Old smell

Illustration: Phan Nhan

I am Hau Thi Vang. I am twenty-two years old this year. My teenage years passed in a remote and barren village in the Muong Hoa valley, Sapa. Most ethnic girls like me grow up to work as tour guides right in our own village. Because in Sapa, besides the love markets, brocade trading..., tourists like to visit the villages the most. Most of them are still foreign tourists. No one remembers when the term "mountain girls walking" came into being. But the obvious truth is that right in my dilapidated village, there are already more than ten mixed-race children.

I was no better than my peers. I couldn’t even make it through high school. But before I was twenty, I was already afraid of the sight of mixed-race children. And afraid of the sight of my hands always blackened by indigo leaves used to dye fabric. I wanted to go somewhere far away. At least to escape poverty.

The opportunity came when my cousin from all the way in Hanoi came back to visit his hometown. The purpose of that visit was also to “capture” a relative to go to the capital to support his wife who had just given birth to their first child. Just a few days later, I packed my meager assets in a small backpack and hurriedly followed him down the train to the city.

Life in Hanoi makes me very excited, although it took me a few months to get used to the noise here. It is so different from the quiet of the misty mountainous region of my hometown. My daily chores are just to cook two meals, feed the baby and lull him to sleep. Even though I don't have a child, I still do it quite easily. Especially lulling him to sleep. The baby is addicted to my "unique" lullaby: Tua nang pay mi om/ Tua nang cause nom may/ Tua nang pay dang phay tha me/ Tua nang la lonenh que du dai/ Tua nang pay au vai ma lang/ Tua nang ooc pac tang slon slu/ Tua nang pay fin uc... ( One child goes to wash diapers/ One child goes to dye thread/ One child goes to light the fire waiting for mother/ One child plays and does nothing/ One child goes to herd the buffaloes back to the barn/ One child goes to rock the cradle) . He falls asleep to the gentleness of unfamiliar sounds. As for me, I love the diverse and romantic images of lullabies, so I can sing them over and over again without getting bored.

Three years passed in a flash, the little boy was old enough to go to kindergarten but the couple still had no plans to have another child. I was a content person but gradually found myself becoming an extra person in their apartment of nearly 150 square meters. I had a vague idea of ​​applying for a job. But applying for a job in the city was really difficult for me. I had no qualifications to apply for a job in an agency. I was also not sharp enough to follow people to sell goods. Thinking back, I saw that my only option was to become a maid. Several years in the bustling city had ingrained this noun in my mind. And I also understood that the job I had been doing for so long was also considered a profession, needed by many people. I secretly bought the Mua & Ban newspaper and searched in the Jobs Needed People section. After much hesitation, I decided to hire a motorbike taxi to go to a job agency closest to where I was living. I was greeted by a woman in her thirties, with eyes as sharp as pandan leaves:

- Luckily, there is a family that needs a maid just like you. They are an intellectual couple who often have to go on business trips abroad. So they are not at ease when the old man, who is nearly eighty years old, has to stay home alone. The old woman just passed away at the beginning of the year. That is why the old man's children asked to find a healthy maid, preferably unmarried, because they want the maid to not be tied down with children and rarely ask to visit her hometown. They are willing to pay a good salary.

- But I... - I was confused and didn't know how to express my apprehension.

- Listen to me! - The woman's voice was firm. - My experience in this profession shows that this is a good place to work. And if you don't like it, after half a month, or even a few days, you can still come here and find another employer.

* * *

My new owner is a famous old painter. I guessed so after knowing every inch of the vast four-story house. Many certificates of merit and awards were stacked on top of each other, covered in dust. Paintings were hung haphazardly on all floors, without any order. But I found it made the house unusually lively and warm. The owner often went somewhere early in the morning, only being home for lunch and dinner. So, in my free time, I meticulously cleaned his certificates of merit. One time he came home earlier than usual, just as I was diligently cleaning. He seemed touched and said to me:

- Oh, I have forgotten them for decades!

I felt like I was blushing, just like when I was caught doing something without permission, even though I knew for sure I had done nothing wrong. From then on, he talked to me more often. I called him “sir” and addressed myself as “em”. He liked it that way. It made him seem “noble” - he humorously commented to me like that. He said. I mostly expressed my admiration with my eyes. I didn’t understand everything he said. But I had the feeling that he lived in a world full of light and knowledge, completely foreign to an uneducated mountain girl like me. His friends were all gentlemen with slicked-back hair, neat and beautiful clothes. This made me quite surprised. My memory kept the image of my grandfather when he was over seventy, always looking gray and dingy. I never went near his private corner because I couldn’t stand the stench. The mixed smell of cigarette smoke, the smell of people who haven't showered much, the smell of unwashed bedding for a long time... it was burnt and nauseating. There was always a lingering, gloomy atmosphere in the house. Once, when he went away for a few days, my mother asked me to clean that corner. But even though I washed all the bedding and wiped every single bed slat, that special smell still didn't go away. "It's stuck to the walls, the wood, the mat, my child. That's the smell of old people." I clearly remember my mother grumbling.

The two words “old smell” have been stuck in my mind since I was a child. It was so different from the fragrant and elegant old men I met in this house. They gathered at his house once a month. Although I had to be busier than usual on that occasion, I really enjoyed the festive atmosphere. My boss often had special dishes to treat his artist friends. One of the dishes I cooked until I was proficient was chicken and mushroom porridge. The chicken had to be Son Tay sugarcane chicken raised on the hills. The rice used to cook the porridge was rice from the field of worms, that is, rice grown in places where worms were found after the harvest season, so although it looked ugly, when cooked, the porridge was very thick and sweet. The strangest thing was the Matsutake mushroom. Matsutake mushroom season was only in August each year. Unlike other mushrooms that grow on rotten wood, this very expensive and rare mushroom cannot be cultivated artificially and only grows on the roots of living pine trees. The boss came back from Japan and gave me packages of mushrooms that were carefully sealed in styrofoam boxes and stored in the refrigerator. He told me about how people grow mushrooms, that all they have to do is manage the pine forests and... wait for the mushrooms to grow. Sometimes, Matsutake collectors have to walk all day, using the iron hook they carry to push aside the light brown pine needles, to find a simple and... ugly white mushroom. Yet, those mushrooms are considered treasures by chefs and culinary connoisseurs. Some luxury restaurants in our country also have this mushroom on the menu and people call it velvet matsutake mushroom. This mushroom is delicious when cooked in porridge, and I love the feeling of biting into a thick and fatty slice of mushroom the most. I suddenly thought of the pine forests in my hometown. I wonder what kind of precious mushroom is born from there. I planned to ask the boss about this.

The owner also taught me how to cook Matsutake soup in a teapot. He said it was a very delicate and beautiful way of enjoying Matsutake mushrooms of the Japanese. The soup was ladled into a bowl and a few drops of lemon juice were added. The bowl of soup had the characteristic refreshing taste of the fragrant pine mushroom but still had the sweet aroma of shrimp, chicken...

Among the guests, I noticed the painter Van Anh. No, more precisely, I noticed him because he always had a young girl with black eyes. Hoang Van was the girl's name. While I ran back and forth to add more snacks, Hoang Van sat at the same table with... the elders. Her fixed position was to the right of the painter Van Anh. She was always pouring wine and making tea. And at the end of the party, she always asked me to help her wring a towel with hot water. Carefully, she wiped the painter's hands, lovingly stroking along each thin finger. The painter's friends must have been used to this, no one reacted. Moreover, she performed this caring gesture with a lovely naturalness, without causing any ridiculous feeling. Once, I accidentally glanced at my boss's hands. And I discovered that his hands were much younger than his age. They had no age spots, and were still agile. That night, in my dream, I saw myself holding his two hands in mine. I pressed his two hands against my cheeks… Waking up, sitting by the window watching the garden in the early morning sun, I still felt my cheeks burning hot. In a daze, I did not know that my thoughts had covered the mountain girl’s face with a mysterious mist. I jumped when his voice rang out, right next to me:

- You look so beautiful in this side pose!

- I... I - I was flustered and couldn't find the words to say.

- Just sit there!

I sat still, slightly stiff with a strange feeling. I had never seen him so interested in the canvas. A young woman sat sideways by the open window. Eyes wide open, lips slightly parted as if waiting for something... For the first time, I saw myself in a different light. It was both real and dreamlike. I wanted to cherish this feeling. For a long time. Really!

Source: http://baolamdong.vn/van-hoa-nghe-thuat/202410/mui-gia-b0c33c1/