The following is an excerpt from Da Màu’s upcoming anthology, Beyond Borders: Stories from the Vietnamese Diaspora. While the world has celebrated the achievements of Vietnamese American writers writing in English and embraced translated works of renowned domestic Vietnamese authors, a vast and vibrant body of Vietnamese-language literature has flourished overseas for nearly fifty years since the fall of South Vietnam. Beyond Borders, as a pioneering effort in translating the diasporic Vietnamese experience, represents the beginning of Da Màu’s commitment to showcase the richness and diversity of the Vietnamese literary tradition on the world stage. Most of the 15 stories presented in the anthology were originally written in Vietnamese by well-known diasporic Viet writers and translated for the first time into English.
To order a copy of Beyond Borders, please contact Da Màu Magazine at [email protected]. There will be a launch for the book at the University of California, Irvine on Friday, October 18, 2024 from 2pm to 4pm. Another event will be held on Saturday, October 19 at VietLife TV in Westminster, CA.
1
I said OK to the cashier and reached behind for my wallet.
Just in that moment someone slapped my buttocks: Hey Thoại. The person spoke in Vietnamese, in a tiny market on a remote and obscure island, among the various Hawaiian Islands adrift in a vast ocean, where the only thing people could do was to visit volcanoes that spew gray boring fumes then go back to sleep in a motel as deserted and forlorn as a late afternoon fair. That afternoon I drove to the marketplace which had the only Thai restaurant with an elderly Thai woman in formal dress standing behind the cash register. The occasion for her formal attire simply eluded me.
The person who had just slapped my buttocks now stared at me with the eyes of a beached shark. I stared back at him.
Could it really be you, Thoại? The person seemed astonished.
I mumbled: let me finish paying then we can talk.
I grabbed the plastic bag containing a few scraps of lettuce and walked out the door. The person followed. The cashier lady yelled, sir, sir, you forgot something. Who cares, I exited the store, breathing heavily as I walked.
Let me make sure it’s really you, Thoại. The person looked at me for a second, third, fourth time, then gasped: I can’t believe it.
I also whispered: Me too, I can’t believe it.
I almost fainted with joy. Follow me. Don’t say anything yet. But I don’t need to say anything. Seeing you is enough.
I trotted obediently after him, like someone consenting to their own kidnapping.
2
His house sat on a hill. The island was full of slopes and hills. The house looked small, with just enough room. I thought at least two people could live here, then realized he was by himself.
Eyes shut, he leaned back on the sofa. I looked around, seeing a few empty chairs, a pot of mums on a table – the way people would buy a random plant then put it on any old spot in the house to add some color, but only making the space look more dejected. Flowers here looked just like flowers in Vietnam.
What’s your deal, Thoại. He asked, eyes still shut.
I couldn’t suppress my laugh. Open your eyes, you talking with your eyes closed really bothers me.
He opened his eyes, letting two teardrops fall.
You’re crying. Why. Crying for what. I said, but also feeling sorry for myself. I looked at him more closely. His hair had been all black quite recently, but now turned more than half gray. But quite recently might have been months, years. Now he looked like an escaped convict who had gone hiding in the farthest corner of the earth so no one could trace his whereabouts. I wondered if our dream was still intact.
I also looked at myself, still whole on the outside, but with a ruptured seam inside that nothing could mend.
What’s your deal, Thoại. He asked me again, more slowly this time.
Like you, I’m looking for a place to live.
You don’t have any other place to live or what.
No.
Thoại, he said. This time his eyes were no longer shut. His eyes, even after ten years, still haunted me every time I closed my eyes.
3
I had the habit of looking out the window whenever words failed me. A window became an escape for the eyes. The ocean was right outside.
He continued speaking. Do you want to come here and live with me?
Who are you living with, I asked.
No one, just me.
My mouth suddenly tasted bitter, as though I had been thirsty all afternoon. Why no one else to live with. I asked vaguely.
There’s no one. I’m alone. For years. He added, as if to clarify.
Let me walk toward the back of your house for just a sec. I want to see the ocean. I want to look at something wide open for a while.
Around here the ocean is everywhere. Just open the door and go do whatever you want. But think about my offer then come back here. Meanwhile I’ll fix us something for dinner.
I walked out. Indeed, right in front of me was the ocean. On a remote island, a house next to the water was a normal thing and didn’t need to be the kind of house for rich and important folks. The sea here seemed as ordinary as a poor family, for a soul that longed for tranquility.
I wandered on the beach, walking far along the shoreline until his house seemed to recede into a black dot. There were many identical black dots. I couldn’t figure out which black dot contained him. I thought it was time to turn back, or else I might get lost. Here in this place he was my one and only familiar.
When I came back near the house, I saw him standing out front, looking toward my direction. Evening was descending on the island. In the gloaming, I saw him leaving the place where he stood and running toward me.
4
I stood in place and looked at him running toward me.
When he approached, I could only see a dark shadow because night was falling. I sensed the dark shadow staring at me with its fathomless eyes.
I thought I had taken one step forward, with my extended hand, but no, I had only moved one foot. My hand was still in my pants pocket.
I thought you’ve left for good.
You actually thought so.
That was what I thought.
We used to talk to each other like this. After so many years, still the same way of talking. This way of talking had helped us recognize each other, to keep us from getting lost. We stood so close to the edge of water. A night wave lashed against the shore, splashing white, salty foam.
But I knew you would come back, so I didn’t go looking for you.
What he said touched me.
Come inside for dinner.
I stayed silent.
What’s going on with you?
I’m afraid … I said, as if in a dream.
Nothing to be afraid. The dark shadow approached me, and for the first time since our encounter in the tiny marketplace, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders. I felt more relaxed because I couldn’t make out his face whose arm was encircling mine. In the night, he also didn’t see my face turning away from him. But I knew for sure that was his arm. The body scent on that arm.
People could forget a face, even a voice, but never someone’s body scent.
5
We sat opposite each other at a makeshift wooden table. All things in this house looked makeshift and basic. Now I became fully convinced he had been living alone, for years, like he’d said.
The time I spent meandering on the beach had helped me calm down. I could look straight into his eyes. Those eyes were still sad, like of old.
He attempted a smile, speaking at length. Go ahead and eat, Thoại. My cooking is not great, as you know, but I also know you’re not a picky eater.
I was really hungry, so I began eating, not thinking much about anything. While I was eating, he just sat and watched. And I didn’t bother to ask why. I guessed we would have plenty of time to talk later. A whole night.
What are you doing now? He suddenly asked.
I’m traveling, as you can see.
What for?
Nothing in particular. I’ve quit my job.
Is it so?
I kept quiet for a while, then decided it was my turn to talk. I couldn’t keep silent forever. Years had passed. I suddenly found how funny the way my story began. He listened attentively.
Where is she? I abruptly switched gears.
After all the pain and suffering, she finally left. Her leaving was actually a good thing. No one would want to stay given the circumstances.
His response was clear, as though he had long been prepared for it. Then he asked. And you?
Right now I don’t have anyone.
I replied.
6
You know what, that day…
When he talked, I heard the clattering noise of broken dinnerware, even an iron, anything that could make a noise whenever a woman was determined to make noise. Premeditated noise-making. The noise of things breaking or being thrown against a surface would soothe her nerves whenever her suffering became unbearable. I understood. If it had been me suffering, I’d also make the same fricking noise.
While the noise from the past was populating my mind, he lapsed again into silence, his empty eyes gazing at the empty space in front of him.
In my mind I saw him buckle like a wounded animal after having been shot. With his raised hands in a supplicating gesture, he moved forward on his knees, while my two feet were stuck in place.
Once again I felt an object coming into contact with my face. A hollow sound, not harsh or ear-splitting, but devastating nonetheless. This, my flesh, was human flesh, not a wooden table.
Back then I hadn’t raised my hands to shield my face, hadn’t cried out, hadn’t uttered a single word. I hadn’t felt pain on my face, only in my heart.
I hadn’t cried out, but I had heard his raspy voice, begging her: please don’t, don’t do that…
7
Again I looked out the window. The waves had seemed to settle down. Far away the sea was calm.
This house has only one room. Where do you want to sleep? He looked up. The same eyes from ten years ago.
I haven’t said anything about sleeping over. I said, while feeling a bit sleepy.
I want you to stay.
Why?
This is what I’ve always wanted for the last ten years.
Your answer was enough.
I would sleep right here, on this sofa, when I could no longer move. My whole body felt like a rotting log. The night before I hadn’t been able to sleep in the motel. This morning I’d driven to some dormant volcanoes and stood watching them from a distance. Faint plumes of smoke were winding their way from the earth’s bowels through cratered tops. Although despondent, I’d decided I must learn to live again. I’d resolved to start over right here, in this place.
Of course I couldn’t have known that fate had it all planned out for me. He’d moved here before me, ten years ago. For ten years, I’d never once thought about his continuous existence in the world.
Drifting off to sleep, I felt someone cradling my head to wedge a pillow underneath. I also sensed a thin blanket being wrapped about me. No doubt he was still standing there, looking down at me.
Then I heard his voice, almost inaudible. It was what I had been waiting to hear since this afternoon, when I first saw him at the tiny marketplace.
Finally, you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you Thoại?
Originally published as “Chiêm bao lần nữa” by Trần Nguyên Đán, from Đen Trắng (2022). English translation by Nhat-Lang Le.
Trần Nguyên Đán, whose real name is Lữ Thành Kiến, will turn 70 years old in August 2024. Poetry is his primary passion, with writing and journalism as correlated pursuits, but all three represent his unwavering passion. He has published over twenty works. Aside from his religious writings, his most well-known literary works include three poetry collections, Tôi Nói với Chiêm Bao (Conversing With My Dreams) (1994), Thơ Tình Của Đán (Đán’s Love Poems) (2021), Vũ Và Lục Bát (Dance and Lục Bát Poetry) (2023); six collections of short stories and memoirs: Biển Rộng Hai Vai (The Wide Sea On My Shoulders) (2008), Nếu Những Con Chim Biết Nói (If Birds Can Talk) (2013), Đường Dài Tôi Đi (The Long Road I Travel) (2020), Đỗ Quyên Mùa Hè (Summer Azaleas) (2022), Đen Trắng (Black and White) (2022), Về Mái Nhà Xưa (Return to the Old Hearth) (2024).
Trần Nguyên Đán entered seminary when he moved to the U.S. at 40. He served as a pastor until his retirement at 67. He currently resides in Vietnam and the U.S., two countries, two worlds, until the time when he attains his final resting place as ordained by God.
Lê Đình Nhất-Lang (aka Nhat-Lang Le) was born in 1969 in Saigon, immigrated with his family to France in 1983, and moved to the U.S. in 1985. He has a B.A. in Linguistics and Computer Science from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA). He is a co-author of Poems of Nguyễn Thúy Hằng, Đỗ Lê Anhdao & Lê Đình Nhất-Lang (Vagabond Press, 2017). He is the translator of two of Mai Văn Phấn’s collections Seeds of Night and Day (Page Addie Press, 2013) and Grass Cutting in a Temple Garden (Page Addie Press, 2014). He is a co-translator of Poems of Lưu Diệu Vân, Lưu Mêlan & Nhã Thuyên (Vagabond Press, 2014) and The Selected Poems of Mai Văn Phấn (Publishing House of the Vietnam Writers’ Association, 2015). His Vietnamese poems and translations have appeared in the print magazines Thế Kỷ 21, Văn Học and Văn, and the literary e-zines Tiền Vệ (tienve.org)and Da Màu (damau.org).
