The mangoes of the next season

The wooden fence separating Mr. Tinh's house from Mr. Lam's had long since rotted away. It was originally a row of bamboo stakes, later replaced with makeshift wooden planks. Mr. Tinh no longer remembers exactly when this fence became an insurmountable boundary.

It all started with a mango tree growing right on the boundary. The day the first batch of mangoes fell into the yard, Mr. Tinh had just picked one up and was about to savor its sweet, fragrant, golden-skinned fruit when Mr. Lam, standing on the other side of the fence, perhaps misunderstanding the situation, snapped:

Those are my mangoes.

Mr. Tinh was stunned, and suddenly became abrupt:

- But the branch of the tree goes over my yard, and the fruit fell on this side.

"Look, where is the base of the tree?" Mr. Lam shouted.

They argued back and forth all morning. Finally, Mr. Lam turned and walked away. Mr. Tinh stood watching his neighbor's back, the mango in his hand suddenly losing its sweetness and aroma.

Later, the shade of the mango tree obscured Mr. Tinh's cabbage patch, causing the roots to rot and the leaves to turn yellow. One day, he asked Mr. Lam if he could prune the mango tree branches. Mr. Lam stood on the other side of the fence, watching Mr. Tinh through the gaps:

- Where the tree's shadow falls is its own business.

The next morning, Mr. Tinh took out his pruning shears and trimmed all the mango branches that extended towards his house. Leaves fell all over the yard. Mr. Lam stood on the other side of the fence, watching, his face pale, but said nothing. The mango tree stopped bearing fruit for two seasons.

From then on, the fence became an invisible wall. Once, Mr. Tinh's cat jumped over and snatched Mr. Lam's pet fish. Mr. Tinh ran out and saw Mr. Lam holding a feather duster, while the calico cat ran for its life, meowing pitefully. Mr. Tinh wanted to apologize, but seeing Mr. Lam's face flushed with anger, the apology choked him up. He just silently carried the cat back into the house.

The next day, Mr. Lam erected netting to enclose the fence. Mr. Tinh stood watching from his window, seeing the hands of his neighbor, marked with age, tying steel wire to each wooden post. That afternoon, he looked across through a gap. It was deserted.

Ten years passed like that. The two elderly neighbors lived next to each other but didn't speak a word. Some mornings, Mr. Tinh would go to his garden to water the plants and hear Mr. Lam's dry cough from across the street. At night, he would lie awake listening to the news broadcast from the television next door. He wondered if Mr. Lam was lonely, then thought to himself, "Who told him to be so stubborn?"

***

The storm came unexpectedly. The wind had howled since the night before, shaking the fence planks violently. The next morning, when he opened the door, Mr. Tinh was stunned. The fence had fallen. The boundary between the two houses was now just a strip of empty land. Mr. Lam was standing there, on the other side. Their eyes met, then they looked away. They were both old. Mr. Tinh's hair was white, and Mr. Lam's back was more hunched than the last time they spoke. Ten years had passed, etched on both their faces.

On the first day, Mr. Tinh diligently cleaned up his section. Mr. Lam did the same. The two of them silently cleaned up all morning. By afternoon, Mr. Tinh sat on the steps, looking at the mess. His arms ached. He remembered years ago when he could carry two buckets of water at once and dig all day without getting tired. Now, just clearing a few planks of wood made him breathless and his knees ache.

The next morning, he brought out some new pine planks. He intended to rebuild the fence, making it tall and sturdy. But when he picked up the first plank, his hands trembled. He tried to balance it, but the plank tilted to one side. He tried again, but still couldn't.

- If it stays like that, it will collapse again next time there's a storm.

A voice from behind startled him. Mr. Lam stood there, looking at him through the gap in the collapsed fence. The two men silently gazed at each other. A gentle breeze blew, carrying the scent of damp earth after the rain. Mr. Tinh waited—he didn't know what he was waiting for, only that this silence felt unbearably heavy.

Then Mr. Lam stepped over. His steps were slow. He extended his sun-tanned hand to support the other end of the plank. That hand, too, trembled, too old, too calloused from years of labor. They began to work. Mr. Tinh hammered the nails, Mr. Lam held the plank.

At noon, they sat down to rest on the steps. They didn't sit next to each other, but on opposite sides, though the distance between them seemed much closer than it had been in the past ten years. Mr. Tinh took out his water bottle and drank a long gulp. He offered the bottle to Mr. Lam. Mr. Lam hesitated, then accepted it. They drank in silence. The plain water was bland, but its coolness soothed their dry throats.

"We're really getting old," Mr. Lam said.

Mr. Tinh nodded, needing no further explanation. Both understood that old age was creeping into every joint, every movement. They understood that their outbursts of anger had, in fact, lost all power.

That afternoon, the new fence was finished. It was sturdier and neater than the old one.

"Tomorrow I'll buy some paint to repaint the fence," Mr. Tinh said.

"Me too," Mr. Lam replied.

They didn't ask each other what color to paint their walls, nor did they agree on anything; they just nodded in greeting and went their separate ways.

***

The next morning, Mr. Tinh brought out a can of green paint. The bright green against the gray wood was like a fresh breeze. He had only painted half of it when he heard a noise on the other side. He glanced through the gap and saw Mr. Lam using yellow paint. Two different colors appeared on the same fence, separated by the gaps in the wood.

Mr. Tinh stopped. He looked at his green, then at the yellow on the other side. A strange feeling welled up inside him, not anger, not amusement, but something between regret and acceptance. They were still different, still wanted to maintain their own boundaries. But at least, those boundaries were now built by both of them.

When they reached the middle of the painting, they both stopped at the same time. At the foot of the fence, Mr. Tinh's tabby cat was standing there, its eyes peering through the gaps in the wood as if searching for the familiar path that had vanished. Mr. Tinh bent down to pet the cat. Mr. Lam was also looking down at the cat. His eyes no longer held anger, only a hint of weariness and sadness.

"That hole in the corner..." Mr. Tinh began, his voice hoarse from not having spoken for a long time. He hesitated, searching for the right words, "The cat used to run through it."

Mr. Lam remained silent, watching the cat, then looking up at Mr. Tinh. Mr. Lam's face was gaunt, with deep, furrowed wrinkles.

"Leave a gap," Mr. Lam said, in a low voice, "for the cat to walk around."

Mr. Tinh nodded. They both took out their saws and cut off a corner of the last two planks. The sound of the saws echoed steadily. Sawdust fell to the ground like fragments of time being trimmed away. They created a small "archway" right at ground level.

The cat walked by, then disappeared behind the vegetable beds. They stood watching it, no one saying a word. Only the gentle breeze rustling through the new planks, the scent of fresh paint mingling with the smell of earth, could be heard.

That afternoon, Mr. Lam brought out a pitcher of iced green tea. He placed it on the pillar in the middle of the fence, exactly where they used to stand and argue. He didn't call out, didn't say anything, just left the tea there and went back inside.

Mr. Tinh saw it from inside the house. He stood looking at the teapot for a long time. Then he stepped out and picked it up. The tea was cold, with dew still clinging to the outside. He took a long sip. The tea was bitter and astringent, but it permeated his dry, hot throat. He closed his eyes, letting the bitterness spread. Just like how bitter the years of anger towards his neighbor had been.

He opened his eyes and looked over the fence. On the other side, Mr. Lam was standing, watering the old mango tree. The tree was sprouting lush green shoots. Young mangoes were growing on the branches, pale green in the setting sun. If the mango branches were to ever reach into his yard again, Mr. Tinh imagined himself placing those ripe mangoes in front of Mr. Lam's house. Saying nothing, just leaving them there. Just like how Mr. Lam placed this teapot.

That night, Mr. Tinh lay listening to the television from the other side, as usual. But this time, he didn't feel annoyed. He just thought, perhaps Mr. Lam was also alone, listening to the ticking of the clock in the quiet night. Both of them were old. Both of them were lonely. For the past ten years, perhaps they had wasted something precious – not mangoes, but time. Time that they could have spent together, drinking tea, talking about the trivialities of life, about growing vegetables, about the weather, about their children far from home, about the loneliness of old age...

But it's not too late. It's not too late for afternoons spent with a pot of tea. It's not too late for mangoes next season...

Short story: NGOC LINH

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/nhung-trai-xoai-mua-sau-a196789.html