Spring returns

by Luong Anh

My father's family name is Hoang. My clan was the biggest in the Ha village, so it was treated with indulgence and respect by the villagers. On moonlit nights, father often spread a mat in the middle of the yard, smoking, sipping green tea and telling stories about the Hoang clan's exploits in the olden days when they came to reclaim this wild land, and turn it into the present-day villages. This history was the great pride of the clan's descendants. Years later, when immigrants from other areas wanted to settle in the area, they had to get approval from the clan's ancestors. As great as the clan's past was, the men were generally unsuccessful. Most of them had to toil in the fields all year round. Few of them had ever ventured beyond the village's bamboo groves. Because of this, most men in the village were addicted to gambling, to playing to tom, a five-person card game using a deck of 120 cards.

When I was four years old, my mother died suddenly from a fatal illness. My brother Hoa and I were so young when she died that we can no longer picture her in our minds. Our sister Hien, left teacher's training college at the age of 19 and started teaching at the village's primary school. A border guard unit was stationed at the foot of a small hill near her school. One day the soldiers were training in the woods near the school and marched by a field where her class was having a lesson. The class stopped and sang out a greeting, "Good morning, soldiers!" Sister Hien had to postpone her lesson, waiting for her students to calm down after the soldiers went way. After that day a soldier called Hoang often came to visit my family. I remember how agile he was with his hands. Once he made me a grasshopper out of coconut leaves and a top made of a guava pit. Sometimes he would play with us. Nothing made us happier.

Since my mother's death, the running of the household had fallen squarely on sister Hien's shoulders. She had become our family's main support. Our father was head of the family, but he didn't pay attention when something needed fixing or his children needed to be fed. He only had eyes for the mat where he would sit down with other men from the village to play to tom. All the players were relatives in the same clan. One day the players got a visitor: Mr. Tai, whose son had just come from a foreign country as a guest worker. It seemed that Mr. Tai wanted his son to ask sister Hien's hand in marriage, so he had come to see my father. He seemed to lose the game on purpose to please all the players. And when the gambling was over, he invited all the players to eat with him at the dog meat shop. Drinking loosened father's tongue and he managed to slur out a reply:

"Don't worry about it. I'll marry my daughter Hien to your son Loc. If any other guy flirts with my daughter, I'll break his legs!"

Sister Hien taught a class every morning. After she was done teaching, she hurried home to work in the field and then finish the housework in time to prepare dinner for us. When soldier Hoang came to visit, he offered our sister a helping hand. Sometimes he split firewood or built a fence around the vegetable garden to keep out the chickens.

Father was always gone for the whole day. If he was not on the gambling mat, he could usually be found officiating at one of the wedding ceremonies or funerals in the village. One day after arriving home from a wedding, he called out Hoang, who was absorbed in repairing the leg of a table for sister Hien:

"I warn you that you and my daughter Hien are only friends. You don't have my permission to go any farther! I'll never agree to it!"

Then father collapsed on the plank bed and began to snore loudly. Sister Hien quickly drew Hoang to the corner of the yard, whispering something in his ear and then giggling, her cheeks rosy as a ripe persimmon.

The traditional Lunar New Year was drawing near. You could feel the excitement building in the atmosphere. It was the morning of the 29th. We were enthusiastically cleaning up the house, sweeping the garden and cleaning rush leaves to make banh chung (sticky rice square cake). The peach tree in front of the house was blossoming. It was a cold winter and the flowers seemed to brighten up the house. Hoang chose the most beautiful branch and put in it a vase.

On the afternoon of the 30th of Tet, we fished the banh chung out of a large pot and placed it on a long wooden plank. Then we weighed them down with bricks to shape them. Sister Hien selected four of the best-looking banh chung and put them on the altar for ancestor worshipping. After that we finished up the cooking and Hoang sat down to enjoy the New Year's Eve party with us. He was wearing his best clothes and wanted to ask father permission to bring his parents from Thai Binh province in late January to ask for my sister's hand in marriage. Father did not come home until it was nearly dark. He burned incense and prayed for quite a time before the ancestor's altar. Hoang waited. Father seemed to read his mind. He asked immediately:

"You have something to talk to me about, don't you?"

"Yes, I've been wanting to ask your permission for quite a long time... Hien and I..."

He was interrupted right away. Father went into a rage, screaming at Hoang with foul language. Sister Hien rushed into the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks. Hoang sat there like a stone. His face was white and the atmosphere was so tense you could feel the air thicken. Hoang stood up.

"Good-bye, uncle," he said, walking out.

"Hoang..." sister Hien called from the doorway, her voice faltering.

"Hien!" father shouted, his face turning purple with rage.

She rushed out of the room, sobbing bitterly.

Father was sitting there, smoking a bamboo pipe and exhaling smoke. Brother Hoa and I sat by the untouched tray of Tet food. Not until father lay down on the plank bed and began to snore loudly could we tiptoe into the room and lie down next to Hien. She was still crying, her body shaking with grief. I embraced her tightly.

Never had I found Tet so dull and tedious as I did that year. Father had gone away for several days. When he was at home, he drank and scolded us. On the morning of the third day of Tet, Mr. Tai and his son came to visit us. Loc tried to find ways to be near sister Hien, who was drifting through the house like a shadow. After New Year's Day had gone by, I came to ask sister Hien:

"Sister, why didn't Hoang come to see us?"

Sister Hien hugged me, crying.

"He'll never come here. He's gone far, far away."

Years passed by and I was fully-grown. My sister Hien's youth had come and gone. She was still beautiful, but tinged with an air of sadness. She never paid attention to any of the village boys. After a few years they lost their patience and most of them married. But she still waited anxiously in silence. She had tried everything to contact Hoang over the years because she knew that he was waiting for her somewhere. A friend of Hoang's gave her his address, but her letters never received a response. Yet she kept writing them- day after day, year after year. Until her 40th birthday. That day she took every last clean, white sheet of writing paper and burnt them in the back yard.

Father's health had begun to deteriorate, even though he was just over sixty. A lifetime of drinking and gambling had destroyed him. My brother Hoa had settled down in Da Nang and married a girl there. I had gone with my husband and moved to Ha Noi. The house was left in the care of father and sister Hien. We phoned them often, making sure they were taking care of themselves. Father quit playing cards and began to stay in the house all day. It was clear he felt sad and guilty to see his daughter's youth passing her by. Sister Hien did not feel anything and she did not cry any more, but she managed to feel a great pity for father.

This Tet, father wanted us to have a family reunion, because it had been a long time since all his children and grandchildren had been together. Brother Hoa and his family had booked their plane tickets months ago. My son always asked me when he could return to see his grandfather and aunt Hien.

We began preparing food for Tet, just like the old days. Sister Hien made beautiful banh chung again. The peach tree was blossoming brightly in front of the house, as if no time had passed by at all.

This Tet we all agreed not to cut a peach branch. Sister-in-law had bought a bunch of gladiola flowers and was arranging them in a vase. The grandchildren were hanging around their grandfather. Father looked decades younger. Sister Hien stopped arranging food on the altar and said:

"Look, dad is very happy now. He's stopped drinking, but still smokes a lot. I think we should ask him to stop smoking so much for his health. Don't you agree brother sister?"

New Year's Eve had begun. The moment of transition between the New Year and the old year was a sacred time. Father went out to the yard and prayed to heaven and earth. Then his grandchildren rushed to sit on his lap. All of a sudden, father said:

"My dear children, I want to tell you something. First of all, I want to apologize to Hien for all these years." He choked, tears streaming from his eyes. "Today I want to tell you everything that I have regretted in my life, things I will regret even when I'm dead and buried. I've made your sister unhappy for over twenty years now. There are no words to express how sorry I am for that. If I did not say anything that day to..." he stopped, feeling for the key in his pocket and giving it to brother Hoa. "Open that wooden trunk and take out that blue nylon bag for me..."

Hoa opened the bag and dropped a pile of letters onto the table. None of the letters had been opened, but we could clearly see they were addressed to Hien. They were Hoang's letters. We were all stunned. Sister Hien picked up the letters in her trembling hands and pressed them to her breast. Her eyes clouded over with tears and Father called out, his voice shaking.

"This is my mistake. This is my mistake!"

Hoa helped father into bed. My husband left and my sister-in-law tucked the children into bed. I arranged the letters in chronological order and took them to sister Hien. She was lying on her mat, facing to the wall, remembering what had happened that day.

On the afternoon of the 30th of Tet that year, father had just stopped playing cards and gone home. He was in a temper because he had lost the game. Mr. Tai had poured oil on the flame, saying, "You're unlucky in gambling but lucky in love. You're going to have a son-in-law whose name is your family name...."

By the time he got home Father was furious. When Hoang brought his proposal to father, he refused, pointing at Hoang:

"You see, you're a deceitful man! Your name is Hoang and my family name is also Hoang. If you do anything wrong later, the world will scold you with my name, so my whole clan will have to hear it. Get out now! If my daughter tries to marry you, I'll kill you!"

The next afternoon, Hoang had registered to volunteer to work in the far-flung border area in the west of the country. He sent letters encouraging her and asking her to wait so that they could be together one day. But he had never received a response.

Now twenty years had gone by. I slept in that morning and awoke to father's murmuring prayers. Sister Hien was helping the children get into their Sunday best. Happiness seemed to shine from inside her. Her eyes were bright and happy. Sister-in-law drew me into the kitchen and said:

"Tomorrow morning, sister Hien is going to take an early train to see Hoang in his unit. What a pity for them! They've been waiting for each other for these twenty years. By now Hoang will be an elder in the hamlet up there, I guess!"

Out there in the yard, the spring rain was drizzling onto the buds and onto the roofs of our house. Happiness was stretching towards the light. Spring was returning.

Translated by Manh Chuong
(from Viet Nam News)

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