The editor-in-chief sent me to the Provincial Party Committee hall to report on an important meeting, which was said to be chaired by a Central Party official. While walking down the hallway, I heard the chief of staff loudly announce through the loudspeaker: We respectfully invite Comrade Dinh Cong Cuong - Director of Department X to come up and convey the content of the resolution.
The auditorium was packed. I squeezed my way from the back row to the front row, stood hunched over, and opened my camera. Cuong, recognizing me from the podium, winked discreetly. I gave him a thumbs up in greeting. It had been almost ten years since we last saw each other.
Just vaguely heard that from the Ministry of Defense , Cuong had transferred to the Civil Service. His official career was advancing rapidly. Recently, at least a few times a month, Cuong appeared on the TV screen, sometimes accompanying big shots, sometimes in the role of an important guest at extremely important conferences.
We have been apart since he disappeared from the battlefield for six or seven years. Plus all those years before that he studied some special subject in the Soviet Union, rumored to be only for the children of revolutionary veterans.
Now he is like me, old and stiff. My hair has some white and some gray. His hair is still jet black. If we have been going our separate ways, this is the first time we have had the chance to be this close. When we were students, he was skinny, half a head taller than us. Now he is majestic and elegant in a light-colored suit.
His body grew fatter, and of course his belly grew bigger, but his face was still intact, full of angles, still as agile and handsome as when we lived in town together for almost all of our high school years. His curly hair fell almost covering his flat, broad forehead and his two strong jawbones pushed his square chin forward as if it had been chiseled by several axe blows, firmly protruding forward, the unchangeable, hereditary characteristics of the Dinh Cong clan in my village, which became more and more evident as he got older.
Intending to meet after the conference ended, after the morning meeting, I chose to blend into the crowd. He still found me, rushed forward and patted my shoulder: When did you move to this province? Why didn't you tell me? I stammered: Yes... yes... He raised his chin, leaned close, his rough beard as hard as a grain of rice poked my earlobe painfully, and whispered: Yes, yes, you little shit.
Being so polite like this is very strange, General. I raised my eyes to the important people from the province nearby. Understanding, he turned around and grabbed my arm tightly, telling me over and over again: Come to the provincial guest house tonight. Just us. I have something to ask you. I thought to myself, I also want to ask you something, I have to know the truth of this matter, otherwise...
Oh my! This guy, even though he's a high-ranking official, his personality hasn't changed at all. I wonder if his habit of being infatuated with girls and being infatuated with girls has lessened at all? Back then, out of ten girls in the same school, I'm sure eight or nine of them couldn't hide their embarrassment every time he happily shook hands intimately.
At that time, many jealous classmates made up a story about Cuong having a pair of ghostly hands. Whenever he touched someone, that person would lose consciousness, his face would turn pale as if he had been electrocuted. What's more, those young girls, when he touched them, their souls would fly away, their minds would be dizzy and confused.
I lived with him for three years. He once poked my hand and tickled me, but I didn't get any electric shocks. He was so rude. When I was in high school, he was the top target, the most popular MSG in the eyes of girls, which was understandable. He was a good student, handsome, and the son of a central official, which girl wouldn't want him?
If I catch this big fish and fail to study abroad in Eastern Europe, I am as sure as a Hanoi household registration card, and escape the life of having my hands and feet covered in mud. But it seems like this guy is a bit mysterious. Since middle school, I was a bit surprised when I heard him whisper: It seems like my nose is made entirely of neurons from the Australian green frog.
That tiny species the size of a thumb, they are miles apart, the male can still recognize the female's scent, how miraculous. As for me, within a radius of a few dozen meters, my nose can still distinguish the intoxicatingly fragrant puberty scent that always emanates from the cool skin of those plump, apple-like girls we used to see in Soviet movies. Each one is passionate in its own way. Each one has its own sweet taste. I wonder if you guys have that ability? Honestly, if I wasn't afraid of being beaten, many times I would have...
Stuttering to that point, his face turned red, wringing his hands like someone ashamed of knowing he had some terrible disease. Thank God, his butt was still afraid of the rattan cane in his father's hand. Climbing to his current position, the strict upbringing of his family contributed a lot.
At that time, our friendship was simple and sincere, we did not hide anything from each other. We even shared clothes. He told me: Each of us only had two sets of clothes, we changed into four sets, do we look like rich kids?
I teased him: You are indeed the son of a big shot in the capital. He grinned: My father is a big shot, but he is very different from others. Then he covered his mouth and imitated his father's voice: At a time when the whole country is tightening its belts for the sake of the South, growing up and still being able to sit in a school chair is a great priority. You must know that on the battlefield, there are many soldiers your age who are sacrificing themselves for the country, they don't ask for anything. So I don't dare to ask for anything.
During those years of strict rationing, everything was scarce, everything was distributed according to A, B, C, E… My aunt was a provincial official, and was able to buy two meters of the famous Chinese Poplin brand Song Hac, which was as white as flour. She rewarded me for my excellent academic performance at the end of ninth grade.
At the beginning of the tenth grade, the first day I arrived at the boarding house, I opened my bag, and he picked up the shirt I hadn't even had time to put on yet, put it on without thinking, and then sniffed and grinned: "Please understand, I've been away from Lien for three summer months, tonight I'll see him, let me show off a little." The next day, he looked stunned and said: "The whole school only has this one special shirt, if you wear it, Lien will expose me, I'll be so embarrassed."
Well, keep it safe, no one will wear it. Of course I agreed immediately. Thanks to that, on the wedding day, the shirt was still brand new, I took it out to show off. On the wedding night, my wife sniffed it for a long time, kept silent, then whispered suspiciously: Your shirt has an indescribable smell. It's not a girl's lipstick, it smells strangely like a boy, it's not your smell. I didn't dare reveal a word. I just lay there, thinking about Cuong who had been fighting in the B battlefield for several years. I didn't know if he was alive or dead.
The event of Cuong's father suddenly driving his U-oat to meet the school board to ask to withdraw his transcript when there were only two months left until the high school graduation exam, everyone was surprised and thought there was something mysterious.
Even the homeroom teacher didn't know the whole story. He reassured us: - Cuong is the son of a central official, he transferred to Hanoi to study, I think it's some kind of special course. The next morning, the driver took Cuong to school to say goodbye to his teachers and friends. He just smiled, without any explanation.
The girls couldn't hide their red eyes. I secretly looked at Lien and saw her standing absentmindedly in the classroom door, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. I had to wait until Cuong returned from abroad and continued to fight in the B battlefield for a few more years, when the country was unified and he returned home to get married, then I would know the reason.
Actually, it was nothing serious. It was just because of his girlish habit. He told me that that night, I made an appointment with Lien to go to the banyan tree at the head of Da bridge. Lien said that it would be safer and warmer to go to her house. I thought it was okay. Lien's haystack was behind the chicken coop next to the kitchen, separate from the house upstairs.
We were at ease pulling out straw to spread out the bed, passionately making out with each other, forgetting the time. At the climax, Lien's breath was hot and nervous, blowing into my ear. I thought I was at the stage where I couldn't control myself anymore. I was so scared that I told her to bite hard on my earlobe. She gritted her teeth and bit hard. When I realized the sharp tip of her tooth was stuck in, it hurt so much that I screamed.
Alarmed, the chickens in the coop flapped their wings in a panic. His brother opened the door with a stick and rushed in, just as we were crawling up. Our hair was messy with straw. My father was called by Lien's father and daughter who were working in the province to report this incident to the capital.
As a result, that Sunday, I was lying face down in front of the family temple and receiving a painful whipping. While whipping my butt, my father scolded me: - You have a bad habit of snotty balls since you were a kid. If you don't send yourself to the military, one day you will ruin the reputation of our ancestors who are here. You know what happens next. Lien now has a happy family with a five-year-old son. I am about to put a wife and children around my neck. Just be content with being a lowly reporter like you.
My house is separated from Cuong’s by a small garden fenced on all sides by thorny hốp trees. When we were young, we would share boiled sweet potatoes or tiny pieces of rice paper through the gaps between the old, golden hốp trees. His father and my father graduated from junior college in the same year.
My father chose to work as a village teacher. His father left the village and disappeared. After Uncle Ho read the Declaration of Independence, he returned home with two guards carrying pistols, wearing military uniforms, and berets. Very majestic. During the nine-year resistance war, we only heard that he commanded troops to fight the French far away in the Central Highlands battlefield.
The Westerners in red and black berets would blush when they heard his name. When the country was unified, he went to the North and worked in the Central Government. Occasionally, he would come home to visit for a few days. Cuong, who had already finished high school, was still forced to lie face down and given a few painful lashes by his grandfather whenever he did something rude. Cuong was the eldest grandson of Mr. Do. Chinese characters had been put aside for a long time. He had also been put aside for decades.
Now I only vaguely remember, every day he sat motionless on a bamboo sofa, with a terracotta tea set in front of him. His face was pale, dotted with pockmarks. From his broad jawbones to his square chin, he was stiff and expressionless.
When I met Cuong's father and observed him with my own eyes, I was startled to realize that from Cuong, up to his father, his grandfather, they were all versions born from the stable genetic mold typical of the Dinh Cong clan in my village. However, the old man's face was gloomy with sadness, while Cuong and his father were full of vitality.
One time Cuong asked me: - I don't understand why my grandfather can sit like a Buddha statue all day long and still be patient. And why does his thumb keep rubbing the tips of his index and middle fingers? I was confused: - Oh yeah! Why do we care about our elders? It wasn't until I experienced a lot of life's ups and downs and understood the two words "outdated" that I vaguely imagined how many troubles were hidden behind the motionless, resigned look of Mr. Do back then.
In the first year of the 1960s, there were only five students in my village who came to the city to study high school. Three years later, we were all admitted to several prestigious universities. Later, they all held important positions in several central agencies.
I was the only one who was caught up in this nonsense, so I spent my whole life doing nothing, working as an errand boy to get trivial news for local newspapers, sometimes in this province, sometimes on the payroll of another province. The reason was also because of my father. He lived his whole life as a village teacher. Yet during the land reform, someone confessed that he had been active in the same Kuomintang cell with him.
When Cuong's father returned to the village and heard the commune's report, he immediately made a statement without hesitation: - I know that man is as cowardly as a rabbit, even if given gold, he wouldn't dare say a word about Viet Quoc and Viet Cach? Such nonsense, but you comrades still believe it.
Even though the high-ranking leaders had verbally confirmed it, I don't know why, but my record was still black with the suspicion that my father was a member of a counter-revolutionary party. Later, when Cuong became a big shot, he came to me and said: - I will bring you to work at my place. Being mediocre forever is a waste of talent, a waste of life.
I refused bluntly: - You know why your father is my father's best friend, he did not influence my career path, it's not like he thought my background was problematic or hated me. That's because he protected me, did not turn me into a coward, a useless parasite. I admire your father's character for that gesture.
I was eager to ask Cuong directly about the story, there was something I still doubted. The reason was from a trip to find materials to write an article for the newspaper issue celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Liberation of the South and the reunification of the country.
That morning, as soon as I stepped through the door of the X Commune People's Committee office, I was really shocked, thinking I was standing in front of Dinh Cong Cuong back when we were in high school. In front of me, the officer wearing a name tag: Le Dung Si - Vice Chairman sat behind a desk that looked exactly like Cuong.
From the curly hair, the two broad jaws and the square chin full of determination, the hereditary characteristics of the Dinh Cong lineage in my village, what reason could it have been that it had sprouted in this cadre from a commune far away in the South? As far as I know, the Dinh Cong family certainly has no relatives living here.
Calculating the period from when Cuong went to B until now, compared to Le Dung Si's age, it was almost the same. Suddenly thinking, if he was Cuong's blood, what was right or wrong? Knowing his womanizing nature, being enthusiastically favored by girls wherever he went, this consequence could easily happen.
But at this age, Cuong was handsome in a different way. He didn't have phoenix eyes, pink lips, or two rows of shiny, even front teeth like the one on the face of the vice president present.
If he really is Cuong's illegitimate son, then that beautiful, feminine part of him can only be inherited from his mother. That mother must have something special to sway my friend. He is a womanizer, but he is definitely not a promiscuous person.
With a heart full of doubts, I went to Dung Si's house. The first person I met was a young woman with skin as white as a peeled egg, elegant in a skillfully tailored black ao ba ba, sitting in the shade of a cashew tree that almost completely covered the small brick-paved yard. Her two hands were deftly weaving a chicken cage, her head was slightly bent, with a neat, round, jet-black bun resting on her plump, soft nape.
Hearing the noise, she raised her kind face and smiled to greet the guests. Dung Si introduced me to his mother. My hunch was right. The smiling mouths and phoenix eyes of the mother and daughter were strangely similar. A moment later, Dung Si's father hobbled through the garden gate on crutches.
He was in his fifties. About ten years older than Cuong and I. His wife, I guessed, was not yet forty. Every line of her body was in full bloom. Her husband, on the other hand, had a leaden complexion and a tired look on his gaunt face.
I know that the two of them are not only veterans of the war against America, but are still two role models that are always mentioned in many commendations of N province. Currently, Dung Si has no wife or children. He is busy in the kitchen preparing lunch so that I have more time to spend with my parents.
His mother was reserved, rarely talking about herself, only occasionally nodding and smiling to confirm the stories her husband had whispered to guests. I knew about his background as a revolutionary from the day of the Ben Tre uprising, then joining the army to fight straight until April 30, losing a leg to artillery fire.
But she used to be a liaison soldier, and after a few months of marriage with him, peace came, and now I heard her tell me. That night, he also revealed: - Dung Si was born on the exact day that the puppet president Duong Van Minh announced his surrender. That morning, he shot down an enemy tank, and was awarded another title of brave soldier, so he named his son Dung Si as a souvenir.
That night, at the office guest house, Cuong and I forgot our worldly statuses and just lay with our legs on each other's bellies as comfortably as when we were in high school. After an hour of chatting about everything, he hesitantly said: - I want you to find out something for me.
I poked a finger into his side: - Let me guess what it is, if it's true then it's no longer a matter of groping around for a needle in a haystack. I found it. You're exactly like me. He gave me a painful punch: - You little shit.
Discovering such a terrible thing and not reporting it to your superiors. You owe me another crime. I asked him: - Did your unit fight in this area during the war? He immediately replied: - Almost all the time. I know the area by heart.
I clapped my hands, affirming: - Then it's 100% correct. After this conference, I'll take you to meet your old lover. And your son, that handsome boy. At his age, you're not even half as good. He sighed: - What old lover?
I don't even know her name or face clearly. I was only able to be near that liaison girl for about three or four hours, and it was at dusk, so I could only vaguely see her coconut-shaped bun of hair lying neatly under her checkered scarf and hear her sweet Southern accent in just one sentence: - Comrade, pay attention to keeping it a secret, absolutely do not talk on the way.
Unless I give a brief order. But I feel you are very beautiful, very pure. Until now, I assure you, if I see you again, I will recognize you with my eyes closed. Because that strange, yet wistful scent that lingers on you, I have already recorded it in my wonderful memory. I know for sure, the floral scent from that white, pure, stirring skin, God only gives to a few people, my friend.
In my experience, they are all the most beautiful women in this world. If that boy is really my son, then it is fate. Before the moment my sister and I crossed that boundary as solid as the Great Wall, I was still a 100% virgin.
I swear to you. That's why I carried that magical moment with me all my life. After the war ended, I asked many people to look for me, but all were very fragile and hopeless. You think, with only one piece of information, I turned around and whispered when handing me over to another guide: - My house is in this area.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. To be sure, I asked: - Do you know where that moment of reckless enlightenment was? Cuong firmly said: - I don't know the place. But it was on the other side of a small stream with shallow water and not very fast flowing.
When we were only a few steps away from reaching the shore, flares flashed overhead. A B52 bombardment was about to happen. She only had time to push me into the hollow belly of a very large tree, then she pressed her body to shield me, both of us unconsciously hugged each other tightly to get through the narrow door.
Immediately, bombs exploded everywhere. Damn, in those life-or-death moments, I didn't hear the explosion, didn't smell the smoke. Only the strange, nostalgic scent that had been lingering all along the way.
At that moment, it seemed to condense, then expand to form a solid curtain that no bombs or bullets could destroy. At that moment, for us, war did not exist. Life and death did not exist in the slightest. There were only two blazing bodies, two tiny creatures of Mother Earth and Father Sky.
And in that moment of immortal childhood, we merged together, naturally joyful like flowers and butterflies, like the grass and trees of the primeval era. Just a moment, but life and death, pain and joy, have been incessantly aching in me for the rest of my life.
I know the tree hollow that happened to be the place where Cuong and the liaison girl had their wedding under the rain of bombs, near where my family was living. It was a single Kơ-nia tree with a trunk several people could hug, its hollow core forming a hollow that could hold two or three adults.
Now it still stands alone at the top of the inter-district road. That stream, formerly named Tha La, has now become a small lake connecting to Dau Tieng Lake. I affirmed to Cuong: - Without a doubt, tomorrow I will take you to visit Tu Thuc cave and your flesh-and-blood fairy again.
Her house is about a few dozen kilometers from mine. But I will give you some more information for you to consider. She is currently in her prime. Much more beautiful than you can imagine. It is very dangerous. Her husband is a war invalid, his leg amputated at the knee. He is not old, and his health is very poor due to exposure to Agent Orange.
They had given birth to two pieces of flesh twice. That was why their happy and painful home only had Dung Si. I want you to think carefully before making any move. I think, if that wounded soldier had not protected you, at that critical time, would you have been safe? You are familiar with wartime discipline.
After a sleepless night, the next morning, he said to me in a flat, toneless voice: - You're right. No matter how big or small, I'm still a member of the royal court. If I act rashly, I'll suffer unforeseeable consequences, both for the organization and for ordinary human morality. Well, I'll have to keep quiet, I'll absolutely keep quiet. You and I have decided together. But you have to let me see my child, see her face, just this once.
Closing the conference, I waited for Cuong to arrive at N commune. To avoid being discovered, I dressed him up in a poor farmer's outfit, covering his head and face with a checkered scarf, leaving only his eyes exposed. Sitting behind me on the motorbike, Cuong kept getting impatient: - Are we almost there? When we reached Dung Si's gate, he timidly pushed me forward.
That afternoon, Dung Si's house was still quiet with a brick yard and a few yellow leaves. This time, Dung Si's father, a wounded soldier, was sitting on a round piece of wood he had cut into a chair, his good leg stretched forward, and his amputated leg was holding a half-finished weaving pole.
Hearing her husband greet the guests, the wife came out of the kitchen, still elegant in her well-tailored Vietnamese traditional dress, her hair still in a big, round, black bun that ached at the back of her neck. We sat together on a stool in the corner of the yard. I noticed that Cuong's back was covered in sweat.
As for her, after a few trembling greetings from him, it seemed like some deep moment from the war had suddenly returned, causing her to open her beautiful eyes wide in shock, silently staring at him, her eyelids not blinking once.
Dung Si was busy with some meeting in the district. Cuong couldn't meet his son. When we were leaving, just past the gate, Cuong grabbed my shirt and gasped: - Exactly. Her hair bun like a plump coconut is still intact and the nostalgic, stirring scent of twenty years has not faded at all. What should I do? I could only hold her trembling hands, unable to say a word of comfort.
It seemed that with a woman's intuition, that Sunday, the former liaison lady, Dung Si's mother, came to my house and asked only one question: - That Northern guest the other day, did he participate in the fighting in this area in the past? I had to lie: - My friend, during the years of fighting the Americans, never wore a soldier's uniform for a single day.
Just a plain office worker like me. She said half a sentence with a doubtful look: Could it be… then fell silent. Since then, we have met a few times, she has not mentioned our suspicious behavior that day again. But from the look on her face, I know she is still full of doubts.
Cuong's father retired, returned his official house and returned to his hometown. He had the old house repaired a little, but still kept the three rooms and two wings with two roofs covered with moss-green tiles from his father's time. His relatives criticized him for being foolish.
He scolded: - You guys are just talking nonsense. No further explanation. His wife passed away a few years later, he was alone. He lost his memory completely, just when Cuong reached retirement age. He left his wife and two daughters in Hanoi, and went back to the countryside to take care of his father. Last year I went to the North to visit him, and saw him sitting on the same bamboo sofa that his father used to sit on.
How many years have passed through those antique items. I don't know why they are still sturdy, still shining with the beauty of time on the bamboo tubes with the color of ripe plum. I greeted him, he nodded: - Please sit down, comrade. I'll give you thirty minutes for that matter.
Just a brief report. Having said that, he bowed his head and looked down at the chessboard in front of him, which was a mess of round pieces lying in the wrong places. In the past, the old scholar sat motionless, constantly twirling his fingers. Now, one of his son's hands was holding the pieces. The other hand kept picking up one piece, then biting his lips and hitting another one. He muttered: - Who told you to overestimate your strength, jumping at the horse's leg. It broke your back, you deserved to die!
Cuong and I sat across from each other in the other room. His hair was turning gray so fast, not a single strand left, whiter than mine. I asked: Do you know your son was just elected Secretary of the District Party Committee? He was silent. I asked again: - Do you know that war invalid who passed away earlier this year? He was still silent.
I added: - Now his mother is alone in that garden. So sad. He was startled but still said nothing. Finally, I pretended to say: - Dung Si's official career is advancing rapidly. Like you in the past, I don't know if there was any influence from a big man. Still, I didn't hear him reveal any emotion.
Late in the afternoon, I sadly held Cuong's hand and said goodbye. Turning to respectfully bow to his father, the old man looked up and said: - Hey Cuong, it's late, why didn't you tell your mother to come home and prepare dinner? I'm starving to death!
VTK
Source
Comment (0)