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MAGNOLIA
by HONG KHAC KIM MAI
Whatever
happens is truly the will of God.
1-
Heavy raindrops fell continuously for several
days. Water from the tiled roof poured through the rain gutters in torrents,
too fast to be drained, overflowing in tiny whirlpools to drench the lower
steps of the porch. Gusts of wind splattered sheets of rain into the
windowpanes. The glass fogged up and water dripped into the house.
NgocLan wiped the windows and peered outside into
the garden. On the small- pebbled path that led to the house, fallen plums
lay scattered amidst leaves and a few broken branches. Several of the hanging
floral baskets tossed dizzyingly from side to side, listing as if wanting to
cast down the frail, tattered orchids to the ground. These delicate flowers
had tightly knotted roots and appeared to be holding on for their lives. None
of them had been evicted. Some of their rich purple flowering branches were
broken at an angle, still tenaciously clinging on, their colorful offerings
swaying easily while the heaven let loose its power.
It was the bamboo that did not fare as well. The
entire cluster was laid flat, one plant atop the other. The sharp bamboo
leaves cleaved to each other in a thick green mass, their tips pointing down
to conduct the rain water as a thousand tiny spouts, melting the earth around
them into a huge mud hole.
A small bird suddenly flew into view and landed
gently on the leaves of the rose bush. He turned his head intently from side
to side, a friendly bird who had lost his way, chirping all the while. So
strange! The rose stems were so slender and fragile, yet under the weight of
the bird they did not bow down. His spirit must have been as light as air.
NgocLan remembered her mother telling her that a person with evil or sinful
thoughts had a spirit as heavy as lead.
Mother must have been right.
The bird finished chirping and launched himself
into flight out of sight. Suddenly, the verses of the 19th century poet
Nguyễn Công Trứ came into NgocLan’s mind:
“Kiếp sau xin chớ làm người
Làm cây
thông đứng giữa trời mà reo
Giữa
trời vách đá cheo leo
Ai mà
chịu rét thì trèo với thông”
(In the next life, do not be a man
But a pine
tree under the sky,
Under the
sky, by the steep cliffs
Who’d brave
the cold to stand with the pine)
No, to be an
evergreen pine standing in one place on the mountain was too lonesome.
NgocLan changed her mood,
“Next time I will be a bird
Spreading,
Spreading my wings to fly high
And to roam
All corners
of the sky”
“I will sing
A note-
Enchanting
allure
I will drive
A chariot
of
Splendid
words
Glorifying
you,
Mankind”
“Be my space,
Gorgeous
Be my
heart,
Joyous
Be my all,
Climbing
steps
To heaven”
(hkkm)
Poetry led NgocLan to the piano. The young woman
sat pensively for a second before her hands took on a life of their own,
drifting lightly over the ivory. Ah! “La prière d’une Vierge” by Badarzewska.
It had been a long time since she’d had any time to practice, but the music
sounded smooth enough. She then dreamily went into “Le Lac De Côme” by Mme
Louis Roche. Floating in the air was the joyful sound of a bubbling brook: condolezza, condolezza first, so
comforting! The music changed tone to the sorrowful dolorosa . “Oh Virgin Maria, oh please hold me in your arms
and transform my life …!” The prayer went deep into one’s soul. It lifted the
spirit to diaphanous clouds and from there, Eternity took place….
2-
April 30, they came and won the war.
Uncle Ho
the Great.
The Party disciplines, the Government manages, the People own.
Nothing is more precious than Independence and Freedom.
Economical, Honest and Just.
Those were propaganda on richly bright yellow
banners everywhere. A portrait of Ho Chi Minh was displayed at the entrance
of each home.
3-
NgocLan
was cleaning up after lunch when Nhi came to visit. Nhi was a distant
relation of her husband’s. He was just thirty-one years old, a security
deputy from the North recently transferred to Ho Chi Minh City. Nhi had a
bright countenance, calm manner and speech, and a frequent smile. Among the
number of relatives, distant and otherwise, Nhi seemed to be the most sincere
and down-to-earth.
Nhi draped his raincoat over the chair on the
porch then stepped inside. He bowed in greeting,
“Sister.”
“Good to see you again, Nhi. Sit down and relax.”
NgocLan went in the kitchen and came back with a
pot of tea. She poured some hot green tea in a porcelain cup and offered it
to the young man.
The latter took one gulp and lamented,
“Lord, the
rain here is endless. Just sitting around and watching the rain makes me
homesick.”
“We are in
the rainy season. But it’s quite strange this year! Usually in Saigon, we
have huge rainstorms. They come and go, not dragging on like this. Maybe God
despairs as we do—“
The woman
realized her slip too late. She stood up, pretending to pour more tea.
Nhi’s face became somber. He said,
“I know the
people of the South are not yet used to the new regime, and there is still
much bitterness. But the difficulties that you are facing are only
temporary.”
He grew thoughtful for a minute, then confided,
“You see,
even the people in the North have obstacles to face, not just you. Like me,
for example. I was very good in school, but the only way for me to advance
myself is through the police force.”
“Why don’t
you apply to go abroad to study?”
“Goodness!
Only the children of the big fishes in the Party can go abroad. My father is
a Party member, but he is among the ranks of the lowly shrimp, so what does
it matter?”
The lady of the house walked over to a desk nearby
and took out a small box from a drawer. It held the new Seiko watch that she
had bought the day before. Falteringly, she handed it to Nhi.
Nhi stared
at the wristwatch for a moment and burst out joyfully,
“Really, this is for me? My God! I’ve dreamed of
having a watch with a date window like this for such a long time. You really
want to give it to me?”
NgocLan nodded, touched, as Nhi tremblingly put
the watch on his wrist. Again, he confided,
“A lot of
the other Northerners and I came here to liberate the people from the
domination of the American imperialists. But we truly did not know that the
Southerners were so prosperous. I think this time, it is more correct to say
that it is the Northerners who are being liberated…”
He shivered
and changed subject. He pointed at the magnolia tree in bloom in the garden
and said,
“You own
such a beautiful place.”
NgocLan looked out. On the right hand side of the
paved path, the magnolia tree was loaded with white flowers. Nearby were
low-hanging plum trees, in season and heavy with fruits. Bunches of pinkish-red
hồng đào plums so overburdened their slender branches that some
brushed against the pebbled path.
And the orchids! The pure whiteness of the petals
was faintly touched with pink, as light and translucent as the wings of a
butterfly. And the irises! Rich purple dusted with saffron-colored powder
from their pistils, like invitations and endearments for those who love and
admire flowers. The bonsais were cultivated from pines and oaks, grown here
and there among the orchids, giving the impression of masculine strength and
power beside the gentle coquetry of young noble ladies.
NgocLan sighed,
“Hạt
giống ai gieo mảnh đất này
Nắng
mưa sương gió bấy lâu nay
Này cây này
lá này hoa đẹp
Trái
ngọt trái bùi trái đắng cay”
(Who has sown the seed in this land
Sun rain
dew wind to withstand
Now tree
now leaves now beautiful flowers
Fruits
sweet and tasty, fruits of pain)
(hkkm)
Nhi raised his voice. “Why ‘fruits of pain’ ? “
NgocLan
whispered,
“Outside of
this place, Saigon is filled with chaos and uncertainty. We all are
prisoners…”
4-
NgocLan sat on the front step. Her head sagged,
filled with troubled, restless thoughts. When night fell, the magnolias’
fragrance became even heavier, the sky pitch-black. It was September, and the
air was dry and much cooler. NgocLan stood up to spray the water hose over
the garden. The magnolia tree had appeared a bit odd over the past few days.
The tips of its leaves were touched with yellow-brown and drooped, as if
affected by some ill winds.
At 8:30 pm, NgocLan joined other women in the
neighborhood to attend an unusual meeting, buổi họp nhân dân khu
phố , at a public house nearby.
The district chief công an Ba Tung arrived very
late, trailing behind him were three other công an officers. All were
carrying guns prominently. They appeared mulish and did not utter a word.
Ba Tung pulled a chair and sat down at the front
desk to begin the buổi họp nhân dân, the people’s meeting. He
raised his arms, signaling everyone to sit down. Clearing his throat several times,
Ba Tung began his speech,
“People, all of us are children of the great
beloved Uncle Ho. He had shed his own blood and sweat to chase away the
imperialists so that we can have warm homes and full stomachs. All the
conspirators in the old regime are now receiving full clemency from our
government, and they are allowed to attend reeducation. For their wives and
children, we must help them to build a new life suitable with the ideals of
the revolution….”
In hearing these words, NgocLan felt her stomach
tying itself into knots. Up in front, the high rank officer was still heaping
verbose praises on Uncle Ho and his Party. Each time he finished a sentence,
he clapped his hands soundly, and everybody in the room clapped their hands
to follow him.
Ba Tung finally
stopped speaking. A man stepped up to stand next to Ba Tung, introducing
himself as head representative of the people. His name was Bien, a
second-generation trash collector at the Truong Minh Giang open market, well
established in his working-class background. His more significant credential
with the revolution was earned, when he supposedly helped Nguyen Van Troi by
carrying Troi’s bicycle to escape after the failed attempt to bomb the Cong
Ly Bridge and to kill the evil imperialist, McNamara.
Head
representative Bien reported that the supply of pork had not been distributed
in sufficient amounts by the district last week. He announced that from now
on, each household had to wait its turn to buy meat. Every week, only twenty
households were allowed to get meat, rotating in turn with all the families
in the district. The limit on pork was 300 grams per household, regardless of
the number of people in each.
There was uproar in response to the alarming news.
Ba Tung banged on the table, calling for quiet. He
urged the people to think of some way for the district to be self-sufficient
in food production, especially meat. He rolled his eyes around the spacious
meeting room and landed a suspicious look at several individuals.
“I noticed
that the orchid garden in Sister NgocLan’s home is a shameful trace of the
materialist world. Those flowers might please your eyes but they do not
please your stomach. Let’s use Sister NgocLan’s garden to raise pigs for our
subdivision… ”
NgocLan stood up, lamenting,
“Comrade…!”
Ba Tung cut her short,
“You!
Who’ll be your comrade? You have to be a little more careful of what you say!
Well, the decision has been made. Nothing will change that.”
The clamor from the room became a single voice. At
the same moment, NgocLan felt as if her whole world was crashing from under
her feet.
5-
Darkness was falling.
NgocLan sat
on the sofa on the porch, looking out. On the ground laid a tapestry of white
wilted magnolia flowers whose fragrance still wafted through the air.
Little Pao
swooped into the mother’s lap, pouting,
“Mommy, why
isn’t Daddy home? I miss Daddy.”
“Daddy goes
to a school far away; he will be back soon.”
“Why does
he have to go to school when he’s so big? Does he have a teacher like mine?”
“Ah, your
school is kindergarten, for itty bitty kids like you. Daddy’s school is for
hard-headed grown-ups. Do you remember the công an officer who came to our
house yesterday? The people at Daddy’s school probably look just like him.”
“Mommy, he was so mean. Is it he who will take our
garden to raise pigs?”
“Oh, yeah. The pigs will make oink, oink noises
all day… You will have fun with them, for sure.”
The
daughter burst out laughing, her lips sounding out “oink, oink, oink,” while
her little bottom shook from side to side.
What a cute
darling girl!
The bell rang in one long burst.
Little Pao
hurried to the door and shouted back,
“Mommy!
Mommy, Y is home!”
NgocLan
went to open the gate for her eldest daughter. Y had just turned six, but in
her blue skirt, white shirt and red scarf uniform, she looked very serious
and mature. On her face was a trace of sadness.
The mother affectionately greeted Y,
“Ok, pal,
are you hungry yet? Today I‘ve got lots of caramelized pork and a crème flan
for you.”
“Flan!” she
yelled. “That’s my favorite! It’s been so long since we left Can Tho and you
made crème flan.”
While Y
changed her clothes, NgocLan brought the food out to the yard for her to eat
in the cool air. Little Pao buzzed around her sister,
“Sister Y, what did you do today at school?”
“I went to a youth’s meeting for our town,” she
spoke with utmost solemnity.
The two little girls chattered like birds. The
older sister bragged,
“I’ve learned a lot of new songs.”
Her little
sister begged immediately,
“Sing it,
sing it!”
The school
girl stood up, her face set sternly, and sang,
“Như
có Bác Hồ trong ngày vui đại thắng…” (author unknown)
(As if
Uncle Ho on our day of joyous victory…)
NgocLan
watched intently while the younger one kept up her non-stop chatter,
“Teach me that song, would you please? I love to
sing! When you go to meeting again, please, please bring me along!”
“Ok, ok.
Calm down. You are too noisy, I can’t remember. Here’s another song:
“Bé bé
bòng bong, đôi má hồng hồng
Mẹ
đi sơ tán bế bé theo cùng
Mẹ
mua xe gỗ cho bé ngồi trong
Bao
giờ bé lớn mẹ đưa bé về phố
đông”(author unknown)
(Little,
little bubble, cheeks pinky pink,
Mommy
fleeing the enemy, bringing you along
Mommy
bought a wooden cart, taking you for a ride
When baby gets
bigger, Mommy will take you to the North side…)
This song
was easier on the ear than the last one. NgocLan urged,
“Now sit
down and finish eating. Your rice and soup are getting cold.” Then she
lovingly asked, “When you came home today, you looked a little sad. What
happened?”
“Mom, I was mad. The other kids kept calling me
the enemy conspirator’s kid and they did not want to play with me. Is Daddy
the enemy conspirator?”
“Yes, that’s what they call anyone in the South
who used to be in the army or work for the government, but as long as we’re
not what they called us, it does not matter. You should not bother paying
attention to them.”
“Ah, the
soldier and the house mother taught us that we have to compete very hard to
become Uncle Ho’s favorite”
“Like
what?”
“Mom, every
meeting, we have to stand up and tell everyone what our parents do at home.
Does any stranger come to the house? Do our parents hide anything? Where do
they hide it?…”
NgocLan closed her eyes, feeling dispirited.
Her children shook her by the shoulder,
“Mom, what
happened to the magnolia tree? It has been wilting the last few days.”
“Darling, the tree is sick. And I am sick, too.”
“Mommy, who
will take care of us if you are very sick? You are not the magnolia, aren’t
you?”
“Oh, yeah, I
am,” she replied, fading away.
The two little girls cried and screamed,
“Mommy!
Mommy, please do not keep your eyes closed so long. Please do not leave us!
We never want to be Uncle Ho’s favorite. Never!”
As always,
pouting her lips, Little Pao spoke to herself
“I’ll go
water the magnolia tree for my Mommy to wake up.”
From somewhere, a song floated in the air:
“Magnolia
Viva the pretty tree
Under the
sun shine
My love is
free”
“Magnolia
Wipe out your beautiful tears
And smile
Because
your face is dear”
“Mag-no-li-a!
Mag-no-li-a!
Oh, Magnolia of my dreams
You are so
pure and so quiet
So white
and so light
You walk
into the moon
You dance
in my soul”
“La, là, lá, la”
“Mag-no-li-a
Viva the goddess
Of my
endless
Imaginings
You are my fondest
Reverie….”
(music and lyrics by hkkm)
HONG KHAC
KIM MAI
The Writers Post
the magazine of
literature
&
literature-in-translation,
founded 1999, based
in the US.
VOLUME 8 ISSUE 1 JAN 2006
Editorial
note: Works
published in this issue are simultaneously published in the printed
Wordbridge magazine (ISSN: 1540-1723).
Copyright © Hong Khac Kim Mai & The
Writers Post 2006. 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
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