|
THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 12 NUMBER 1 JAN
2010
|
Darkness in the underground A
SHORT STORY BY LU QUYNH
translated by N. SAOMAI
Lu Quynh, writer and poet,
born in 1942 in Thua Thien, Hue, Vietnam. His works appeared, before 1975, in
the literary magazines published in South Vietnam, including Bach Khoa, Mai,
Pho Thong, Khoi Hanh, and Y Thuc. His publications include Cat Vang, a
collection of short stories, published by Y Thuc in Saigon in 1971, the
second edition was published by Van Moi in California (US) in 2006; Nhung Con
Mua Mua Dong, a collection of short stories, published by Y Thuc in 1973;
Vuon Trai Dang, a novella, published by Nam Giao in 1974; and a novel
published periodically in Y Thuc magazine from 1971 to 1972. He settled in the US, and
resumed his writing after 2001, contributing to Van Hoc, Khoi Hanh. His most
recent collection of poems, “Sinh nhat cua mot nguoi khong con tre”, is
published by Van Moi in 2009 (California: Van Moi, 2009). “Darkness in the
underground”, the translation version of his short story “Bong toi duoi ham”,
published in this issue is his first appearance in The Writers Post. Lu Quynh
is now living in California. The man sat
on a low stool of scrap wood, lowered his head and rested his forehead onto
his folded hands. The young man, squatting on his heels, listened out for the
suspect sound from the trapdoor into the underground hideout it seemed. He
looked, every now and then, at the teeny tiny light the air duct gave out. In
the dim light his drawn face registered the nagging worry. In the dark corner
close by the girl lay, motionless. She wore her black pyjamas; sweat
plastered her mussed hair to her forehead. The three persons seemed pay no
heed to the existence of their hideout mates. It was a little boxy hideout,
approximately two metres long and one metre wide. Occasionally, water
droplets that oozed from the earthen wall dripped audibly onto the floor.
Silence seemed to unfold into a much deeper level. Dusk was falling– perhaps.
The teeny light through the air duct was fading, seen almost no more. The
girl stirred a little in the darkness; the man, at the same time,
straightened up and peered into the gloom, but saw nothing. He swallowed his
saliva, spoke in a dry voice as if he was dying of thirst. “Hungry, anybody?” To his question no one answered.
Perhaps they weren’t prepared for. The silence which reigned for a long
period, the whole of day it may have been, made them think they were dumb.
Once the young man wanted to speak, in order to see if he was still able to,
but he remained silent. He found it extremely difficult attempting such a
try. Listening now to the man’s question he started to wonder whether he has
been hungry. He felt nothing. The last drop of water had been gone in the
morning. His throat was parched and stiff with an acrid flavour as he thought
of the dry food the man mentioned. “Hungry?” The man repeated his question
in a more strained voice. “Well, you eat then!” The girl replied
shortly. “Really thirsty, not hungry!” The young
man put in. “So am I!” The man said. The three fell silent again. They
remained in the same place. The girl lay facing the earthen wall, with her
head tingling. In the pitch dark, her eyes were closed, her hands covered in
icy cold sweat. Suddenly, she started upright, frightened, calling out to the
man. “Uncle Suu, Uncle Suu!” The man leaned forwards, grasped her
arm and yanked it, in an angry manner. “Be quiet, will you? Do you know where
you are? Must obey my order. Don’t make noise. Death is lingering above our
head!” He suddenly felt edgy, but soon
recovered his self-possession. “Don’t fret. In any case, lean on me.” His voice was low, but as cold as iron.
The girl felt the cold on her nape. She curled up her body, lifted her hands
covered in sweat to claw at her face. Tears were coming, silently. But she
didn’t think she was crying. The young man squatted flat on the
ground, with arms wrapped around his knees. He said to himself, “Mr. Suu and
Mrs. Lien still have energy to talk, me- uh-uh, no more. He used his
tongue to suck his teeth for saliva, and then swallowed it. Again, the man’s voice came, “Have got
a thirst?” “I really do have. Got some water?” The
young man leaned forwards, but stopped short and sat back. “No,” the man said, “You’re thirsty,
and you don’t want to nod off. It might rain, and we will catch water from the
air duct…” The young man sighed with
disappointment, but felt filled with freshness afterwards. His voice directed
to the man, “It sounds good. Say, how come the old woman seems to have
disappeared?” The man thought a moment. “I’m worrying about the gun shots last
night. Was it possible? Had that been the woman, getting a stray bullet? Or
may be she was directly shot, for nobody would know that was an old woman…” “No. Let’s hope not.” The young man
said. The girl had fallen asleep, perhaps.
The man looked towards her, but he saw nothing. He craned his neck towards
the young man. “Say, Tam.” “I hear you.” A moment of silence. “In your opinion, what are we going to
do if Lien falls into a fit?” The young man pondered, and found no
solution. “You really think she will?” He said. “We spent hard days down here. Besides,
Lien is a girl, with a heart problem, mental illness, and panic attacks
sometimes. There is no water, lack of food. Worse yet, the cold and damp air
from the ground.” “What are you planning?” The young man
asked. The man held himself quiet. The young
man felt a bit of anxiety. He opened wide his eyes to look at the man, saw
nothing but the pitch dark. He
retraced in his mind the man’s face. A face of difference, scarcely being
seen in public. He has undertaken somewhat of secret tasks. Among his
acquaintances, some respected him; some treated him with great caution. They
didn’t believe the theory that he had stuffed into his head could turn him
into the perfect man of compassion, altruism and justice. Being silent or
indifferent might have been the appropriate attitude needed to be taken by
those who didn’t have a standpoint or stable theory. The young man wondered whether
the man’s indifference was simply the case as it seemed. The man recalled a song. Since that autumn of war. How moving
the atmosphere had been. The night they bit farewell to My Loc. The musician
stood by the flickering light of the bonfire, with one leg resting on a low
stool, playing guitar. Since that
autumn of war. His lover sang the lyric. His lover. Was she his lover?
The girl wore a brown shirt and a pair of black shiny trousers. Her hair,
pinned at her nape, flew down to her midback. Her lips were full and red
shiny without lipstick. As she sang, her fingers embarrassingly clasped
together. The music went on in a slow tempo. The musician looked up at the
sky playing the piece. He played indifferently, without any concern. But
somehow the music and the singing voice made all listeners who sat around,
while looking at the flaming bonfire, feel their hearts sinking. Wet eyes.
Shiny eyes. The girl finished the song with her eyes brimming with tears. She
walked towards him. “What makes you cry?” No sooner had the question come out
of his mouth than he saw himself silly. He should not have asked. The girl
lifted her hand dabbing at her eyelashes, saying softly, “I’m thinking about
we have to say our goodbyes tomorrow.” He felt the bitterness down in his
heart. The thought of farewell, or the music and the lyric itself had indeed
moved her? She surely wanted to disguise her weakness. Everyone must choose
for themselves the best answer. Must choose. Choose from the Being the
appropriate ego—the I, and then put up with it, trying to stay on guard
against betrayal, wrongdoing, fracturing along ideological lines. Must watch
over even a dream. He believed he had made the right choice. Must think of
the collective, and the goal the collective has striven for. Pride was merely
reserved for the living being. All that pride they had, and no one thought he
would die. However, no one would refuse death as it came. At 5:00 AM in the next morning all
people who had partaken in the bonfire were en-route. The musician and a
large group of them went to the ferry-landing, waiting for the ferry across
the river. The man, travelling by land alone, walked with his food-basket and
his backpack slung over his shoulders. The girl who sang the song “Since that
autumn of war” stayed. When departing, he didn’t see her. He was haunted by a
vague free-floating depression— about a love that could never be expressed.
On his way, as the sun appeared with its first rays he heard the planes
roaring, followed by heavy bombs exploding and machine guns strafing. He
stopped, and turned to look towards the ferry-landing. Clumps of smoke were
billowing skywards. Planes circled in the sky. He sat and waited. Waited for
the planes in a line formation to head towards the horizon, then stood up and
retraced the road he had passed. He ran to the ferry-landing, with the hope
that the musician and that group of people were to have gone across the river
while it was still dark. But he was disappointed. There were still people, though not many,
at the ferry-landing when he came. Most of the people, having dribbled away,
worriedly expected that the planes would return and again made another
bombing and strafing attack. Nurses hurried to help those who suffered
injuries to be transferred to the camp for treatment. Corpses remained lying
about. He saw the musician flat on his stomach; his two legs were in the
water, the upper part of his body on the ground. Slipping his backpack off
his shoulder, he stepped over the corpse to haul it abroad, onto higher
ground. Only one of the musician’s eyes was shut. The other wide open, with
the terrifying eyeball protruding out of the eye socket. A ripping hole on
his brown shirt exposed his pale skin with a stain of blood, which has been
dried. The musician’s body was relatively in good shape. A bullet went
through his chest. Such a death in a heavy bomb attack was really soft. He
looked at the corpse and recollected the bonfire. The vivid picture of the
musician drifted through his head- looking at the sky while playing
his guitar. His melodious guitar playing was still lingering about. And the
singing voice. Since that autumn of war. It was now also autumn. He died in the autumn morning. He thought, but refused to
believe it, that the melancholy atmosphere and tearful eyes last night meant
goodbye forever. He looked at the musician’s body,
looked at the people around, and slung the backpack over his shoulder,
silently. He retraced his road, and began to walk the rest of the way alone.
It was then he knew that his eyes filled with tears. In the underground dark, the man could
scarcely see his hand. He recalled distant memories. He thought back to the
musician lying dead by the ferry-landing. He had shed tears as often as not
when undertaking his mission journey, travelling the remaining leg through
which he must pass. The bleeding heart caused eyes to fill with tears. It was
his Being that wept, not the chosen I─ the I that never experienced
weakness, betrayal, and mistake. Back then, of course, he hadn’t been
all that old as he looked these days. His oldest child was then eight years
of age. He has strived for many of his aspirations. At least, he thought, the
most realistic thing he strived for, even if it cost him his own life, was
that his children would live. He was prepared to sacrifice everything so his
children would one day live in freedom, living as human beings, not being
used as slaves. Yet in all those years the struggle in which his fellow-men
were engaged was not fought through. His oldest son took up arms, and gave
his life in this struggle. For the whole of his life he has always been a
firm believer in achieving peace for his country. His belief, however, has
been badly shaken. He felt he could retain his volition no more, and he felt
his ill-health. What if the old woman, the key of this
underground hideout, had been killed? What was he supposed to do? The
military operation was finished it seemed. They have been living in this
hideout for two days. He began to lose his patience. A thought crossed his
mind: he would try the trapdoor, and escaped. Out there only two
possibilities presented themselves—life and death. It concerned him no more.
Life or death was just one. He groped in the dark for the grenades,
but touched the young man’s leg. He quickly pulled his hand back. The young
man, however, realised it. He felt uneasy as the man’s sensation of terror
was still on his bare flesh. “Is that you, Mr. Suu?” Silence. “What are you looking for?” The young
man kept asking. “No. Nothing”. The man replied,
embarrassed. The young man felt something of a
betrayal, and began to take precaution. He hurriedly moved the grenades into
a different place. It was then that the girl awoke. “Say, Uncle Suu.” “You should try to sleep. Don’t speak
too loud.” The man said. As the voice rose in front of her, the
girl found herself in an utter state of bewilderment in the dark. Voice. It
has been merely voice. Ghostly voice. There were only voice and voice in the
hideout. The girl thought she possibly wasn’t aware of herself. And her
voice, she wasn’t sure if it was hers. “Uncle Suu,” she said, willing to hear
her own voice. But the man didn’t see. “Please don’t keep calling me.” “You tell me now. What am I supposed to
do if another panic attack is coming?” The girl swallowed her saliva,
panting. “I’ve already answered.” The man said,
“Look, you must get some more sleep.” The girl leaned against the earthen wall.
She had a sensation of comfort as the cold, which came from the wall made its
way to her back. “You don’t know how my father suffered
from panic attacks. Going crazy, he drank alcohol and then, frantically ate
the glass. He chewed the crushed glass till the blood split out, reddening
the corners of his mouth.” The man was alarmed to hear the girl
recall the story. He was afraid that it might have triggered another attack. “Miss Lien, I say you should try to
sleep.” The man said, “Your father was drunk, but not that crazy in the
least. I know it. Try to sleep. Must go on to sleep.” The young man shifted his body close to
the girl. He made himself ready to deal with her if she performed acts that
could expose the hideout. A long silence ensued. Again, the girl spoke: “Uncle Suu, and you, brother Tam.
You’d better let me know what are we supposed to do if I suffered a panic
attack.” “There will be no panic attack no
doubt.” “You think so?” The girl said, “But
you are ready to strangle me to death, or stab me through the heart with your
dagger, aren’t you? Is there another way?” Alarmed, the man tried to calm the
girl, in an embarrassing voice: “Please don’t say so. Try to sleep,
will you?” “ Sleep, sleep, sleep!” The girl said
angrily. The man leaned forwards. He wanted to
express himself through his emotional reaction. However, no expression would
be possible in the pitch dark but the voice. Groping for a long while, he took
hold of the girl’s hand, in a gentle voice saying: “Don’t be upset. You must know where
we are now. Our lives depended upon each and every one of us. For one makes
mistake, all die.” “I know that.” The girl said
indifferently, “But why not just be straight with me and tell me what you are
thinking? I won’t be afraid. I will accept it. To die for the others to live
that may be somewhat an obligation. I know you and brother Tam will kill me
if I’m going crazy. Admit it. I won’t do any harm. Anyway, why is it that my
mother failed to turn up? It seemed that you said she was killed. The girl said in a low voice, and he
was at all relieved. “Well, you think too much. We’d better
keep quiet now. Your mother… Oh, that was what we’re thinking during a moment
of profound depression. The fact is, as you may know, that there is nothing
we’re sure of while still down here. Just a guess. The soldiers have been
stationed above our head since the last few days it seems.” The young man, exhausted, lowered his
head onto his knees, falling into a doze. The man, after answering the girl,
leaned back against the wall. He thought about the old woman, Lien’s mother,
and wondered if she were already dead.
Sorrowful thoughts have crossed her mind.
She thought of her mother, and her eyes were welling with tears. Since her
father’s death, her mother has been living a grim life, scratching around in
that small plot of land and gathering just enough to feed her brother Ba and
her. The mother, however, used to look worriedly at her children, fearful of
the genetic mental disorder. The terrifying image of her husband just before
his death had filled her with the horror that would never ease. In later
years, facing the uncertainties of life in his unstable village brother Ba
left home for the city where he joined the army. Her mother has ever
complained, but actually she’s been very content just below the surface. He
was now at least on the safe side, much better than living under all that
pressure in the village. In time of war, humanity used to be absent. Only
oppressions, threats and barbarous killings. After joining the army, Ba
returned occasionally to visit. His skin was dark, his body lusty, that made
his mother very happy. Lately, however, since the war became more and more
bitter and the village was increasingly unstable, Ba came home only when
there was an operation through the village. He urged his mother and sister to
leave their village for the city. The mother kept pondering a long while on what
she should do, and took no advice at last. She was not used to city life, in
which there were problems that needed to be dealt with. Ba didn’t return ever
since he did the last time during that operation. The village took bomb hits
so often. The mother and daughter were living trapped between two warring
powers. Terrified of them all. Suspected by all of them. And the only one way
to survive is trying to put themselves in hiding. The woman accepted to be
the key of this hideout since then. The man held the girl hostage. There was
no better way. Any means was just a temporary solution to trying to escape
death, to pass the dangerous portion of the road— everyday. The girl recalled the conversation
between the two men at the beginning of the night. The old woman may have
been killed by a stray bullet. She also had a presentiment that her mother
could be killed. If not, then why she didn’t return in two days. Could it be
true that she was dead? The girl said to herself, and swallowed her tears.
She bit her lip, lest she burst into sob. In the corner, the man stirred. He felt
the ground for a moment, then stopped, calling out, “Say, Tam.” The young man has just awoken. “What’s up?” “It appears to be dawn.” “My watch has died since last night.” The man sighed. A moment later he
asked, hesitated: “Tell me, what are you thinking?” “What do you want me to think about?”
The young man said, indifferently. “About the old woman, I mean. She could
be killed.” “Go on.” “About Lien, she may be going crazy.” The young man felt the coldest
sensation down below in his heart. He raised his hands, took his cheeks
between them. “You do plan everything, don’t you?” “I do-
Yes!” The man said. “Ms. Lien knows well what you will do
to her if she has a panic attack.” “If we really ought to.” The young man fell silent. The man was
starring frankly at the darkness. The girl, at the moment, was very alert.
She heard the conversation between the men, indifferently. In a sudden, she
felt extraordinary clear-headed. There would be no way else- I’m wondering if they will stab me with the dagger, or strangle
me to death? Stabbing or strangling? She thought of
her mother, her brother Ba, and then said to herself, “I’m going to go crazy,
perhaps”. Presently the young man opened his
eyes. He saw the wavering light emitted from the air-duct, and sat still to
look at the little light. He really missed that kind of morning sunlight as a
new day began. He felt uneasy, had a thirst for a bit of sunlight—just a bit
of sunlight. He looked at the man sleeping deeply in the dark corner. What
did he think about in the last few days? About escaping from this hideout?
The old woman could be somehow dead. He looked at the man, in anxiety and
suspicion. That person is completely unknowable. The young man fumbled for the grenades
he had tucked in the sand last night. He was pondering on how he would escape
from the hideout. Having no choice. One must take risks—life or death. In a
sudden, he thought of his age of 20. The war had taken away the meaning of
his youth, taken away the whole of his time in which he hoped to have lived
his age. At twenty, he has had no choice. Being born and growing up in the
war, passive and helpless under all pressures, he was like an animal in fear
of its life before the hunter’s gun. Any body could gun him down. And during
all that portion of life the only thing he could do was to run for cover.
Thinking of his death that was like the death of an insect, he felt bitter,
and was on the verge of tears- Just simply gone, lonely and casually. The man stirred, and woke abruptly. The
light had made him become now visible to the young man. “A new day is light.” The man croaked. The young man said nothing. He looked
at the air duct. The man’s eyes began to sweep the trapdoor, craftily.
Suddenly, his glance fell on the girl. She was lying prone, partly on the
ground, motionless. He stared intently at her, turned as white as a sheet.
Then, seeming to be terror-stricken, he called out, “Ms. Lien, Ms. Lien!” The girl remained inert. The man leaned
forwards, across the young man, and put his hand upon her leg. The leg was
terrible cold. It was at that moment that the young man realised what was on.
He mucked in and helped the girl up. But her body was now lifeless. There was
a cut at her left wrist, a black puddle of blood on the wet ground. The atmosphere in the hideout
transformed now. In the light of dawn, the man picked up the broken glass in
the corner. He sat, in silence, looking at the pieces of glass in his hand.
The young man fingered the grenade he had taken out from the sand. The two
men looked at the corpse. None of them had a word to say. Deep in the caves of their minds,
darkness was now the very light, the last awaited hope- perhaps. LU
QUYNH Translated
by N. Saomai Original
Vietnamese version by Lu Quynh, From “Cat
vang”, a collection of short story published
by Van Moi. (California:
Van Moi, 2006). The
Writers Post &
literature-in-translation, founded
1999, based in the US. Translation copyright © N. Saomai & The Writers Post 2010 Copyright for the original © Lu Quynh. Nothing in this magazine may be downloaded, distributed, or reproduced without the permission of the author/ translator/ artist/ The Writers Post/ and Wordbridge magazine. Creating links to place The Writers Post or any of its pages within other framesets or in other documents is copyright violation, and is not permitted. |