A day in Diem village

Lifting my straw hat to let the gentle morning breeze from the Nguồn River blow through my hair, I strolled leisurely along the towering embankment. Reaching a fork in the road that seemed to lead to Diem village, I continued down the slope along a concrete path about three meters wide.

At the foot of the slope, I met two girls coming from the opposite direction, each carrying a sickle and two empty baskets slung over their shoulders. I guessed they were going to the riverbank to cut grass. One of them deliberately brushed the end of her carrying pole against my backpack and chirped like a bird, seemingly wanting me to hear:

- Saigon boys are as delicious and fragrant as ripe jackfruit, I've already claimed my share, man.

Wow, the girls from Diem village are quite bold. So they already know about me. I don't know how the news of my return to Diem village yesterday spread to Diem village so quickly.

I recognized the ancient banyan tree at the entrance to Diem village. My grandmother used to tell me: In the old days, the village gate was built with honeycomb-shaped stones next to the banyan tree. During the cooperative era, it became inconvenient for tractors to enter and exit, so it was demolished and leveled. Seeing me from afar, an old man sitting by the banyan tree hurried out to greet me.

He introduced himself as "uncle," then spread his trembling arms wide, emotionally gripping my shoulders. Suddenly, my eyes welled up with tears. The first warm tears fell onto the soil of my homeland. My uncle, with his pockmarked face, was about the same age as my father, thin and frail, dressed in a brown suit made in the style of our ancestors. On the way home, he asked:

- Your father called to let me know about this half a month ago, why are you only just getting back home now?

- Yes, I want to wander around and see the world!

- When we were your age, we also traveled from North to South, and from South back up to the northern border with guns in hand. Our eyes were strained, constantly watching the bushes and the sky, always interspersed with streaks of gunfire. If we blinked, we'd be shot. If they blinked, we'd shoot them. Life and death were separated by less than a hand's breadth, my child.

Leading me through the crumbling lime-walled gate, he said, "This is my house, still exactly as it was when your grandmother left the village to live south with your father." I briefly glimpsed his estate, an old five-room house with a dark, moss-covered tile roof. At the gable end facing the garden sat a small, curved rainwater tank with a semicircular lid, sheltering fallen leaves.

Two betel nut trees stood at either end of the pond, their trunks covered in white moss. The small kitchen, perpendicular to the gable end, had its door wide open, revealing a jumble of straw and rubbish, along with a flock of young chickens scrambling and scratching around, their contents unknown.

Everything was old, bearing the marks of a distant past. Even my uncle's garden was ancient, with many old fruit trees, their branches and leaves a tangled mess of green and yellow, casting cool, silent shadows. The faint, melodious chirping of doves drifted from someone's garden. Living here was incredibly enjoyable. A moment of wistful nostalgia struck me, and I felt a pang of sadness for my grandmother, forced to spend her final years confined within the four walls of a narrow house next to a noisy street, sharing her life with her children and grandchildren.

My uncle personally scooped rainwater from the tank with a coconut shell ladle, filling a gleaming golden copper basin, and urged me to wash my face. I happily cupped my hands and splashed handfuls of cool water onto the back of my neck and face. The faint scent of betel nut flowers mingled with the water, gradually seeping into my skin and hair. Was this the same nostalgic scent of my hometown that my grandmother used to breathe into my soul every day during our conversations?

As the two sat opposite each other on two time-worn, black benches, the uncle softly confided: "Your aunt passed away ten years ago. My eldest son is stationed on an island, and I don't know when he'll be able to return to the mainland. His wife is a teacher, and they live separately near the school in the village. My second son, Phuong, the one who's visited you a few times, is in his third year of university. As for my youngest, he was born a few years after I was discharged from the army following the Northern border war. But it's so sad, my dear, he was exposed to Agent Orange from me. He's twenty years old now, but he's still dazed and disoriented, not quite human."

"That pockmarked bastard's mother, that pockmarked bastard's mother!" I heard the echoing voices, but they sounded like the wailing of a magpie coming from outside the gate. My uncle, looking dejected, quickly stood up: "There he is, nephew. He went somewhere early this morning and only just made his way back. Don't you see how miserable I am? Even in this state, someone is still cruel enough to teach the boy such an inhumane curse."

I followed my uncle and was startled to see a large, burly man, his clothes stained with mud, his face pale but his eyes wide open like two snails bulging out of their sockets, as if they would pop out with a thud at the slightest movement. But those two snails were almost motionless, both the whites and the black pupils staring blankly into nowhere. My uncle, despite his frail appearance, somehow found the strength to drag him roughly out to the well.

I helped fetch water, and he poured it all over the cat, scrubbing it like he was scrubbing a fat pig. After changing its clothes, it sat huddled at the edge of the yard, meek and docile, its lips pursed, continuously spitting out strong bursts of saliva like a child's toy water gun. A gecko was crawling lazily on a custard apple branch in front of it; it spat on its head, knocking it over, and it frantically scrambled away into the grass. The cat stared after it, then suddenly stomped its feet on the tiled ground and burst into carefree laughter.

His laughter sounded like the squealing of a parrot mimicking human laughter. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder. He didn't react at all. It was heartbreaking. Even his own siblings couldn't show a single gesture of affection. In this village of Diem, how many other children are as unfortunate and overgrown as him?

Ten years ago, my uncle invested all his savings in a small tractor. Three times a year, he would drive it to work on small plots of land, one or two acres, for many households in the village. After plowing, he would lug around, transporting all sorts of things for hire. The income wasn't much, but with his pension and Agent Orange allowance, it was enough to provide for Phuong's education and my youngest brother's disability. But for the past few years, he no longer had the strength to keep that tractor running every day. Now, during summer vacation, or when the school gives them a few days off, Phuong comes home and takes over from his father, starting the tractor and driving around to earn money. I only hear the rumbling sound outside the gate late in the afternoon, knowing he's back. I'd met him several times in the South, but today, from the very first moment, I was utterly astonished by this strong young man, weathered by the sun and rain, his eyes seemingly older than his age, not yet profound but clearly showing worry and anxiety. Placed among his classmates, hardly anyone would guess he was a university student. The evening meal for the four men passed quickly. Without a housewife's touch, my uncle's meal was heartbreakingly simple. The youngest son carried a huge bowl, shoveling rice into his mouth as if afraid someone would eat it all. My uncle struggled to eat even two small bowls. After eating, he put on his old army uniform, saying he was going to a veterans' meeting. Phuong and I sat on the porch drinking tea under the shimmering moonlight. He murmured, "Our village is so dreary now, brother! A few days after Tet, a few young people leave to study far away, many pack their bags and board trains to the big cities, lining up at labor markets every morning, some lucky enough to work as laborers for foreign employers. But if not, each household only has a few tiny acres of land, and the work is over in half a month. Should we all starve to death at home?" Now, when you go out, you only see either frail old people or scruffy children heading to school. In the afternoons, middle-aged women whose husbands work in Taiwan or South Korea, their pockets rustling with a few US dollars and Chinese yuan, excitedly call each other to gather and have fun, it's quite an eyesore. You should stay in the countryside a little longer; you'll see many things that need changing, otherwise… Well, let's discuss this later. For now, come with me to the village cultural center to watch the free movie screening provided by the mobile theater group. Then he snapped at his younger brother: "Where are you going, leaving home? Dad'll beat you to death!" Even so, he didn't forget to carefully lock the gate while his brother stood peeking from inside, his eyes wide and his mouth constantly muttering in a high-pitched, childish voice: "Damn that pockmarked son of a bitch!"

Approaching the dimly lit, low-ceilinged shop with its flashing red and green lights, Phuong said, "Let's go in and have a cup of coffee." The shop had several waitresses with heavily made-up faces and bright red lips, just like in the city. The coffee had no aroma; a sip tasted bitter, like burnt popcorn. Just as we were about to leave, a man in a crumpled army uniform sitting a few tables away came over and asked, "Hey Phuong! Is this the kid of the famous general in our village?" Turning to me, he continued, "Let me introduce you, I'm Do, the son of that damned old Nom, the grandson of Hieng the limping old man, who was quite famous around here." Then he gestured with his arm, missing the wrist joint, in the air. Meeting my questioning gaze, he explained, "I'm not a war invalid, kid. That old, outdated threshing machine from the cooperative era crushed my hand. It only crushed one hand, but it felt like it crushed my whole life." After uttering that weary, angry remark, he slumped his shoulders, gently placing his other hand on my shoulder, his voice softening: "Phuong, you go with your girlfriend, the Secretary of the Youth Union, she's waiting for you impatiently. Leave this guy to me. If his family hadn't moved south that year, we would have been close friends a long time ago." After Phuong left, Anh Do pulled me over to sit at the same table with a few young guys with dyed green and red hair. They called Anh Do "Big Brother." One of them whispered: "Big Brother, shouldn't we treat this guy? I've been watching the old inspector's daughter, she's got six bowls of delicious food and is practically drooling." Anh Phuong waved his hand: "Save it for later. You guys get lost, I have something to discuss with my younger brother."

With only the two brothers left, Đó lowered his voice: "I'm disabled, the cooperative doesn't give me a single penny in benefits. All opportunities in life are gone. My friends, one went to high school and then university, another is a factory worker earning ten million a month. Even joining the army or getting a job as a defense worker to escape this life of a barefoot, blind farmer is out of the question. With my arm amputated like this, and only a third-grade education, how can I possibly do anything worthy of a man? I'm over thirty years old and still just an old man with nothing but teeth and genitals. The village girls, even those with cleft lips and protruding navels, reject me, and the whole village curses me as a vagabond. Yes, it's lucky I haven't picked up a knife to rob someone yet. Anyway, talking about this is too depressing. You'll be staying in the village for a while longer, and I'll tell you more about the many interesting things this village has to offer. Let's go to the village cultural center, so we can see what life is like in our village, my friend."

We arrived at what was supposed to be a community gathering place. On either side of the gate, two high-pressure lamps hung from iron poles, illuminating the moderately sized earthen courtyard. Inside, several hundred people were sitting and standing. Most were children; there were very few young men. The majority were young women. They walked in groups of two or three, arm in arm, chatting animatedly. Before we could even choose a place to stand, a girl with sparkling eyes reflecting the lamplight approached Mr. Đó and said nonchalantly:

- Where did you get that amazing MSG noodle dish, sir? Can you introduce it to me?

- Pfft... this isn't your turn. If you just registered to have that guy as your husband, it'd be over immediately!

She giggled and walked away, leaving behind a drawn-out remark: "I wouldn't dare, Sister Ló would tear me to pieces, I'm terrified." As soon as this bold girl disappeared into the crowd, several older, but rather plump, women immediately surrounded my brother and me, swaying and dancing. I felt several hot, tickling breaths on the back of my neck. A woman with a curvaceous waist stood close to Brother Đó. He nonchalantly ran his healthy hand over her plump buttocks, which were dimly lit. I didn't see any reaction from her; instead, she leaned closer, whispering in Brother Đó's ear: "Damn it, aren't you afraid people will see?"

The movie screening wasn't interesting at all, so we left. Stopping in front of my uncle's house, he said: "That girl we saw earlier was Ló, the infamous woman from Điềm village. Her husband went to South Korea to work on a fishing boat and drowned two years ago. She received a considerable amount of compensation for the death. Now she seems to be in a lot of trouble."

My first night sleeping in my ancestral village felt incredibly relaxing, like floating on the waves of the Nguồn River. The surroundings were eerily quiet. In the neighbor's house, someone was bathing late at night; the sound of water splashing and the bucket hitting the well's edge echoed far and wide. My uncle breathed steadily, but he tossed and turned constantly, the bedsheet rustling softly. On the other side, my youngest brother occasionally shrieked: "That pockmarked bastard!" I opened my eyes and looked at the top of the mosquito net; the darkness grew thicker and thicker as the night progressed. When I finally drifted off to sleep, I found myself lost in a jumble of vague images, unable to form any clear thoughts. I was startled awake by the cacophony of roosters crowing from all directions. Looking at the clock, it was only four thirty. Still in the neighbor's house, the yelping of a chained dog mingled with the hoarse, coughing voice of an old man threatening: "It's still early! Do you want to let them out so they can use an electric gun to drag you away?" "Dogs should be let loose at night to guard the house, shouldn't they?" I wondered. It wasn't until several days later, when I went with my uncle to visit some relatives, that I saw every dog ​​tied up in a very secure corner, and even the cats chained by the neck. When I asked, I learned that there were dog and cat thieves in the village who were incredibly fast. Even with such careful guarding, a moment of carelessness and the animals were gone, snatched up by these scoundrels and ending up on the slaughterhouse table.

I slipped through the gate and locked it securely, just like Phuong had done the previous night. Turning towards the embankment, I ran slowly, taking short steps. The village road was deserted. The thin, gentle morning mist brushed against me, cool and refreshing. The soft breeze from the Nguồn River was incredibly invigorating. As I was about to leave the bamboo grove at the end of the village, hearing the air filled with the rhythmic sound of the river's waves, I spotted a figure slipping silently out from between two slightly ajar iron gates. He walked ahead of me, his steps hesitant and unsteady. One arm swung behind his back, the other, short and stubby, was raised as if ready to punch someone. I sprinted to catch up with him. Recognizing me, he nudged me lightly in the side, smirking: "You know what happened at Ló's house last night, just pretend you didn't see anything, kid."

We ran up the embankment together. Before me, the Nguồn River in the early morning was majestically beautiful, pristine. A milky mist, neither thick nor thin, floated gently over the waves. A section of the river curved, pale white, hazy like a sleepy girl, languidly draped in a veil, her delicate, jade-like body. Many times before, standing before vast rivers, my heart has always been filled with a reverence, almost awe. From the depths of my being, a vague feeling of regret for something lost, something I cannot put into words, creeps in. Like this morning, I gazed wistfully at the distant sails gradually disappearing from view, as if they were carrying away countless age-old mysteries to some distant fairytale land. I felt a pang of unease, a strange sadness.

Oh! River Source, my beloved and deeply cherished one! My guardian deity! I respectfully bow before you.

VTK

Source: https://baotayninh.vn/mot-ngay-o-lang-diem-a167265.html