A BITTER PLANT BLOSSOMS ( P. 385 LOVE and BE LOVED)

Yêu và Bị Yêu (Love and Be Loved)

 A  BITTER PLANT BLOSSOMS ( P. 385 LOVE and BE LOVED)

..From today till between the 11th and the 20th of October you will have two, or three occasions to be treated to foods and wines...at the beginning of November there will be great exciting news. This event will completely transform your life...You will contract a severe illness, but you'll come off well. Don't distress yourself, you're destined to enjoy the cares that your children should provide... 

- The 10th month of our traditional calendar, or of the Gregorian calendar?
Thus asked anxiously the man aged somewhat over 50.
- The tenth month of the Gregorian calendar. My fortune-telling makes use of western cards, so it has to do with the Gregorian calendar.
- Then, that's sometime next week, isn't it?
- Yes, it is. That's according to the prediction of the cards. Do you have any other questions?
The woman wore a white blouse. Her age wasn't easy to guess. She appeared to be a townswoman. She sat cross-legged on the unique plank-bed in the straw hut, reshuffling the deck of cards. The man, perplexed, moistened his finger with his saliva to pull out the next card: " The opportunity to drink wine is correct. This month the village holds a death anniversary ceremony for Notable Huong. Also, Mr. Thuan at the far end of the village "left" last year...Who else, let me think. As for the group of heroes that died fighting the Americans their hard up parents, wives and children had stopped holding anniversary ceremonies for the past two or three years...Oh, there is also Junior Aunt Tuat of Gach (the Brick Baking) hamlet; her husband just died in Cambodia...,no wonder I didn't remember, otherwise, there can be no other explanations for forgetting so many occasions year round for drinking wines."
- Look here, I wasn't wrong at all, I had predicted that a diamond ace would show up.
The man fidgeted on the plank-bed. His pair of drawers slipped down to his navel uncovering a shriveled belly. He wiped his hand on this only piece of cloth on his body and monk eyed with the red card next to his destiny card.
- Fooling an old man is a capital sin, mind you. It stands to no reason
that Son would e sending me a gift. Last month his letter lamented that he was very pressed for money in Russia also. The scholarship wasn't enough for the books, let alone...
- Beg your pardon senior uncle, your remark is without rhyme or reason. It's the cards that spoke and I only repeated after them. I wasn't charging you money so why should I talk nonsense?
  

- You meant to disparage my bunches of bananas implying you wouldn't buy them for the excessive price I charged, and so you made that story up, didn't you?
- Heaven forbid! Aren't you afraid of Heaven's retribution for saying such a thing? Business transaction is based on common agreement. This village does not lack bananas, so why would I force anything upon you?
The man wasn't convinced yet, and he kept trying:
- What's your offer then?
- Well, it'd just like when I first made you my offer. I don't like very much the idea of "buying prematurely" these bananas. It seemed so unfair. Besides, if it's bad weather your capital is wiped out.
- Eh! Eh! Why did you say that? Would I dare say anything? You're still buying, aren't you?
- I'd buy in order to help you. Loss or profit doesn't amount to much. Besides, you'll soon recover...
- In that case there are altogether seven bunches. Multiplied by 18 is 126 dongs. Do you have money about you?
Fearful that if the conversation was prolonged the bananas stall owner could change her mind, so the man hurried to conclude the transaction.
The man did a sum in his head: four kilos of rice times 20 is eighty dongs, and two pints of wine is 16 dongs. The remaining is for half a kilo of peanut for nibbling and roasting with salt for gradual consumption. That's right, better buy rice right away, else dallying over it I'd be spending the whole amount on alcohol. I've been sober quite a while, I wonder two pints would do for two meals. The weather is cool today, it would be so exquisite to drink.    

Notable Huong's widow gave a very sumptuous anniversary feast this year. As early as yesterday morning her daughter-in-law rode her bicycle to the far-off district market to buy pork and tofu. The village markets usually carried only meat from sick piglets that had to be killed. Nevertheless, she made it be known far and wide that she'd buy up all the meat that came to market after 8 A.M. The words terribly shocked the private village secretary's ear, specially when his wife kept nagging at him and bandying words with him, questioning him why he tolerated theses backward practices of death anniversary and marrying off ceremonies within his administrative domain, intending to hold a village meeting discussing the civilized, wholesome and thrifty way of life the night before the anniversary ceremony to bar its happening. But notable Huong's widow really cleverly proved herself to be farsighted: when the drafting of the public meeting document was still in progress and left lying on the desk she generously slipped through the secretary's gate carrying the head of pork wrapped under many layers of banana leaves. The wife sniffed at the smell of blood and gave the wink to her husband. He understood her and stole off to the village Cultural and Information center to leave her more at ease to talk. 

The atmosphere of excitement on the anniversary of the dead came from every home. The elderly men anxiously wondered where the widow of the late editor of the cooperative had bought the wine. That which was made in this village tasted horribly acid. You might have absorbed a great deal of it, yet you'd deem it never could satisfy your palate. The children worried about where they were going to be seated. Last year, Mrs. Huong's elder daughter-in-law drove them all to the kitchen. The repast of the children lacked all sorts of victuals, so, at the same time they ate, they struggled to stuff glutinous rice and meat into their shirt pockets.
In a moment, when the naive among them who had not had their fill stood sucking their fingers, peeping through the door slit at the drinking adults they would throng leisurely to the village pavilion, nibbling as they went at the rice and meat they had just taken.

- Remember, daughter, to invite senior uncle Dang without fail. I feel pity for this musician-misfit. Give him one or two pints of wine and he'd raise his stentorian voice and become the life and soul of the party. Truly, four village-criers of the olden times do not crack jokes as well as he does alone. Later remember to wrap the leg of pork I kept in the little rice jar for him to take home. None of you is authorized to touch it!
The daughter complained that this year's yield of tomatoes and potatoes might not
be good enough to offset the high expenses her mother had incurred in the organization of the death anniversary.
Mrs. Huong sneered at her daughter explaining:
- You people are so shallow: one capital yields four profits. I gave this death anniversary party to bribe to silence the whole village. At the coming  conference of the village members they will cast their votes to put your elder brother into the position of editor of the cooperative. Look, within three years only in that position of editor your father built the fortune of this house.
Although they had heard the mother's explanations the women folks of the household still plotted with each other to hide and hold back some wine and meat.

- Please, have some wine...
- Yes, don't you worry about us...it seems we lack meat pie, isn't it?
- Mr. Muu "the dartrous", letting go of his chopsticks, sprang up to look over to the side where the private secretary, the chief, and the public security men of the village had been eating for half-an-hour.
- Meat pie was only for the dignitaries. Our side will have to make do with pork-head-pie. Look, there also a member of the district military...Mrs. Huong's youngest son was exempted from the latest call for military service...no wonder there was meat pie...
But then the side with the food tray of lesser weight let pass their envious fit .

The plate of boiled pork fringed in a nice thick wall of fat, the plate of a whole fried carp whose wide-open eyes kept staring at your face made their impact and relieved your mind of all outlandish ideas.
When the feast reached its climax and rang with the invitations to wine, the orders for food, and the perceptible strumming made by the mouth to accompany a piece of "quan ho" lyrical folk music, Mrs. Huong's daughter who was carrying a large bowl of hot chicken and vermicelli soup asked in a voice that resounded from the front yard floating through some tens of bobbing heads surfing the waves:   
- Is there someone by the name of Mr. Dang Dinh Hung? Someone wants to see him outside.
- Which Hung. Which Dang Dinh Hung? There is no one by the name Dang Dinh Hung in this village, is there?
There was a voice expressing anxiety that asked in response:
- Is it Dang Dinh Hung? Correct, that senior uncle musician Dang living next to the dike.
The man of the public security service asked again in greater details.
- But who wants to see him? He went on.
- I no have no idea. They came in a Volga from Hanoi and they stopped and waited at the village pavilion.
- A Volga, hah?  Well then, that's correct. My nephew is chauffeur for the Minister. It is him driving back to the village.
Mr Tuoi "the split mouth" laid down his wine cup forcefully, embracing hurriedly in his bosom the news in which he took great pride.
- Who? Who? Toan was welcoming those "gentlemen" to our house? Heaven forbid! my family has only an egg-laying hen left; if I should kill it what's going to hatch...?
Mr. Tuoi's wife who was breast-feeding her baby and at the same time rolling up into a ball a handful of glutinous rice asked so loudly she could lose her voice:
- What's the color of the Volga?    

The village private secretary hastily buttoned up the upper part of his shirt, tidied up his hair by running his fingers through it, and cut into her words:
- Is the car black?
- Yes sir, it is black.
Mrs. Huong's daughter reconfirmed.
- Dear me! It's no one other than the provincial committee's private secretary..Are you sure it's a black car? You might mistake blue-black for black??
- I glanced at it so I was not really sure.
- Where's the group of young men?
- The village branch went this morning to attend the cultural presentation at the district. They won't be back until the evening.
Someone had briskly reported.
- Get me right away the militia!
- They are still drinking.
- Forget about drinking! Their godfather is paying a visit, and they dare leisurely sit shaking their legs and drink? Strike the gong for first level combat alert!
The group of young men muttered curses, but stood up as would a disorderly crowd.
- Make two parties, one to go down to the cooperative fish pond and catch ten kilos of fish. Only fishes over one kilo are to be picked, do you hear? The other party will go to the "orchard of gratitude toward uncle" and pick two baskets of oranges to bring back here. Blast you! You came back without notifying us two or three days in advance to get ready.
- The cooperative pond was bailed out two weeks ago. There is nothing left to catch.
The village military chief mumbled.
- Get to Uncle Ho's fish pond!
- That pond? "Uncle’s instructions were to keep for the families of heroes and for the individuals recognized for meritorious service to the revolution.
- Didn't the provincial committee's private secretary give birth to that entire revolution? Do all of you want to die together? If I should die, so should you!                      

When the alert gong resounded loudly from the entrance of the village two strangers fidgeted about at the front yard.
- We wish to see Mr. Dang Dinh Hung...
- Oh! it was you. You wished to see Mr. Dang? Who are you? What do you wish to see him for?
The village public security man cast a glance over the private secretary and caught him heave a sigh of relief, then they switched over to another nitpicking attitude.
- We are from the Ministry of Culture. We are here to see that gentleman for a little personal business.
- Can't you let us into that personal business of yours right here?
- I am Huy Du, private secretary of the Musician Association troupe. I'd like to ask for your help to have Mr.Hung sent for so we could talk!
- Yes...yes, Mr. Hung sits at that corner..., there, can you see him? Well, let me go in and call him out for you.
The minute he heard vaguely the name Huy Du Mr. Hung was having fits of dizziness. All the wine he had had since the beginning of the feast till now transpired completely as cold sweat at the nape of his neck. Having spat out the unfinished morsel of pork pie he was chewing into his bowl he sat crestfallen and looking pensive. The public security service cadre grew impatient and held him under the arms to make him stand up. Lurching, even forgetting to wear his sabots, he went staggering out leaning against the shoulders of the crowd of guests sitting on the bare ground. Huy Du, the name that reminded him of the images of the denunciation drives of the Ministry of Culture twenty years ago. Huy Du, a friend of his; Huy Du, his admirer; Huy Du gave himself up; Huy Du, chief; Huy Du, the man who launched the denunciation movement of Humanistic Fine Literary Works

; Huy Du, the nightmare of half of his life...and now Huy Du was back.
Hung Dang was at a loss to know by what title to address his visitor when
the latter dashed in, put his arms around his shoulders, his lips harboring
an artificial smile.
- Eh, what a surprise! How do you feel, Hung? Sick as you are, but still a
boozer, eh?
He felt ill at ease and worried about this sudden friendly behavior. So
many times one had been gentle, considerate; one had, in the name of
assistance, advised his wife to forsake him...and drive him to prison.
- At the news you had cancer the brothers worried stiff...Yesterday,
brother Tran Do called up to inquire about your health, and asked me to
drive you to the hospital. He even opted for another way to go to his daily
work and let you have his Volga.
They still keep their eye on me? They haven't set me at liberty...how could
they know I had cancer?
- Has life been good to you? Perhaps you've been through quite a hard time,
haven't you? But from today you are better-off. Be informed that our
ambassador in Poland just called home to be advised over whether to
transfer the 30,000 dollars of reward to the Department of Reception of
Foreign Aid or to the embassy's budget. We hurried to see Mr. Pham Van Dong
to ask for his help...and so the Prime Minister signed the order to give
all that money to the boy.
- What money? Which boy...?
- Son, your son. Didn't you know what happened? Son won the first prize at
the Chopin competition in Warsaw three days ago. The press and the radio
gave the news a sensational report, but apparently you're unaware, aren't
you?
- Do you think I have a radio station to give me the news...So? He won the
Chopin first prize, didn't he?
- Well... folks here are so lazy to read newspapers and listen to the
radio, that's what beats me! Local areas never could get a good grip of the
situation...
He began to feel reassured after he had learned the direction of the story, but he still smelled the rat.
- Three days ago, eh? Then where is he now?
- He has gone back to Russia. In half a month he will take his vacation and go home for a visit.
- To Hanoi, eh?
- Yes, to Hanoi. So then, what's your physical fitness right now? You'd need to make arrangements so we can leave for Hanoi immediately. I already contacted K hospital and they  promised they'd
arrange right away a place for you.
- There is no hope. Please, just leave me in peace here. This sickness will leave me five to six months at the very most to live, on condition that there is no meddling of the surgeon's scalpel or scissor...
- Has it been long since you got the sickness?
- Half a year...
- What a shame! That long, and we didn’t know anything about it until the day before yesterday when the Prime Minister enquired who Son was and what were his parents, etc...then only did we know.
They walked side by side on the village road. Huy Du put his arms firmly round this old friend 's shoulders, and from time to time whispered something in his ear and  burst into a giggle. In those moments Mr. Hung stopped walking and waited until the giggling ended as his bare feet standing on the ground kept scratching each other to get relieved and then moved on.

- Walk this way, turn here...the village road is too narrow. I had to have the car parked way at the village pavilion...where are you going?  I had Tran Do's order to drive you to Hanoi immediately!
- Let me go home first...there is still half a pint of alcohol left over and hung on the inside wall of my house...but where have I forgotten my sabots?
- Take the wine only, OK? Clothing is not necessary. In Hanoi use my clothes for a proper appearance... 
The autumn wind hung and played around the row of two-storied houses washed in yellow lime. Under its caress the line of old sapindus, which stretched itself out to full length in front of the radio station, shook with happiness.
Opening widely the door of the treatment room Mr. Hung craned his neck to drink every gust of wind. The hospital's special three-course evening meal prepared simply but very nutritious for terminal wards' patients gurgled and tossed about in his bowels. Having been long in the habit to endure deprived diets and then suddenly being fed massive quantities of meat and fish the turnout was not unlike shells fired into the stomach and causing extreme damage. Luckily for him he did as his doctor had recommended which was not to help himself with extra servings of roasted goose, which an unknown person had bought at the Hang Buom boat-sail market quarters and sent to him. Gifts were galore, some sent in by acquaintances, some sent in by complete strangers judged by their names.   

After the jest of Pham Tuan's spatial voyage now came the news of his son becoming the first-ranked pianist in the world that was causing sensation throughout the country. In the bars, the cafes, the tea-gardens, and on the buses teemed with passengers the startling news was circulated. Many young men, who had added a few details to embellish the competition, sadly lowered their voice to whisper about the life full of mishaps, vexations of his father - Mind you, I've always been Mr. Dang Dinh Hung's drinking companion!- A valuable detail warranting the acquaintance with celebrities. Even to the genuine neighbor who, at the time when Son's talent was still as fragile as egg-shell, came twice a day to knock at the door of his house requesting him to immediately silence the sound which did not fit well with his convolvuluses, the subject of controversy at his department, so he might get some quiet, also felt pity for him and complained of the regime's ill-treatment of people of talent. 
Well, that didn't matter after all: discontent was being in for Hanoians. Among the writers and artists there was a genuine show of joyfulness.
On the streets when they met their face shone with excitement as if it was they who won the prize. 

Ever being despised, being considered  a genre of stage-folk, village-crier for the party they now could give birth to something, similarly to the royal concubine who suddenly gave birth to a son for the King and thereupon assumed a high-and-mighty manner toward the other royal wives and concubines. This too wretched land throughout its life craned its neck to wait for the news of winning the first prize at the lottery and of the oil-field discovery...flops of the Head Office of Petroleum Exploration, which was swelling with pride in the face of world.
As for the "Central Office" it wasn't very satisfied. What an unexpected blow it was struck! It had always put to torture, repressed talents causing their premature birth or late bearing, and now it had to pocket an affront which was to carry in its arms face upwards a half of its life freed from the Party's orbit flying away to associate with the world. The first thing that hurt most was that Mr Pham Hung was compelled to sign the abolishment order of deportation and exile of Son's father

Next the Service of Home and Land Administration had to provide him a room to live in. Soon when higher officials looked down and people looked in his family ought to have a decent shelter. The cultural leadership would have to be mindful of the manner of addressing him. "That slaughter man Dang Dinh Hung"(?) didn't understand from what source musician Huy Du, party private-secretary of the Association of Musicians, derived his anger to curse his close friend, one guilty of shedding tears for the souls of the persons who died victims of injustice in the land reform during when he was himself a member of the Humanistic Fine Literary Works group. And it was precisely this Huy Du who raised his voice in stating his standpoint, when Son had learned all that the Academy of Music of Vietnam had to offer, to threaten to reject the recommendation to send him to Russia for study. Fortunately an occasion presented itself when Mr. Natanson, the Russian piano teacher, stopped in Hanoi and of a jumbled up multitude of sounds he could filter out Son's instrumental music. Yet for three years Hanoi was obstinate in responding to the request to send the young student directly to him to receive instruction. Eventually he became enraged; he re-screened the levels of ability of all the students sent over, expelled a considerable number and threatened to expel all if Son was denied the opportunity. Driven to the wall 'policeman' Huy Du gave in. He reviewed Son's case to qualify him.
"...I was seriously ill, dad, perhaps because the trip by train to Warsaw was too long. The embassy turned down my request for fares for my competition. It also refused to sponsor my nomination for the competition. But I decided to take the risks, and once again Professor Natanson helped me, giving me money for the trip, money to hire the accompanying orchestra,

and money for boarding...     

While I had a 39.5 degrees Celsius fever tears trickled down my cheeks: the countries participating in the competition could salute their colors and play their national anthem, but not Vietnam - I participated as an independent competitor...However, it was thanks to that bitterness that I could meet Chopin - The sufferings that interfered with each other had triggered off the music of his soul..."
He knew his son as he knew himself. He was still lonely and full of courage like his father. But his destiny star was more stable and thus could take him to the end of the road that his father had led him into but had left before the journey was over. He dropped the burning hand-written letter his son had sent him and glanced at the Nhan Dan (People's) newspaper headline: Chopin Competition - Foot of Jack-Tree Competition". The big title ran across the whole length of the page - "...Dang Thai Son: he makes the trenches echo as he plays his piano music. The music wings up higher than the sound of American bombs. The sound of music reverberates from the feet of the jack-trees of the areas of temporary evacuation. Dang Thai Son, the sufferings of a people struggling for independence..." This Thep Moi commentator was indeed too "rusty". Poet To Huu had exhausted his inspiration for Pham Tuan who flew into space and had not yet recovered his breath. How fortunate! He then recalled the children playing soccer in the street late in the night, and the bands of public security men who closed tightly the crossroads - as if in battle - to go after and arrest them. Those hard to catch kids whose half-naked
body was shining with sweat had to be tripped up! Later on when they had survived tooth-breaking, head-bleeding trials to creep up from the cracks in the ground  like a The Anh, a Cao Cuong, etc... (two famous soccer players) then that children kidnapper would hurriedly embrace them in her bosom.
All of that thanks to the planting care of the Party!...    

He felt love for his child and he felt love for the children. Son had only one choice: forge ahead; behind him there was no return. When the wall at the end of the road had been reached the remaining thing to do was bury one's face in it and wait for the cocking of the gun...
However, this time the bullet ricocheted; it bounced over the wall to the outside world. He counted in his head the innumerable corpses mowed down under that wall. Tran Dan, Phan Khoi...the crack-brained Doan Phu Tu wearing sandals the wrong way all their lives, the destitute Le Dat silently and with bent head stealing into the night like a toad and whom acquaintances would not greet for fear of being implicated, the painting artists forced to learn carpentry in prison, their hands now hardened like those of mortar-cutters and brushed aside like junk as far as art was concerned; the mere look at those hands made their eyes brim over with tears...How many more lives were there that had been excommunicated and pushed into obscurity like mine?    

He remembered the cattle ranches where he and his friends were driven up "to retake the love, the class position  from the beasts!..." That was why Van Cao now wandered all day in the streets like a cow. There was also Hoang Cam. His love began at the root of the stubble, which exhaled the early morning warmth, and he was dazed and asked where "the withered leaves and flowers" were...as incorrigible as he was, if he continued to itch to write poetry, he would simply rot in prison.
The face of his wife gradually appeared. She was alive but he seemed to remember a deceased person. He had not seen her again over a decade since he last saw her at the divorce court. Everything had collapsed and crumbled, beginning with Thai Thi Lien, the maiden as beautiful as the dream in which the music as romantic as the love that was brought to him could be heard. People could not tolerate that the lady-director of the piano school was the wife of a  "Humanistic Fine Literary Works" guy. Nor could she tolerate an individual who just yesterday was a noble man of letters, one who needed to look to the blue and his musical inspiration would flow with the clouds, but who today became a social misfit and a drunkard. Her children would never be able to rise in the world as long as they remained the children of a "Humanistic Fine Literary Works individual". He was resigned to wipe his tears and to part with his wife at the court and slipped to a remote spot in the countryside waiting for old age to carry him away.
Thinking back he still felt vexed and angered. He still loved. Every night he still remembered. But

the heavens had a way to put man to torture: people miss and love each other when they are separated, but they feel hate when they are near. A lung-tearing fit of coughing threw him out of his bed to the floor. The nurse on duty pushed open the door and rushed in.
- You drank again,  didn't you?
- No, I don't drink anymore. Perhaps, that was due to the cold. Please, close the window.
He made an effort to point toward his back - You're hopeless. You're not to drink, and yet you still sneak behind our back to do it. Mr. Huy Du had told us about your tricks to hide drinks and yet we couldn't prevent you.
(Excerpt from the stories collection "The Man with a Tail" by The Giang)