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THE WARM SPRING

Posted By Ngự Thuyết On In Dịch Thuật,Sáng Tác,Truyện ngắn,Từ Việt ngữ | No Comments

I’ll take your hands in mine
And I’ll call your hair the clouds
Some day if we two must part,
I’d still watch the clouds drifting by                     

Nguyên Sa, “Any News from Paris, My Love?” (“Paris có gì lạ không em”)

 

A sudden sound startled him awake. He opened his eyes wide, staring about, bewildered. So he had fallen asleep in the car—deeply, peacefully. What was that noise? The harsh cries of seagulls flying past with open beaks, the murmurs of the sea somewhere beyond, suddenly swelling into an unexpected roar in his half-dreaming sleep, a nearby fire engine’s siren, or the dry, brittle crack of a small branch dropping onto the roof of the car?

He adjusted the seat back to its upright position and glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly two in the afternoon. He was late for work—over an hour late! Showing up that late would look terrible. He clicked his tongue. OK, he thought, I’ll call in sick.

No—no, that wouldn’t do. Even lying needs to sound plausible. They had just seen him earlier today; how could he suddenly come down with an acute illness? Better to say a personal emergency had just come up that required him to take the afternoon off. The excuse still sounded rather ridiculous, but whatever.

He reached around for his car keys. Shirt pockets, pants pockets, the seat beside him—nothing. Could it be… could it be that while he slept, someone had come and stolen the keys, planning to steal the car?

He laughed. This place was fairly deserted, true—but a thief would sooner silence him with a muffled gunshot like in the movies, or press a knife into his side, or if there was no knife, clamp a hand like a vise on some vulnerable spot, force him to drive to a more isolated place, kick him out of the car, and speed off. Newspapers would occasionally report such incidents. Who could be so foolish as to steal a key chain like his and take it home? As if they could put it up on the altar and worship it! He chuckled at this absurdity.

As a rule, he would eat lunch at the office. He usually ate quickly so he could save some time for a short nap—since he stayed up very late each night. His meals were simple: instant noodles in a cup, with boiling water poured in; or a one-dollar-and-sixteen-cent hamburger, tax included; sometimes just a packet of mixed peanuts and cashews with a glass of cold water to fill his stomach; or else an apple, a couple of bananas. Fifteen minutes, and lunch would be done.

It wasn’t that he was stingy or couldn’t afford a proper meal. He just needed things to be fast, efficient. Then he would lean back in his chair, with his head down—he thought of a female coworker who tried to spend part of her lunch hour napping like him, but fancied herself more clever, telling him to lean his head on the backrest like this, and promptly fell asleep with her mouth wide open. So instead he bent his head down, folded his arms across his chest, crossed his legs, propped one foot on a half-open desk drawer, and slept. One eye would occasionally crack open to glance at the wall clock. There’s still time, I’ll sleep some more. His naps put him in a half drifting, half waking state, but were enough to restore him.

Five minutes before one pm, he would start up, go to the restroom to wash his face, return to his desk, and work until five. Regular as a machine, day after day, for more than five years. Nearly two thousand midday naps, almost all identical.

Sometimes, of course, the office would organize group lunches at a nearby restaurant so everyone could return in time for the afternoon shift. On those days, he’d lose his precious nap; making the drive home pure torture, as he’d be trapped nearly an hour behind the wheel, fighting sleep with all his might. Drowsiness would creep in slowly, hover before his eyes, fog his mind, soften his hands until they wanted to let go, while his foot faltered ominously between the gas and brake pedals.

He would fight back fiercely. He would pinch himself hard—in the groin, along the inner arm near the armpit, on the hip—any sensitive part on his body. A surprise attack, he believed, was the key to wake him up. But it didn’t work. Before the pinch would land, the skin already seemed to brace for it. If someone else had been there to pinch him unexpectedly, that might have helped.

He tried other tricks, like rolling down all the windows, to no avail. Drawing a deep breath and holding it was equally useless. Cranking the air conditioner all the way up still failed. Finally, he resorted to a desperate and rather dangerous tactic: he would lower the car window, stick his head out toward the left, and shout curses at any unlucky driver in the next lane. Any reaction, angry or indifferent, would be enough to wake him. Fortunately, he rarely had to resort to this measure.

By the time his car rolled up to the gate of his apartment complex, secured with a keypad lock, his drowsiness would miraculously vanish.

He often cursed himself for being so heavily-bound to his physical state. Why had he become so easily conditioned by wakefulness and stupor? How did a metal gate jolt him awake? Why did he need an angry glare from another driver to put him on high alert? Why could he not master himself?

Today he had been forced to join his coworkers for lunch, despite having stayed up past three am. He ate hastily, then made an excuse that he had to go mail an urgent letter, and drove to this quiet corner of the park, intending to nap briefly—but slept past his lunch hour. He had never enjoyed such a deep, delicious midday sleep!

Ah! The keys! They were right there. He had been sitting on them without realizing it. He hurried to start the car. Then paused. Foolish. If he wasn’t going back to work, where was he rushing to? Better to just stay put and sleep some more. It had been ages since he’d allowed himself such a transgression. He turned off the engine, tucked the keys carefully into his pocket, adjusted the seat, stretched out, and closed his eyes halfway.

Strangely, he couldn’t fall asleep again.

He sat up and looked around—and became utterly astonished. For a long time now, he had forgotten that beyond the frantic streets, the endless highways with cars racing as if chased by demons, the tall, rigid buildings, the cold-lit offices, the air conditioners and heaters, the computers, the calendars of every sort, beyond all that, there existed a vast sky and earth, far more mysterious and wondrous.

What season was it? he murmured. Early spring. The temperature might be around sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit? But why bothering about numbers? It was enough to know that the air was cool, the sun bright, the clouds drifting, and the wind alive.

Golden sunlight spread over the car roof, the black asphalt road leading into the park, the green lawns edged with white pebbles. Beyond rose bushes, lantana, bellflowers, lilies, primroses, wild daisies, and countless flowers whose names he did not know, stood gray-roofed houses—wood-shingled, weathered and warped. Emerging behind these roofs were rose pines, firs, cedars, and higher still, palm canopies that looked like enormous, ragged heads suspended in midair.

White-winged birds, egrets perhaps, flew silently past. A pair of ring-eyed little birds entwined and darted away like wisps of smoke. Clusters of clouds not unlike thrown silk drifted softly across a clear blue sky.

A sudden gust of wind and a leaf whirled into the car. He turned to look. On the seat beside him lay a brilliant red maple leaf.

He was taken aback. How strange—early spring, and a maple leaf still falling. He looked around and saw, among the dark green conifers, a solitary maple standing bare, stripped of leaves. Would this be the last leaf from this past autumn that now came to him?

He loved all plants. He had fallen in love with maple trees when he first arrived in America. And when homesickness struck, he did not long for bamboo hedges around rural villages, but for arjun trees lining city streets, standing before temples and communal houses. Most of all, he missed the “orphaned arjun tree” at the end of Hàng Me Street near Chợ Cống. And he missed the woman he loved.

Memories surged, as if someone were calling out from his soul, his heart; as if wine yeast were rising to his eyes, his lips; as if there were kisses red as flame tree petals in summer, restless, trembling.

“Are maple leaves really that beautiful?” Mai had once written. “Autumn has long arrived. Your maple trees must be full of yellow and red leaves. Send me one. Wait until they wither and fall, then choose the most beautiful one for me. Put it in a large envelope so it won’t be torn, and send it to me. If you think it’s beautiful, I’m sure I’ll love it too. Perhaps it’s even more beautiful than my arjun leaves.”

That was what Mai had written to him in a letter long ago. Two or three years? Maybe four, even five. Back when he had just arrived. She would write every month. Where did she find the money for postage? Each letter to America cost over ten thousand đồng—more than a day’s teaching wage. All that, just to ask for a leaf.

Yes, in that particular letter Mai wrote only a few short lines, asking him to send her a maple leaf. And yet, back then, he did not do it. Not wanting to do it was a more accurate way of putting it. He was too lazy to reply, or, in truth, he had no time. How could he possibly go out of his way to find a truly beautiful maple leaf to mail to her?

There were other letters, too, in which Mai poured out endless stories—hundreds of old memories he could no longer recall, or perhaps memories he’d rather forget. Gradually, the letters grew sparse. And the fault was his; he knew that. He either did not reply, or he waited until he had received three or four letters before answering all at once, for convenience. Mai became weary. Still, not long ago, he had received another letter from her, sent on his birthday.

*

Five years had passed since the day he left his homeland. Time had rushed by as if it wished to leave no trace behind. He had wanted to forget—just forget everything. Yes, he had believed he had forgotten it all, until today, alone in this unfamiliar park, memories suddenly returned.

He remembered clearly the day he came to say goodbye to Mai.

“I’m leaving. Stay well, all right? When you get married someday, remember to let me know.”

“…”

“You’re still young, but a woman’s life—”

Mai cut him short.

“That’s my own business. You don’t need to worry.”

“But do you have anyone you might love in mind?”

“How dare you ask me that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant… someone like you will have many suitors to choose from, so you can—”

“So I can do what?”

“So… you can forget me. Just go and find someone else —”

“Enough. Don’t say anymore. That’s enough.”

After long years confined in so-called re-education camps, and years of scraping by in the humiliation that had hardened and numbed him—yes, he knew it well, all young men of the fallen South had been systematically degraded—and after many failed escape attempts, he finally reached America as a refugee.

The initial hardships in this vast country meant little to him; he overcame them easily. Starting life over at this late stage, he had to chase time, outrun it, move fast, rise higher and higher. Late nights. Studying. Working. Over and over again. Every day was the same, weekends and holidays included. Like a machine.

He hadn’t cared about the sun, the moon, the clouds, or the water. He meant those words literally. Truly, he’d rarely looked at clouds or water, and even when he had, he couldn’t see them. For more than five years he had walked in a dream, like a somnabulist. He had fossilized.

And yet, this afternoon …

“This will be the last time we see each other,” she said. “Tomorrow I won’t come to the airport to see you off. Don’t be angry.”

“Why won’t you come, Mai?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Of whom? Relatives? Friends? Forget about them.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

Mai hesitated.

“I’m afraid… of myself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s good, then. Let’s talk about something else.”

He looked at Mai closely. She was not happy, but she was calm. Not a single tear. Not a sigh. She was so unlike herself. Everything replayed before his eyes.

That day, Mai had a new haircut. The fringe in front covered half of her beautiful forehead; the back revealed her white, slender neck. From time to time she’d bit hard on her lower lip, leaving pale marks that vanished moments later. Her long, delicate fingers toyed with the pearl necklace hanging down over her blouse.

He remembered their surroundings in every detail. It was also a sunny afternoon, like the Californian sun today—but it was late autumn. Hàng Me Street, with Mai’s house near the end of it. A small garden: a few banana trees with wind-torn leaves, several tall, straight areca palms swaying against the vast blue sky—my mother says we should keep them, in case we need the fruits for worship or weddings—a few longan trees, a pomelo tree, a sour starfruit tree, and a sweet one with tiny pale-purple blossoms like beads set into velvet slippers; yellow leaves mingled with green; an old peach tree rising higher than all the others; two long hedges of “tea plants” forming a fence along the walkway from the road to the brick-paved yard. These vegetation embraced the small house with its moss-covered roof.

What impressed him most that day were the areca palms standing beside the concrete water tank—upright like soldiers at a farewell parade. The areca palm is a strange tree: it grows ever upward, ring upon ring, joint upon joint, and unyieldingly straight. Coconut trees are not like that. Even palms and fan palms are rough and crooked. Only the areca palm is slender and perfectly straight. Standing side by side, reaching toward the vast sky, they seemed to be looking down, as if wanting to say something to him.

And farther out in the lane, on a barren mound overgrown with wild grass, stood a lone arjun tree—my orphaned tree, Mai had said. And right in front of the gate to her house, rows of tamarind trees lined the main road. With every gust of wind, tamarind leaves fluttered merrily into the yard, a few settling in Mai’s short hair, on her shoulders. He reached out to remove them, and let slip a remark:

“This is our last meeting. I’m leaving and may never return, which means… we may never see each other again. Why are you so calm? Give me just a little tear. Look at the tamarind trees, their leaves are falling like tears. A girl should cry when she says goodbye.”

He laughed as he spoke, trying to make light of it. Mai did not smile.

Suddenly she looked straight into his eyes and said, her voice choking:

“You’re so callous. You can joke anytime, anywhere. I’ll tell you what. Last night I cried the whole night. No tears are left. Now I can’t cry anymore. So please stop. And besides, we’ve agreed to go our separate ways—why cry and burden ourselves?”

Still he teased her:

“Even a tamarind tree, a plant, has more feeling than a human being.”

Mai replied sadly:

“You’re completely wrong but you keep going on. The fluttering of tamarind leaves looks cheerful.  They’re nothing like falling tears. Look at the arjun tree. It’s crying for me. Look—look at those arjun leaves falling.”

“Oh, are you writing poetry now? A tree that cries?”

He gazed toward the lane. The wind gusted over the desolate mound, causing the arjun tree to shed its leaves in silence. Some flew far away with the wind. Others fell—falling, falling—scattered and broken. Like birds struck by bullets. Like their ruptured love.

He took Mai’s hands and pulled her into his arms. Warm tears seeped from that calm face into his chest through his shirt. He vowed silently that he would love forever the leaves of that orphaned tree.

*

The city where he lived lay not far from the sea. And yet, in the past, he had never heard the sound of waves. Even that vast ocean meant nothing to him. But this afternoon, the sound of waves had risen within him time and time again. Why did the sea suddenly roar? Perhaps it had always been that way, singing the same ancient sorrow endlessly for thousands of years. Only now did favorable winds carry the sea’s call to him.

He wondered whether there might be another wind—a gentle, patient one—that could carry an arjun leaf across the ocean to him.

He sighed and reached out to hold the maple leaf in his hand.

For more than five years he had studied relentlessly, nearly finishing college, and working without pause. He had a new car. Money in the bank. For what? To buy a house? That could wait. To travel the world? He felt no such desire as his colleagues did, especially the white ones. To save for old age, then, he muttered. That was still far away.

Yet he worked obsessively, without rest. Obsessively like a moth throwing itself into a flame. A mechanical, repetitive life had changed him. He grew indifferent to everything. While the maple tree shed all its yellow leaves each winter only to bud again in spring, green and alive, he had forgotten how to live for five whole years.

And yet, this afternoon.

Slanting sunlight blazed through the car window. Flowerbeds looked fresher, pine rows greener. The sky remained the same—soft clusters of clouds drifting across a deep blue background, as they had for thousands of years.

He looked again at the lonely maple tree. Not a single leaf remained, yet surely sap was surging within its trunk. Where had the birds gone? Would they return? Perhaps that pair of ring-eyed little birds had not flown far and would come back.

He looked at himself. For more than five years he had withdrawn into a hard shell, living dully—no complaints, no regrets, no questions, no longing. Those five blind years had just passed, only just. The old days were returning, stirring everything up.

Yes, he could not erase the past as he had tried to for so long.

So, Mai. Let me atone. Let me send you this maple leaf in a large envelope, even if it is too late, even if you no longer wait for me, even if you no longer love me, even if I can never see you again.

To exchange it for a fallen arjun leaf.

 

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