Bên kia sông - Thạch Lam

Thạch Lam

The other side of the river

My hometown was just another sub-mountainous district of the country, I wouldn't say there was anything special about it. It wasn't too big, yet richly populated. Commerce was always good thanks to the crossing railway and a tributary of the Nhi River providing the waterways. The town actually comprised of only one street, with the railway on one side and a block of houses on the other, thatch-roofed and either wood- or earth-walled, and some stores that villagers opened to sell stuffs. But the two two-storey brick houses were really huge: the trading companies that some Khach or Chinese settlers set up long ago, controlling all the better trades in the district. One or two Khach was always there behind the wooden counter doing their maths over the abacus, while the owner himself, well-fed and rosy and glossy-headed, sat imperiously in his armchair, lighting up his makhorka all the time. Those foreigners and their huge stores were my first 
perceptions of wealthiness since they made me think of a remote place, or even a weird land where they came from. I would stand there for several hours watching them--their movements and behaviours, their sing-song dialects--and wondered how in the world this strangeness came to be.

I was only thirteen at the time. My parents had moved from Hanoi due to their business failure--this district was my father's birthplace after all-- just two years ago. We settled down in a small three-room house in the heart of the street, which faced the railway against some rice paddies. My mother arranged a small shop to sell things to the country people in the surrounding villages who flocked to the district town whenever a Phien market, a marketplace that was scheduled every few days or once a week came about. The market took place in the very heart of the street and it was quite messy with sweeties shops, rice shops and egg-plant shops and all those bamboo sticks and baskets struggling for some sort of order among the two rows of stalls. Against a blue sky the noises of the marketplace, unmistakably peculiar, resounding and consuming, raised themselves from the crowd like a fire and pervaded the whole district; it was a mess of actions and joys and colors, mingled with lights and laughters and even swears as sharp as weapons battling in the air.

That was all about my hometown, a sub-mountainous district called Van Duong, of which a poet from my family lineage had composed these verses:

Van Duong's pretty, then why is she so sad?
They are all after her, things aren't that bad
Her waterfront's full of boats
Her railway station's busy with loads

I spent my boyhood here, jumping and jiving like a bird in the embrace of life, being all eyes for sights, all ears for sounds and a whole nose for smells, of sand and earth and those burnt leaves that the misty winds brought into town from the village end every evening.

The whole marketplace and its alleys and open grounds were as familiar to me as those old furniture at home. But across the river towards the administrative house, about half a mile from the  market itself, was the land of secrets and mysteries. The townsfolk called it Sen terminal, and the small stream that embraced the land Sen river. It was a hamlet of about a dozen of households, half hidden among the lush greens of trees and pierced by a stone-paved road that stretched to nowhere. Beyond it was a forsaken field with lots of graves and pine-apple clusters; there was a small levee and a line of trees on one side, while on the other a rock pillar graced the winding path into a village known for its divine banyan tree, which proved its hundreds of years of age in its huge hanging roots, as wide as several arm's lengths and so confusing nobody could tell which of them was the original trunk. Not far from there, an unattended grave boasted several stone statues covered by pale moss and thick grass, while the two pine trees aside rose into the sky to make themselves one of the landmarks of the region.

A wooden bridge that was on the verge of collapsing, prompting the government's abandoning crossed the river and connected Sen terminal to the town market. On the rare occasions that I made my trip there, I would always walk the bridge in terrors; the old termite-fed planks trembled with every step I made, and through the wide gaps I was able to see a darkish river flow. The occasions of a Sen visit were really rare since people on this side of the river wouldn't associate with those yonder. Sen terminal belonged to a different province, called Bac; gangs had often robbed the district town then withdrew there to hide from prosecution, which made the place seem to me even more exotic. The townsfolk would talk in low voices about what had just happened there; whenever a Sen being came over, all the eyes would be fixed upon him as if he were from the moon.

One day a silver-bearded man visited my family; he had some rice wine with my father and then they exchanged their poems. When I learned that he was from Sen I could not help but stare at him in admiration, while my mother added up to it, saying he was a well-versed scholar from a village on the other riverside, which held very high reputation since it once produced as many as eighteen doctors in the national literary competitions. When he left for home I saw him to the very bridge, then I stopped and watched him spread his umbrella and disappeared into the horizon.

The Sen land kept haunting my teenage mind. I would climb a mound in the backyard and look over to the other side of the river, viewing the several roofs hidden among the trees, that lonely inn and the line of trees along the levee, and the road that stretched to nowhere, maybe to a faraway place beyond the blurred hills in the horizon. For a boy of delta birth like me, being so used to the flat sceneries of muddy waters, the hillside was an irresistable call. When the sunlights were transparent enough one of the hills would turn crimson-red against the evening sky. One could easily see a cluster of trees on the hilltop, which my mother said was a pagoda called Thien Thai. Thien Thai! That mystic divine name made me think of those wonderful heavens where gods played their games and which my father would speak of when he told me his tales. I would then linger till the sun went down to see the whole place blaze up in the dying twilights, then it was dusk and there were only colors left in the clouds, and the range of houses would blur into the earth while the two pine trees would rise and silhouette against a pale sky.

###

In the end I managed to pay Sen quite a few visits. It was thanks to a schoolmate of mine named Tien. I was nearing the end of my third year when Tien joined my class. I immediately loved him; Tien was a slim good-looking child with big eyes and fair skin and silky hair. I loved Tien like I would a girl; he was kind-hearted and so very gentle and generous to his friends. But those good traits would pale in comparison to the fact that he came from across the river; I was attracted to him for that reason. It made him no ordinary boy to me. I got on really friendly terms with him, seeing him to the bridge every afternoon when we finished our classes.

One Sunday Tien invited me home. I was overjoyed as if we were about to start an adventure; it would actually be the first time I crossed the river. Tien walked me over the bridge; we stopped midway to lean against the walls and looked down onto the stream; traders' boats were jam-packed along the bank, with children playing inside and a dog curling on the roof top. They came from Bac province, carrying many rare goods. Tien pointed to the boats and said to me, "When we moved here from Bac, we were going on one of these boats".

I glanced at Tien and was about to ask him about that remote Bac town but I stopped it. Tien held my hand and took me off the bridge to the Sen street. His house was towards the end of it and adjacent to the baren field. I saw a miscellaneous store like my mother's, only smaller. On the elevated plank beyond the counters sat a silver-haired woman counting her bank notes, loking really kind-hearted. When she saw us coming in she put on a bright expression and said, "Where have you been boy?"

Tien was wiping off the sweats with his sleeve when he replied, "Grandmother, I've just been back from the market place".

She noticed me hiding behind Tien's back so she said, "You must want some drink now. And you, boy, please come in. It's a hot sun out there, aren't you tired from the trip? 

The old woman's voice was gentle and sweet which pleased me and cheered me up. 

Tien took me into a scarcely furnitured living room with all the old and cheap facilities. We had hardly sat down when in walked a girl of about fifteen years of age. I knew it was Tien's elder sister since she looked exactly like him, with the same fair skin and huge eyes. At the sight of her brother a smile blossomed on her rosy lips, it was the most charming I had ever seen.

"So you've been back home, brother?" she said.

Her voice was as gentle as the old woman's, only more refined. Thuy came to our side and tended her brother. I was awed at her beauty, my stomach churning; even at that age I knew I was being treated with something rare and precious and so fragile it may vanish in no time.

When Thuy placed her hand on my shoulder I felt a shudder in my body as if I was already loving her. 

"So you're Tien's classmate?" she said.

"Yes, sure" I replied.

Thuy touched my hair gently and said, "You're such a good boy". Then she went on, "Won't you stay and play with him and have some cakes too. Tien, I saved your cakes on the table over there".

Thuy wouldn't have the cakes but she sat and watched us eat; I could tell how she loved her brother and I was jealous wirh Tien for owning such a gorgeous and caring sister. But she asked me questions too and I gave her my merriest answers, which were empty in nature except for the eagerness to hear her gentle and refined voice talk back.

When we finished our cakes Tien took me to the grave-yard in the back of the house. Here I was finally in the land of secrets, with the two pine trees and hidden stone statues in my reach. In the wind the pine trees sounded like an exotic song from a different world, and that inn beside the rock pillar in the middle of the windy field looked like it was expecting guests from another time to stop by. 

From then on I would visit Sen very often. I wanted to be close to the florae of the land which seemed to be of a different soul than my side of the river. I wanted to see Thuy all the time and hear her voice and watch her pretty mouth part itself against her coal-black teeth. I even found the old woman interesting. I didn't know Tien's family really well but I could see that permanent nostalgia on their faces which made them even more lovely.

I believed they had prior to this settlement lived a rich and adventurous life, which one could tell from such antiques as the curved sword, the bronze instrument and the jade tortoise, all kept in an old cupboard the paint coat of which had broken. And how they differed from the happy simple folks on my side; Thuy and Tien both had pale skin, slim limbs, delicate manners and soft voices unlike those rosy, sturdy beings opposite my house. I thought it was because of the mysterious land they lived on, or maybe because they were unusual already so they sought such a place. 

I became really close to Tien; I was actually made another member of the family. Thuy treated me like she did her brother, with care and love. Many a time she let me lie on her lap and rubbed my hair and asked me considerate questions. After all the years I still remember the moments I looked up at her deep eyes and tiny mouth, while she tried to sooth my forhead which was heated from playing in the sunny field. I still bear in mind the figure of a lovely and fragile girl who rose from my childhood like a  blessed fairy against an exotic scenery.

Before long, however, I had to part with my little friend; my parents moved back to Hanoi and I had to join them. The last time I was at Sen with Tien, it was chilly and colorless. We paid our last visit to the stone statues who still sat still in the grass. It was about time to say maybe our last goodbye but we were too young to feel the sadness. Then Thuy patted me on the shoulder and gently said, "If ever I could see you again..."

Suddenly I was really moved. My eyes were full of tears and I cried on Thuy's shoulder.

###

There's an end to every tale. I wouldn't be able to come back to Van Duong until ten years later. The scenery had changed into 
a busier market street with blocks of new tile-roofed houses. The shop owners were now aged, their hair and beard going white and in their place were now my very old classmates, who looked like total strangers to me. 

I came over to the other side of the river; the metal bridge had collapsed on a stormy night and had never been repaired since the route to Bac was scarcely traversed. A ferry was now in use. I crossed the river at sunset when the mist was going down in a tangle with the cooking smoke from dock boats.  I was about to only see the destructive work of time: the other riverside was but a baren forsaken land with grass thriving on the old floors. A collapsing inn was to be seen beside the banyan roots. A whole street had vanished and there were only battered trees here and there. But the tree range along the levee was still present along the winding path that led to nowhere, with darkness overwhelming and nobody to be seen till the horizon. 

I didn't dare to venture further; saddened, I came back to the boat, crossing the gloomy misty river. I didn't ask the ferry man about the whereabouts of the previous settlers, I thought he didn't know either. At the sight of the moss-covered black-bricked bridge base, I thought of my little friend, of Thuy and her lovely feminine ways, of the melancholy that was ever present on her face, which I now knew was to mask some painful twist of fate. Her eyes had been the purifying horizon that revealed to me the after-taste of life.

Whem I was ashore I would turn my head for a last glimpse of the tree range, the inn, a village in the shadows of the remote mountains; the other side of the river held no more secrets, all I felt was the sadness of a poor land.