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THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 7 NUMBER 2 JUL 2005
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A MOMENT IN
HANOI A
TRAVELLING NOTE BY QUE
SON
Que Son, pseudonym of Ho Ngoc Son, who was born Nov 25, 1960 in Da Nang Viet Nam. His first published work, One Spring
morning, appeared in the Spring 2005 issue of The Writers Post.’One
Spring morning’ is a segment of his memories about events of spring 1975 as
they took place in Da Nang, his hometown, seen
through the eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy. ‘A moment in Hanoi’ is his second
appearance in The Writers Post. He is living in Brooklyn, New York. THAT MORNING IN
DANANG I WAS SITTING WITH MY BROTHER IN A GARDEN café by the river and I
asked him if he wanted to take a trip with me to Ha Noi.
He said he would be happy to accompany me. He had not been to Ha Noi for more than twenty years. My brother told me the
first and only time he was there was when he was a student, being sent to the
capital for a month to be trained as an electrician. For me I was curious to
see how the city had changed after all these years. All the talk about
economic reform, the embrace of capitalism and the boom of entrepreneurship
made me wonder if the city had transformed, becoming brighter than before,
perhaps? The last time I was there was ten years ago on my first trip back to
the country. By that time I had been gone for 12 years, thinking that once
you left the country, you would never have a chance to come back. But the
political situation had changed and the country now welcomed returnees. It was a sunny morning. People said it had been raining for many
days and the sun had only come out yesterday, the day I came back to the
city. I was lucky as far as the weather was concerned. But it was the monsoon
season and the rain could come at any time, without warning. The café I was sitting in with my brother was actually a big
front yard of a house with numerous gigantic bonsais of a wide variety.
Tables were arranged among the potted plants that created a relaxing
atmosphere. On the other side of the road and across from where we sat the
river ran leisurely and its green water glistered with sparks of white light.
The birds were singing, competing with the café’s music. As I watched drops
of dense black coffee dripped from the filter into the cup, I thought about
how to make my days here as comfortable as I could. Da
Nang was my hometown where I was born and raised and the last thing I wanted
was to feel apprehensive about coming back to it. And I found that it was not
easy to feel 100% at ease while here in town. But I would do the best I
could. Mother’s health had been improving, thanks to my brother’s care, and
that would make me feel somewhat better. My trip home this time served only
one “mentionable” purpose: to observe the end of the mourning period for my
father. I had not been to any of his memorials since he passed away almost
three years ago and I felt that I had to make this trip. Mother had also written
to me and D, asking us if we could go home for the occasion. I was also
taking timeout from a frustrated life in New York. So here I was: home Two weeks later, as planned, we were sitting in the Da Nang’s train station’s coffee shop waiting for the Ha Noi express which was scheduled for a fifteen-minute stop
here on its way north from Sai Gon.
I like this small coffee shop and I had come here to sit a few times before.
It was usually quiet because most of the time there were no people coming and
going. The only times it became crowded were when the trains came and went,
which usually happened in the early morning, at noon, and in the evening. At
those times people waiting for the trains would come into the shop to sit;
and as the trains left, the shop would become empty again and that was when I
chose to come in. I felt less anxious here because in this place I could be
alone, away from the house that was usually noisy. Sometimes I would sit for
an hour before another person came in. Sitting here I felt somewhat secure,
that I would not be seen as easily if I had sit in a café on the streets
where there might be lots of traffic. From here I could look at the spacious
and quiet waiting room of the station. It was always clean: a totally
different picture from twenty-five years ago, after the war ended. Back then,
train stations were scenes of human miseries. A majority of people scrambled
daily for their next meals, making a living was a difficult task, and
survival was the order of the day. There were just no words to describe the
pain, but memories of those days were still vivid on my mind. I was a detail
in that picture of misery. I was immersed in it. One day during that period, while in the station waiting for the
train with hundreds of other tattered people, I walked into the station’s
public bathroom and found a girl no more than 13 years old being violated by
an old guy in a standing position. My presence did not deter them from
continuing the act. I was sure the girl would be fed or given some money
after that. Back then I often left home to travel south using the train,
having no purposes other than to get away from home, from the madness that
was adolescence, to ease the pain of growing up. My unannounced, unpermitted
travels caused my father and mother much agony. One time while on one of
those mad trips I was jailed for traveling without permits; and my father,
after a month worrying and searching for me and after finding out where I
was, had to bribe the prison guards to get me out. Also, I usually sold
things in the house to have money for the trips. But I did not think it was
stealing because I thought whatever belonged to the family belonged to me
too. I did not feel bad about it, not even now when thinking back. The train arrived fifteen minutes late, under an overcast sky.
People boarded and de-boarded leisurely while the train gave out short bursts
of loud whistles as if anxious to leave. My brother and I found our
compartment. It was a six-bedded box and we had to share space with four
other people. I was going to spend the next 12 hours in a confined
environment and it made me somewhat uncomfortable. People would sit and look
at each other and size each other up and they would talk and I might be
involved in conversations. They might ask questions about where I came from,
what my business was and where I was heading and for what purposes, all the
things that I would rather not talk about. I lied on my bed, which was also
used by other people as seats because it was nearest to the floor, and read
my magazines, trying to block out the conversations going on around me. My
brother, after exchanging a few words with the fellow passengers, also lied
down and read his book. I glanced over to him, wondering why he did not
engage in conversation with them, him-- a local who knew things to talk
about, unlike me, an ignorant stranger. As the train started to roll, the
rain came down. So we were going to see the capital of the Socialist Republic of
Viet Nam. I was for wandering and sightseeing. My brother said he would focus
his visit on the ancient Buddhist temples. I knew he was excited because he
was going to see the temples that he had read too much about. In fact, he had
an extensive knowledge of these things. A large portion of his private library
was devoted to the subject of religion, largely Buddhist. One of our fellow passengers looked like a businessman or a
cadre of some kind even though he dressed in civilian clothes, and he talked
nonstop, about things that were utterly uninteresting. After a while people
stopped listening to him. I kept my mouth shut. Seeing my disposition, no one
attempted conversation with me. Tired of lying in bed, I got up and went into
the walkway outside the compartment to look at the landscapes. It was raining
hard. The landscapes of Viet Nam fascinated me, especially the vegetations.
Trees and plants in this area of the earth are of a wide, dazzling variety.
The railroad snaked along the base of the Truong Son mountain range, the
geographical spine of the country, and no more than a kilometer on the other
side of the track was the ocean. Patches of green rice fields and white sand
dunes with the mountains as a backdrop made the view postcard perfect. I went to the dining car and had a coffee. A few passengers sat
here and there talking and reading and staring out the windows under a weak
yellow electric light; and outside, darkness was fast approaching. After an
early dinner, I went to bed, popping a pill to help me into sleep. But sleep
was shallow because of the noises the train made. I got up every time the
train pulled into a station, walked to the window to watch people getting on
and off and all the buying and selling on the platform. The rain would not
let up. Then I would go back to sleep, or attempt at sleep, as the train left
the station to continue its journey into the night. No dreams. The train pulled into the Ha Noi
station around five in the morning. The rain had stopped but the sky was
still dark. I had got up and positioned myself at the window as the train
made its way through the city’s outer area. Low rows of brick houses lined
one side of the narrow highway that ran along the track, and all were still
in deep slumber, no signs of people, no activities, in a kind of cold dim
gray light given out by the street lamps. As I and my brother got off the
train, I noticed that there was not much noise, and people appeared relaxed
leaving the train, unlike what I remembered as train travel years ago when
the country was still in a deep economic pit: everyone took to the railroad
to buy and sell whatever merchandise that might be of some value, you could
not even find a seat and you were shoulder to shoulder and belly to belly
with other people and at every station there were furious buying and selling
accompanied by maddening yelling and screaming. It was a time of extreme
misery. The situation had improved a lot since economic reform started in the
late 80’s, but even now the country was still categorized as one of the
poorest in the world. The struggle for capitalist development continues. I felt no excitement seeing Ha Noi
again. Perhaps I am getting older and my mind and heart are not as vibrant
and sensitive as when I was younger. That’s why aging is not something to be
desired: it’s boring. You don’t feel a wide range of emotions as you did when
you were younger. You are jaded because of too much experience. You might
become emotionally dead, along with your dying body. Less and less things
hold surprises for you. When something happens, even strange things, you
would say, “Really?” and you have no emotional reaction. Looks like I am
going through this stage now and I don’t like it at all. In the dim light, we sat at what might be called a mobile
teashop across from the train station, waiting for the day to break. The
“shop” was a humble collection of few small plastic stools, a pot of tea, a
bamboo pipe, a few packs of cigarettes and some snacks. That was all needed
to be in business. We sat on the stools, facing the woman, and ordered tea
that was continually poured into our small cups as we emptied them. I reached
for the bamboo pipe and smoked that special kind of black tobacco, “thuoc lao,” letting out a
powerfully long stream of white fume. As I put the pipe down, my head started
to spin and a cold shudder rushed through the entire body. It was a brief
moment of nicotine intoxication. A lot of people in this area of the country
were addicted to this kind of tobacco, which I think was uniquely Vietnamese.
A few guys were sitting around us and smoked the tobacco, showing looks of
numbed satisfaction after each inhale and exhale. We were waiting for daylight and for the station’s baggage
office to open so we could retrieve our motorbike that would be our own mode
of transport while in town. A man approached us and asked us where we were
going. He was apparently a Honda Om driver looking for business. We told him
we had our own bike. And he walked away. A few minutes later another man came
and asked the same thing. My brother did not talk; he just sat, drank his tea
and every now and then stood up, stretched himself and walked around. I went
to the bathroom in the train station, taking care not to step on the shit on
the floor. There were discarded needles in the corners. The addicts must have
used the bathrooms as their shooting galleries. After retrieving our bike, we started out to look for a hotel.
Before the trip, I had done some research about the layout of the city and
had a general idea about where lodgings could be found. So I told my brother
to go in the direction of the river. He drove the bike and I sat behind him.
The streets were still quiet and the air was heavy with moisture and darkness
was still lingering. Big trees lined both sides of streets. Things looked
clean and ordered. My brother rode slowly. As we came near the river, we
turned toward the famed 36-street area where I was sure we could find plenty
of hotels. We stopped at a few hotels whose info I had found in the travel
guides, but the prices they quoted were all higher than what I anticipated.
Some hustlers tried to lure us to their hotels. After riding around for a
while, we settled for a mid-sized hotel by the Hoan
Kiem Lake. It turned out to be a great location:
it’s right in the heart of the city and it was on a block that was made up
entirely of colonial buildings. My brother said that
twenty years ago, this hotel had been reserved for the high-ranking officials
only. It was known to be an up-scale place back in those days, the days of
war and hunger. After registering, we followed the maid up two flights of
stairs to our room at the end of a long hallway. The room was a mess. The
maid said the last guest had checked out only 30 minutes ago and staff had
not got time to clean up the room. She said when we come back later in the
day the room would be clean and ready. It had high ceiling and a large window
open out to the hallway. There was a small TV on the dresser, and other
accommodations were basic but adequate. This might be one of the places where
the French colonists stayed when they were masters of the land. I took a warm
shower. My brother stretched himself out on the one of the beds and waited
for me to get ready so we could start our excursions to the temples. This was
our day one in Ha Noi. Out on the streets, people were doing their morning exercises by
the lake, mostly older people. The air was cool and wet. It was now full
daylight and the sky was overcast and it threatened to rain at any minute. There
was more traffic. A group of young people raced by on their motorbikes, the
noises of their engines filled the air furiously and violently then quickly
subsided. One or two of them even showed off their skills by riding with only
the rear wheel. My brother said the temples we were going to visit were all far
from the city, but none was more than 30 kilometers. He had done his research
and I also had my map. We had a breakfast of sticky rice and sausages at a
sidewalk joint that looked like a family restaurant. Then we set out for our
trip, heading back in the direction of the railroad station. By now the
streets were filled with people and traffic. Everyone rode his or her own
motorbike and we were on our own bike also. We had to go to Ha Dong province
whose border with Ha Noi was just a few kilometers
away. After riding for a while on the main road which was choked with fuming
traffic we turned into a narrow road that we believed would lead us to the Tay Phuong temple. The temple was, according to my brother,
had been built about eight hundred years ago and contained a large number of
ancient statues. As we rode on, things started to look more and more dusty
and …primitive. The road snaked through clusters of villages made up of low
brick houses whose walls were yellow and mossy with time. We passed through a
couple of villages whose business appeared to be the raising of dogs for
food. Cages and cages of barking dogs lined the road and occasionally shops
that sold dogs that were already barbequed. Dogs were food in many areas of
the world and I don’t think I have a valid argument against the use of dogs
as food…no matter how hard I try. People will even eat one another in times
of starvation. I myself had tried dogs before out of curiosity when I was still
in country more than twenty years ago. And it was good food, though
expensive. But dog meat was not anyone’s normal daily chow like chicken or
pork or beef, it was recreational food, a macho specialty, eaten during
drinking only. After a slow two-hour ride we arrived at the Tay
Phuong temple. It was on top of a hill that strangely and lonely situated in
a flat rice field. There were a few stalls selling local specialties, mostly
sweets, hot tea and a variety of souvenirs together with small statues of
Buddha and Bodhisattvas. Around the foot of the hill were giant old trees. A
bus carrying tourists rolled into the yard and the elderly Caucasian faces
came out, looking around and stretching themselves while shaking their heads
continuously to the children who were trying to sell them things. We climbed
the stone steps, a few hundred meters perhaps, and arrived at the temple’s
courtyard. There were more souvenir stalls and now people started calling out
loudly inviting you to buy from them. We stepped into the temple and found
ourselves engulfed in a kind of twilight between light and dark. And there
they were, the ancient statues of bodhisattvas that
my brother had been anxious to see. There were about twenty or so of them
lining the walls and it was hard to see them in the semidarkness of the
interior. They were, however, visible in a mysterious way. My brother studied
each of them closely while I stood near the door observing the whole view.
The ceiling was low, held up by rows of fat black wooden pillars. A giant
golden statue of the Buddha was on the center altar, glistering in
candlelight. White smoke and the smell of incenses perfumed the air. People
came to offer incenses and fruits and even money to the Buddha. I walked
outside. The outer walls looked new, as if they had just been made over. I
too was shaking my head at the souvenir peddlers. There was no getting away
from this kind of thing; anywhere there were tourists, there were souvenir
peddlers and some of them were quite annoying and aggressive. But people had
to make a living. After about an hour we started to descend. There was another old
temple not far from here that needed to be seen. We stopped to eat in a dark,
fly-infested restaurant. We had beef noodle soup. In the shop there were two
other men who looked like they were having a big lunch and appeared to be
drunk. The next one we plan to visit was the Thay
temple. It was at the foot of a small mountain about one mile from the one we
had just left. Again, it was a sudden rise of a big lump of earth and rock
right in the middle of a flat rice field. It started to drizzle as we
approached the mountain. A woman on a bicycle followed behind then guided us
to her “parking lot” which was actually the front yard of her house. Then we
walked to the temple that was visible from afar. In front of it was a large
lotus pond and in the middle of the pond situated an old brick structure with
a roof and four walls. I could not figure out the structure’s function, but
it added a nice artistic touch to the pond and the landscape. Inside the
temple, a man offered to show us around for a fee and we accepted. The
structure and layout of the temple was similar to many others I had seen:
three brick buildings lined up straight with courtyards in between. Inside
the buildings were altars and numerous statues of Buddha and Bodhisattvas and
the complex was designed in a way that allowed as little light as possible,
perhaps to purposely create a subdue and mysterious atmosphere. This temple
had an impressive courtyard that contains many strange looking giant bonsais.
There was a large black rock with a poem in Chinese characters written on it.
My brother read aloud the poem and explained its meaning to me. It talked
about the illusory nature of the all things and urged enlightenment. The rain continued to fall and the sky had become darker. We
headed back to the city, taking a different route. It was a highway that
allowed two lanes of traffic in opposite directions. The rain then let up and
became a drizzle then rain again. Farmers were selling their products on the
edge of the highway and sometimes right on it. They sold mostly corns and
occasionally livestock like ducks and chickens. On the way back we saw a big
modern stadium being built which my brother said would host the next
Southeast Asian Games. Ha Noi had been changing and
expanding. New buildings, mostly tall and thin and in a uniform style that
looked Mexican to me, added to the landscape a feature that was definitely
psychedelic. Near the city we merged into a sea of humanity on motorbikes,
everyone trying to push his wheels forward foot by foot and the honking was
maddening. There was perhaps a method to this madness, some kind of logic to
this apparent chaos. But I wasn’t sure what that was. That evening after hanging ourselves out to dry and a short nap
we walked around the lake then had dinner in a restaurant in the 36-street
neighborhood. We each had a cup of strong rice wine. My brother became silent
and looked preoccupied. I saw the subdue look on his face but did not ask him
how he felt. On the way back to the hotel, I said to him that I wish I had a
home to miss while on trips like this. He did not answer or
had any reaction. Back in our room we called and talked with mother. She was
fine, taking her medication. Falling asleep around ten o’clock all I heard
was the loud sound of the rain. It was the second day in Ha Noi. Sleep
had been uneventful, but all the times I was aware of the rain beating
against the window. Toward daylight I was waked up by the noises of children,
like a buzz of a giant fly. There was laughter and yelling and screaming.
Perhaps an elementary school was nearby. We took our shower then went
downstairs for breakfast which included in the price of the room. The large
dining room was almost deserted. I had an egg sandwich and my brother ordered
a noodle soup. Coffee was also complementary. I had told my brother that
today I would like to be alone, that he might have to continue his visit to
the temples without me. There were many other temples in the area that were
on his must-see list. He agreed to the separation. For me, the temples, even
though worthwhile of seeing because of their historical values, all had the
same style and seeing one or two was enough. Besides, I was weary of
prolonged conversation that must be conducted when I was with someone, even
that someone was my brother. In my present state of mind, I would rather shut
my mouth and walk or sit alone with my own thoughts. After the meal my brother took off on his motorbike, saying he
would cross the Chuong Duong Bridge into the other
outer regions of the city. I wished him a good time then walked to the lake
and sat down on a bench. It had become drier but the sky was still laden with
dark clouds. The familiar scene was taking place again around me: old people
jogging and doing exercises. A boy approached and asked me if I wanted to
have my shoes shined. I said no, in a polite way with a faint smile. But I
knew that if the next one came and ask the same thing I would just shake my
head and not even look at him. Then came the boys
and girls who sold magazines, newspapers, lottery tickets, and snacks. The
head shaking ritual continued. There was a nice legend that gave the lake its name: Hoan Kiem (Returned Sword.)
After victorious against the Chinese about five hundred years ago, Le Loi returned his sword to the sacred turtle that had
given to him at the beginning of the war as a mandate from heaven. And the
lake was where this had happened, so goes the legend. It sounds like a smart
psychological warfare maneuver to rally popular support. In the center of the
lake they had built a shrine, supposedly hundreds of years ago, to
commemorate the sword returning event. Looking around I saw that I wasn’t the only one sitting alone.
There was a white guy who looked like he had just walked two thousand miles,
all dirty and seemed exhausted, with a huge backpack, equally dirty, next to
him. He too was staring at the lake and every now and then shook his head at
the peddlers. No more than twenty meters from where I sat the street was now
teeming with traffic. It was rush hour and with it, incredible engine noises.
A boy was trailing a couple trying to sell them postcards and he looked
determined to make a sell. He cried as he walked alongside the couple,
shoving his postcards at them. The couple continued to shake their heads and
tried to ignore him. I followed them with my eyes until they disappeared
around the street corner. That’s what people are reduced to when they are
poor. The skin becomes thick. I walked along Trang Tien, one of the main streets of the city. Some stores
still retained the atmosphere of Socialism: straight cold faces of the
uniformed sales people and the dark, dusty décor and all merchandises were
behind locked counters. There was a Western style department store. The
bookstores. Moneychangers and shoeshine boys hustled people who walked by
them. I walked pass the city’s main theater, a colonial structure that had
been renovated with financial helps from the French government, the old
master of the land. Perhaps they wanted to preserve the remnants of their
culture in a foreign land. Not far from it was a brand new hotel at least
twenty stories high, built on the spot where the infamous “Hilton hotel” had
been. Lots of American tears had shed there. Then I arrived at the Museum of National History, another yellow
colonial structure. With a dark yellow face, I passed for a local and paid my
low entrance fee. Foreign tourists had to pay substantially more. The
two-story building exhibited a humble collection of historical artifacts
telling, in chronological order, the story of the nation. More than half of
the objects were reproductions. Most impressive were the genuine prehistoric
things, allegedly excavated from sites along the bank of the Red River. They
were stone tools and weapons as well as ritual implements, including
decorated bronze drums large and small. I was more interested in looking at
things outside the windows, at the brick courtyards with giant bonsais and at
the traffic not far from where I was. The tourists walked slowly by in groups
following their guides. After the museum I headed for the Long Bien Bridge over the Red
River. It looked like I was the only person walking, because everyone was
riding their motorbikes. Sidewalk spaces were taken up by merchandises and
parking bikes, so most of the time I had to walk in the street, mingling with
the traffic. After about half a mile a slope led me up to a train station
that situated on the Ha Noi side of the river. I
sat down on a bench with people waiting for the train then got up and started
walking across the bridge. My other brother back in Da
Nang had told me that I must walk this bridge if I wanted my visit to the
city to be complete. It was a rusty old iron span used mainly as a railroad
passing. There were however two walkways on both sides of the bridge. The
structure appeared to be in disrepair. I walked to the middle of the span and
stopped, looking at the city on the far side and at the water below. There
was a strip of land, something like a small and elongated island, in the
stream, and on it was cultivated field of vegetables. From where I stood I
could see the Chuong Duong Bridge, packed with
traffic. There were boats along the riverbanks. My other brother said he had
been impressed and moved with what he saw standing on the bridge…many years
back. I did not feel anything strange. Sure, I wasn’t him and he wasn’t me.
He was probably in some kind of state of mind. But he was young then, and we
are now all a lot older, and have become much less sensitive. I turned around and walked back, leaving the bridge. I sat in a
teashop to rest. There were people drinking tea, smoking that kind of black
tobacco, and talking animatedly. I was on the border of the 36-street area, a
web of small city blocks, each street specialized in one unique kind of goods
and its name reflected the kind of business people were in. Like Sugar
Street, selling anything and everything sweet. But that was long ago, now
people sell different things anywhere they want. I continued to walk the
narrow streets. The whole area was really a giant market. Colorful and
lively. I was in an unfamiliar environment and I suddenly I had the feeling
that did not belong here. Weariness had begun to creep in and I thought it
would be nice to be on an airplane flying back to the States. At least back
in the US I can be alone in a familiar setting. But here in this corner of
the world, the sense of aloneness was profound and sometimes painful. I would
look at people and not know how to approach them in a proper way. My language
skill was not up to date. They would say things that I don’t understand and I
would say things that might reveal to them that I came from a faraway place.
My ignorance of current local events, my strange accent, my peculiar choice
of words, and the lack of knowledge of slang all prevented me from
comfortable interaction with the people. So all I did was taking in the
sights and only contacted people when needed, like
ordering a drink then asking how much it cost. Twenty years away from home
had done this to me. I asked my way to the tomb of Ho Chi Minh. It was located in the
area where the country’s political power concentrated. In front of the tomb
was a large public square and around it were government buildings and they
were all yellow colonial structures. Bands of soldiers in olive uniforms
paraded here and there, among groups of tourists. The tomb itself was built
in the Soviet style, a gloomy and intimidating block of black marble raised
high above the ground. People were not allowed in the building today. Some
kind of renovation was going on. The sky suddenly cleared up and it felt
warmer. My brother was in bed when I got back to the hotel late in the
afternoon. I asked him how his trip was and he said it was Ok. He had found
the temples that he wanted to see. And he took some pictures. He said he
wanted to go home tomorrow and we should buy our train tickets the next
morning. I told him he could go back to Da Nang
first if he wanted but I wanted to stay for another day. He said that was
fine with him, but the look on his face told me he did not like the idea of
me staying back by myself. In the morning we went to the train station to buy our tickets.
Then he kept his and I kept mine. His train would leave at seven o’clock in
the evening. My brother then continued with his temple visits and I continued
with my walks. That is all I do when I am in a strange city: walk and walk
and walk. Things and people on the streets excite me. There would be some
deviations to the places worth seeing, but for me walking is always the main
thing. Today I dropped into the Museum of Fine Art and the Temple of
Literature. Back at the hotel in the evening I found my brother packing up
for his trip home. There was music down the hall where the restaurant was. It
was a wedding reception. My brother said I should go home with him. I could
see clearly now that he did not feel that I would be safe being alone in this
town, in the hotel. And I did not blame him. He might think that I would have
problems dealing with people since I am a stranger in this town. But I did
not ask him straight out why he insisted that I go home with him. Mother
might be worried, perhaps? I walked him down to the hotel entrance and saw
him off. He should be in Da Nang the next morning
around eleven. I told the hotel clerk that I was staying for another day and
I wanted to pay the bill now. She agreed but could not find the receipt book.
So I held on to my money, a thick stack of bills, which was a nuisance. That night I took another walk into the 36-street area. There
was a street that lit up with the glow of red lanterns. I walked for an hour,
had dinner, then returned to the hotel. The rain
came down again. I locked the door and lied in bed, looking at the ceiling.
My brother had taken with him the small bottle of liquor I had bought
yesterday. I could have gone out to buy another one, but decided against it.
You don’t know what will happen when the liquor goes to your brains. That
might be what my brother was worried about: I might drink then do stupid
things and there was no one near to control me. But I have changed,
I am not 22 years old anymore. I am older and what should I say, wiser? No, I
am not wiser, I am just more fearful and more cautious, that’s
all. I thought about calling the airline to change the date of my flight back
to the States, probably a week sooner. I was tired. Not physically, but
mentally. There was no thrill coming back to the country and family this
time. It all had become familiar and as a result, no joy. Besides, I had
decided before the trip that as soon as I came back to the country, I would
make effort to make peace with myself. I had not done that. Instead, I let anxiety
dominated my mind and I isolated myself, not even wanted to look out the
windows. I did not feel completely secure in this physical environment, not
even in my own mental environment. Sometimes I had to resort to taking pills
to ease uncomfortable feelings. So that was it, I would go back to America
sooner than I had planned. I could not prolong the days here anymore. I
turned out the light, watched some TV: they continued to comment about the
big fire in Sai Gon that
killed 60 people a couple of weeks ago. Then I fell asleep. The next day I continued to walk. I saw a photo exhibit
depicting scenes of the Mekong Delta. There was a man standing by the
entrance and introduced himself as the photographer. Then I stopped by the Quan Su temple, burned some incenses and sat in the
courtyard watching the worshippers came and went. A woman approached me and
asked me if I lived in Ha Noi. I said no. She then
walked away. I had a whole day to kill in this town. The train would depart
this evening at seven. I returned the room, paid my bill and said goodbye to the clerk
then walked all the way to the train station. The platform was deserted when
I got there, only a few people standing here and there. I found my
compartment, got into bed, took two pills and fell asleep just as the train
started to pull out of the station. In the state between reality and dream I
heard someone said it had been sunny in Da Nang in
the last few days.
QUE SON The Writers Post &
literature-in-translation, founded
1999, based in the US. Editorial
note: Works
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