I was startled when I heard the name of Kim Oanh announced as one of the artists performing today. It had been quite a long time, about 15 years or so, since I'd met her last. But I had frequently seen and heard her sing on television, in particular in performances during national holidays. She seemed to be leading a happy life, having a great time with name and fame.
And I, I was like an insect, an ant or a bee which has to face up to a biting winter no sooner than it comes out of a burning summer. I am a cadre in an office whose leaders are regarded as a source of strategic strength for the Party and the State. These leaders are used to opening their arms wide to talk with the world and with the Party Central Committee, but they seem not even to worry about a shortage of electric lighting, and all year round residents have to carry water from the public taps. These hardships are but a trifling matter for these leaders, and never do they mind it. So I have to bend my back double to support my small family, and can afford no time to visit her. On the other hand, if I do meet her, I am sure to have nothing to talk about. Also, I am of the view that my time is better spent to support the weak, not the strong. I do come to the aid of friends in difficulties and have always tried to find ways to help in any small way that I can, but I would never approach those enjoying good fortune in the hope of receiving some assistance.
Of course, Kim Oanh and I have never talked of anything, or harboured any attitude, however momentary, intentional or otherwise, that could offend each other.
I remember meeting her when she'd just left the music school. As I looked with admiration at the epaulets on her jacket lapels that ranked her as a junior lieutenant, she surprised me by confiding that she had a new man in her life.
After graduating from the Polytechnic University, her sweetheart found a job immediately as an engineer in the army, yet his talent drew him to literature and art. His poems, prose and even music made the Truong Son Range much greener at a time when the area was being subjected to relentless firing from the air. And her singing voice was like an expansive carpet of happiness that invited encouraged listeners audience to step on it, or encouraging them to up the hills and down the valleys, weathering all storms, treating death as lightly as a feather, and marching joyously to the battlefront.
But the roots of love do not stem from individual success. They were mistaken. Before they had enough time with each other to have a child, they were preparing to bid each other farewell, not able to see beyond their respective egos. Both of them expected to take the other for granted, a part of his or her body, an object that he or she owned that, once placed in the drawer, should lie motionless and intact until it was picked up again, no matter how much time it took.
After the divorce, Kim Oanh told me: "I feel a sense of relief, you know. As if I have just escaped danger. Fortunately, I am still young. There is nothing to tie us together." She sang a little bit, smiling, and walked away as if everything in the world was beautiful, like a song.
Two years later, her voice had become perfect. It could be heard often on radio and television and in live music program. It was as though she could, if she wished, stir up a storm in the hearts of the audience, not just in her own and neighbouring countries, but also further afield. They called her the harbinger of peace, of love and of happiness.
When we met at this stage in her life, she said: "I don't need a man with talent or of great intellect anymore. I'll marry a very normal man." I sighed, but remained silent. I might be a close friend, but it is difficult to offer any advice, particularly to those who are great and famous, and who are more used to giving orders than to listening.
She did it. Married a musician, a very normal man who knew his place was in the sidelines and was comfortable with having a very talented wife. She married a man with whom there was no need to quarrel about anything. He was a soldier obeying his commander's orders.
Now she could perform at will, and was free to travel to her heart's content. On her numerous trips abroad, she brought home both spiritual and material wealth. He built a three-storied house, constantly changing its interiors to suit current trends.
However, family happiness cannot be created or confined within walls of modern homes. A larger house can allow stronger winds to blow through and create greater distances between friends. As the days, nights, weeks and months passed, he tried to escape from his loneliness by turning to alcohol and cigarettes, and going out with an assortment of friends to one bar and restaurant after the other. It did not really work, and his drinking increased steadily. Soon, he was not only addicted to alcohol and cigarettes, but also to the hands massaged him and provided other services as well. Many times, he'd had his arms around a bevy of women as he watched his wife singing on television.
And she'd forgotten that she had a husband in the true sense of the word. After many happy, but tiring trips, she would arrive at home, clothes drenched with sweat. She would wipe away a thick layer of make-up from a face that had already been touched with crow's feet. She'd give him all the money, and after proffering a few words of advice, would go up to the bedroom and sleep soundly, reassured. And off on another trip. It got to a stage where he did not want her to be home so that he could go out and lose himself in soft voices and hands that would caress him. And he kept spending the money she'd given him. Not only did he spend all the money, he also began pile up debts as he plunged deeper into addiction, until one day, he forgot his way home.
I went into a small room, about ten square metres, where an artist could relax before stepping on to the stage. She was sitting with her chin cupped in her hands, staring absent-mindedly at the space filled with noises of a city racing into nothingness. She was wearing a very thin dress, her face was wonderfully made up, highlighting two bright eyes and rosy cheeks, making me wonder that she'd not changed in fifteen years, and had even become more beautiful and elegant.
In a moment, we were transported to our past. "You, oh, God, it's such long a time. How many years, do you remember? I'd forgotten you!"
I smiled at her sincerity. She pulled me down on the seat opposite her. Looking closely at my face, she chattered: "You've got grey hair? Great! I thought there would be nothing in this world that could make your hair grey. You live like a model. You love your friends, you love your wife and children. You have devoted yourself totally to your family and office. Wow!" And she joyfully started singing a parody of ca tru (a folk song):
The hair is different, but the heart remains unchanged... Then abruptly, she stopped and announced: "I'm going to go to the court to get a divorce."
She told me about the men in her life, livid with resentment: "All of them are ill-bred. Some are thirsty for talent, others for wealth. I cannot bear it. Its high time that I lived alone. Oh, God! Why am I so miserable!"
I found it painful. I felt sorry not just for her, but for a whole generation which was closely bound to certain roots. Suddenly a song that my neighbour often sang came to mind. I'd always found it depressing, but it matched the mood this time.
... If you come back to the old place
The streets have now changed a lot
I pity you for half your life's in ruin
I pity myself for a whole lifetime in exile...
She was very sensitive. As if she'd read my mind, her lament subsided quickly like a summer rainstorm. She took my shoulders, looked into my eyes and rubbed her head against my forehead. Then she stood up and continued singing gently the part I'd just remembered.
...So remote is that hopeless place
Missing you has made my hair grey
"Yes, it's my turn to sing now!" - She walked out.
I remained sitting in the room, wondering how she could sing when so many emotions were surging through her: sadness, hatred, confusion. She hated not just one man, but all men. And people said that man occupies half of a woman's life. And others even claimed that women is only a broken fragment of man!
It had been a long time since I'd had the opportunity to listen to her singing live, and I had been waiting for that day. But now I did not want to listen to her. I was afraid that she could fail on the stage, afraid that I would hear only a scattering of applause. I decided to sit in the room for sometime and leave through the rear entrance.
But when she walked on to the stage and bowed, the applause was loud and long. She began singing. I heard it as if it was coming from the air, from space, from the old days, from our childhood, echoing the pledges, vows and rows that pulled us near and pushed us away, leaving us looking for that which was pushing us far away, that was pulling us near, forcing us to plunge into the sea to look for a needle. She was singing... no, she was not singing. She was giving herself up to the passion of love.
Plenty of oil, but nobody to light up
Plenty of corncobs, but nobody to roast
Plenty of coal, but nobody to fan a flame
Plenty of money, but nobody to spend it..."
Vi dam! (An amorous duet) She was singing vi dam. Vi dam had always tied me up. I went out. She was beautiful and brilliant. Her eyes were so tender and fresh, like the Lam river in the morning. They seemed to hypnotise the people. They flashed questions that had all men, me included, bend their heads guilt for betraying their love, begging to be forgiven and to come together again...
As she finished, the applause was deafening. People rushed on the stage with bouquets of flowers and compliments. Tears welled up in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks...
I walked slowly down Quan Su street back to my house. One question was burning within: How could she sing so beautifully despite her broken heart, her resentment, her hatred? Just then, she caught up with me on her motorcycle.
"Please, let's go and have a drink. I'm so thirsty!"
"Sure, I also want to ask you a question."
We sat in a cafe. She ordered two cups of iced coffee, and stirred her glass to make the ice melt quickly. Her face showed that the joy in her heart was melting at a much faster pace...
"I'm sorry, my question is a little bit trite, but I have to ask. How could you sing so beautifully when you're so angry, so full of hatred against men?"
She shook her head. "Don't think I am being deceitful or flattering when I say this. I did feel that I sang very well this evening. But I was able to do it because I met you. Don't laugh! Don't be so hasty in pouring scorn on me. I am telling you this from the bottom of my heart. When I met you, someone who I'd not thought of all these years, I returned to the days of our youth. We were very poor, but our life was afire with enthusiasm and passion, rich in trust. The flame had been lit inside me when I walked on the stage... I was not singing, I was letting my emotions pour out..."
She went on and on. I cannot remember all of it, but I realised that when she'd walked on to the stage today, there was a moment of enchantment that only a genuine artist can catch.
Translated by Manh Chuong
