by Bao Ninh
The house was built entirely of timber and had the tall pointed roof favoured by the local hill tribes. The plantation owner greeted them courteously, taking them around the comfortable house, showing them his plough, his irrigation system and his power generator, which ran almost silently, in keeping with the peaceful scene.
Flowers were in bloom in gardens encircling the lovely house, and at the back there was a herb and vegetable patch for the kitchen.
The owner had come from the north with his wife and they now had a seven-year-old son. When Kien’s team entered they came fully armed, wearing dirty, sweaty uniforms and it was clear the family were both embarrassed and nervous, although they tried not to show it.
They invited the soldiers to take a meal with them, but when they refused the couple did not press them. The owner spoke to them of plantation life while his wife went to the kitchen to brew coffee. He was surprisingly well educated, honest and very polite.
‘We’ve not seen any guerrillas, let alone northern army regulars like yourselves. We just live a simple life, growing coffee, sugar cane and flowers,’ he began. ‘Thanks to Heaven, thanks to the land and the trees and Nature, and thanks to our own hands and energy and the money from our labour, we are self-sufficient. We don’t need help from any government. If the President loses the fight, then let him be, even though you are Communists, on the other side. You’re human too. You want peace and a calm life, families of your own, isn’t that right, gentlemen?’
No one disputed what he said, although such honesty of expression was dangerous in those times. Fortunately none of them felt like handing out indoctrination lessons, so all day long the talk was of farming, labour, family happiness. The war was hardly mentioned again.
They drank excellent coffee, which added to the intimacy and warmth of the atmosphere. The wife looked on them with soft and friendly eyes, rarely speaking but feeling part of the group. The husband spoke in his frank way and treated the soldiers like friendly guests. They were soon feeling very much at home; even the occasional harsh knock of grenade or gun on the backs of their chairs as they moved positions did not break the peaceful spell. The scent of pine wood from newly hewn logs and fresh coffee brewing seemed to cast a spell over them, and they experienced a feeling of malaise, then sweet sorrow.
Inside the house they felt part of a small family circle. Outside the house was a broad circle of war.
Driving away from the plantation in the late afternoon, no one spoke for some minutes. Finally, Van, a University graduate in Economics and Planning, started to speak: ‘There, you see. That’s the way to live! What a peaceful, happy oasis. My lecturers with all their Marxist theories will pour in and ruin all this if we win. I’m horrified to think of what will happen to that couple, they’d soon learn what the new political order means.’
Another replied, ‘Damn right they’ll be unhappy. If we do win and return after the war I wonder if they’ll still treat us kindly?’
‘Not unless you come back as chairman of the new co-operative!’ laughed Van.
But the thought had appalled them, and when Van spoke again he was sombre: ‘That will be sad, really. I wonder if my own district will ever develop such lovely farms. Our landscape at Moc Chau is similar to this, yet we’re always so poor.’
Kien didn’t contribute anything to the conversation, but every word of it was etched in his memory and he recalled the visit several times in later years when down south. He had made half-hearted plans to go back and visit the plantation, but never seemed to have the time.
As for Van, Thanh, Tu and all the others who had been at the plantation with him on that special afternoon, they were long dead.
Of all the visitors, only he was alive to remember that visit. It had been little more than a wayside stop along the long road of conflict, yet it remained to this day a special memory, taking on increasing warmth and significance as the years went by.
He can’t sleep. He thinks of Phuong, then of her apartment. No more than a room, really, identical to his. Both twenty square metres with red and white square tiles like a chess board, a stove in the corner inlaid with blue tiles, a window looking out into the street, through branches and fronds of a sheoak.
The furniture was almost identical, too. The other common characteristic was the atmosphere of loneliness, poverty, and loss. When he had first revisited Phuong’s room after a ten-year absence he noticed the piano was missing. It had been her mother’s precious property and had stood for many years against the window. ‘I sold it,’ she said simply, when he asked about it. ‘It took up too much space. Anyway, I’ve not got the class to own something as lovely as a piano.’
It had been handed down from her father, a pianist who had died before the liberation of Hanoi from the French after the fall of Dien Bien Phu in 1954.
Phuong’s mother had been a music teacher. She had retired when Phuong was sixteen, intending to concentrate on teaching her daughter classical music and the piano. She was totally different from her daughter. She was quietly spoken, thin and small. ‘I’m afraid her guitar-playing and singing at all those parties and festivals are doing her no good at all, Kien. Please help me get her out of those habits,’ she would say.
Phuong played the piano very well. She was a natural. But as she grew older she became lazier and lazier. ‘The piano is too big, too solemn, too pretentious for these chaotic times. These days we’ve got to travel light,’ she said.
Kien agreed. He preferred her singing, for she had such a sweet voice.
But her mother persisted, complaining to Kien, ‘She’s just like her father, a perfectionist. She’s like a saint, or a fairy, she has their sort of perfection. But that is a delicate trait, and she must be protected. Her fine soul will be warped by the coarse style of life that’s overtaking us; she will be destroyed unless she’s given preferential treatment for her artistry. Yet she takes no notice of me whatsoever! She’d rather listen to your father. It frightens me that she is attracted by his frightful paintings and his disrespectful opinions. You understand, don’t you?’
How could he understand, at sixteen? He hardly understood the words, let alone the sense of her mother’s complaints. Yet many years later he recalled that Phuong’s mother had predicted a few of the character changes in Phuong accurately. The girl’s soul would become warped and twisted when she played in the mainstream of life, she had said. But then the war had come soon afterwards and there was little that could be said or done anyway.
He recalled Phuong’s playing, when she was just fifteen. ‘That’s lovely, Phuong,’ her mother had said one day. ‘Now play a piece from Mozart, or the Moonlight Sonata.’
Phuong started scratchily and the music seemed lifeless. But as she bent to the task her hands flowed and she began to play passionate, inspired music. Her face flushed and her long hair fell across one side of her face but she was totally absorbed. The sonata spread its gossamer wings and embraced Kien as he drifted off into a pleasant reverie.
‘It was then I knew she would be a troubled soul,’ he thought to himself in later years. Towards the end of the third movement Phuong’s cadence changed and a sombre, then depressing mood fell heavily over the room. Kien had openly wept for Phuong, in admiration and love. It was an ominous passion; he knew then their souls would be intertwined forever, through the last years of peace, through war, and in peace once more. He was helplessly drawn into the involvement. ‘The passion will remain, and the sorrows too,’ he thought.
Almost from that moment on, a harsh and cruel wind had blown across their world. In another fit of depression he sat through the morning, noon and evening recalling those few hours of so long ago.
On the table before him again, untouched, was his manuscript with the stories of so many of his dead heroes. His mind drifted from the beauty of the sonata through their wonderful final months in school until, catching the memory in a trap, he went over exactly what happened on the goods train during that air raid twenty years ago.
He had wanted to forget. It had been sheer coincidence that she had been in the carriage at all. It had been an unfortunate confluence of events leading to their presence together in a freight car at the Hang Co railway station when the bombers had struck. She had wanted to go as far as possible with him to the front, with no concern for the consequences.
There had been two raids. The first, shorter one, was when the train had been forced to stop. He had been knocked unconscious and flung onto an embankment. He was dazed. He hadn’t been able to recognise which car he’d been in and when attempting to get back on the train he had missed his footing several times and got more injuries.
Now, he dimly recalled dreaming some ugly scenes, they came to him in contrasting black-and-white images, like negatives on film. Still bleeding and dizzy, he had scrambled onto the loco as the train started off again, and fallen into a deep sleep.
The authorities had then decided the raids had finished for the night and sent the train rolling south again, towards Vinh. It successfully defied the odds by crossing the Dragon Jaw Bridge in the early-morning light but then stopped at Thanh Hoa station to avoid an outgoing train. Kien was woken by a furious whistle piercing the air and the sound of a mechanic swearing angrily. He jumped down from the car without a word to anyone and looked in astonishment at what lay before him.
Thanh Hoa station was completely destroyed. Bomb craters gaped everywhere, opening their horrible mouths in the early morning sun. Their train was standing amidst the wreckage, its own freight cars heavily damaged. While Kien was taking this in some tough-looking louts jumped down in front of him. They were filthy and stank of alcohol and were swearing among themselves. They went into the ruins of the station and disappeared behind the wreckage.
He turned from them and looked back at the car they had been riding in, sensing this was where he and Phuong had been. He pushed the door open a little wider, letting more light in. There were sacks of rice piled along both sides of the car, and loose rice everywhere from burst bags. He peered into a dark corner, finding Phuong there, in a sort of twilight. She was leaning on some rice sacks, her legs folded, her arms covering her face as though asleep. Her long, tangled hair fell over her scratched shoulders.
He called her name, hoping it was not her. He stepped closer and his knees trembled at the sight. He almost collapsed as she looked up at him with a curiously unfamiliar and vacant look. Her blouse was wide open, all the buttons ripped from it, and her neck was covered in scratches. ‘Phuong, Phuong, it’s me, Kien,’ he said gently. But she kept on staring, showing no sign of recognition. ‘It’s me!’ he repeated. ‘It’s just coal-dust on my face, you can’t recognise me. I had to jump on the locomotive after I got thrown out in the bombing. It’s me, Kien,’ he went on, not making much sense.
The black-and-white scenes from last night were confusing him; he held her shoulders between his hands. She bit her bruised lips, but no words came. She continued to stare, her eyes dull and eerie as though they wished to withdraw under Kien’s questioning.
He too, was terrified. ‘What’s wrong with you? Don’t be afraid, we’ll get out. Nothing to be afraid of. But what happened to you?’
Phuong couldn’t answer. Instead she shook her head, then looked down.
Kien began to close her blouse but there wasn’t a single button left. Her bra had been snapped and a strap dangled loose. Her bare breasts were covered with a cold film of sweat. Kien felt himself unable to cope or to understand fully what had happened. He began to cry painful, salty tears which ran hotly down his cheeks, and he almost choked as he tried to comfort her with more words.
‘Let’s get out of here. Can you stand up?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, her first word. Grasping his arm she stood up slowly, then staggered. He bent to prevent her falling. He saw that her slacks had been torn open, and blood ran down her inner thigh to her knees. She covered the blood with her arms, but more ran over her knees and and down her ankles.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were injured? Sit down, sit down. We’ll bandage it. Does it hurt?’
Phuong shook her head. No.
‘Sit down. I’ll make some bandages from my shirt.’
‘No!’ she cried, pushing him away. ‘Can’t you see? It’s not a wound! It can’t be bandaged!’
What was going on? He knew so little! Phuong lifted herself up and staggered towards the doorway. Although she was bleeding she showed no pain. Her clothes were in shreds and she was filthy.
She was preparing to jump down. Kien rushed to help her. As he did so a big, heavily muscled man wearing the top of a sailor’s uniform vaulted into the doorway, blocking out the bright sunshine. Just then the train whistle shrieked, signalling departure.
‘Where are you going?’ the big man asked Phuong, standing in front of her and blocking Kien, whom he had ignored. ‘The train’s about to leave, you can’t get off here!’ he said roughly. It was an order.
‘Here, I’ve got a pair of slacks for you. Got some water, food. Who’s this guy?’ He talked non-stop, expecting her to obey, and looking greedily at her open blouse.
‘Yes,’ she replied meekly. Neither she nor Kien appeared to understand what she had agreed to. She was at her wits’ end and would agree to anything he said. Kien had never seen her as pale, or in fear before. ‘Whaddyer want?’ he then shouted at Kien. ‘You know this is a military transport.’ As he said it the train they’d been waiting for started to run past them. They would be leaving in a few seconds. The whole carriage shook as it passed.
‘Nothin’ for you to stay for,’ he said. ‘Her’n’me are friends.’
Kien shouted to Phuong, his voice angrily impotent, ‘Let’s go, go! The train’s here, Phuong, let’s go!’
The big man shoved Kien away from Phuong and calmly put his hands on her shoulders, grasping her firmly with his strong fingers.
‘Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ off. Is this filthy-looking bloke a friend of yours?’ he asked her.
Phuong nodded, not looking at Kien.
‘I see.’
The big man was about thirty years old. He had a large, square face, a moronic forehead, with a squat, fat nose and a thick chin, and he smiled with a cruel leer. He stared aggressively at them. Under the striped sailor’s T-shirt his hard muscles bulged.
‘I’d hoped you’d stay with me until Vinh. Otherwise I’ll be bored,’ he said, expecting sympathy. ‘What’s up? Don’t you fancy a bit from me? That’s not fair. I stopped those other turds lining up for you again. It’s my turn now. I’ve not had my turn. I want some reward.’
Kien stepped up to him, imploring him. ‘Let us go! We’ll miss our train.’
Just then the carriage rocked and the earth all round them shook. A series of deafening explosions rent the air. There was shouting from the station. The sailor shouted, ‘That’s a bombing raid, and A-A guns. We’ll all be killed!’
Kien grasped Phuong’s wrist again and made to jump. Jets shrieked overhead and anti-aircraft artillery pounded at them. Panic broke out, with people rushing all round the train and the station.
The sailor had calmed down a little. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said with authority. ‘They’re attacking the Dragon Jaw Bridge. Stay here with me, darling. We’ll sleep and eat well in here. As for you, piss off if you’re scared. Go on, piss off!’ he shouted at Kien.
Kien tried once more to get Phuong to leave but the big man’s hand held her firmly.
‘If you’re scared, get out. There’s a fucking war on, y’know. If we have to die, then let’s die. Isn’t that right, darlin’? Stay here with me. Have pity on me, darlin’. With you gone the rest of the trip’s going to be ratshit,’ he shouted directly to her, over the roar of the battle.
Another squadron of American jets started to descend upon them. Kien screamed, ‘Let her go, leave her alone, damn you!’
Frustrated, he rushed at the big man, but the sailor had no trouble in pushing him away. Phuong stared at the two men, seemingly
not taking anything of this in, even the sounds of the bombing and the A-A fire. She seemed in the sailor’s spell. She would not move towards Kien, or the door.
As Kien was picking himself off the floor the sailor leaned out of the door. ‘Shit! They’re targeting the train now. Come on little darlin’, out we go!’
Kien had fallen on something heavy, cold and flat. In his anger – and fear – he tried to get up, but fell back again, this time on top of the object. The sailor was dragging Phuong to the door to escape. A-A guns banged like huge drums, sub-machine-guns chattered and the jets screamed overhead.
He left the door and came back to Kien, putting out his hand to pull him up. ‘Be quick. What the hell are you doin’? We’ve got to get to the shelter. Listen, I was only going to screw her until Vinh. You could have had her back after that. Hell, you’re really soft. A little bourgeois softie, aren’t you?’
Kien got up, still holding the object, an iron bar, behind him. As he stood, the sailor stumbled, shouting as he fell.
The shout was drowned out by the screaming of a diving jet. Kien lifted the bar then brought it down with a crack on the sailor’s arm. As he was trying to get clear the sailor howled with pain. Kien went for him again, but the sailor shoved him away, and the movement caught Phuong’s attention. Kien struck again. Crack! The sailor whimpered with pain.
Phuong grabbed Kien’s wrist, yelling at him, but her voice was drowned out by the jets. Kien swung round, angry she should try to stop the attack; he was infuriated, surging with hatred and his face became deformed as he grabbed her and shouted, ‘Get away, you whore!’
Phuong’s move had given the sailor a breathing-space and he kicked out at Kien, delivering an incredible blow to the groin, which forced Kien to double up, and cry in agony. But he quickly recovered and attacked again, bashing ferociously at the man’s head, drawing blood that flowed as slippery as soap across him. The sailor didn’t move again. Kien, his hands bloodied, looked up as one of the jets strafed the carriage, ripping open the roof, blasting open their little hell.