Piano keys under the moon

In the summer of my eighth year, my world brightened when my mother brought me to live permanently in the Cau Giay performing arts complex. My mother was an actress in the Central Song and Dance Ensemble, and to me at that time, the apartment complex was a dazzling sanctuary of art.

The melodious sounds of stringed instruments and flutes filled the air all day long, blending into the elegant and refined atmosphere created by renowned artists.

There were many kids my age here, like Nhật, Hải, Hùng, and Tình, but Hải was my best friend. Hải's mother was also a singer, a close friend of my mother. Those two beautiful and talented women often sat together after each performance, chatting about their professions and lives. Hải had a stepfather – Uncle Đình, a renowned and strict piano teacher.

I still remember that sweltering summer afternoon vividly. The sun blazed golden on the lawn, and I ran to Hai's room intending to invite him to play, but my steps faltered at the window sill. Inside, there was a solemn atmosphere. Hai sat there, his violin tucked under his chin, his small shoulders trembling with each breath. Uncle Dinh sat imposingly in his wooden chair, his sharp eyes watching every movement of his son's hands, the wooden ruler on the table a symbol of strict artistic discipline.

Just then, a tiny, shimmering green dragonfly flew into the room and landed on the edge of the wooden table right in front of Hai. For a moment, Hai's childlike soul was captivated by those delicate wings. The music went off-key.

"Slap!" - The ruler slammed down on the wooden table with a sharp, clear sound. The dragonfly startled and flew away.

"Pay attention!" Uncle Dinh's voice rang out sternly.

Hai frantically raised the violin, but his trembling hands made the music sound off-key. Uncle Dinh approached and used a ruler to tap Hai's hand to correct his posture. Hai bit his lip tightly, tears welling up and staining the precious wood of the violin. I stood outside watching my friend, feeling both afraid of Uncle Dinh's strictness and heartbroken for Hai.

It wasn't until the sun had completely set that Hai silently emerged from behind the old stage to meet me. He held out his hand, still marked with red marks, his voice choked with emotion:

- I heard my grandmother say that he's not my biological father.

"So who's your father?" I asked, my eyes wide with surprise.

Hai glanced around nervously, as if afraid someone might hear, then whispered to me:

- My dad is from the South... I wish I could go back to him, then I wouldn't have to practice the piano so hard.

Hai's story touched a quiet spot within me. I also have a stepfather who's a soldier. Although Uncle Khanh Can is very kind and never speaks harshly, I still feel a little lonely. Especially on Sunday nights, he takes my mother and my younger sister Ngoc out for a stroll, leaving me alone in the dark, deserted performing arts area, the chirping of crickets stirring up feelings of sadness. I stand and watch the car disappear into the distance, then run to Hai's house, where I find him still diligently playing his guitar under the dedicated, yet strict, guidance of Uncle Dinh.

The two of us children wove a dream together: the South – where our fathers were waiting. Hai devised an astonishingly detailed "campaign" to find his father. Unfortunately, that plan was soon exposed. I received the only slap of my life from my grandfather – a slap that shattered the naive "escape" dream of the two children.

***

Ten years later, in the middle of the forest

Truong Son.

During a performance by the Military Region's Art Troupe, held in a brightly lit cave illuminated by kerosene lamps, I was stunned to see a young man playing the violin on stage. His head tilted, his eyes half-closed with each note... It was Hai! I rushed onto the stage when the performance ended, shaking his hand tightly:

- Hai! It's me, Hoai...

That night, the two young soldiers, sons of the former Cau Giay performing arts troupe, sat together in the deep forest. Hai told me about his mother's days of illness. It was then that he truly understood Uncle Dinh's kindness. He had cared for Hai's mother with boundless love.

Hai held my hand, his voice choked with emotion:

- I owe you an apology, Hoai. Back then, I made up the story about your father being in the South to get you to come along so you wouldn't be so scared... Uncle Khanh Can is your real father. As for Uncle Dinh, it was his strictness that forged the character of a soldier in me, and gave me the guitar to stand firm in the Truong Son Mountains today.

I looked at Hai, tears streaming down my face. I wanted to say, "Hai, you're not making this up. Actually, that's exactly my situation..." But I remained silent. In the Trường Sơn Mountains, the camaraderie and gratitude we felt for the fathers who had raised us became more sacred than ever.

Then the war ended, and the country was unified. I went to study at Hanoi Pedagogical University. One summer afternoon, my mother gave me a one-tael gold ring and said:

- Go to Saigon to find your father. Khanh Can's father himself told his mother: "Leaves fall back to their roots, just let the child go find his biological father."

I was overwhelmed by the compassion of my stepfather. I left to complete a circle of destiny. And in Saigon - Ho Chi Minh City, I found a memento of my father. In my 45 years of life, for the first time, a man held me tightly in his arms and wept with me.

***

But my heart still carries a deep sorrow. Hai was killed in the Truong Son forest after a series of B52 bombings, not long after the night we met. Hai passed away before he could express his gratitude to Uncle Dinh, and before he could see the day the country rejoiced in its victory.

Under the moonlight of Truong Son, I still hear the sound of Hai's violin soaring high, flying over the vast forest, searching for the memories of the Cau Giay performing arts center of yesteryear...

CHAU LA VIET

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/nhung-phim-dan-duoi-trang-post851879.html