched upon the stalks of a golden harvest. The shuffling and fluttering sound of rice threshing went on and on. Until the moment Chu had taken Hiền home, the moonlight had remained consistently brilliant. The husbandry laborers would still be at it, threshing the rice.

Still in her shorts, though Hiền had already finished her makeup before Chu showed up. Cheeks roughed, her eyes appeared deeper under darkened lashes, Chu can already see in her eyes the twinkle of an evening of festivities. It’s life here, at nightfall. The party is for a Hong Kong movie actress, a famous singer from the Philippines, just flown in from Tokyo. Rows of seats placed in a line. The festivities are full of noise and more noise with all the possible unnecessary hollow praises and formalities. The fires would burn brightly before it would dim in the dance studio. The dance floor polished, the music chirpy. A mesmerizing dizzy air. All of it crosses his mind. The moonlight grew colder and packed away in a corner of his mind. Chu walks over and places a hand on the edge of the table, he leans in and looks down. He begins to regret the idea of looking for Hiền because the moon is shining in the street. He stands there for a while. When he turns around to look at Hiền, she has not moved from where she is standing. She sounds a little embarrassed:

“Sit down, don’t you want to sit down for a bit? It’s odd, you’re standing there like that”.

“Did I disturb you Hiền?”

“No. Is there a place you want to take me”.

“No,” Chu replied.

He feels that he has nothing. He has not a single thing. The evening moon over there means nothing and it is very far away from here, this place. He walks over to the window and looks down. To see how much more meaningless it is. The moonlight in pieces over the canopy, falling, slips through the gaps of the leaves. The weak yellow light is more imagined than real in the street. In the surrounding area in all four directions, at the same height as a wilderness of windows, the lights flicker far and not so far away, giving the city its chaotic depths and heights piles and piles piled on top of each other. Chu closes the window before he turns his back to the window:

“On the way here, I was hoping we could go for a walk. But it looks like you’re busy. Maybe another time. I’m going to go”.

Hiền could not hide the joy in her voice:

“I’m actually not busy, but I was going to have a nap and you turned up”.

Chu nod:

“Okay, I’m going to go”.

The bright light of those evenings. Noisy parties. The club’s dance floor vibrating and feet weaved together breathing down one’s neck:

“How brilliant is the moon tonight Chu?”

Chu’s hand is still on the window sill, with the window doors still slightly ajar.

“Why don’t you come and open the window and see for yourself”.

After that he nodded his goodbye to Hiền and left. Hiền did not move from where she had been standing. The elevator making a racket, the elevator drops through freely to abruptly stop in front of the hallway. It is not long before Chu finds himself in the street, like how just a moment not long ago he had entered, alone.

*

Hiền stood still for a while at the same spot after Chu left. The room feels significantly bigger. Chu’s presence though only for a short period completely changed the air of her room. His eyes were strangely sad. Hiền thought quietly as she walked toward her dressing table. She sat down quietly, she studied her features for a moment. The mirror reflects the lines of bright red lips. Ever lightly Hiền puckered her lips. The slight movement wakes up the colour on her lips, the shimmer. Hiền put another layer of rouge on the apple of her cheeks, stood up, walked over to the closet. The dress she had planned to wear tonight is a deep red with large embroidered flowers. Hiền opens her handbag and takes out the business card Đoàn gave her, she studies it again. Đoàn is a new friend, rich, who has been to France, only to frequent the nightclubs and coastlines to sunbake, where year after year it would attract tourists from large cities from all around the world. Đoàn have only been back for the last six months. The business card had a few lines quickly scribbled on it:

“Hiền, at eleven I will send a car to pick you up. Don’t forget, we’ll go to the dance at Liễu Guest House maybe? Then we can do whatever”.

Whatever. It is how Đoàn entertains life, how all of Hiền’s new friends live, the people in her life right now, a thoughtless self-destructive way of life without an objective or care in the world. Whatever. Hiền had fallen, fallen profoundly into this way of life. Whatever. Meaning whatever new interest might come next, new dance floor, new party or festivity, join other sightseers, life squashed and crunched up into a ball, thrown into an air of commotion and boisterous laughter, blinding flamboyant colours.

Following Đoàn’s advice, Hiền sold her house in the suburb to rent this apartment in the middle of the city. It has already been 4 or 5 months. Her new life has pushed away old memories together with old friends. This number of friends includes Chu. Not once did Chu say or indicate that Chu had ever loved her. But Hiền can feel it, her woman’s intuition dictates it when it comes to things like this, the way Chu feels about her is no longer finite, no longer confined in the past. Nor did Hiền question it. More so was that she did not want to ask. A luxurious lifestyle of changeable temperament, affecting a woman’s general view of life and the future. Hiền is apprehensive when it comes to love, serious commitment, solemn and upright like Chu. She avoids thinking about anything that would last, anything permanent. Things that make her look ordinary. What she likes to have is a very elegant bedroom. A cupboard full of the latest imported fashion. Opulence is a life she wants to live. And the ability to pertain all of it, what she likes. This is one of the reasons amongst lots of other reasons that had led Hiền toward her decision to distance herself from Chu even though her heart remains not far off. People like Chu can disappear for years, live a thousand miles away, and they might be on another path, but is impossible to cast aside. A frequent conflicting state of mind: compared to Hiền’s new friends, Chu lacks in many aspects but then again Chu on the other hand. Chu can not be compared to anyone. Chu stands alone, that image of solitude is not only truly cold but also truly beautiful. Pride is the reason for Hiền’s embarrassment each time she thinks of Chu. But right now. Even though Chu is no longer here. Chu’s last words remained:

“Why don’t you come and open the window and see for yourself”.

Hiền pushes the window open. Night descending for a while, layers of cold air settling one on top of each other. The moon perched far away, all the way on the other side, on top of the trees. The face of the moon is plump and round with a kind and bewildered countenance of a farmer’s first trip into town. The odd comparison makes her smile. Hiền conjurs up Chu’s voice in her mind, his solemn face just now, before he left.

The sadness comes back as she contemplates her position. The grand nights and all those glittery lights add up to barely enough light to light the soul. Dark and desolate in parts like the street corners no one ever ventures into. A few years back, a period of time when they had often met up regularly last. Chu was true to his words, Chu is someone who will always speak the truth – Hiền, you have a spirit that is as bright as the full moon on the brightest moonlit night. After more self reflection, that assessment is no longer true. It has changed. This spirit has a kind of light that is nothing but a flicker of brilliance the moment just before the street lamps were turned off. The lamp housing directs the light downward. To where there is nothing worth seeing. Hiền lifts her chin. Her eyes scanned the top of the trees and higher, higher than the canopy where the white clouds and alas they caught the sight of a moon with a round face. Still the same moon as before, the same as yesterday’s afternoon, but it feels now to Hiền completely different. The way one can be distracted walking in the street and only after a second look recognize a familiar face. Always from way up there, still always from way up there is Chu’s moon, and always Chu’s moon has the ability to find Hiền. But Hiền have never found her way up there, never found a way up.

Hiền did not see Đoàn enter. Hiền turned startled by Đoàn’s hand on her shoulder.

“Baby girl in red”.

Đoàn laughed, taking a couple of steps back before he lit a cigarette, inhales. Speaks in a style that is Đoàn:

“I believe Liễu did something rather silly this afternoon so I must take you there. Liễu will definitely regret it, but the boys, they will definitely agree. I don’t know if I should take you there Hiền, all those hundreds and hundreds of eyes in one place. I might have to fight hundreds of them off all at once”.

“I don’t want to go”.

Đoàn’s eyes opened wider as he laughed.

“I was joking, let’s go. It’s time. We shouldn’t make these people wait.

Hiền reiterate:

“Đoàn, I truly do not want to go”.

Đoàn is surprised only after the second reply. The cigarette is barely on his lips, surprised to the extent where him didn’t know whether he had already taken a puff of the cigarette or not.

Hiền takes her time approaching Đoàn.

“Please apologise to Liễu and the others for me. Just tell them that I will join you some other time”.

“Why”, Đoàn snapped. “You women are so strange, always changing your mind at the last minute”.

Hiền laughed:

“There’s nothing strange about women, so don’t ask me why. I myself do not know. Perhaps I am still a girl from a small country town. It is best you should not try to understand this girl from a small country town. I know that you are always good to me, you should go, it’s getting late. I’m fine at home alone. I put on this red dress because I knew that it would stand out next to the purple you have on. I had all the intention of going with you. But now suddenly I no longer want to go, that’s truly all there is to it Đoàn”.

The man shrugs his shoulders as he heads out.

“Đoàn”.

He turns around. The sound of Hiền’s voice did not sound real. Hiền is saying something that has no meaning to Đoàn, something that only she could understand:

“Don’t be upset with me, I will join you some other time. But please don’t come and get me on a night when there’s a moon. You must remember to never come and get me the nights when there’s a moon”.

*

The door slammed shut, the man had left, Hiền quietly turned to look at her reflection on the tall boy’s mirror. Slowly she unbuttons the row of buttons, slips her arms out of the sleeves of the red dress letting it fall to the ground. Her hands reach for the handles of the tall boy to open it. A colourful row of dresses and áo dài hung neatly together in a generous space opens up inside the tall boy. Hiền raises her hands higher to choose another dress from the hanger. Her eyes are misty. The light blue silk áo dài is what she wanted in the end and she puts it on. She returns to the dressing table, picks up a cloth to remove her lipstick, tucks her handbag in a draw. Hiền hands holding nothing as she heads for the door, she switches off the light, closes the door, walks towards the elevator. The elevator takes her to the bottom floor. Hiền meanders the dark hallway toward the front door. The security guard has not gone to sleep. He had just pulled down the iron shutters.

“Miss Hiền. Mr. Đoàn was just here to pick you up, you’re not going with him? He had only just left”.

“No, I’m not joining Mr. Đoàn. But can you help me open the shutters so I can leave”.

The iron shutters are again rolled up.

“Will you be back soon, I can wait”, enquired the security guard.

Hiền take a look outside. It’s very late but the moon will be bright the whole night. She shakes her head:

“You should retire for the night. I don’t know when I will be back, it might be a while. I’ll wake you when I’m back, don’t worry”.

Out in the street, Hiền stopped to look up. Her eyes look at the moon not to admire its pretty light, more so as a guide. Which direction should she take. She ponders as she walks: He’s probably there, at those places and nowhere else. There are four gardens in town. Four generous spaces with rock benches and pebble paths, with moonlight over them, wholesome and boundless. Hiền’s footsteps are brisk but unhurried. The moon is now brilliant over the city, it’s round and it’s high up there, it’s perched at the top of the sky for a long time now. Walking on the sidewalk beneath the canopies of the trees, eaves, feels as though she is walking on someone’s paved yard, towards the verandah of someone’s ancestral home. An old bed. A very white, very big yard. Sounds of the threshing of rice at the start of the harvest. Falling shadows of husbandry laborers. Generous moonlight drapes across their shoulders their backs, and undressed arms.

Dancing and flying on the late night footpath is the long flap of Hiền’s delicate áo dài spun in silk. Hiền head for the first garden. It is more than likely that Chu is lying on a rock bench, looking up. Hiền will stop at the entrance into the garden. She will take her time walking over to Chu. Approach Chu the way she used to when they were children. She will quietly tell him:

“Chu, can you sit up. Can fall asleep in your arms and when I’m sound asleep in the moonlight you can watch me sleep the way you used to”.

---

Mai Thảo [1927-1998] real name is Nguyen Dang Quy, another pen name: Nguyen Dang, he was born on June 8, 1927 in Con market, Quan Phuong Ha commune, Hai Hau district, Nam Dinh province (originally from Tho Khoi village, Gia Lam district, Bac Ninh province, the same hometown and related to the painter Le Thi Luu), his father was a merchant and wealthy landowner. Mai Thao absorbed his mother’s love of literature from Bac Ninh. As a child, he studied at a village school, went to Nam Dinh high school and then Hanoi (studied at Do Huu Vi school, later Chu Van An). In 1945, he followed the school to Hung Yen. When the war broke out in 1946, the family evacuated from Hanoi to Con market, in the “House of the Salt Water Region”, from then on Mai Thao left home to Thanh Hoa to join the resistance, wrote for newspapers, participated in art troupes traveling everywhere from Lien Khu Ba, Lien Khu Tu to the Viet Bac resistance zone. This period left a deep mark on his literature. In 1951, Mai Thao abandoned the resistance and went into the city to do business. In 1954, he migrated to the South. He wrote short stories for the newspapers Dan Chu, Lua Viet, and Nguoi Viet. He was the editor-in-chief of the newspapers Sang Tao (1956), Nghe Thuat (1965), and from 1974, he oversaw the Van newspaper. He participated in the literature and art programs of radio stations in Saigon from 1960 to 1975. On December 4, 1977, Mai Thao crossed the sea. After 7 days and nights at sea, the boat arrived at Pulau Besar, Malaysia. In early 1978, he was sponsored by his brother to go to the United States. Shortly after, he collaborated with Thanh Nam’s Dat Moi newspaper and several other overseas newspapers. In July 1982, he republished the Van magazine, and was editor-in-chief until 1996, when due to health problems, he handed it over to Nguyen Xuan Hoang; Two years later he died in Santa Ana, California on January 10, 1998.

Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, the blogger, poet, and translator, was born in 1971 in Phu Nhuan, Saigon, Vietnam. The pharmacist currently lives and works in Western Sydney, Australia.