By Suong Nguyet Minh

The Americans who had gone through the Viet Nam War still have no explanation as to why they lost the war. Could it be because they had not understood Viet Nam and the Vietnamese people?

John has attended numerous seminars, read thousands of pages of documents and watched many films about Viet Nam, yet he is still unable to give a satisfactory answer to that question.

John decided to join a US delegation of Viet Nam War veterans on a visit to Viet Nam. Vietnamese writer Le Xuan, a war veteran who had been on the front lines in southern Viet Nam during the war, was assigned as a guide for John and his colleagues on a visit to the former battle front. At times, writer Le Xuan used English to clarify things to his guest, but the former US soldier was actually very good at Vietnamese. The former battle front is green again, and only scattered here and there with wrecked tanks and several rolls of barbed wire, vestiges of the old war.

In his guest room, John asked Le Xuan many questions about the Vietnamese people after the war. Le Xuan gave him a copy of the Vietnamese Literature and Art Journal: "Please read these short stories to acquaint yourself with the Vietnamese people". John was overjoyed: "Ok!"

Dusk was setting.

Truong had already made it to the banyan tree at the head of the village. The red sun was slowly setting over Bach Bat Mountain. Clouds were melting away then re-forming into queer forms, covering the last sun rays of the day.

It was slowly getting greyer.

Truong stopped at a tea stand by the banyan tree. Birds were flying back to their nests. Tree leaves were rustling. The Chay Pagoda lay quiet and silent nearby. Ripe banyan fruits occasionally fell pitter-patter to the ground.

"Please give me a cup of tea."

Truong imitated the Nghe Tinh accent. He put his soldier’s hat on the bamboo bench and took off his sun glasses. The teenage girl looked up and was startled. Truong saw her eyes open wide in great surprise. The bowl of green tea in the girl’s hands was shaking slightly, spilling a bit on a box of candy.

"Here you are, please!" she said, blinking her eyes and putting the bowl down to pour more green tea. "Grandma, you have a guest, please come out to meet him."

The girl stood up, grabbed a book and walked away very quickly. Truong felt a wave of offense and self pity. He touched his face: a rough, coarse and wrinkled face. It was the feeling of a dead face.

"Where’s your home village, soldier?" the old hunchbacked woman asked him as she made her way slowly from the hut. Truong recognised her as old Com. The old woman was thinner and weaker that the last time he saw her, with a greater bend in her back.

"Oh, my home village is further south in central Nghe An Province. Do you live here?"

"No. I used to live in the village and sell things here only during the day. I would go back to my village in the evening. But since I received the death notice of my son Cu Theo, I have become much weaker and can no longer move things back to the village as in the past. So I have to stay right here for convenience. The teenage girl you just saw learns her lessons at night and sleeps with me."

Truong’s heart had suddenly clenched. So his old friend Cu Theo, who had often gone with him to trap fish in their youth, was no longer. He had sacrificed. So he realised he was luckier than his friend; when the war was over he was still able to come back, even with his wounded body.

"It’s going to get dark soon. If the way home is long, you can stay in my hut and go home when the day breaks. It’s a pity for soldiers. You have such a hard life!"

"Thank you! I’m a friend of Truong’s from Trong Nhan Village, you know."

"Oh, God! What a great joy! It’s very kind of you! Bombs and shells stopped on this land five or six years ago and all the living soldiers have come home. Only Truong, the son of Mr and Mrs Tran, has yet to come home. So we don’t know if he’s alive or not, because there hasn’t been a notice of his death yet. If you go see his parents, Mr and Mrs Tran, they will be very happy, I think."

"Is Mr Tran well these days? What about Ms Thuong, Truong’s wife....?" he asked the old woman without pause.

"Good heavens! We are all old now! Ms Thuong has been wooed by a lot of village boys, but her parents-in-law only want her to remarry to her teacher Muoi."

Truong’s heart constricted. He felt so confused. His heart started pounding. I have to get home now! Immediately! Truong thought. Oh, my dear wife Thuong! Everything must stop. I’m returning to you now, Thuong.

It was twilight.

Truong was walking quickly on the brick-paved road to Trong Nhan Village. He had been away from home for six years, so his mother would be much older now, he thought. Did she seem as old as the old hunchbacked woman Com? Would she be able to recognise him with such a disfigured face? Did his father still worked as an earth digger? It was such a hard job, father! And what about you, Thuong? Do you still miss me? All occupied Truong’s thoughts on the way home.

Truong remembered the 200-year old banyan tree had once been a witness to his love. The light of the moon had shone through the leaves onto her hair, her shoulders. The fragrance of pomelo flowers gently cascaded from her hair. He had buried his head in Thuong’s breasts and listened to her heart thumping and pounding. Her chest was heaving up and down. She fell onto his lap, her face looking up at the sky, her eyes tightly closed. He kissed her hot lips. The universe seemed to plunge them into their dreams.... Then Thuong suddenly woke up, her dreamy eyes looking up towards the vault of green leaves.

John stopped reading. He was pensive. During the war he was told: Viet Cong (Vietnamese communists) were men without hearts, so when they took up arms, they only knew to pull the trigger. Le Xuan urged: "Sir! Do read on!" He picked up the journal again.

Truong could hear the buffalo’s hoof beats right behind him. He stopped in his tracks and turned around.

"Stop! Stop!"

The boy pulled the rope. The big black buffalo stopped in front of Truong and a boy jumped down to the road.

"Old woman Com said she did not want to take your money. This money is for a Happy New Year to you, she told me," the boy put the small amount of change into his knapsack. "My house is next door to uncle Truong, you know." Suddenly the boy screamed, "Ugh! You’re wounded, aren’t you?"

Oh, this boy was Mr Hao’s son. He was still very small when Truong had an R&R a few years before, he remembered.

"Are you scared that I’m wounded?"

"No. I feel a bit afraid, but not scared. My father is also a wounded soldier, but not as bad as you. Now he has a mock jaw."

Truong remembered the day when Thuong took him around to say good-bye to his neighbours before he had gone to the front. He had seen the boy’s father, Mr Hao, lying on the bed and his wife was feeding him. He had lost his lower jaw, so it was difficult for him to chew. When Truong came into his house, Mr Hao got up, said "Hello" to Truong and shook hands with him. The last night she was lying by her husband’s side, Thuong said: "My only wish is that you come back safe and sound." He pulled her to him and hugged her tightly.

"Here you are! This is uncle Truong’s house. Do go in! I have to go home and tie up the buffalo," the boy said.

Truong was startled. Deep in thought, he crossed the lane to his house in just a few steps.

"Thank you, boy!"

Truong was standing in front of the lane to his house. This was my house, he cheered noisily in his heart. Oh! He had experienced so many years on the battle front! For so many years he had lived in grieving remembrance, aspiration and expectation. The images of his father, mother and wife had always lain in anxiety and longing in his heart. Now he was back home! Back to where he was born, grew up and from where he had gone to go to war.

The fireflies were twinkling on the surface of the village pond, in the garden and on the lane that had brought him back to his childhood. The pomelo tree was rustling nearby. His head touched the leaves, agitatating him. His footsteps seemed so light. What would happen when he saw his mother? He would run fast to hug her. No! Or he would grope his way in the yard with both eyes closed. No! Upon seeing him, mother would fall. Yes! That’s what would happen. What about his meeting with father? He would stand at attention to salute him. And father would laugh a radiant laugh. And what about Thuong, his wife? With his bags over his shoulder he would stand waiting for her outside her room. She would open the door, then rush to embrace him, crying happily. Time seemed to stop. The air seemed thick. Clouds did not fly, nor did the birds. Everything in the universe seemed to stop. Tranquillity! Only hurried breathing and repeated heart beats.

"Thuong, take a quick bath and have dinner now. Your mother won’t be home for awhile."

Truong was suddenly alert. Yes, it was his father’s voice.

"Please drink your wine first. Mother also told me she would be home in a few days."

Thuong’s voice was as the same as ever, so gentle, warm and passionate.

"I like teacher Muoi’s virtue and manner. If you and the teacher live here, we will feel safe for the rest of our lives. The teacher is a simple man. He also joined the army, so we will sympathise with each other."

"... ... "Truong’s ears were ringing. The war. Out of sight. Losses. Separation and victory. Thinking about it, he shuddered. His stomach churned. His house had suddenly become so alien.

John dropped the journal onto the desk. He lit a cigarette: "A man who had gone through war returns home to a surprise. Let’s see how he handles the consequences of the war he helped win." John continued reading.

Truong turned his head to the road with his bags on his shoulders. He tripped and fell. He got up in confusion. Tears had suddenly welled up his eyes. He went on and on the uneven surface, slipping.

"Uncle, you’ve put my light out."

Truong ran into a boy in the dark. It was the buffalo boy again, Mr Hao’s son. He was confused.

"Why are you leaving? Why don’t you go in? Or were you mistaken?"

"Maybe.... Oh.... No!" Truong stammered.

"Is anyone home? Is Ms Thuong home? Mr Truong’s friend is coming to see you," the boy called out while pulling Truong back to the house.

"Good evening, sir!" Truong spoke again in the Central Viet Nam accent. "Oh, how kind of you! Please come in!"

Father took his shoulders and shook vigorously, then he took Truong’s hands. Truong drew back a bit, but his hands were already in the tight grip of his father’s hands.

"Truong and I lived together seven years ago. Now I live in a convalescent home. Today, I’m going back to it, but on the way I stopped at Ganh railway station and dropped in to visit my friend Truong and his family."

"Oh, the war has been over for quite a long time," Mr Tran said slowly. "But we haven’t received any information about my son Truong. We have been waiting for him. My wife and I are very weak these days and we cannot tell when we are under the weather. Today, you’re here to see us, and I am both happy and sad. So you’ll join me for a drink."

"Dad! Where is mother?"

"She’s gone to Quynh Village to visit Truong’s sister who has just given birth. Truong’s wife is taking a bath."

Truong was upset.

Thuong was still in the bathroom, tears trickling down her face. After the war, she received her husband’s friends many times and now another one was here. A new visit. Each time, her suffering increased. In Trong Nhan Village, whenever there was a death notice, the whole village had become a funeral. Sadness was felt from home to home. She felt her heart pounding. She still missed the smell of her husband’s sweat, so familiar to her. But the prime of her life was fading away and the road ahead of her was still long. She could not live forever with just the sense of missing and expectation. She would keep his memory in her heart but she also wanted a man to love.

"Thuong, hurry up. Our guest is waiting for you."

Hearing her father-in-law calling, she hesitated for a moment and then left the bathroom.

"Good evening, Ms Thuong!" Truong tried to imitate the Nghe Tinh accent again. His heart churned.

Thuong greeted him in a low voice and sat down. She was dazzled.

"Truong, get the meal ready please," said Mr Tran after he cleared his throat.

Thuong regained her composure, rubbing her eyes:

"Please take off your hat," Thuong said to Truong. Turning to Mr Tran: "Dad, let him wash his face to cool off."

Thuong scooped rain water out of the tank into the basin, then carried it to the curb of the well.

The water was so cool. This reminded Truong of the days his wife Thuong had helped him wash his hair. He now felt wide awake. The rural meal was so simple. Three people sat down. Thuong was serving him a bowl of steamed rice. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed such a delicious meal of pickled eggplant with crab soup. His eyes brightened.

John stopped reading. He said: "After leaving the battlefield in Viet Nam I was so happy my skin was saved. I lived to my heart’s content in Miami for one month. Your soldiers are so simple". "Yes!" Le Xuan replied. "They always bathe themselves in their homeland. That is where they have support and where they were brought up. Please continue your reading".

Truong had never seen his father and wife so clearly. Thuong did not look so different. She was a bit thinner, but still pretty. His father had gotten much older and had a lot of wrinkles on his forehead.

Mr Tran asked Truong some questions, but Thuong was unable to eat. The smell of familiar sweat was somewhere about. She could no longer stay at the dinner table, so she asked the permission to finish her meal and went into her room. She lay there, looking out the window.

After dinner, Mr Tran was a bit drunk so Truong helped him to bed. After he had lowered the mosquito net, he lay down beside his father. Truong tossed and turned. He had experienced a lot of different feelings since coming home. Sadness and joy were mixed.

In her room, Thuong had also tossed and turned time and again. Then she had a bad dream. When she woke up, she felt beads of sweat on her forehead. Her heart was pounding. She went out onto the yard.

Then Truong heard the water flushing. He got up.

It was midnight.

The late moon was dangling over the tree top. The stars were scattered across the sky. No wind. It was as silent as a grave. Truong tiptoed to the banana grove next to the well. Thuong was taking a bath. Truong closed his eyes, then opened them. He could not believe it. Her breasts were so white and soft in the moon light. He took one more step forward. Rustling! He had accidentally touched a banana leaf. He stepped back. Thuong squatted quickly with both hands covering her breasts. It was silent again. Only the buzzing of incessant insects could be heard. Thuong continued bathing. After seeing the swell of his wife’s breasts, Truong felt restless. Step out. Don’t torture yourself, he told himself. The moon seemed to be working for him, caressing her naked breasts. Truong swallowed hard and walked away.

Splat! He stopped in his tracks. The scoop had fallen with a splat into the well. He turned and walked to the pond. He could still hear the flushing water racing after him. He went back to bed. His father was snoring loudly.

It was past midnight.

The day began.

Truong woke up. His father was not there. It was silent in the house. All of a sudden, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. A deformed face which even he did not recognise. He went into rage and threw the mirror to the ground. The mirror was smashed into smithereens. Mr Tran came back into the house, saying:

"You dropped it on accident, I know. When a mirror is broken, a reunion is made. Don’t worry about it."

The day was breaking gradually. Truong was packaging his bags.

"It’s still dark!"

"Dad! I have to get moving before the morning comes so I don’t miss the train. Please give my regards to your wife and my good-bye to Ms Thuong. She must still be in bed?"

"No. She borrowed a bicycle from Muoi to bring my wife back from Quynh Village because she said that only my wife could help keep you here. If I am not mistaken, your gait is very similar to my son Truong’s."

"Maybe it’s because you miss your son Truong so much. And I can’t explain why my night here has felt like being at my own house. However, I have to go now or I’ll miss the train. So good-bye, Dad!"

"So please, tell my son Truong that if any thing bad has happened to him, tell him to come home. We all expect him home," Mr Tran said, sobbing.

"Yes, I will. I will return home."

John dropped the journal, stood up and lit a cigarette. Then he walked to and fro around the room deep in thought. "How do you feel?" Le Xuan asked. "To tell you the truth, I felt I was returning to the past to live another night in the post-war era", he said. "Please read the conclusion of the story," urged Le Xuan.

It was already dawn.

The train was belching smoke skywards. It was whistling repeatedly and slowly pulling out of the station. Truong was dumbfounded. So he had passed a night at home, in Trong Nhan Village. From now on, how could he live? When could he go back to see his mother?

He was looking out of the train window. Three people were running from Trong Nhan Village to the station. The younger one was a bit farther ahead of the two older ones. They stumbled down a few times, but they stood up and ran on. Truong bit his lips to keep from bursting out in tears. He clutched his bags tightly.

John dropped the journal again. He hung his head above the desk, letting his soul float into the Trong Nhan Village night. Le Xuan asked him impatiently: "What do you think, sir?" John looked up thoughtfully: "You went through the war with your soul, the soul of the Vietnamese people. Now I can explain to myself why the Americans failed. It was because the USA has never had such a night: The Night of Trong Nhan Village." (VNS)

Translated by Manh Chuong