I was sitting in the dark, on an unfamiliar stone bench of a deserted tennis court. The ocean wind howled, its chill biting at the exposed flesh on my back. A jolt of pain shot through me, as if someone had pressed salt and lemon into the wound. Not until that moment did I truly feel the pain. Verses from Kiều came to my mind: “Thousands of miles away, over deep waters, beyond distant mounts; Who could have expected that I would take this turn.”

Who would care about you now, Phi? So, stop lamenting. My dad had quit the scene long ago. One day he and his crew set sail in their fishing boat. A storm arose suddenly. The boat was lost. As for mom, she was an unusual woman, even at age 50, beauty still lingered on her face. It was too bad her cheekbones were a bit high. This facial feature was said to be fatal for the woman’s husband. No wonder she got married “one-half of ten” times. Mom’s first husband was a man from Huế who met her in Quảng Nam. They married, but barely a week later, he confided her to his mother’s care to join the Military Assembly in the North. The second, who was a close friend of the first, brought her to this province, coupled up with her, and fathered my brother Hào and sister Hiên, and he was killed during a trading trip through the Lá forest. Then came my dad, of whom I was the only child. Presently, the best part of her huge property was from the fourth husband. His fate remains unknown. Mom did not mention him, but the tight-lipped woman, owner of the refreshment stall over there, said she knew all about it:

“If it had been with someone silly enough it could have been done easily,” said the stall owner, “but with your mother it turned out different. She strong-armed him into a post-marital agreement, securing ownership of all his fishing boats. She let him get away with cash and Hồ, his own son. She did not love him, anyway. Only poor Hiên became unhinged after the event.”

It was probably thanks to his money, I was able to start school at the second grade at eight, two years late, but better late than never. I was luckier than Hào and Hiên, who never saw the inside of a classroom. And Phước, the nasty daughter of my mom's and her current husband's. After failing her high school entrance exam the year before last, Phước declared, "I'll stay home and help mom, do her job."

Mom's job revolved around fish. A ringleader in the trade, she also leased out boats and nets, sold freshwater wells in pairs of 20-liter cans, and offered daily cash loans. Borrowers would repay in installments with cash or baskets of newly caught fish, which her workers poured into large wooden barrels for fermentation into fish sauce. It was a demanding job, one that required distrust, regardless of wealth. At the fish port, trouser legs rolled up, eyes sharp as fin spines, she began counting the catch with meticulous precision. No duplicity here. This business necessitated a certain ruthlessness, fueled by a fierce intolerance for deceit. "Not a penny spared," was her motto. Not to further enrich her fish-sauce factory with its rows of wooden barrels (each worth millions) but to ensure no one took her for a fool.

And Phước, undeniably, was a prodigy in this arena, and I myself had once been a target for her training. “Madam Phi, let me ask you. How dare you pick the guava I marked as my own? What devil did you do it for, you brazen little thing?” That was my sister speaking. “Madam Sister,” six years my junior. My mom believed that her business started picking up ever since she gave birth to Phước. That's why our family's fish sauce was named after her: Phước Hương. This province, the provenance of fish sauce, was truly funny. Despite the stench of decaying fish permeating the town, every brand name seemed to boast the word "hương" (meaning good smell), There were Hồng Hương, Mậu Hương, Liên Hương, Thiên Hương, Hoàng Hương... the list went on. Now, Phước’s victims were the poor fishermen, some as old as her own grandfather. Phước still had her grandpa who used to be granted sleeping quarters in a corner of the factory. As unable to tolerate his “madame” daughter-in-law and “madam” granddaughter, he'd chosen to build a shack on the beach, spending his nights there. Waves occasionally lapped at his small sanctuary, and dunking his bamboo bed posts in the salty water. Of all my siblings, I felt most sorry for Hiên. Her vacant expression made her seem almost unfeeling. When toiling away at work, she barely spoke a word all day. My mom would not allow her on the beach, fearing she would be teased by the mischievous kids who would clap their hands, stomp their feet, chanting: “You mad girl! You stole fried bananas, spending three months in prison. You stole rice papers, spending three years in jail.”

Hiên would pause then and her troubled eyes fixing on the children. Tragically, she wasn't locked away for months or years, but for a lifetime, the victim of a terrible accident.

Mom called my brother Hào "the black sheep of the family." He often made her angry, bringing his friends home, cooking her chickens and ducks, and going on binges with them. On such days, I sought refuge in the peaceful, undisturbed shack of Phước's grandfather, where I could focus on my studies. My Mom's voice still echoed after him, followed by Phước's grandfather’s murmured words: "Mischievous children often face consequences for their actions. As was with my seventh son, for instance. He burned down my property for his opium addiction. Now an addict, he clings to his wife, just to hear her daily tirade of insults.'"

This was just one of many stories of my family, more familiar to outsiders than to me. Whispers spread about how much Uncle Bay siphoned off mom’s money for his drug habit. Rumors swirled about how Hào managed to secure the hefty sum for Chín Lim’s abortion – the woman who sold balut, fertilized duck eggs, at the alleyway entrance. Even Phước couldn’t escape gossip. They buzzed about her buying enough French fabric in various colors to have ten identical blouses made, each with twenty decorative buttons running from neck to navel.

"What about me?" I asked. "Did anyone ever whisper about me?"

The stall owner gave a toothless grin: "Oh, you, an exiled fairy, a phoenix swept into this chaotic household! Who else in this whole neighborhood has had eleven-year schooling like you? Even Tám Tàng is head over heels for you. He tried to cajole his sister Chín Lim to accept your brother Hào's marriage propose to get him in the door as Hào’s 'brother-in-law.'"

Ah, Tám Tàng, that must be the mechanic from a Honda shop on Gia Long Street, who was always in those oil-stained work clothes. His round face with two dazzling front teeth like those of a rabbit. Every morning, I'd hear him passing my window, crooning out a tune that, according to Phước, vaguely resembled Minh Cảnh or Minh Phụng’s voice in a passage of vọng cổ...

“You and I are neighbors. You plant bitter melons in your garden. I was passing by when the early sunrise was still loaded with dew drops. I kept watching your silvery arms watering the plant. Alas, the bitter melon vine has white flowers with yellow pistils. The fruit is bitter but filled with beautiful… hmmm… love!”

I would love to linger for some more minutes to hear the next part; he would certainly sing the entire song. However, that would make me late for class. What a pity that the school seemed miles away!" Once I almost stopped to ask him:

“Don't you know any other song?"

Maybe before answering, he would smile, and his sparkling gold teeth would light up his face, dispelling his usual air of languor.

The toothless refreshment stall owner was a bit melodramatic. I wasn't a fairytale creature, exiled from the heavens. My name was Phi, a name that meant 'nothing'. In class, I drifted, prone to absent-mindedness and forgetfulness. Even at home, I couldn't help but be distracted.

'As if coming from a faraway planet…'"

It was Tụ’s loving reproach." He added, "That's why I want to shelter you."

Even Tụ, my History and Geography professor from last year's Tenth Grade class, occasionally struck me as quite peculiar. A native of Huế, he made a distinct impression from the first days in my class. My classmates awarded him 21 points out of a possible 20 for his tall, lean frame, and self-assured grin. Two points were docked, however, because he hailed from Huế. Apparently, even some teachers from this ancient capital warned their female students against the charms of men from that central region. Another three points were subtracted for his 'lung-selling' profession, as they called teaching, an arduous job. So Tụ's final score was 16, which was still higher than that of the Math, Physics, and Chemistry teachers. They received a deduction of 5 points due to their unfortunate lack of stature."

Tụ's generosity bloomed most when he was asleep. In noontimes and afternoons, we would spend playing on the sand dunes or seek refuge from the blazing sun in the peaceful shade of acacia trees. I still like half-kneeling, half-sitting with a tumbleweed stem tucked between my lips, watching him slumber (or he feigned slumber). His body straight, smoke-stained fingers crossed on his chest, he mirrored the Christ just after the cross was lowered. Once, unable to contain the thought, I whispered softly into Tụ's ear. He responded with a calm smile:"

“Then, you must be Maria.”

“Maria,… She is Jesus’s mother,” I exclaimed:

“Practice being my mother, then, darling.”

The words struck a deep chord within me. My dad had died when I was very young. His face had blurred in my memory. Each moment spent with Tụ on that breezy hill, holding him close, brought a bittersweet joy, the realization that he was, at once, a parent, a sibling, and a friend of mine. My classmates were all bookworms. When two or three of them gathered, they formed a clique to mock others’ life ruthlessly. My family was in such a way. Walking through my neighborhood in my white áo dài, with a badge of the Phan Bội Châu School on it, I often felt the sting of disapproving gazes, tongues wagging in my wake. All these were swirling waters. I was like a moss-covered log swept from a dense jungle stream, I was adrift, dizzy in their judgment. I believe I wouldn't shatter, but even the strongest log, submerged for too long, eventually disintegrates. And wasn't Tụ the right net at the right time? Wouldn’t I, at that time, happily reach out for any net offered to me?" It all began with short poems scrawled beneath my homework: Young lady, young lady, what's caught your eye? Please dictate this lesson to the whole class for me.”

Brownish, smoke-stained fingers etched lines of wobbly letters. His handwriting, a tangle of snakes, obstructed my view. “A distant world in innocent eyes!” Verses like that! In those days, I missed the point entirely. I didn’t feel moved. However, I admired Tụ's lonely, solitary appearance when he had to stand with other teachers. That was last year. But gradually, it seemed to me that Tụ was the only blood relative I felt I had in this world.

My house stood on this side of the river. The bustling fish market wharf was slick with mud. I'd descend to the quay, hailing a boy in his coracle to ferry me across the estuary. Though we never made plans in advance, Tụ would often sit on the black rocks by the Custom House, facing the vast expanse of the sea. As if we had hit it off since some previous life, he'd grab my hand, pulling me into a joyous sprint on the sun-drenched sand dunes. One by one, a book, then two notebooks, would tumble from his grasp before, finally, my heart melted when he'd cup my face and steal a harvest of sweet kisses.

I disliked the way Tụ fumbled with lighting a cigarette after kissing me. I also disliked his passionate voice:

“Phi Phi! I must marry you at any cost.”

Marriage! The word aroused a feeling of disgust in me, especially when I associated it with sexual contact. Just think about my mom with her many husbands and her many children of different fathers. I heard that, right after my dad’s death, mom had to buy from Hồ’s father, a liter fish-sauce each time, for retailing. In the afternoon she carried me to the harbor, waiting for dad to come home. A few years later, she got hold of the boy’s father’s business, with two other children by two different men. One going away in disgrace, taking the child with him; the other becoming a broken shell of his former self with his opium tray. Mom’s life, a subject she rarely shared with her children, was always a fascinating topic for gossip in this Cồn Chà neighborhood, where she was a target for both gratitude and hatred. And my sister, Hiên, the persistent disgrace lasting with time, was a victim of a beastly stepfather or, was she, as accused by many, a sacrifice in mom’s various survival tactics?

Once, I turned my back to Tụ, hiding tears in my eyes, but my voice caught in my throat, thick with unshed tears:

“Don’t be rude to me in anything. Don’t you fear I would melt like a drop of dew?”

Tụ turned my head to gently kiss my eyes, bright with tears. I was certain those lips had kissed many others, more experienced, more passionate than mine. “You don’t know how to kiss, baby. Poor you, trembling like a soaked bird!” His generous thought warmed me, but I still pretended to sulk:

“I am sure you are an expert in kisses. I can’t compete with your experience.”

Tụ looked into my eyes, his nose brushing mine, then exclaimed with joy:

“Wow, Phi Phi, that was really moving! It reminded me of a character in Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, living in the mountains. You are a woman, smelling as sweet as ripe fruit. But the fruit will soon perish. You are leaves on trees, tasting pure and crisp. Fruits invite bites. But leaves are fragile and need to be cherished.”

A leaf were me? I as a leaf? No other comparisons had moved me so deeply. A leaf would rustle dry, turn pale and yellow, develop cracks in its flesh and reveal its veins. A leaf is delicate and ephemeral. You must be such a generous angel to have the courage to spend your whole life with a leaf.

“Spurning all roses and fragrant fruits and clutching a lone blade of grass? You, Tụ the foolish, are you sure you have thought thoroughly?”

“Don’t you believe you are beautiful, Phi Phi?”

“Don’t you believe that I truly love you?”

I shook my head with a smile.

“Don't you love me at all, Phi Phi?”

I kept shaking my head.

Shake. Shake. Shake. Tụ said I was as stubborn as those seabirds that usually had their meals on the sea surface. In the high noon, when the universe was motionless, those unknown white birds often appeared over the sun-drenched ocean and were bold enough to land on our shoulders. But they would never let themselves be caught.

“Not stubborn but nasty. My mom often ascribed me with the word nasty, nasty in this world,” I blurted out.

My heart skipped a beat. Hadn't I just mentioned my mom – the one with a string of husbands – and the Cồn Chà neighborhood? It was a place filled with “pas-de-guère” men(), in striped pajamas boasting three pockets, drenched in cologne that could be perceptible from eight meters away. They always walked barefoot, donning unbuttoned coats that exposed gold chains adorned with heavy dangling gold hearts. They formed clusters, engaged in dubious activities near dimly lit casinos, and carried out clandestine dealings."

Girls around my age who dealt with fish were all fierce and insolent. They learned on the job, picking up swearing and aggression as basic skills in the brutal world of the trade. During day time, it was such an aggressive place. Neighbors ceaselessly shouted swear words at one another (except when my mom raised her voice, she would be the sole speaker.) When darkness draped the alley, the whole dark place became active with Bà ba blouses covering buttocks, tight pants, and hair piled high, making eyes at men in pyjamas and bare feet. The upper floor window of my room opened to a nux vomica tree, an ideal place for dating. There were nights when I stayed up for my studies, I used to smile to myself when overhearing a couple’s passionate vows:

"David Chiang's passing was truly tragic; I found myself soaking my pink handkerchief with tears."

"If, my love, I were ever to betray you, may my fate mirror his: my body torn apart by five horses."

"If I had my fishing knife at that moment, I would have slashed the faces of Jiu Boyan and Chen Honglie."

Neither love nor hate bound me to them, as well as to my complicated family. Like algae adrift in turbulent waters, I clung precariously amidst the boulders and snails of their lives. Tụ, in contrast, was a tuna or darting fish, flicking its tails in the open sea. His ancestral home, a sanctuary of high society, pulsed with the perfumed whispers of aristocratic ladies and dignified uncles. But would they embrace the rough, unvarnished dialect of people, born from a world far removed from their own?

Have I been a sad leaf for a long time, hiding and curling its veins in the shadow, not daring to unfurl like the vibrant blooms around me, destined to ripen into succulent fruits? My classmates, thought I desperately tried to hide my humble home, like a skittish cat burying its waste. Though many of us came from families of modest means, with mothers selling bánh căng or fathers toiling as cart drivers, their homes buzzed with the joyous chatter of classmates gathering. But me? What about me? One searing memory from fifth grade still stings in my mind. My classmates, on their way back from gathering bamboo for lantern-making class, stopped by my home for some water. I really wanted to run into the sea and be carried away by the waves to avoid the shame when my mom was unleashing a torrent of her most colorful curses to some debtor in arrears. Kim Khuê clicked on Lài, Lệ Liễu clicked on Sinh and giggled:

"Let's get out of here before we catch her bad words!"

Teeth biting my lip, tears clinging to my lashes, snot dripping from my nose, I sobbed quietly in the corner of the cabin… Presently, I had several suitors in my school, (those dorks, didn’t they know about Tụ and me?). Fortunately, Tám Tàng often obstructed those men at the entrance of the alley, so none of them knew where I lived. Thanks, Tám.

“Phi Phi, I have to marry you, at any cost.”

Oh. Gosh! Enough already! Stop that record that keeps repeating the same obnoxious vows. Each time we parted, Tụ said that same thing over and over, as if to comfort himself about those kisses which were getting more and more unwelcome and which I still had to endure.

“You're mistaken, my friend! This isn't what I desire.”

What's the matter, Tụ? Did you forget how you once likened me to a leaf? Fruits and flowers strive to be beautiful, ripening earlier but missing out on the same pleasure as others. You could have borrowed the words of that carefree man in the darkness by the nux vomica tree, giving it a more resonant tone:

"If, my love, I were ever to betray you, may my fate mirror his: my body torn apart by five horses."

Don't pluck the young leaves with their bitter taste, Tụ. Poor leaves! Poor me!"

Tụ rarely indulged in humor along his path. During the last Tết, upon returning to Huế, he informed his mother and quietly escorted her here to meet her daughter-in-law.

One afternoon, on my way home from school, I dropped by the refreshment stall for a cup of tea as usual.

“Oh my, your mother-in-law is truly an elegant woman!” the stall owner exclaimed. “Still remarkably beautiful in her old age, with razor-sharp eyebrows and a delicate, pointed nose. Adorned with bright red lipstick and white face powder, she resembled the actresses from the old melodramatic plays of Bang Bạnh. Draped in a green velvet áo dài, adorned with a jade necklace, she held an umbrella in one hand, showcasing a gold bracelet, and a white purse in the other. She exuded the presence of a kind-hearted woman. What a coincidence! Both mothers-in-law are remarkably beautiful."

The cup was trembling in my hand. So, Tụ came, too?

“You two make a very good couple, don’t you know that?” commented the stall owner. “Yet, nobody in the neighborhood knows. You are very good at keeping secrets. I am sure some people at your school know it. I heard he’s your teacher.”

I bombarded her with questions:

“So what? So what? How do they know my house? Have they left? How long ago did it happen?”

“The teacher informed me he had consulted your school report for your address. Upon arrival, he inquired with various individuals to determine the precise location,” replied the stall owner. “I invited them in for some drinks. They stayed for a few hours, then mother and son went to your house. Go home, you’ll meet them.” Heaven and earth! A few hours for drinks! With the gossipy woman! They probably heard all stories about my mom, that of a mettle but inhuman person. About my stepdad, a drug addict unable to overcome his dependence. About my brother, who shirked military service and pressured his girlfriend into terminating pregnancy.

About my elder sister, the mentally ill girl who toiled away like an animal. About my younger sister who was quite insolent. And me, what was I like? Even that know-all woman affirmed my hiding skill. And now, all my efforts became useless. It was like a sand castle, now shaking. Have mercy on me, sea waves! The stall owner’s voice resounded in my ears:

"Poor Tám Tàng! His sorrow may last life long. You'll see; he might stir up trouble throughout the entire neighborhood. And you, don’t worry. I spoke highly of you.”

There must be stories of a fairy or a phoenix banished from heaven …. Seeing Tụ’s lanky figure quietly walking next to the woman with a brown umbrella, I turned pale.

“Please let me hide in the cubicle for a while. Don’t tell them I’m here. Please, please!” I interrupted her as she was blathering on and on. She looked surprised:

“Miss Phi, why are you acting so strangely? Go and say hello to her - the poor lady who came all the way from Huế..."

Peeking through the bamboo wall, I saw the green velvet back of the woman’s garment and part of Tụ’s hair that moved while he was talking.

“Mom, don’t be so opinionated. She may be rude to others, but when talking to us she was so gentle.”

The woman pressed her finger on her son’s forehead:

“You, naive boy. Her seemingly gentle words offended and piqued me.”

Then, turning to the shop owner, she said:

“How frightened! We come from a prestigious family, and my husband is a bureaucrat. I cannot envision becoming co-parents-in-law with a market woman, especially one who curses her drug-addicted husband as if he were her child."

“Did you hear her?”

“Hear her? I even saw her with my own eyes, so clearly that they almost popped out. I don't know what happened, but as soon as my son and I entered, we saw her raising her voice towards her husband while she spread four-color playing cards in her hands. In my hometown, while wives could also express their displeasure with their husbands, they often did so in more subtle ways. This woman’s behavior was unrefined or uncouth. At first, she sat calmly, listening intently to my words. But then she dismissed them with a wave of her hand. What a humiliation! She disparaged the people of Huế. She said she would never allow her daughter to be married into a Huế family. Her first husband was a Huế native. After he left for the armed force assembly in the North, she stayed with his family for a while, but she couldn’t stand the situation. When a friend of her husband came and flirted with her, she eloped with him and take refuge here. Oh, for heaven's sake! Such an outrageous, tyrannical woman who challenged societal norms was a rare case. And the band of her offspring! Oh, Buddha! A hoodlum among them took a chicken from those who owed her money and had his little sister kill it for food. This one in turn gave the job to her elder sister, who is a bit eccentric, and cursed all her brothers’ friends that came for the binge, creating a scene while their mother and I were talking. Please, Tụ, if you love your mother, you should see the last of that girl. Girls are not scarce in this life; there are still so many meek and well-mannered girls in Huế."

“But, Mom, you haven’t seen Phi! I love Phi, and I want to marry her, not her family.”

The old lady flied off the handle. “Who would dare approach her family with such a proposal? Didn't you hear her mother clearly say she won't let her daughter marry you? You’re nasty in this world!”

Behind the bamboo screen, I smiled to myself. Having turned away, I didn’t see if Tu had smiled, and I wondered if Tụ felt the same amusement when his mother echoed the tag my own mother used to give me as “nasty in this world”. At least, there is a similarity between her and my mom. The old lady seemed to be rather talkative, she spoke continuously. Disparaging, scolding, advising. At times, Tụ tried to get a word in edgeways, but his voice was easily to be shouted down. Despite the tense atmosphere, I found myself strangely calm. Perhaps it was the uncomfortable crouch I'd adopted, my feet tingling with numbness. Or maybe, caught in this whirlpool of family drama, I'd become like the moss clinging to the rocks, silent and unbothered by the swirling currents.

Before Tụ and his mother finally departed, I could catch her final words.

“Even great wealth can be washed away. Nothing can stand against a house consumed by four walls of vice.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. Not now, old lady. My family was a chaotic mix – a gambling mother, a stepdad lost to drugs, a brother drowned in alcohol – but in some inexplicable way, there still existed a resilient "wall." Perhaps a fragile one, but a wall nonetheless. Did you anticipate me dismantling it for your idle talk? My eyes tracked the mother and son as they vanished into the alley. Despite Tụ towering over his mother, within that confined space, he appeared small once again. "I'm an only child," he used to tell me. Just that. We had never talk with each other about the conditions of our families. And now…

Tụ bent down to tie his shoelaces. I thought he had seen me. However, he rose and moved on as if we were strangers, rushing to catch up with his mom. Thank you, Tụ. If you had looked back, it would have given me another reason to resent you. Turning away is kinder. Please, let me be, leave my chaotic family and this pungent neighborhood alone. Keep going, please. Thanks again, Tụ. I pity you.

The toothless woman asked quietly. "You must have heard all, miss?"

"Heard all," I echoed, the words bitter on my tongue.

A sigh brushed at my back. You don't need to be sorry for me. I don't like such heartrending pities. Am I now the one who offers solace to someone reassured? Yes, be assured you have plenty more to whisper about. Spread it. Strike the loudspeakers. Make tongues wag. My friends, my teachers, everyone. The whole town will hear their fill. Let them judge, let them gossip. I'll be waiting. Don't let me down."

Sun spots dappled my back, warming my long, parched hair that dipped bronze at the ends. The heat pressed through the soles of my feet, searing the arches. Tụ loved these black clogs, claiming they made my pink heels sing, begging for a playful nip. But spare me that bite, please. I am a leaf trembling in the alley's dappled shade. A sudden wave of love washed over me – for mom, for our four-walled haven of vices. The narrow alley stretched long and deep, devoid of trees, yet I thought I had heard leaves rustling with a cold, unsteady whisper.

The meal waited, neatly covered on the table. Phước said smiling. "Mom left it for you. Where have you been? Did you meet him? The handsome one, like Bruce Lee in Fist of Fury. You kept your secrets very well. Outsmarting me is no small feat, you smart aleck of a sister."

It wasn't my sister’s reprimand; it was her compliment for me. Beneath the food cover, I found wonders: round scads braised with bamboo shoots, plump fish balls floating in sweet leaf broth, and fish paste fried to a silky richness. That was my two sisters' culinary talents. I often crave to be as skilled at cooking as them, capable of conjuring such magic from simple ingredients.

I must be grateful to my mom anyway. Without her unwavering belief, the dream of a happy family with Tụ in his ancestral home, amongst those old-world aristocrats, would have remained a wisp in the wind. My unskilled hands wouldn't have stood a chance.

I retreated to my haven in the attic; my school uniform clinging to me as if it might make me smolder under the weight of my ennui. Perhaps a nap till late afternoon could offer solace. Do I still love Tụ? The answer is uncertain. One thing I know for sure – letting go of his memory feels impossible. His kisses, tender yet fierce, whispered unspoken goodbyes. My mind, a tangled mess of emotions, yearned for oblivion. Maybe not forever, but just a temporary reprieve. That's where Tám Tàng, bathed in the shade of the acacia, came in. For the first time, I surrendered to the full melancholic melody of the song "the Bitter Melon".

“All your relatives and neighbors were invited to your wedding but me. Guests’ laughter cut me to the heart. As the rain wept in the areca grove, dew-laden winds chilled my bones. Not just the air, but a glacial grip squeezing my heart. Your smile as you toasted empty glasses mocked my solitary vigil. All night, I chased you in dreams.”

Then he switched to someone's song (probably the song "You Are a Girl from Bích La Hamlet"), and added his own lyrics. I could distinctively hear only one sentence: 'There was that Honda guy named Tám-Tàng...' He emphasized the single word 'Tám' with many notes, turning it into 'Ta-am-ám' and making it sound like a long lament, evoking a strong emotional response.

The following days, I buried myself in the attic, claiming exam cramming as my excuse. Silence had become the language between my mom and me. We barely spoke, even at mealtimes. Perhaps she thought I blamed her, but what she didn't know was that, after the incident, I actually felt a sliver of love for her. One day, my brother Hào's voice sliced through the silence, laced with mockery:

"So, have you been...intimate with that guy?"

I responded slowly, "What do you mean by 'intimate'?"

"Rumor on the street is you got pregnant with the teacher and blackmailed him into marriage. Shocked when seeing mom shouted at our stepdad, he apparently fled to Saigon. And you, too scared to face the music, disappeared from school." I let out a dry laugh. "Their imaginations know no bounds. What a ridiculous story. I pity them. You can't possibly believe such nonsense, can you?"

Brother Hào shook his legs:

"Exactly! At least my sister has more sense than Chín Lim. I'm worried sick about her bleeding. Tám Tàng threatened to kill everyone if something happens to her — his sister, me, you, that guy, and even himself. The fool just spouted nonsense to save face. He wouldn't dare follow through. Remember that drinking binge? He was supposed to kill the duck, but it took him forever. He barely managed to nick its throat before letting it wander around, bleeding everywhere. No blood pudding thanks to him, as usual."

Phước couldn't resist chiming in, "So men and women fall in love, get jealous, and then resort to sword fights like characters in Nghiêm Lệ Quân's novels or 'The One with a White Scarf'? I'd rather stay home and help Mom, earn money for clothes, movies, or hiring new books to read. Sounds like a much better plan, wouldn't you say?"

The urge to plant a kiss on my sister's chubby cheeks, to share in her simple, heartfelt joy, was almost irresistible.

The day I went back to school, I found myself choosing the old silk áo dài that hugged my body, instead of the loose French silk one. I burst into laughter. So, I had been afraid of their gossip and ended up wearing a dress that accentuated my slim waist, showing I hadn't been pregnant. Now, the boys had taken to sitting in a row on the pavement across the school gate. They clapped their hands as I passed by.

"Hey, that's Batwoman's daughter! Long live Batwoman!"

They were quite clever in turning my mom's name, Nguyễn Thị Dơi, into

"Batwoman." So, my mom's well-known name had reached my school…

"Phi Phi, I will marry you at any cost!"

Perhaps I would never know whether I loved Tụ or not. But I missed very much his tender kisses from the past days on the undulating sand dunes at the seaside.

In the afternoon, I went to the estuary, taking a ferry to the Thương Chánh beach with books for my August exam. Running along the hills with occasional tumble of a book or notebook was a bygone habit. Now, it was replaced by a black boulder. I perched on it until daylight surrendered, with the tides rising and the maroon leaves of the Indian almond sturdy tree flapping in a tizzy. Some gunshots by someone in the self-defense unit echoed from the Vĩnh Thủy village now and then, punctuated the serene atmosphere. Sometimes, missing the returning ferry I had to make a detour crossing the Mường Mán bridge. Every member of my family continued to pursue their individual interest, with little attention paid to one another. This afternoon, Phước was engrossed in the movie "Ma Su Chen took revenge." She often wouldn't get home until she had watched it twice in a session. Seated on her wooden bed, mom threw out her abusive hints, directed at no one in particular. This was followed by an unexpected request: I was to take over Phước's duty of collecting the monthly "tontine” money. Her instructions, I could imagine it would be like this:

"Damn it! Mười Tải always seems to have money to spend on women, but he is always in arrears with his tontine share. Chinh Khanh, that bitch, recently received a death gratuity upon her husband's passing. Now, darn it, she's engrossed in gambling, neglecting her infant son and leaving him in the care of her servant. As a result, the little boy is making a mess of himself. Be cautious around Mrs. Bảy Bùng's dog; it has just had puppies and may show aggression. It's highly unlikely that you'll find Trùm Sáng at his first wife's house, as he tends to be quite hot-tempered there. Meanwhile, the female owner of the Diệu Hương fish sauce factory has been residing at Liên Trì temple for a couple of weeks. She's observing a vegetarian diet and reciting sutras daily. Ensure that her husband, Hai Dơi, makes the payment for his wife on time, as there may be consequences otherwise. You're responsible for these individuals, so return home early, you mare. And when that other bitch comes home, she'll have to face the consequences. Oh, I almost forgot, stop by Gò market on your way home and purchase some fresh Glebionis coronaria for our upcoming meals. It pairs well with braised tuna sauce." For my mother, "you mare" was a term of endearment, while "you bitch" was considered a curse word. I peeked at my mom. Her hair is speckled with white spots. She's almost sixty years old now. Who would believe it? I felt relieved to hear her speak, knowing she was strong enough to raise her voice. Mom caught my discreet glance, and in response, I quickly tossed my hair and darted out the door. We probably both thought about each other, but we would likely never express our feelings aloud, even until our last days. That's what my family was like, and to me, it was something incredibly special.

On my way home, a sense of unease washed over me, as if something significant had happened, was happening, or was about to happen. Just as I reached the gate, I ran into Tám Tàng. I crossed my arms to conceal the money envelope stashed in my bra.

"Tám, don’t you go and watch 'Ma Su Chen’ at the movie theater?"

For the first time in my life, I saw a man cry. "No, Miss Phi. Chín, my little sister, has died from bleeding."

"What? Chín Lim, Chín-the-balut-seller was dead?”

Over her dozen years in trade, she had boiled millions of duck embryos. Now, aborting just one embryo in her own body had cost her young life. I shuddered at the thought of retribution?

Darkness enveloped my house, the alley corner, and the gate where I stood next to the man. Hào’s words echoed in my ears:

"He threatened to take our lives - his sister's, mine, yours, and even the teacher's, if something happens to his sister."

I made a deliberate effort to keep my voice loud and steady so that it could be heard by anyone passing by.

"Why don't you go home and attend to your sister's funeral? What are you standing here for?"

"I'm looking for Hào. He promised to take care of everything. My parents are elderly, and my older brother's children depend on Chín's basket of duck embryo eggs. As a Honda mechanic, I barely earn enough for myself."

"Hào is away, transporting fermented fish mash to Ban Mê Thuột. He won't be back until Tết. I'll talk to my mom and see if she can help or offer any assistance." Tám Tàng sneered.

"Your mom! Forget about her. Don't even think about getting any money from that heartless woman. Not even a single cent.”

Then suddenly, he snatched me into his arms. The bundle of money in my bra touched his chest. His searching lips reeked of alcohol. I shouted:

“Mom!”

The man ran away, fleeing into the darkness. Poor man. He probably wanted to make up for Chín Lim's death a little, but he still couldn't kiss me. Poor man, really.

I walked slowly into the house. Mom was probably gone. Phước was probably not home yet. Uncle Bảy, my stepfather was probably still asleep. I thought maybe my sister Hiên hadn't cooked yet, because the kitchen was dark and cold. I groped my way up to the attic, hoping to find a light on the stepdad’s opium tray. But then I stopped halfway up the stairs. The attic was still dark, and I could hear the breathing of two people. Who could that be? What an absurdity. The attic was divided into three partitions. The stepdad’s domain was behind the curtain. The altar was in the middle. The rest was mine. Brother Hào sometimes went up to light incense. My sister Hiên only went up once a week to clean. Mom and Phước thought the attic dirty, so they never set foot in there. Uncle Bảy's coughing and the sound of his turning over making some glass bottle fall.

“Who’s that? Is that Phi?”

“Yes. I need some fire.”

“The match box is on the altar.”

My feet were still awkward. I still felt a deeply entangling emotion. I was still thinking about that embrace and wondering if the troubles were over. The lit match fell onto the floor where someone had knocked down the oil-lamp earlier, rising high and spreading very quickly. The fire-drenched red curtain fell down and covered Uncle Bay and the opium tray with his opium pipe stem and other utensils. The fire burned high, illuminating everything. It twisted and crackled the sturdy beams. It roared like someone’s loud laughs in triumph. It distorted and dyed pink my old stepfather’s face, which used to be pale, due to lack of sunlight. The flames exposed a naked body. A crossbeam had fallen onto the victim’s face before I could identify it. I heard the fire urged me:

“Phi Phi! Find a way out! What are you waiting for?"

My legs stumbled on the descending steps as the flames licked at my back. Rolling onto the sandy ground, I desperately extinguished the fire and then plunged forward, running with urgency. There seemed to be the popping sounds of leaf-covers on brined fish barrels and the clattering of posts in the row of factory cabins near the well. I continued running, propelled by an unseen force that lifted my steps higher. Like the people of Sodom, I dared not look back; to do so would lead me into a precarious situation.

I reached the seaside, ascended the Ngư Ông road, ran along the quayside street Trưng Trắc, crossed the Mường Mán bridge, and finally, exhausted, found myself on the chilly court of the deserted tennis ground. The bundles of money remained snug against my chest, the only outfit barely covering my back. I let my tied hair loose, partially concealing my bare back.

Wisps of fog drifted among tufts of grass, carrying with them the chilling scent of the sea and the bite of the river. Now I want to sleep so much. (It seems that after some changing event, I would crave for a sleep like the negative surrender attitude of ostriches with their heads in the sand). But this time I don't need any bills for amnesia. I believe I will have to sink myself into oblivion. Because I suddenly remembered the familiar traces of the dead girl upstairs. (Why couldn't that be me?). Because I suddenly felt the craving to do something again. Anything can happen. Even if I curl my pale leaf stem into the darkness, the golden rays of the next day's sunlight will still touch me...

( ) (French) men shirking military service.

English version by

THIẾU KHANH

VVM.20.02.2024.