HOANG NGOC BIEN
Translated
from the Vietnamese
By
HoàngThạchThiết
 |
| HOANG NGOC BIEN |
The man is riding an old green bicycle
on the shortest road leading into the city. The bicycle is painted green but at
this early hour of the morning its color can’t be made out. Now and then he
shoots a glance to the left and right of the road but his legs keep pedaling
steadily, not too fast, because he’s not strong enough, perhaps, but it’s
certain that he doesn’t have the intention of slowing down more than is his
normal speed. The shortest road to downtown, the one from his small house in
the remotest area of the remotest suburbs in which direction the sun doesn’t
rise in the morning, to a factory on the edge of the city, is a pretty long
distance. The man is pedaling steadily, his features serene and his body
jolting along to the rhythmic movement of the bicycle, but in the dusky light
of dawn the serenity cannot be observed. The well-lit city in front of him
appears close, as anyone would believe who has no experience of travelling at
dawn. Now on both sides of the cyclist are uncultivated lands and derelict,
sequestered gardens and he can’t yet see anything but can smell the dead leaves
soaked in the morning dew. The cool breeze together with the normal speed of
the old bicycle he tries to maintain makes him feel a bit cold. The steady
creak of the bicycle doesn’t seem to attract his attention. He knows this
shortest road only too well, the road with a lot of bumps at the turn to the
district and potholes in front of the big gate that partitions off a waste
garden, but cycling in the dark at dawn in this month he still rides into those
potholes, stumbles over those bumps, and his bicycle staggers a while before he
can restore its balance, mustering all his strength. The woman has woken by
now, and of her large family she now has the chance to wake up only the
youngest son, his older brothers all being away on business trips. The man is
wearing a faded blue shirt whose faded color cannot be fully recognized as he
covers it with a very short military sweater with many holes. The blue flap
beneath it hangs down more than two centimeters, and is sometimes blown
backwards by a strong wind. His trousers are colorless, or more precisely, of
an undefined color. It begins to rain.
For quite a while he worries about all sorts of problems, about, say, a shelter from the rain. But it’s not rain. It’s just morning dew, or perhaps it’s just his impression. The woman heads to the back of the house, groping for a box of matches. Ahead of the man is the direction of the sunrise, but the sun hasn’t risen as yet, for he has, as usual, left home before dawn. He has stealthily got out of the mosquito net, then walking barefoot in the dark, he inched towards the back of the house, and groped for a box of matches. He had moved about quietly like that until he closed the door with his hand and walked his bicycle to the gate. Now he is able to start avoiding the bumps and potholes in the road. Behind the city where the lights are gradually fading the red sun seems to be already giving signs of rising. He’s no longer riding his bicycle in a straight line, but now he turns the handlebar to the left, now to the right, getting it back on track, his movements being automatic and deft. On either side of the road the foliage of the last uncared-for gardens finally appear dimly in a faded crimson, then he begins to enter a heavily populated area. The houses of the neighboring compound, their doors still closed, look dark on the glowing horizon. From a few small windows, rare yellow lights are projected – pale streaks of light dragging all along the deserted road which begins to narrow where the man passes by. But he has no time to look at the early morning activities inside the houses. He continues pedaling at a steady pace, not very fast. The woman fills the kettle with water, puts the scoop back down, then brings the pot in to place it on the stove. More than eight times giving birth makes her look older than her age. The last son, the remaining one, is still asleep. The man pulls in to the curb close to the façade of a roadside house in order to avoid the two bright yellow headlights of an army truck dashing by. He is able to have a fleeting glimpse of a seething mass of heads but he doesn’t have the time to make sure they are service men. In the early morning silence of a suburb, the piercing honking of the army truck sounds like an insulting shout. The man takes fright at the thought that he has just caused the whole district to wake up with a start. He is scared but the scare disappears in no time on the face used to quickly regaining composure. Two years ago, his daughter, the only child that he and his wife had managed to send to school, was run over and killed near this district. It’s been two years now. He rides his bicycle on the same road, and a shrill honking has many times reminded him of his hapless child. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, though. The first restaurants begin to appear with their pale white lights and with voices calling each other noisily. He goes past the smoky noodle carts and the crowded peddler stands. In front of him is the sun but at this time of the early morning it hasn’t risen yet over the lowest houses of the city. He can only see a dark pink space that gets more and more pale as it spreads upwards in the distance, and innumerable street lights are still shining, casting innumerable dark shadows on the surface of the road. His old bicycle has run over these dark shadows so many times in the morning. At this moment the woman closes the wooden door gently as he did a while ago and carries the goods to the gate. He youngest son is still asleep, and the sun still doesn’t make its appearance over the city. The man is riding his bike on the road leading to the factory, on either side of the street there are more restaurants which are more crowded with more shouts of names mixed with more deafening and excited honking. He can get a glimpse of the sunlight ahead as the sun appears behind the lowest roofs of the city. His face remains calm but its features cannot hide the alertness that manifests itself in his handling of the bike and his watchfulness. He has many times braked sharply in front of narrow side streets when a car rushes out or even when he just senses its coming. Reaching the intersection the woman takes a right turn into a narrow street strewn with pointed green stones. The man turns right, the sun is coming up in the distance, on his left. His old bicycle starts showing its color. It’s a cheap green paint, overlaid with tens of layers using an all-purpose brush. The rim as well as the handlebar and the mud flap are painted the same color, although the paint layer is apparently thinner. The man uses his left hand to pull down his sweater, widening its visible holes and exposing the faded blue of the shirt beneath it. At the intersection where the yellow lights are flashing, he honks the horn, but at this time of morning his too soft honking is drowned out by a variety of sounds of the small street – of the car engines, of music coming out from the refreshment shops’ radio sets, of the street peddler, of people calling each other. At the small bus stop on the sidewalk a crowd of people—a crowd of silhouettes – are standing waiting for the bus. In the twilight they look as if they were wearing a uniform, the color of their skin mingled with that of their clothes, and the thought of his two older sons flits through his mind. The woman jogs indifferently along with the heavy load across the shoulder. However, whenever her feet step on the sharp stones on the street she can’t help frowning in pain. The sun can be seen from the city by now. The facades along the streets start showing their multifarious paint and brightly decorated signs. The street lights seem to have gone out a long time ago without his knowing it. Maybe they went out together the very moment he made an extraordinary effort to honk his horn really hard, or the moment he thought of his older sons, of his wife on the road with her usual load on the shoulder. His green bicycle pushes its way through other kinds of vehicles, moving ever more slowly on this bustling part of the street. Its creaking seems to have long stopped amidst the daytime sounds of the city, sounds that get more and more confusing and indistinguishable. The man cycles on leisurely and at a steady pace, in the smog and dust. His skin is dark, sunburnt, his high cheekbones and hollow cheek don’t make his gaunt face effeminate: they produce the opposite effect. He’s wearing a military cap, of a faded color but not torn yet. He looks like an old veteran of a defeated army, but that’s not the case, for he has never enlisted into the army. The woman puts down her load on the sidewalk and sits down on the ground to take a rest. The sun behind her back is rising, glowing red. The man keeps cycling in the street increasingly crowded with vehicles. He turns left at an intersection. The sun shines right in his face, so with his left hand he pulls down his military cap in order to stop some of the sunlight , and he also pulls his sweater further down without any purpose.
For quite a while he worries about all sorts of problems, about, say, a shelter from the rain. But it’s not rain. It’s just morning dew, or perhaps it’s just his impression. The woman heads to the back of the house, groping for a box of matches. Ahead of the man is the direction of the sunrise, but the sun hasn’t risen as yet, for he has, as usual, left home before dawn. He has stealthily got out of the mosquito net, then walking barefoot in the dark, he inched towards the back of the house, and groped for a box of matches. He had moved about quietly like that until he closed the door with his hand and walked his bicycle to the gate. Now he is able to start avoiding the bumps and potholes in the road. Behind the city where the lights are gradually fading the red sun seems to be already giving signs of rising. He’s no longer riding his bicycle in a straight line, but now he turns the handlebar to the left, now to the right, getting it back on track, his movements being automatic and deft. On either side of the road the foliage of the last uncared-for gardens finally appear dimly in a faded crimson, then he begins to enter a heavily populated area. The houses of the neighboring compound, their doors still closed, look dark on the glowing horizon. From a few small windows, rare yellow lights are projected – pale streaks of light dragging all along the deserted road which begins to narrow where the man passes by. But he has no time to look at the early morning activities inside the houses. He continues pedaling at a steady pace, not very fast. The woman fills the kettle with water, puts the scoop back down, then brings the pot in to place it on the stove. More than eight times giving birth makes her look older than her age. The last son, the remaining one, is still asleep. The man pulls in to the curb close to the façade of a roadside house in order to avoid the two bright yellow headlights of an army truck dashing by. He is able to have a fleeting glimpse of a seething mass of heads but he doesn’t have the time to make sure they are service men. In the early morning silence of a suburb, the piercing honking of the army truck sounds like an insulting shout. The man takes fright at the thought that he has just caused the whole district to wake up with a start. He is scared but the scare disappears in no time on the face used to quickly regaining composure. Two years ago, his daughter, the only child that he and his wife had managed to send to school, was run over and killed near this district. It’s been two years now. He rides his bicycle on the same road, and a shrill honking has many times reminded him of his hapless child. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on it, though. The first restaurants begin to appear with their pale white lights and with voices calling each other noisily. He goes past the smoky noodle carts and the crowded peddler stands. In front of him is the sun but at this time of the early morning it hasn’t risen yet over the lowest houses of the city. He can only see a dark pink space that gets more and more pale as it spreads upwards in the distance, and innumerable street lights are still shining, casting innumerable dark shadows on the surface of the road. His old bicycle has run over these dark shadows so many times in the morning. At this moment the woman closes the wooden door gently as he did a while ago and carries the goods to the gate. He youngest son is still asleep, and the sun still doesn’t make its appearance over the city. The man is riding his bike on the road leading to the factory, on either side of the street there are more restaurants which are more crowded with more shouts of names mixed with more deafening and excited honking. He can get a glimpse of the sunlight ahead as the sun appears behind the lowest roofs of the city. His face remains calm but its features cannot hide the alertness that manifests itself in his handling of the bike and his watchfulness. He has many times braked sharply in front of narrow side streets when a car rushes out or even when he just senses its coming. Reaching the intersection the woman takes a right turn into a narrow street strewn with pointed green stones. The man turns right, the sun is coming up in the distance, on his left. His old bicycle starts showing its color. It’s a cheap green paint, overlaid with tens of layers using an all-purpose brush. The rim as well as the handlebar and the mud flap are painted the same color, although the paint layer is apparently thinner. The man uses his left hand to pull down his sweater, widening its visible holes and exposing the faded blue of the shirt beneath it. At the intersection where the yellow lights are flashing, he honks the horn, but at this time of morning his too soft honking is drowned out by a variety of sounds of the small street – of the car engines, of music coming out from the refreshment shops’ radio sets, of the street peddler, of people calling each other. At the small bus stop on the sidewalk a crowd of people—a crowd of silhouettes – are standing waiting for the bus. In the twilight they look as if they were wearing a uniform, the color of their skin mingled with that of their clothes, and the thought of his two older sons flits through his mind. The woman jogs indifferently along with the heavy load across the shoulder. However, whenever her feet step on the sharp stones on the street she can’t help frowning in pain. The sun can be seen from the city by now. The facades along the streets start showing their multifarious paint and brightly decorated signs. The street lights seem to have gone out a long time ago without his knowing it. Maybe they went out together the very moment he made an extraordinary effort to honk his horn really hard, or the moment he thought of his older sons, of his wife on the road with her usual load on the shoulder. His green bicycle pushes its way through other kinds of vehicles, moving ever more slowly on this bustling part of the street. Its creaking seems to have long stopped amidst the daytime sounds of the city, sounds that get more and more confusing and indistinguishable. The man cycles on leisurely and at a steady pace, in the smog and dust. His skin is dark, sunburnt, his high cheekbones and hollow cheek don’t make his gaunt face effeminate: they produce the opposite effect. He’s wearing a military cap, of a faded color but not torn yet. He looks like an old veteran of a defeated army, but that’s not the case, for he has never enlisted into the army. The woman puts down her load on the sidewalk and sits down on the ground to take a rest. The sun behind her back is rising, glowing red. The man keeps cycling in the street increasingly crowded with vehicles. He turns left at an intersection. The sun shines right in his face, so with his left hand he pulls down his military cap in order to stop some of the sunlight , and he also pulls his sweater further down without any purpose.
This is the last part of his daily
trip to the factory. The activities of the streets around this factory are
too frantic and the speed of the old
bicycle and of the man himself invariably accentuate and render more miserable
his impression, his belief even, that he
is being left behind. He thinks of the woman who has lived with him and
mothered his eight children, of the little house in the remotest area of the
remotest suburb, of the children who now have their own lots, of the road he
has travelled on morning and evening, of the waste lands on either side of the
empty road, of the hot sunny spells, of the noonday stays at the factory, the
community eating houses, the refreshment bars catering for the working class
people….
On the mornings when he sets out long
before the sun rises, shivering on the old bicycle that bears many different
coats of paint, passing by forsaken gardens, by trenches filled with dead
leaves, through quiet grey areas below the glowing horizon at dawn, by
blackened factories with high chimneys about to belch out smoke, by bustling
business sectors sprawling near the city
center and around the factory, the man usually doesn’t fail to think of his
family, of his children’s different pitiful destinies, of his wife who together
with him has struggled for his large family- the family where each child has
found it necessary to go away to earn a living. He thinks of all those things
but his face remains calm, his legs pedal steadily, and the bicycle seems to
move more slowly as he approaches the factory, or so he thinks. The woman is
now threading her way through the crowd, her load pointed forward opening up a
path to the remotest place in the corner of the market. Her skin is dark,
sunburnt, her high cheekbones and hollow cheek don’t make her gaunt face effeminate – they produce the opposite
effect.She’s wearing a piece of white cloth over her head in place of her old
piece of striped cloth : perhaps she means to stay in mourning for her eldest
son who has recently been killed in action. She’s wearing a black aodai but
nobody will recognize it is black, for it has faded into an undefined color.
The man gets off his bicycle in front of the factory gate and walks it toward
the small drive on the left.
The man is sitting at the round table
covered by a piece of sheet metal with
an iced glass of tea on it. What happened in the factory in the morning is more
than he can bear, and he can’t remain calm. The loaf of bread stuffed with what
looks like meat is still intact in his hand. The military cap is over the knee,
barely covering up the patch stitched up last week. Around him in the small
refreshment bar are workers in the same factory…..The man now and then glances
at them affectionately but fearfully and he can’t hide his fear indeed. What
happened in the factory this morning… The woman is at this moment preparing to
go home, the market people are thinning out and it’s already noon. The man
didn’t have the courage to talk to people working in the factory, being afraid
to say something he knew for sure wasn’t right. The traffic in the street was
thinning out but he didn’t pay any attention to that. When the factory siren
went off, he saw everybody stand up and head for the gate of the factory, then
disperse into the restaurants for the working class people. He also stood up
and joined them, dazed and listless because he didn’t have the courage. Around
him people were discussing the strike, some being opposed to it, others in
favor, and they were arguing and joking. He couldn’t have been more brave, when
for the first time in his life he did something beyond his capability this
morning -- he went and sat with his fellow workers on the steps of the big
building in the factory. He found himself in too difficult a situation since he
has a house to prop up, a family to keep, especially the youngest son, the boy
that survived from his wife’s eight times of giving birth - the boy that he
couldn’t bring himself to allow to be killed on the battlefield like the other
sons of his. The words this morning of
those he knows did at first comfort and persuade him, but at moments like this
when he is alone, when he can only see the dismal picture of his and his wife’s
hard times, he feels miserable and worried, as if he was going to lose
something irretrievable. He thinks of the afternoons when it’s time to stop
work, and the spectacle of tired people- his fellow workers- pushing their way
to their old bicycles to get them to go
home. He thinks of the bustling streets, sunlit restaurants, roads cut by
innumerable diagonal stripes of shade that his old green bike has run over for
myriads of times in the afternoon. He thinks of the trail in the quiet
district, the factories bathed in the glowing afternoon sun with their tall
chimneys, he thinks of the forsaken garden, the smell of the dried grass on
either side of the street, the rain that comes suddenly at this hour of the
afternoon, and the sun that shines right in his face on sunny days.
The woman is jogging lightly with her
empty load on the short road home. As the sun is leaning toward the west, the
very short shadow of the woman with the
empty market baskets is moving on the ground on her left. The man
watches his fellow workers standing up one after another and slowly heading for
the factory gate. His cap is still on his knee, big enough to hide the piece of
cloth recently stitched up. He tries not to show his sadness but his worries
have reached such an extent that he can’t hide it any more. In front of him,
over the sidewalk the sun casts shadows almost
two meters long: silently estimating the time of day, he tries to
imagine what’s going to happen. He remembers, to his surprise, seeing
enthusiastic faces by his side on the lowest step of the big building in the
factory, the young workers. He doesn’t believe he didn’t understand anything,
but actually he really didn’t understand anything. For he has come over to
their side – the soul mates’ – with deathness in his heart. The showers that
occasionally overtake him on the way
home, in front of the uncared-for gardens with strong iron fences, the late
home comings on an empty stomach due to flat tires, past cold and empty roads
when the sun has completely gone down, all those things are now nothing to complain about. The factory workers one
after another get back in, the customers are thinning in the restaurants for
working class people which are closing. The man stands up wearily and walks
across the street. Beyond the iron gate many people have returned and are now
sitting on the steps of the big building, some speaking, gesticulating
heatedly, saying words inaudible to him from where he is standing. They are so
numerous and perhaps most of them don’t know who he is, though he is going to
join them once again. He comes near the iron gate, goes through the small door
on the left and looks in. Suddenly he finds himself so subdued, so little, so
insignificant. He meant to give up but he doesn’t want to any more. The woman
turns right into a small alley in the remotest area of the remotest suburb, on
either side of the alley are opposing facades that are close togethrer. The
slanting sun throws her elongated shadow in front of her with her headscarf and
her baskets. The man looks listlessly into the factory, at the grass court, at
the steps. He intended not to join them, his beloved ones, those very close to
him, but he actually did. He approaches the small door on the left, and pushes
it with the hand still holding the uneaten loaf of bread, and steps in. He
heads for the grass court , unconcernedly, or he just puts on an air of unconcern
while in fact his mind is whirling from
unenlightened, simpler thoughts, together with the image of his small house, of
the older sons who have been killed in action, of the other children who have
left home to earn their living in
faraway places, of the daughter who has got killed on her way to the city, and
of the youngest son, the surviving one that he couldn’t bring himself to send
to death on the battle field. The sun
now casts the shadow of the biggest building of the factory over more than half
of the grass court, he goes and sits in the last row in the area not yet shaded
from the sun. In front of him are long lines of workers sitting opposite other
workers, that is, opposite the steps of the biggest buildings. He goes and sits
down there together with them, those who refuse to work, but he’s not like
them, he knows that, for he can by no means hide his worries.
The sun is now going down, throwing
the shadow of the entire building over the whole of the grass court and the man
has just finished his bread. Around him the conversations get louder and
louder, and people get more and more enthusiastic about their stories – stories
that are really confidential, really personal, or so they seem to him. Beyond
the fence traffic becomes heavier and on the sidewalks pedestrians are moving
more busily amidst the smog and dust. In front of him the high doors of the
facades are still closed behind the crowd sitting on the steps who start to
have bolder gestures accompanying words he can’t hear from where he’s sitting.
Some tell him or he hears them tell each other that the strike is doomed to
failure. Others hope there will be changes though those doors haven’t as yet
been opened. The woman pours water into the pot with freshly washed rice in it
and puts it on the stove. She looks out at the shadow of the roof cast on the
alley, apparently to tell the time. The
man wants to find someone he knows well to ask for some information , but till
this moment of the strike he simply can’t find anyone in too big a factory like
this one where he is too insignificant a manual laborer. He looks at the grass
court swarming with heads, at the steps fully occupied, at the big buildings
and the other ones in the factory and he has a feeling of anxiety as if he was
going to lose something – something to which he has so far been clinging in
order to survive. He hasn’t found anyone, and the sun is going to disappear
behind the lowest roofs of the city. A wind seems to be blowing over before he
gets the impression that the rain is coming to the city. No wind is blowing
over. It’s just wishful thinking.
When the man on his old green bicycle
gets to the street in front of the forsaken gardens the afternoon rain begins
to fall, but the sun still shines straight in his face at this place.
Translated
from the Vietnamese
By
HoàngThạchThiết
