Nguyen Ban
When
the traffic was blocked up, I had to wheel my motorbike to a tea booth, to wait
for a while. At first, I could not think that was because the funeral
procession of Mr. One. Along row of tent were set up on the road side of the
street to receive visitors coming to attend the funeral. There were at least
some ten luxurious cars being bumper to bumper on the road side, and wreaths
might be going up to seventy units. But they had not ended up, the ones of
writers and artists association, of procuracy office of the town then of the fatherland front of the
precinct……still continued to come up for “paying respects to Mr. One”. Not only
me but mostly travelers should have thought that the decreased must be on the
very high rank officials of the province. Some people guesses he may be the one
of central echelon. Nowadays, some liked to return to the natal land to rest..
The boss of the booth shook his hands:
“No,
no, it’s only the funeral of Mr. One,” I was somewhat stunned, though I had
remembered clearly that he had lived on this place which was in the past a
rubbish dump near the market, full of shells of edible snail, peels of banana,
crust of jack-fruit, pervading stink smell, and flies of all sorts buzzing sublimately
in thick black swarms, but now had become a row of three to four storey shops
and stores of all kinds. One guest, hearing that, comment: “Damn it, now it is
truly democratic. If you have money, you are freely to have villa, car, as you
please. But twenty years ago I only traded triflingly in chickens, definitely
not a smuggler or a cheating trader, I bought a mahogany bed plank and cupboard
with my savings, then under administrative control, both were confiscated, then
two years after were given back.”
The
other asked:
“What
a common people! Perhaps he had done service to revolution?”
The
booth boss shook his head:
“Nothing
of the service, only thanks to his daughter!”
“Very
high rank she is?”
“No,
only chief of the cadastral office of the town, not a high post, but now land
is gold, many people must fawn on her- Everyday, especially in the evening of
Saturday and Sunday, people flock to her house.”
“Why
do you know?”
“Oh,
they all took tea, waiting here. Some wife still blamed her husband.” “Why are
you so stupid, you have to come on the storm day, it would be few comer then,
if not, it would come to your turn only when you are old?”.
One
smacked his lips, with a mourning voice:
“Now,
to have a small land to live is too difficult then to have a place to bury
one’s corpse is also not easy. On television, in Ha Noi one place for the tomb
is about twenty millions VND, and far away to Hoa Binh mountainous province.”
All
of a sudden, I did not to wait more, not for any reason of hostility towards Mr
One, though he had hit against my head with his stick three times.
I
stood up to pay for tea and cigarette, then wheel my motorbike back and took
the other way rather than to wait there.
I
had left his town five years ago. I had forgotten much about it, even Mr One
and his daughter but by then, the image of a beggar and his little daughter
with suntanned reddish hair, once again appeared in my memory.
In
1956, I had graduated completely from
Hanoi University, and been assigned to teach in the high school of this
town, far from Hanoi, about thirty kilometers, eight cents VND taxi ticket, i-e
wage for one extra class period teaching. To live and to eat at the collective
house of the school on the working days, then
Saturday afternoon, taking taxi back to Hanoi, all I had to do was to
teach two extra class period weekly, it was enough for to pass to and from by
taxi.
Every
time, getting on or off the taxi, I always met a blind beggar about thirty
years old, rather tall, with close shaven head, mourning face, a rush bag on
the shoulder, and a little girl about three years old clinging to his harm, the
two were all in tattered clothes.
He
muttered interrupted hermetic and meaningless sentences: “…..charitable…..some
cents, a rice bowl, a manioc, a potato bowed to you,………gentleman and lady…….”stretching
out his hand with a tin peck, the other hand stirring his stick forward,
sometimes hitting on the car window, even on the head of taxi guests, including
me, at least two times that I remembered clearly, by then my mind was wandering
anywhere and not to notice dodging his stick.
He
was always taciturn, he did not reproach or thank anyone, though giving or not
giving him anything. A small or great number of alms, one cent or a few cents,
half a cake or all a cake were all evenly for him, his face was still always
mournful, not exactly resigned, beggar but seeming to have a carefree attitude,
rather a wu-wei philosophical behavior.
It
was no surprise that one of my colleagues had to admire the impersonal mood in
his begging text. Who were bowing to lady and gentleman….? Where was the
subject? Or it was actually manioc, potato?
The
teacher of history gave a joke: “Who know he has the fate of a future king?” Of
course, it was only a joke. Cruel and stupid might be king, but blind one could
not.
But
a few years after, under the social reconstruct policy he had not to beg again,
was a true story.
By then, getting a work, he looked properly
like a wounded soldier, A service cap on his shaven head, carefully clothing,
carrying a great tray to sell bread at the bus station. There was no little
girl together her father. Perhaps she began to go to the nursery school.
But
that existed only few years, then war happened, pho cake had to mix up with
manioc then completely made of manioc, manioc Pho, then dog meat Pho……People
had to evacuate from the town, Then, the bus station was desolate, where no
car, no snack booth existed again. He also had to beg again. I met him only a
few times, because I also had to evacuate together my school. As for him, he
had to stay at the town, because he could not beg at the evacuation area,
without thinking about where to spend the night, at the town, at least there
were bus station, market, park…..
For
quite a time to 1975, after the end of the war, I dropped in on my friend, who
know she was neighbor of Mr. One. People called him Mr.,, because he was then
rather old in the fifty, and he had a own house. And by then , I know his name
“Mr. One”.
He
went on begging, but he had built a cottage on the rubbish dump to live, and
had planted about thirty banana trees. No one forbade him and neither disputed
about this matter, because it was only a stink rubbish dump, though extending
to one hundred and fifty square meters. Then he built a fence around as his
private tenure. No one protested , including administrative staff, because it
had actually made the street clearer and cleaner.
Nevertheless,
he had gone on begging because his daughter was studying in the middle school
of construction. The eldest son of my friend, schoolmate of his daughter, monthly
went home to get money from his family, usually asked Mr.One:
“Will
you send something to your Sao Mai (Morning Star)?”
“Of
course, when would you go?”
“Right
now”
“Then
wait me” he hurriedly grope his cuff of trousers , and got out some money
sheets, then touched and stroke them to check their value before put them to
the hand of the schoolmate. Sao Mai was in twenty, though poor, but having a
well built body. She took the leadership of the section of the communist youth
league of the school, therefore, was too busy to go home monthly, moreover, she
could cut down traffic cost.
Once,
I asked his neighbor:
“Beggar,
but monthly to give money to his daughter, in fact, he is rather clever.”
She
smiled then asked after me:
“Do
your family have to eat rice mixed with other cereals?”
“Of
course, we do like others”
“And
ticket stored rice?”
“Even
farmers, at the pre-harvest, had to sell their fresh rice, to buy cheaper
ticket rice, much less us.
“Nevertheless,
Mr. One sold his ticket rice and bought fresh rice.”
Then
she explained it away, it turned out he was always used to receiving all sorts
that people gave him from a piece of a bread to a bowl of rice, then a half of
corncob , a potato, a manioc,…everything able to feed his pigs. Every year, he
sold a few furrows of pigs, thirty bundles of bananas, not only eating fresh
rice, but he also drank alcohol.
Feeling
he had been plentiful, beggars had asked him: “Not yet intending to give up
your job, Mr. One?”
“Let
it after to build a tiled roof kitchen already”.
“Why
don’t you wait for a tiled roof house?”
“Then
I have to beg till my doom? This problem is part of Sao Mai.”
I
did not know when he gave up his job but the third time, he hit me, I was sure
he had already given it up by then. That time he hit me right on my forehead
with his stick , right at the time when I returned to my writing work after a
long time stopping and I was going to bring my “Moonlight” story final draft to
the typing shop.
Seeing
that, some people at the other side shouted:
“Mr.
One, you smashed the head of him, then?”
He
gave a loud guffaw, and then replied vaguely: “That’ really?”
If
they did not call his name “Mr. One”, I would probably not realize him, because
of his rosy complexion now, not a wan one as before, his face and his belly were
bulging, and his voice was booming as an ancient canton chief. He grinned
baring his teeth, stirring his stick, aggressively stepped forward, even less a
pardon, or an explanation away.
It
turned out that day he was coming to an activity of the part-time poet cell of
the street. And at that time, he was already filthy rich. His patch of land
near the market was now a bag of gold. After the recent law, possessing land
before 1980, having no dispute was taken as legitimate land. Moreover, thanks
to his daughter, Sao Mai, chief of the local cadastral department, that land
rose into value. Many people enticed to buy, only a quarter as well: “Mr. One,
why do you keep so much?” “Want to buy? Then asks my daughter Sao Mai-I now
want only to live a calm life.” He became optimistic, more self confident, more
talkative and more bragging. He learned from someone, a poem “The beggar” of Le
Thanh Ton Emperor, and hummed it proudly. He also liked to chat about some
rather sexual piece of Mrs. Ho Xuan Huong, famous poet, and then became to like
to speak filthy spoonerism terms. He said he dreamed that now it was the period
of the descendants of Mr Trang Lon (Pig first doctor), a famous one on
spoonerism. He asked many people that were there in the world any countries to
speak spoonerism in Vietnam
“Mr.
One, you have hummed filthily!”
“Speaking
spoonerism had become my bad habit then!”
“But
why do you slur your tongue for Kunt?”
Another
teased him:
“Why
could a blind know it, it is only sexual craze?”
“Why
did I not know, then from where my Sao Mai slipped out?”
“Then
what about it? Round or square?”
“It’s
like your eyes, vertically, if zoom it, it’s like your mouth”.
Being
in idle, he liked to listen to the “poem program” on the radio. Then he liked
to rhyme verse:
Our precinct renewed the mind,
Our trade goes well, not second to any
of the west countries
Since the renewing stage,
People is Wealthier, our neighborhood
Is more solid, more and more young.
Though, we are sometimes in bad
conditions,
Please keep your merciful heart above
all
Certainly, one after another
With the will of the people together the
party’s mind.
All will be wealthier.
The
part-time local poet cell commented though the poem was not very distinctive,
but it reflected the belief on renovation politic, then asked him to be member.
Always
in idle, he continued to make poems. It came to the extent of fifty pieces. He
had his nephew, Sao Mai’s son type all on computer, and photography them into
five to seven copies, then offered them to people, especially to Hong Nga (Red
swan) a part time woman poet who was selling bananas in the market. The two
became close friends. He usually put verse on the subject of merciful heart.
“Though blind, but bright in the heart”: was throughout the subject of his
poems. As Hong Nga, she made poems about spirit matter; they dwelled on to
publish together a book with the title “Spirit levee”. To please to her father on the old age, Sao Mai put up
her money financing the publishing of four hundred units of “Spirit levee”
books of Khiet tam ( pure heart) and Hong Nga ( red Swan)
I
only knew that in brief, and thanks to a folklore singer having an illegitimate
child together Hong Nga, and since four years ago I did not know any more,
whether Mr. One would publish another poem book.
As I
am done my own business I came back at once. When passing by a new street of my
village by the side of the high way number one, as usual, I often glanced
at a row of building including hostels,
gold and jewelry shop, motorbike agent , special restaurant….on the land which
was in the past the rice field that my father inherited from my grand father.
When they built those houses, they had to pay one million VND per square meter
to the local administration committee for the so-called “land using right”.
Then I felt somehow regret our property, we had five brothers and sisters in all,
each one should have three hundred million VND. But now a square meter on that
was raised to ten million VND. i.e. fifteen billions for all. However, my
father had delivered it to the agricultural cooperative association forty years
ago, he had passed away twenty years ago, and even the tomb of my grandfather
had also to move from it, moreover, we had lost all tenure papers in the war.
Thinking so, I smacked my lips that were alright, if we still kept our tenure,
before a big sum of money like that who know that would be happened whether we would
not fight each other or lay the case before the court. Then I thought about my
father, at the beginning of the Resistance war, he frowned: “Take resistance
war for five to ten years, well, but fifteen to twenty years, what could we do
for our livelihood?” As a childish school boy of ChuVan An middle school, I
told him with a serious manner: “Come on, Dad, we wouldn’t end our money for
living for twenty years”. I said so, because we had jut reviewed our assets.
Our cash only, was equivalent to one hundred and fifty ounces of gold, a sum
enough for our living in more twenty years. But we had no experience on war to
buy gold in case of super inflation on all sorts of war. When we had realized
that, we could only buy eight gold ounces because of terrible falling in value
of VND.
In
1950, I had become a resistant cadre, and in December, I took leave to visit my
family at the evacuated place. Then this place was besieged by the enemy, my
father put on my hand three ounces: “You keep a half, me, a half, if one was
caught, it would rest with the other to keep a half for living.” Fortunately,
nothing happened. One hundred and fifty ounces was transformed into six ounces
in three years of evacuation, my family never lived in profligate spending ,
but day by day , even more and more strict thrift, but VND had devalued a
thousand times, then, so gold price naturally rose a thousand times.
At
the end of the war, the peace was reestablished, our house had been devastated
utterly, moreover my father was almost out of money, he had to give up his
commercial business and being a peasant. My step mother said: “It is even a
luck, devastated house, out of money, if not we might have been put a label
Landowner, that is even worse”. My father had been honest by nature, partly believed
to the land reform politic, and blamed her: “You only said nonsense, we were
commercial people, did not grant on lease or collect land rent, and had not
tenants, why are we afraid about that?” She argued: “But we had maids and wet
nurse”. “But they were not land laborer, we did not exploit them”. And after
delivering his private land in order to be member of agricultural cooperative
association, who know what he thought about, that sometimes he criticized
himself: “To consider thoroughly, commercial business is even an exploiting
career”. As his son, I had only pity on him and wanted to laugh at the same
time, but not dared to argue with him. I did not dare still because once he
warned me: “Well, at twenty two years old French official had to call me Mr.
Boss, you are nothing, then”. He meant that I graduated completely from
University at twenty five age, could not measure against the things he had been
agent of construction materials on Hai Phong city at the age of twenty two.
When
arriving to the section by my village cemetery, as usual, I bought a incense
box and dropped in on it to visit my father tomb. Only more a half year, it was
now utterly different. All sorts of tombs, this one pyramid form, the others,
vaulted one, Roman, Gothic, baroque, all kinds of architecture. Different
family lines competed in gathering together to a great tomb, got tenure even
the passage way so that I could not find my father tomb. I had to orientate for
a while, thanks to a great tomb as a small temple having also a lightning
conductor, and a large yard with two low area trees like two guards, people
said that it was the tomb of a young woman of other village, a wealth smuggler
on the frontier; it was near my father’s. I had to walk sinuously for a while
to come up. I suddenly thought about the funeral procession of Mr. One, who
know he had also a lightning conductor on his tomb.
My
father’s tomb was a shortest one, the same as the slum house in the pell-mell
modernized cemetery city, each tomb had its own style. However, not for this
that I felt sadly, because he had given his will: “To bury me completely, no
exhumation. From nature, we go on earth, then we return to nature. It is the
transformation of nature. If since the creation of the world, each one keeps
obstinately some square meters for his tomb, there is no more land for living
person.”
Taking
the other passage way to get out, suddenly I saw a double tomb, also a simple
shortest one as my father’s, of a deputy minister and his wife. He had been a
revolutionary predecessor having a special right to get buried at the Mai Dich
national cemetery. His children kept it in austere style not for they had no
money to build it magnificently. All of them were in easy circumstance, the
third daughter, my former school girl had been Vietnamese cultural counselor in
a country of East Europe, may be they also believed to the transformation of
nature law, all were temporarily, even the universe would not be eternal.
That
night, on the bed, for a long time I could not sleep, later on, I was dozing,
Mr. One loomed up before me:
“What’s
the matter, Mr. One?”
He
scratched his shaven head, telling me:
“Well,
I come to invite your father to take the activity of the local poet circle this
night to discuss about our book ‘The spirit levee’. Please tell him.”
He
told that he had also to invite Mr. deputy minister and his wife, then he took
leave.
“Wait
Mr. One.” I snapped, “ I still have a thing to discuss with you.”
“What
thing?”
“There
, three times, you hit me against my head with your stick.”\
He
burst out of a laughter:
“blind
then, you mind as if it was a big thing!”
Then
he went off, and went on letting out a loud guffaw.
I
watched his silhouette stirring his stick, towards the end of the cemetery.
From the outside, there were vague bark,
moonlight was of silvery beams in the mist. I did not know that I was dreaming or I am falling into a paranoia.
N.B
· Kunt: Spoonerism of “cunt”
No comments:
Post a Comment