Long Vo-Phuoc
Writer. Retired Fund Manager.
Articles & Works of Fiction. © All rights reserved.
Cầu Gió Long Vo-Phuoc © All rights reserved 1973-2025
Image Thái Ngọc Nga, Sydney 1975
An old war for the romantic souls
… and a long-ago short story
The half-civil half-foreign war in South Viet Nam during 1960-75 was a hard one for all involved. It was nasty. It suffered the remorseless aerial bombing carried out by the US on a small country, more than what the Americans dropped during the Second World War. It witnessed the murderous ruthlessness of the communist North (remember the 1968 Tet Offensive massacre in Hue?). It saw the unbelievable corruption and incompetence carried out by a government and its bureaucracy, that of the South, wasting so much of the hard cold money given by its sponsor the US. All the nastiness and hopelessness that a 15-year war could have mustered were there in full force. Two three million Viets were killed, most from the South, civilians, soldiers.
No wonder many thoughtful romantic souls when reading history long for a perhaps simpler, perhaps more just, more straightforward and, my deepest condolences for those Viets who had then fallen, perhaps a more romantic war. I know, we should never never speak of a concoction such as a romantic war. But what can I say, some of the finest and most affectionate poems in the world were written during this war (read, for example, some from Quang Dung, some from Nguyen Binh, Nguyen Huu Loan …, poet-soldiers all). It was the nine-year struggle against the French colonialists for Viet independence, 1946-54.
I deluded myself when I wrote “a simpler war”. No war is ever such. Even today’s fight against climate change is never accepted by a sizeable proportion of people around the world: simply go ask Donald Trump’s US administration and the large populace voting for him (that populace was not half of the US by the way, because voting is not compulsory there, 37% did not vote). Or go ask those who are religious and prejudiced against homosexuality. One would think, what kind of a nasty belief in god is that, why sex in the bedroom is any business of those so-called ambassadors of god? Want another example of life’s conundrums? Well, at its peak the 3-trillion-USD-Nivida drew in even more wide-eyed investment “analysts” and suckers’ money, then out came “BOOM”: Donald Trump jumped on the publicity stage with his dumb tariff war, hurting all and sundry, not least Americans, and Nvidia’s share price nose-dived.
In that noble war against French occupiers many Viet fighters (those against the French that is, because there were Viets paid by the mother country to fight for the masters) didn’t like the idea of fighting under Ho Chi Minh’s flag. Why? Many reasons: ideology (because communism was hard to swallow), governance (because the centralised way the communists ran their economy, their organisation, their bureaucracy, is even harder to stomach) and the nasty nuances in the communist conduct of a war machine. The worst example was this: say you joined the Viet Minh, you fought the French bravely under immense fire during the day, exhausted when night came but still you had to watch your steps with the unit political cadre in case he reported you to the higher nasties, then you had to go to a group meeting to solemnly discuss communism theory, there you were to publicly criticise your comrades' political behaviour and be criticised back in turn so as to be a better communist chap yourself! What kind of an organization at war is that? One would justifiably explode: what in hell that army at war was doing – to put it mildly?
That was how a Viet Minh unit - platoon, regiment, division - operated during 1946-54.
Yet the war was still noble. True, it was largely directed by the Viet Minh who claimed full credit after the final victory at Dien Bien Phu, after many Viets had died. But there were others who fought hard against the French on the battlefields but refused to acknowledge Ho Chi Minh's leadership. These fighters were lonely, their cause the most just yet their mental and physical beings the most threatened – by the French and by the Viet Minh. Their number dwindled quickly from 1946-47 to 1954-55. Many abandoned the war to go back to towns under French occupation, lived a sad disappointed (in their view) life. There were also those who never went to the jungle but operated within the cities and, alas, were even put into prison by the French at one time or other. The esteemed writer Khai Hung was one example. Vo Phien, a fighter for many years under Viet Minh's flag went back disillusionedly to town. At times some of these were loosely called the Nationalists, but the party carrying the same name was always loose in membership, always struggled for supports, for funds, weapons.
These lonely and idealistic fighters lost out at the end. Khai Hung was murdered by drowning by the Viet Minh in 1947. Vo Phien was always hated by the Viet Minh, later by its successor the communist Viet Nam government post-1975, hated by them until his death in 2015. During his final years his son, who escaped to the US in 1975 as a kid with his parents, supported by them for a decent education, was now very much enthralled with the Viet Nam government and publicly denounced his father and the latter’s body of works (perhaps the greatest of literary Viet Nam) solely on ideological grounds. Good heavens, where is my copy of Sartre’s Nausea?
The idealists were a spent force too in South Viet Nam during 1954-75, never recovered – the US preferred to support corrupt governments such as the Diem’s, the Thieu’s, because these were established, moulded and given money for survival by itself.
I always feel deeply for the non-aligned fighters against the French. Were I 30, 40 years older I would have been tempted to become one of them. A month after arriving in Sydney for an Australian government university scholarship in 1973, sitting one evening at the desk looking out the ocean from a quiet house prior to university in ten weeks, I started writing a short story about them, a story about that past of the country. The ballpoint pen was finally put to rest at well past midnight among beer bottle, glass, coffee cup, pack of cigarettes.
It was written as a fighter’s reminiscence after the nine-year war. Like almost everything literary I wrote at the time it was done practically in one sitting, hardly having an edit the next day. I passed it on the editor at the time of the Sydney Viet student’s journal. A good chap, he published it the next month. When Tet came it won the readers’ short-story prize for the year. Many people liked it. Because …
Because it was seen as rather dreamy, passionate, lyrical? Perhaps it was also too romantic, too dramatic? Well, that evening I felt rather lonesome and romantic at the same time. On the young side of eighteen years, left the home country only a month ago. Christmas spirit was pervasive in this large but pretty town. I wasn’t religious but felt touched seeing people happy and busy on the streets looking forward to their festive occasion. Like the Tet atmosphere in Viet Nam – Nha Trang, Hue, Sai Gon, and all other places. In my mind somehow the past was always younger, more innocent, despite human bloodsheds and sundry odious endeavours. How could I, thus, avoid being romantic writing about those nine years, 1946-54?
I wrote in accordance with the setting and the protagonist’s perspective. Before and later, often using realist prose. Amusing, in 1976, 1977, at times the more skillful and realist pieces were well-received but somehow less “loved” than the one written that Christmas.
Fifty-two years on, I “repost” here that story, with only minor editing to make sure the dates and places fit well with each other. It is of course in Vietnamese. Due reference was given to its origin (the Viet journal in Jan/Feb 1974, and that it was from the short stories collection published by my then Valentine in September 1974, Nha-Trang, Viet Nam). Somehow I saw and still see her reflection in the story. Due reference too for the 1975 image painted by a dear friend. It too was dramatic yet exceptionally beautiful, fitting the story quite well – how Miện would look in 1946, in1954. I insert it here without an express permission from the artist, simply because I lost contact with her for more than thirty years. We always got on well. Trust she is well, and I shall at least buy her a finest glass of champagne some place if we see each other again.
I often wonder, even if the story is complete in itself, I wonder what would be in the mind of the two or three protagonists. What did they think of each other. What anguish, what love, what hope, what longing, what disappointment, what triumph, what tragedy …
Why? Because I miss them, because I love them.
I wonder, too, if I ever discover letters exchanged between them, specifically from the lady protagonist, Miện, and her Ha Noi of those years, 1946-55. I wonder very much.
Long Vo-Phuoc, winter 2025
... after so many years
Cầu Gió
Khoá hai chiếc xe đạp trên giốc họ bước xuống thung-lũng. Người đàn bà mặc sơ-mi hồng, áo choàng ngắn, quần Tây. Người đàn ông mang túi dết. Yên lặng. Bước chân e dè. Người đàn bà chợt nói:
- Anh đưa túi đết tôi cầm cho.
- Cảm ơn Miện. Ngày xưa tôi vẫn cầm cho hắn.
Ngày xưa tôi vẫn cầm cho hắn. Hai tiếng thở dài nhẹ như sương. Ngày xưa, là Nam với Lãng. Ngày xua hai đứa tôi đi song song nhau, hắn mắt sáng môi cười vẫn thường hỏi tôi như Miện đã hỏi. Bao nhiêu năm tháng tàn nhẫn đời sống không hề làm hắn quên nụ cười. Bao nhiêu khoảng đường mòn đi qua trong tâm hồn khắc-khoải. Bao nhiêu con rắn lục trườn mình êm như tơ trong đám lá. Bao nhiêu đổi đời từ ngày cũ, từ năm tháng đoạn-trường có người chết và sống, có đồng-chí trung-thành và phản-bội. Có kẻ đưa hai đứa ra khỏi cỗng một căn nhà rồi yên lặng rút kip tạc đạn. Có kẻ xé đôi một con gà mới nướng chia ngọt xẻ bùi. Có người già và người trẻ. Có người gương mặt phong-sương và có người hơi thở thơm mùi sữa mẹ. Có người bay giờ quyền cao chức trọng và có người vẫn còn lê cuộc sống trong ngục tù.
Gió rời rã đưa buổi chiều cuối năm trôi chậm chậm. Sương mù đâng cao từ lưng chừng núi xa xôi. Ai xui thung lũng này đưa chúng tôi về cuộc đời đã qua, cuộc đời quá-khứ. Ai xui Miên tóc lụa bay trong nắng trời, về đây, bật những cây diêm soi thời-gian, soi bóng tối. Ai xui tôi đưa những bước chân nặng nề tiếc nhớ một người bạn cũ, người bạn mỉm cười kéo tay tôi băng qua những cánh đồng bão-tố, những khoảng đường hẹp chát chúa tiếng súng. Thế nhưng đã lỡ. Đã qua. Đã thôi rồi tuổi thanh-niên nhiều thù-hận, nhiều uất-ức - như nước chầm chậm đưa lá khô trôi qua sông ra bể …
- Cầu Gió?
- Vâng, Cầu Gió.
Con suối nhỏ đưa nước chảy bàng-hoàng. Gió lồng lộng hơn từ trời cao. Miện vịn hai tay vào thành cầu nhìn xuống. Nhưng Miên không nhìn. Đôi mắt hoe đỏ.
- Ở đâu anh ?
- Hình như ở đây. Mà hình như khúc nào tôi không hề chắc chắn …
- Anh vẫn không kể rõ cho tôi. Anh vẫn dấu điểm. Anh Lãng cũng như anh muốn lánh xa tôi. Ngăn cách tôi. Tôi không vào rừng nhưng tôi thương Lãng. Sao anh im lặng. Tôi hận các anh lắm. Đồng-chí - dó la danh từ mỉa mai. Đó là danh từ lừa đổi. Đó là Lăng vĩnh viễn ở lại và các anh về thành-phố như những người hùng. Anh dự tiệc tùng và đọc diễn văn. Anh tươi cười bắt tay người này người nọ. Anh giả dối từ chối địa vị. Anh giả dối nhớ đến Lãng. Anh giả dối đưa tôi ra đây. Anh …
Miện bật khóc. Những giọt nước mắt ướt gò má, ướt tóc mai. Lãng thường bảo tôi tóc Miện là tóc lụa. Lãng làm thơ tặng Miện và đưa tôi đọc. Lãng nói, lãng-mạn: "Chưa bao giờ tao được thấy Miên khóc để tóc lụa như ướt sương". Nhưng Lãng đã nằm xuống, đã không hề nhìn thấy Miên khóc bao nhiêu lần khi tôi về thành-phố cũ. Tôi bước qua những con đường cũ, những cây cổ-thụ lạnh lùng nhìn tôi. Thiếu Lãng. Sao tôi còn sống và Lãng không còn. Sao tôi đêm tối uống ly rượu đắng không có Lãng rót thêm. Sao Miện khóc và tôi câm lặng. Tôi nói được gì nữa, khi Lãng không bên cạnh khuyến khích tôi, ru ngủ Miên. Lãng đã mất.
- Trời gần hoàng-hôn rồi Miện.
- Anh chỉ nói được thế? Sao anh không nói thêm bao nhiêu hoàng hôn tôi đợi các anh. Các anh sống với nhau không hề nghĩ đến tôi thao thức ngày tháng. Mấy tháng mấy năm anh biết không? Bây giờ anh là người hùng. Anh đưa tôi xuống đây để nói như vậy sao.
- Thôi Miện. Tôi không quan-trọng Miện. Chỉ Lãng.
- Không thôi được, anh hiểu?
Khuôn mặt đẹp-đẽ nhìn tôi, lạnh lùng. Rồi nàng tiếp:
- Anh vào Nam một mình đi. Cha mẹ tôi vào Nam hết đi. Mọi người vào hết đi. Tôi ở lại. Vì Lãng hứa đưa tôi vào Nam nếu đất nước chia cắt. Tôi đợi Lãng, từ chỗ nào Lãng ở. Anh hiểu chưa? Hay cố tình chưa hiểu?
Miện quay mặt. Tôi câm nín. Để yên cho tôi nhớ về Lãng, Miện ơi. Nhớ người bạn gần hai mươi năm không rời khi quen nhau. Năm nay Lãng ba mươi. Miện thua một tuổi. Tôi hơn một tuổi. Nhưng Lãng đã chết và tôi còn sống.
Miền Bắc của chúng tôi. Một ngàn chín trăm bốn mươi làm và một ngàn chín trăm năm mươi bốn. Chín năm đốt đuốc soi rừng. Lãng từng đưa cho tôi nhiều bài thơ của Nguyễn Bính nhưng sẽ không bao giờ đọc được bài này. Đôi khi tôi nghĩ: "Chín năm đốt đuốc soi rừng, nhưng có thực về đây phố cũ ngập-ngừng bước chân không?". Lúc mười lăm mười sáu hai đứa ngưỡng-mộ Dũng trong tiểu-thuyết "Đọan-Tuyệt". Vài năm sau này mỗi lần với nhau Lãng nắm vai tôi băng băng đi vào vườn Bách-thú. Náo-nức kề chuyện mộng ước. Náo nức hoạch định ngày đi vào rừng vào núi. Bàn tay Lãng vẽ những hình vô-nghĩa trên mặt đất. Lãng thao thao nói. Tôi say say nghe. Lãng rủ tôi sống đời nguy hiểm. Tôi đồng ý không suy nghĩ. Hai đứa hút hết một bao Gaulois. Đợi hoàng hôn xuống. Đợi đèn đêm Hà Nội lên. Rồi lớp ngớp đạp xe đạp về Thái-Hà. Trời đêm lạnh nhưng tâm hồn Lãng ấm. Tâm hồn tôi ấm. Mỗi bánh xe lăn là mỗi lời thề, mỗi lời hẹn ước. Ai chuyên chở cho hết mộng ước tuổi trẻ?
Ngày ấy Lãng và Miện đã yêu nhau. Lãng làm thơ tặng Miên mỗi đêm thức khuya mỗi đêm trăng Thái-Hà mười sáu chiếu lờ mờ lên căn gác hai đứa. Lãng vẽ tóc Miền trên tường. Lãng chỉ dám vẽ tóc vì tóc để vẽ. Tôi cười bảo "Tóc mọi người dễ vẽ nhưng tóc Miên khó vẽ, tóc Miện quăng quăng cuối sợi. Mầy vẽ cho giống thì ông cúng mày trọn một tháng tiền trợ. Lãng cười quãng bút cùng tôi ra sân trò chuyện. Nhưng khuya thức dậy, tôi vẫn thấy Lãng yên lặng vẽ tóc. Tôi thương Lãng quá. Lãng yêu Miện nhưng Lãng vẫn yêu giang-hồ. Buổi sáng Lãng nhớ Miện, Lãng nhớ Miện trọn đời. Nhưng chiều Lãng mở tấm bản-đồ chỉ cho tôi tên sông tên suối. Đèo Ngang. Đèo Lao-Bảo. Cầu Cọp Gầm. Cầu Gió. Lãng vẽ vời cao-nguyên Chapa lạnh căm căm. Lãng mo-mộng một con thuyền nhỏ xuôi ngược bên bờ sông Đà. Tôi nhìn Lãng. Và tự nhiên hiểu Lãng. Bao nhiêu sự dằng co lôi kéo trong tâm hồn bạn. Tôi châm cho Lãng một điếu thuốc và thấy mắt Lãng mờ trong khói loãng.
Lắm lúc tôi bực mình vì tình yêu của Lãng. Miện thật đẹp, vẻ đẹp lạnh lùng dù nàng tử-tế, lễ-độ. Mỗi lần đợi Miện, Lãng bắt tôi đứng đợi cùng hắn đôi khi một hai tiếng đồng hồ. Nhiều lần nàng bận bịu nhưng cuối cùng vẫn đến. Tôi vừa tức vừa mỏi chân. Tôi không hiểu sao hắn chịu đựng dai đến thế. Lúc đó hắn tốt quá. Nào ô, nào áo mưa, nào sách vở bạn đều cầm dùm tôi. Hắn tươi cười nhưng tôi không tươi cười nổi. Hắn đợi Miền ra khỏi nhà nàng còn tôi đợi giờ Miện ra để đi về. Thế có chán không. Lãng nói chuyên thi-văn với Miện. Hắn đọc thơ Lưu-trọng-Lư cho nàng và mê nhất bài Suối Mây. Ai ngờ có lúc cuộc đời đưa hắn đến Suối Mây không có Miện. Ai ngờ có lúc thời thế đưa hắn đến Cầu Gió, từ đó dòng đời bỗng trôi vô nghĩa. Từ đó tôi cam phận sống và Miện ngậm ngùi viết lời đưa tiễn thiên-thu.
Chín năm đốt đuốc soi rừng. Bao nhiêu tàn nhẫn và dịu dàng trong chín năm ấy. Chín năm Lãng rất trẻ mà tự nhiên thao-lược chiến-truờng, tính toán kế này kế khác rồi can-đảm xông-pha chỗ này chỗ kia. Chín năm Lãng ngoại-giao tài giỏi mua bom mua súng nguời Tàu, tiếng tăm Việt Bắc. Chín năm chúng tôi từ một nhóm lý-tưởng vừa chống Tây vừa từ-chối liên-kết mật-thiết Việt Minh, từ cái lý-tuởng khó khăn như thế trở thành lý-tưởng được thành công thực-tế, làm Pháp và Việt-Minh phục. Vậy mà chín năm trong khi đánh giặc Lãng vẫn đêm trăng viết thư gởi Miên nhắn Miện bình-an học hành vui vẻ đại-học bảo-hộ. Chín năm Lãng băng rừng trốn những viên đạn thù, những viên đạn Tây đôi khi viên đạn Cộng-Sản. Hà-Nổi bốn mươi sáu Lãng bị thương ở Hàng Buồm vì Việt-Minh thanh-toán. Súng nổ dòn đã qua đầu Lãng, qua tai Lãng. Tạc đạn nội-hóa, tạc đạn Tây-phương thi nhau. Lãng ôm vai chạy đến nhà người đồng-chí già, máu ướt thành những giọt hoa lất-phất dưới chân. Tóc tai bơ-phờ hắn cười nhờ nguời ta băng bó dùm, "chỉ là vết thương ngoài da"! Rồi họ đạp xe đến gác trọ tôi, bất-trắc chẳng màng. Rồi tôi đạp xe về nhà họ. Hai đứa nói chuyện suốt đêm. Buổi sáng Tự-Vệ Thành bao vây khu nhà Miện. Không dám đến thăm. Lãng mường-tượng Miền rũ tóc cho gió lả lơi hôn buổi sáng, chờ hắn như mọi ngày. Hẳn dụi điếu thuốc đang hút dỡ rồi trốn khỏi Hà Nội. Mùa xuân mùa thu Miện chờ đợi suốt ngày đêm và Lãng băng người vào chết chóc.
Lãng về Hà Nội thăm Miện ba lần. Chỉ là lén lút. Lãng bưng rỗ đậu phụng, mặc quần áo dơ dáy trốn tai mắt chính quyền Pháp và gián điệp Việt Minh. Hắn thầm thì với Miên suốt đêm gặp nhau. Những nốt đàn vang lạc lõng. Những sợi khói thuốc bay rã rời. Hắn tươi cười làm Miên yên lòng. Mà không dám đắm-đuối với Miện trong nhà nàng. Chỉ cầm tay mà ôm Miện. Đêm tối. Nụ cười Lãng tắt nửa chừng, tóc Miên tự dưng đứng lặng trong không khí lạnh mùa đông. Ai biết Lãng nghĩ gì, Miễn nghĩ gì. Thời cuộc khắc-nghiệt chia tay hai người bao lâu, ai biết.
Ai biết. Những khẩu súng nào âm thầm nhắm Lãng sau lưng. Quả mìn nào đợi bước chân Lãng. Tôi vẫn sống, và Lãng đã chết. Tây, Việt-Minh đem chức vị dụ-dỗ. Hắn từ chối. Hắn yên lặng tiễn những đồng chí yếu lòng về thành phố. Hắn tha thứ những người bạn ám toán. Đêm khuya hắn thức tôi dậy trong rừng nhìn rắn lục bỏ sột soạt dưới võng. Trên cao, là Chapa người Pháp. Dưới là thuyền bè Việt-Minh xuôi ngược sông Đà. Súng Tây bắn xuống hòa tiếng mút-cơ-tông Việt-Minh bắn lên. Chúng tôi ở lưng chừng cuộc đời, lưng chừng sự sống sự chết. Lãng vẫn mĩm cười. Tôi yên lòng nhìn mắt sáng môi cười của Lãng, yên lòng cầm súng. Chúng tôi chiến-đấu chính-nghĩa nhất. Mà cô đơn nhất. Sao lại như thế? Nhưng Lãng đã chết và những nguoi khác vẫn sống. Tiệc tùng trên xác Lãng. Nói cười trên cái chết người đồng chí. Tôi nhìn những khuôn mặt phản bội và muốn nôn mửa. Tôi nâng ly rượu màu đỏ. Đó không là uống rượu. Chỉ là uống máu Lãng. Máu Lãng đọng trên mặt tôi. Ai ngờ.
Miền Bắc một ngàn chín trăm năm mươi tư. Điện Biên Phủ, thắng trận. Genève, chia đôi đất nước. Lãng buồn nhìn tôi nói: "Thôi thế đã đủ. Đã xong. Mười triệu người Việt-Nam chiến đấu để được kết quả chia đôi. Tao đưa Miến vào Nam. Sống đời bình lặng".
Nhưng Lãng nói bình lặng khi chưa gặp đinh mệnh. Đường từ Sơn-Tây về Hà nội đêm ấy mưa tầm tả. Hai mươi mấy người bước qua Cầu Gió. Lãng đi đầu huýt sáo nho nhỏ. Nước suối dâng lên ào ạt. Và súng bỗng nổ chát chúa.
- Anh nghĩ về Lãng phải không ?
- Vâng.
Miện thả những cây nhang khói nghi ngút xuống cầu. Từng chiếc. Nghĩa là Miên đang vất những mảnh tâm hồn tôi, tâm hồn Miến xuống dòng nước. Chúng tôi đã mất tâm hồn. Lãng chết. Miệm sống mà như chết. Tôi sống mà như một con vật ngày ngày kéo thoi thời gian. Cuộc đời rỗng một cách kỳ lạ. Ngày xưa Lãng vẽ tóc Miên trên giấy trên tường. Ngày nay chúng tôi vẽ cuộc đời trên thành Cầu Gió. Cuộc đời thẳng tắp cho người khác. Nhưng thành cầu chúng tôi mãi mãi cong queo.
- Ai giết Lãng?
Ai giết Lãng. Tiếng Miên dịu dàng mà chát chúa trong tai, trong trí não. Ai giết. Tôi giết. Bạn bè giết. Kháng-chiến giết. Cuộc đời giết. Súng nổ. Lãng quàng tay ôm lưng lảo đảo trên cầu. Mẫu Lãng hòa với nước mưa chảy xuống suối. Nhưng mắt Lãng sáng và miệng Lãng vẫn cười. Lãng tha thứ thủ phạm. Tha thứ cuộc đời. Chúng tôi câm tiếng. Đồng-chí giả-dụ với người ngoài rằng Lãng ngã xuống sông. Mất xác. Nước đưa Lãng trôi và những người mệnh danh kháng chiến trên Cầu Gió đêm đó đưa tâm hồn trôi theo xác Lãng.
- Anh vẫn im lặng. Nhưng tôi biết. Một người trong các anh đã nở làm chuyện kinh tởm đó. Tôi khinh bỉ các anh.
Gió chợt lạnh. Miên cài khuy áo cổ, cổ Miện cao, trắng ngần. Lãng vẫn từng nhắn Miên cài khuy áo cổ mỗi khi trời trở gió.
- Mình về nhé, Miện. Trời gần tối.
- Chuyện gì đã xảy ra giữa Lãng và các anh?
- Chỉ là chuyện bề đâu.
for M
Võ-Phước Long
Sydney, December 1973
Letters to The Front, 1946-54
(From Miện, Christmas Day 1946)
Noel, 1946
My dear Lãng,
Where are you? I waited on Saturday, Sunday. I waited Monday, Tuesday. It is now Wednesday, Noel, even though we don’t celebrate it, and I am still waiting. Are you fine?
There are shootings throughout the city. There are Việt-Minh militia’s checkpoints near our house, ready for a counter fight from the French. The French checkpoint itself was a kilometre away, now overcome. But I’m sure the French will be back. More fighting more shootings. The sounds are harsh and terrible Lãng.
Where are you Lãng dear. Are you fine? Perhaps you didn’t come because of the militia. So don’t come, despite my longing, because an argument may occur between you and them, may turn violent.
I want you to be well, to be alive Lãng, Lãng my dear. I am calling you darling now, because that’s what you always are even if I never said it before. Because … because …
Because I wish with all my mind that you are still alive, but I don’t know Lãng, I don’t know …
Your M.
(From Miện, Tet’s Eve, 1947)
Giao-Thừa
My dear Lãng,
I don’t know what to say Lãng. I don’t know what to say. Why did you get hurt in that fashion? Dostoyevsky’s whim? But there is an easy limit for his self-torture. His sufferings are on the gambling tables, inside bottles of vodka, on a piece of paper with his scribblings, love-lost lovesick love whatever. But you, hurt like that, in danger like that. A few more centimetres and I don’t know what to think now. Are lives such a dime a dozen for you? Is your life only worth a dozenth part of a dime? Is an ideal worth so many dozens of a dime, so much more than your life?
Are you all recovered now? Do you hate me saying those things above?
I haven’t seen you since before Noel. I haven’t seen you between then and now, the Tet of our Viet Nam. I haven’t seen you at all. No wonder I distrust such things as ideals, noble as they may be.
But I saw Nam earlier today. He said you had wished for him to come here. A surprise. I gave him my earlier letter to you and a few other things so he could bring them to you, now that he is joining you in deeds not just ideals, to wherever you are, wherever Lãng … And he told me stories, stories of you last December.
I hope my things will get to you and you will read my mail. Not because of the letter but because of the fact that you are there, wherever, reading it.
As I have been reading your mail, am reading it now. Started after Nam left, I ate it up in five minutes, I was so hungry of your news. Then I started again. Slower. Then I started again. How many times?? Ten? Twenty? And mine, you wrote long, and wrote well. You wrote when the moon was high so you can see paper and pen. Because oil for the lamp wasn’t normally available or because you didn’t want the enemies to see you? But a boy writing under moonlight to a girl, isn’t that how poetry is created? (But were your eyes fine after a romantic session writing like that?).
And the way you described fogs between trees and dews on leaves on the ground in the winter mornings! It’s almost like the paradise of Luu and Nguyen if not for the sounds of gunshots. Did you really see my face in the fogs of December of January sunrises? Did you really or did you simply fib me, so that I wouldn’t be upset with you running away from me? I “forgive” you darling, because your cause is so much more vast than this simple Mien. Truly.
I read your twelve pages, all your smudging words, words written in the half-dark. I read them, then I lie down on the bed and put them on my chest, between my breasts. Between the words and my skin is only a thin layer of cotton. Would you like me to put the pages insides my bed clothes, on my breasts with nothing in between?
I miss you. I am worried about you. And I love you.
I have one big wish before Tet tomorrow. I’m supposed to wait until then, just one more day, but I insist to the Buddha (the Buddha that you are always lukewarm to, my dear Lãng, as you are lukewarm to all religious notions, but a Buddha is the only one I could think of now) that I must have a big wish today, and it is this. I wish that the reason we hadn’t seen each other was simply because we were having a huge tiff like any couple in love, that somehow I said something inadvertent that hurt you or vice versa (although I can’t think of anything you would say that could ever hurt me), like that, and so we didn’t speak to each other for a few days, for six weeks now my darling, for six whole weeks; but then we wrote an apology note to each other, and you would turn up at my house tomorrow, or I’d go somewhere in the city to see you, even to your place and we’d make up, and we’d hug each other fiercely, and who cared if anyone else – family or friends or passers-by – would think of that spectacle. Who would care Lãng, who would care …
The key point in my wish, darling, is that you’d be here for me tomorrow, or I’d go somewhere for you tomorrow. The key part, my Lãng.
But no, darling, we won’t see each other tomorrow. So what wish could I have then? What wish could you have, then?
My sister once told me that our love sounds almost like a poem from what she knew of us. That’s so nice of her and maybe that is so Lãng, a poem that has the gentlest yet a profound melody, like a rural lullaby. A poem that has all sparkling colours. A poem that has somehow dropped from the sky, onto our laps. A poem …
Yet a poem, darling, one at the moment that has no word at all in it for me. No word at all. Nothing. How could there be a word when I don’t see you tomorrow and I don’t know when I will see you again, I don’t know simply don’t know …
Wear my jacket darling, wear it. It’s dark colour – it’s large for me, so you won‘t look feminine in it! My warmth was in it only recently, perhaps my scent. You said you were passionate with all of that, so they would be with you whenever you wear. Our body warmth will mix, will live with each other.
These words will stay with me until such time as ihey can be safely delivered to you. Until such time, darling Lãng. Such time, those two words ring horror in my mind … Because I haven’t seen you for a long time, the longest the last five six years …
Your M
(Nam’s Personal Notes, solely to himself)
1947, Giao-Thừa
Visited Miện today to bring Lang’s mail and regards, and to see if she had any message for him. To apologise to her on Lãng’s behalf, because he had to run away from Hà Nội.
Always felt nervous in Miện’s presence. Met her a dozen times and felt so every time, more so this first time without Lãng. Don’t know why. Or, really, have already known the reason deep down.
A minute or two in front, calming myself – this is a favour I do for Lãng, for Miện, ridiculous to be nervous, she’s a friend, a good friend’s dearest friend, thus double a friend.
Knocked on the door. A few seconds. Door opened, and there’s Miện. A neutral look on her face. Somehow the front of the house was brighter. Then she recognised immediately.
-
Oh Nam, I didn’t realise. Come in.
Then she called to the back, half turned her head but body still facing him – she wore a white shirt, grey French trouser, her usual outfit.
-
It’s Lãng’s good friend Mẹ. It’s Nam.
Turned back, beckoned me to come in. “Come in Nam”, she said. Courteously waited for me to step in first. Taller than I am. Slender as before, shoulders still square, strong straight posture as always. Darkened below eyes, not sleeping enough.
She asked if I wanted tea. Water only I said, please Miện. She told me to sit at the small lounge table, then moved quickly to the small kitchen nearby. Back, with a glass of cool boiled water, two prunes. Sat in the chair opposite.
-
We bought some prunes from a relative’s garden. Have some. We have bananas too if you want some.
I said no thanks Miện, drank the water – pleasant taste. Quite hungry, so gingerly picked a prune, ate it. Picked the second, ate it too, very Impolitely.
She smiled gently, said "I will have a few more for you later".
Not now, clearly, because wanting to know why I was here. She had been courteous, as always, it’s my turn to let her know. Don’t delay.
Her eyes started becoming red. A dark look. She was expecting the worst. I hurriedly said:
-
So sorry Miện. Lãng is fine Miện. Lãng is fine. Please don’t worry.
She immediately recomposed.
-
But you are here.
-
Lãng ran to the jungle with the comrades Miện. He sent a note with our postman comrade asking me to pass it on to you.
-
Ran to the jungle? The jungle?
Her eyes became larger, rounder. A frown on the broad forehead. Distressed. But still calm.
-
What happened to him … what happened?
Told Miện the whole thing. Lãng wounded by a shot from a nasty Viet Minh (supposedly on the same side with Lãng, with us!) just before the Noel offensive. (A shot? Miện blurted out. Yes, I acknowledged, added, it’s superficial on the arm). That he was bandaged in an older comrade’s house. They came to fetch me from my boarding house. I went to be with him for the night. Early next morning he left with a borrowed bicycle to Viet Tri. That he did, then went on to the village deep in Son Tay with like-minded comrades. I said:
-
You already knew Lãng’s intention for all this.
She looked at me, somewhat coldly. Glassy eyes. Her face was still pale from a few minutes ago. Then she nodded slightly, looked at me. But stayed quiet. I stopped.
I braved my eyes into her eyes for a few seconds, then looked away to the few decorations on the faded walls. Some old Chinese and Nom calligraphy. A few gelatine photos in frame. Austere, but tasteful.
Then I turned back to the beautiful face.
-
I am sorry Miện. I didn’t know if I should have come here earlier. Lãng told me not to.
-
Why?
She glared at me. And again I had to look away a few seconds.
-
He said he didn’t want to worry you. I would come here before joining him. I thought I could do that a few days before but …
-
I was concerned for him day and night. Noel and Tet. Tet! I thought, I thought something terrible had happened. And it did, though not as bad … I realise my concern is minor in a broad canvas. But it was silly of him to leave without letting me know for so long …
She turned away. Stood up and walked away a few metres, her back to him. After a while, came back to the chair.
-
Lãng felt bad too Miện. Really bad. He didn’t want to involve you. He didn’t want any nasty Viet Minh to know.
-
Everyone knows that we are close friends. Five years.
-
Yes Miện, but he’d hoped people would think that you didn’t know about his activities …
-
No one would be so stupid if they know us. We share every thought.
-
I know Miện. I’m sorry.
-
Where is his message?
In haste I pulled the precious package from an inner pocket of my tatty Chinese coat. Lãng had bound the envelope with strings. Not much, probably half a dozen sheets of paper. She held it tightly, put it on lap, both hands on it.
-
I’m going to join him the moment I’m back to my place. The post comrade is still waiting for me there.
-
Your bicycle is outside I presume. I can see it from here.
-
Yes Miện. Thanks for asking.
She was courteous, as always. Cool but courteous.
-
Do you need anything. I’ll give you a few more prunes …
-
Oh no Miện, or maybe two.
-
I give you four, two for you and two for your post comrade. Please say thanks to him for me.
-
Thanks so much Miện, yes I will, he would appreciate that very much.
-
Before you go I want you to bring to him a little money. From my savings. Don’t don’t refuse, I insist. He can spend it whichever way he likes.
-
Oh no I don’t know what to say.
-
Please tell Lãng that I insist this, and take it to him. And just one more thing. Wait here.
She stood up, walked to the back, taking the envelope with her.
Five minutes later she was back, with a round bundle in hand. She said:
-
I have this coat for him, it’s dark, thick and can insulate against a little rain but not pouring one. It’s my largest and warmest coat, and I want to him to wear it in the jungle. Here’s the string so you can tight it to your bicycle’s back seat.
-
Oh Miện, fantastic, Lãng will treasure it, he will.
-
And here are the prunes and a small amount of money. Please take them.
-
Oh thank you Miện thank you.
She walked with me to outside the door, told me she would pass on my regards to her parents and sister. Her posture still firm, straight. Stood tall despite the emotion the last half hour. Lovely eyes were a little red.
Near the bike she gripped my arm (so surprised I was, I almost shook), said ”you and he and the comrades take care, take care. I will think of Lãng and of you all”.
Then she went inside, gently closed the door. I rode away, in a trance, still feeling her firm grip on the upper arm.
That was how I met and talked to Miện without Lãng this day before Tet. It’s a difficult atmosphere but she took it so well. I could only admire her, marvel at her fortitude and, what can I say, at her beauty. A great beauty, a cold beauty perhaps, forbidding. I have never seen any one that beautiful and at the same time that composed. No one is as lovely and elegant as she, not throughout my life, not from the silver screen, French or Chinese, not even from books and legends.
(From Miện, summer 1947)
Juin, 1947
My dear dear Lãng,
Your letter came this morning. The comrade messenger was furtive, careful. Mẹ happened to be near the door, at first taken aback when spotted him through the slates. But he saw her, smiled and bent his body down almost doubled. Meant to assure her, no he wasn’t a thief, didn’t mean any harm. He only brought, from so far and so dark a place, words of love for her daughter.
Mẹ was so happy she almost hugged him after opening the door. But he stepped back in deference. No doubt he thought his clothes was dirty, that he was smelly, the smell of hardship, of battlefields, of a strenuous journey from the jungle to this place in the borrowed “luxury” of Hà Nội. Can your words of love survive after so many dangers lurking in the numerous nasty checkpoints, to this simple twenty-two-year-old?
But they have Lãng, and no, I was not, will not be embarrassed by your quoting again the Lưu Trọng Lư piece. If we ever go there (such a truculent-sounding word, “ever”, for us these days) I am contented to hang my shirt on the tree branch before jumping into that waterfall with you, that Suối Mây. I also have to hang more items of clothing. I won’t be shy. My face will not be red from embarrassment but from my love for you. In Hà Nội you quoted it to tease me, but really you didn’t want to only tease me in the jungle, did you darling?
(In fact I am embarrassed of one thing: you said you kept smelling the inside of my jacket. Surely there is no longer any trace of me remaining, it having been six seven months already. But I’m touched darling, very touched. I hope no comrade had read your letter, and no one will mine.)
Clearly you have missed me. Clearly, too, I have missed you.
Our love is causing me a fever Lãng. So I have to pause now before writing another page tomorrow. Mẹis happy today, so is Cha, so is my sister. But not the colonialists of this land. Not also those members of the Việt Minh who wish to harm you.
I am so happy darling, as long as you are fine, this minute, any minute.
Your M
I resume now, my love. I thought of a million things to write to you, last night in bed. Then I thought of the dangers that would entail my family if this letter fell into the wrong hand. Then I thought, if that was the case then the messenger, be he Nam or another comrade, would have paid with his life already for the benefit of the love between us. So then, wasn’t it selfish of me to think only about my family and myself in the comfort (hardly much but surely a million times better than what you are enduring) of Hà Nội? What about the lives the blood that were being shed in the jungle in the fight for this oppressed country?
Thus I will write whatever I want to write to you my love. I won’t touch on too much about your fight (our fight!), because I hardly know anything about it. But I write with an open heart to you, and if any colonialist uses it against me, so be it (only against me, I pray to the Buddha, not against my family, because their only crime, if a crime, is that they love me - just as my crime is that I am a Viet and I love you and support your cause).
I am bold for a twenty-two-year-old well-sheltered Ha Noi student, perhaps? But that’s nothing compared to your bravery in the jungle. For a long time now but particularly these moments onward I am bold to you. My mind is open to you, and not only my mind.
We read books - sometimes together, separate books. We see vistas of the world through the words, the pages. We even see the words change colours when seasons turn. We see the Paris grey and shine of Maurois of Gide, we see the Luxembourg garden in the light morning rain of Anatole France. We see an old citadel from the pen of Nguyễn Tuân in Vang Bóng Một Thời’s first story, the yellow sands of Đồ Sơn from the hand of Khài Hưng. We dream about those places, and we have together wished, Lãng darling, we have wished to hold each other’s hands walking on those grounds. We have wished that for a long time now, six years since we’ve known each other. But we have never been to those places, certainly not together. Now you are in the jungle of our Northern and I still scurry within this city, what is there for me not to open my soul my body to you darling?
Are you shocked? But you can’t be, how could you be, when we long for each other half a year now since the terrible Christmas last year, desperate for each other even as there are a million obstacles between us. The obstacles all have the same name, dear Lãng, their name is gun, is bomb, is colonialism, greed, ambition, doctrine, ideology. Their name is cruelty.
I thought, Lãng, I thought, why is it so hard, so too hard, for Viets like us to be able to do things as in that simple dream of ours: seeing other lands, other places, in peace, together, hand in hand, in love? The Westerners, Europeans and Americans, are able to do so, more of them every year now that their world war is over. They travel the world. We can’t. They make sure we can’t, because they have guns and ships, sophisticated guns and ocean-going ships, and we hardly have any. Because they have returned. After all these years they still insist on colonising peoples like us the world over, colonising our land, exploiting us. Exploiting us and killing us whilst fine men fine women in their own lands dress up fine clothes, having fine foods in fine houses and write fine stories for us to read, whilst their thuggish compatriots, the soldiers the colonisers from their lands, lord over us here, kill and imprison us here.
So Lãng darling, I am with you in your endeavour, your idealistic endeavour as a Việt Minh would snigger (simply because you don’t like them, yet their ideology squats arrogantly on their altar!). I am with you, practical and idealistic and all, and if anyone read this letter, I am still with you. Heart and soul, always.
Heart and soul and body, always. Every sliver of my mind, every square of my flesh, is yours my love. Is yours.
Your M.