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THE WRITERS POST (ISSN: 1527-5467) VOLUME 9 DOUBLE ISSUE JAN 2007 JUL 2007
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The character uprising A
SHORT STORY BY TRAN YEN THAO
translated by N. SAOMAI
TRAN YEN THAO, poet, writer and
translator. Before and after 1975 when South Vietnam collapsed, he has
contributed to several literary magazines published in Vietnam. His debut
short story collection ‘Mac Can’ was published in 1970 by Tu Thuc Publisher
in Saigon, which was followed by ‘Hat tu tho Tran Yen Thao’ (collection of
poems set into music by musicians Tran Van Bui, Viet Chung and Nguyen Tung
published by Hanh Dong in 1971), ‘Qua tang nguoi xua’ (collection of poems
published by Tre Publisher in 1998), and ‘Rung nguyen so’ (collection of
poems published by Tre Publisher in 1999). Besides, his works have been
selected for several anthologies, including ‘Luc Bat Tinh’ (which includes
501 authors, published by Dong Nai in 1997), ‘Sac Huong Hoa But’ (several
authors, published by Van Nghe in 2001), ‘Tuyen tap 7 Tac-gia trong va ngoai
nuoc’ (US: Thu An Quan, 2004), and ‘Ben troi’ (US: Thu An Quan, 2004). I didn’t look at my watch, but knew it was then 9:00 AM. A
coconut palm was suddenly uprooted, came down across the street, where the
man had just walked past a good half of a minute before; the apexes of the
fronds still had time to hit the back of his shirt. The woman, after what
seemed like a moment of less than one minute, got there; she was sprayed with
dirt from the coconut tree’s roots, soiled from head to toes. It seemed, in
that life and death moment, the two characters didn’t even see each other. · The small street was also
the gateway of the town’s exit and entrance. Houses of uneven height and
alignment cluttered the place. There were buildings that were under
construction. And insensible encroachments for space¾ addition which
increased the size of a building refused to set back. Daily routines in any
developing cities. It was now the northern wind season. Gusts of strong wind
swept across the town endlessly. The man has just got home. The near-midday
sunbeam pierced the branches of the plum tree, sent light falling onto the
moss-grown yard. He stopped before the gate that was closed. A moment later, the
woman was coming in. “Have you been
waiting long?” “Not long. But why are you all covered
in dirt? Where have you been?” “Unlucky wasn’t I! The palm tree came down
in front of me; it must have been less than one minute before I got there.” The woman was about to insert the key
into the lock, but for no reason that she understood then, she gave the key
to her husband, and was terrified when the man turned to unlock the door,
“For Heaven’s sake, why the back of your shirt was so rumpled?” The man said flatly, “I narrowly missed
being killed by a coconut tree that came down onto the street, where I had
just walked past about half of a minute.” “Thank Heaven, for saving you as well.” · The man suddenly came back,
tired-looking, calmly seating himself onto the chair. I was mildly surprised,
“Fact is, you’re not allowed to come in this episode.” “Shouldn’t I, indeed! But you made me
lost in vague memory. It seemed I’d seen myself somewhere or other.” “Perhaps you want to
recall a civil war of two hundred years ago, during which you were a
colonel.” “It couldn’t have been mistake. Why
don’t you just leave me there?” After his saying,
his hostile eyes settled on me. A gust of wind, which blew through the
window, shook the kerosene lamp’s flame in the round cover, and my shadow and
his against the wooden wall as well. Being slightly moved, I tried for a
friendly tone, “Calm down, please. Tell me, who has the power to make the
civil war a stretch of couple hundreds years war? Any war must come to an
end.” “Then why don’t you put me in other
position, instead of being the husband of that woman?” “What wrong with it?
There are difficulties that you must join in mutual endeavour to overcome it.
The main point is that I brought you a virtuous wife.” The man’s face was now registering
despair and distaste, “Virtuous, my foot. I really don’t understand the
meaning of the word “virtuous” you used to praise her for. Also, I don’t
understand why everybody should resign themselves to your arrangement.” He rose to his feet, went away,
suddenly as he had come. Through the window, the lamplight was casting his
tired shadow onto the sandy yard, stretching it out until it disappeared into
the darkness. · The man opened the door, and stepped
inside. The woman, who was about to follow her husband, stopped short, turned
to look out over the street, while at the gate a mendicant monk was standing
holding his alms bowl. “Homage to Amida Buddha.” The woman was beside herself, stared at
the monk’s face for a long time before she could speak to him, “O venerable
one, may I ask what you need?” “I’m begging for food.” “I’m sorry I didn’t cook today. But I may go buy for you what
you like to eat.” “Homage to Amida Buddha. I cannot ask
you go to so much trouble.” The woman frowned, then went across the
street. After a short while she came back with two loaves of bread, which she
put into the monk’s begging bowl. She called after him as the monk turned and
went away. “Just a moment, please. I would like to
ask you about something.” “Please do.” “Why must you wander begging for food?” “Homage to Amida Buddha, that’s the
mendicant monk practices.” In the sky, there seemed to have been
air currents winding round and round in the heat haze. One after another, the
gust of north wind blew through the street; it suddenly caught the monk’s
robe. Still, the woman didn’t take her flirtatious eyes off the monk’s
handsome face. “But … who made you a mendicant monk?” “Oh, that would be another matter.” The monk closed his eyes, seemed to
recall something, in a place that was far-off, at a time far-off as well¾ when he could not figure out yet my own face, when patches were
being fused for his creating my new life. The monk, at last, almost spoke to
himself, “First of all, he created me as a beggar covered with sores. Matted
hair. Tattered clothes. There was no way of knowing why did he have to but
coop me up in the corner of the house, instead of letting me take part. I
couldn’t remember for how many days he has been distressed, as if facing
certain imperative problems. He kept pacing up and down, and threw away many
cigarettes he has just lit. He sighed; he scratched his head, and tore at his
hair. There were a number of times I almost forgot the shame of my status and
felt a pity on him. Until one night, when suddenly he shoved down the floor
all the leaves in which he had written his pieces, stood up, and then walked
towards me. Frankly, at that very moment I had the impression that he was an
angel, if not a witch. In a blink of an eye, my whole physical appearance,
except my face, has been changed showing no vestiges of a beggar. From then
on I took part as a mendicant monk.” At the very moment the monk opened his
eyes what he saw were still the woman’s flirtatious eyes. “But what possessed you to accept to be
a monk? You didn’t choose that status.” “I
didn’t. However, he brought me to a new life, from a beggar’s.”
“In fact, your being a beggar was his own making. You didn’t choose to
be.”
“Homage to Amida Buddha, everything had already been disposed.”
The woman became more and more ardent, never taking her eyes, which
bore the flirtation look, from the monk’s face, “What are you talking about?
Since he created us as human beings, we then surely are able to practise the
human right. Now look here, if you just let grow your hair, just take off
that yellow robe of a mendicant monk, I believe things will change.” The monk was terrified to hear that, he
hung his head and began to walk slowly towards the town. He seemed to avoid
the flirtatious eyes, rather than what the woman has just said. · I knew for certain that the woman would return, but contrary to
expectation I saw her again so soon. This time, she struck an attitude of a
rather extraordinary steely determination, and not to consider me as the
person who took the initiative. “Why didn’t you have my husband killed
by the falling coconut tree?” “He must take part in the last stage; thus, he must not die.
What’s more, I’ve plotted out the story in which no one would die.” “If that’s so, why didn’t you let that handsome monk be my
husband?” “If you wanted, I would let him return to his lay life. But
would you dare to be the love-mate of a beggar, disgusting dirty and
ulcerated?” The woman was frighten for a moment, but gained back her steely manner
at last, “If you don’t give in to my request, I’ll try another way. I’ll
poison my husband’s food.” “Try it, if you want. But I must warn you, that you’ll be the
one who must eat that poisonous food.” “How particularly cruel you are!” “I must be cruel sometimes, only to the character like you.” For a long while, the monk never came back to the town. The
woman, appearing at the entrance to the house for days on end, got even more strung
up with expectation. The man had a very calm manner, although he knew
everything. Gusts of north wind became less and less, then died down for
changing to the possible direction of south wind. One evening in February,
not be able to wait any longer, the woman silently walked out of the gate.
She mooned along the streets of the town. So small a town it has only few
streets. She remembered by heart every house in it. At some blocks houses
were scattered, which revealed the river and sea beyond. The evening sunlight
spread and rippled on the white waves. The woman was mooning about, like the
one who was suffering from memory loss, the child looking for the dime
escaping from his hand, and even a mendicant monk. Now and then she came
round, is if certain image had woken her. Just for continuing to moon about,
afterwards. · The monk threw away his alms bowl, flounced into my house. It
turned out that the woman was chasing after him. Seeing his entering the
gate, the woman recoiled, then left. The monk was now putting his hands upon
his chest, gasping for breath. Furious breathing of a person who has just got
out of danger. Experienced an episode of terror, perhaps. I didn’t yet make
any question, letting him compose himself. But he was the first to speak, “You
once revived me. Please sir, have a heart, and do take even more pity on me.” “Are you in an embarrassing position?” The monk hesitated a moment, “Please make me a person with
energy and ability.” “I’m just the one who arranges the conditioning causes.” I said,
“Ability, you must gain it by yourself. I couldn’t grant you ability, even if
I have discovered it myself and been possessing it.” “I’m dreading having to yield to temptation.” “Keep your end up, with dogged determination. There has been no
monk asking ability to be granted to him, especially no Buddha’s wandering
monk. Nobody but you would be able to improve the self of yours.” “I’m afraid I cannot fulfill my duty” “You can return to your lay life, if you want to. But I must
remind you one thing, that you should know through which way you will
return.” The monk looked at the corner of the room, where he had spent
many days sitting motionless before his rebirth. The weather was now the
wrestling between North and South. The wind which was due now north now south
made the coconut fronds spinning like fans in the air. The sun was licking
the trees clumping together at the far end of the field. · I’ve been in an agony of indecision over how to tackle the
unexpected situation, like a sick person convulsed in pain. It would make no
sense if those sheets of paper from now on became the proof on the one who
lost a battle. If I must fold my arms and stood looking at the characters
trampling all over the plot? I created a faithful and virtuous woman, but taking
part was an unfaithful and lustful one. I created an experienced man I
believed was able to overcome difficulties regardless of circumstance, the
irony of it was that the man asked to abandon his position in the first
instance. I created a monk who with his actual spiritual attainments was to
have been valiant against temptations in lay life, which would enable him to
enter the omnipresent state; ironically the monk was close to being defeated
when preparing to fight his own battles. The wicked circumstances kept torturing me until one day, the
whole shoal of the characters congregated to surround me. They yelled
furiously their demands in a threatening, and in gentle tone of voice as
well. The woman demanded a more or less sure way to seduce the monk. The man
insisted that he must have back the army’s rank of colonel he had been
awarded in the civil war of two hundred years ago. And the monk, who although
seemed to be pleased with his position as a grace, still demanded ability to
be granted. They brought about a large following among the souls of the
characters all whom I had decimated centuries ago. There were deaths full of
pain like the shredding of a sword across the surface of a cliff. Deaths
beautiful like an epic. Poetic like the cloud floating over the rice field.
Romantic like a peach petal drifting downstream. The dead joined the living,
and they mucked in to complain, curse in disregard of the meaning of their
deaths. Their lament for lost life mixed with their piercing screams of towering
rage. Now thunderous like an uprising. Now dispersed like the fragments of
music from a Chinese guitar. I thought of prevailing over them no more. Tried
to fight by myself all alone to break through the siege. But the siege
tightened even more. At the critical moment when I thought I should give
myself up to whatever the fate, I became suddenly aware of my last power¾ to put down right here a final full stop. TRAN YEN THAO Editorial note: The Vietnamese original version was published in
Van, Issue 83, 9- 1998, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. The magazine was then
under the editorship of Anh-Duc. The Writers Post &
literature-in-translation, founded 1999,
based in the US. VOLUME 9 DOUBLE ISSUE JAN 2007 & JUL 2007 Editorial note: Works published in this issue are simultaneously published in the printed Wordbridge magazine (ISSN: 1540-1723). Translation copyright © N. Saomai/ Nguyen Sao Mai Copyright for the story © Tran Yen Thao. 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. |