A Unique Love Letter
Phan Vũ
Two Vietnamese ladies sat on the yellow sand of Huntington Beach, Thủy and her 12-year old daughter Aimée, their eyes following some white and grey seagulls near a bunch of bathers’ food. The birds tried to pick food out of plastic bags.
“Mom, the sea water’s pretty cold,” said Aimée, just coming from the sea.
“Change your clothes,” softly said her mother. “It’s late, the sun going down to the horizon.”
“Why do you like watching the sunset, Mom?” her daughter went on, “Does it remind you of something?”
After a long silence, she replied, “Yes. Your father.”
“What’s his name and how was he?”
“Your dad’s name was Long. To me, he was a charming lover, a hero, and a patriot.”
“What happened to my daddy?”
“It happened on a late afternoon of 1972 Easter when your mom was reading your dad’s first letter…” She sighed instead of weeping as years earlier. “That day, I didn’t see the sun disappear below the horizon like today, but the dark blue Trường Sơn Range, a natural border in the West of Vietnam.” At that moment some friends of Aimée’s called her.
“Mom, can I join them for a while?”
“Okay, but not too long.”
“Yes, Mom.”
The sea had been something very familiar and very dear to her, many years since. Thủy’s parents, grand-parents, and ancestors lived in Mỹ-Á Beach, one famous resort-village of fishers’ about 7 miles north of Tuy-Hòa District, Phú-Yên Province. No villagers knew who had planted thousand and thousand tall coconut trees. Their muted greens of vast foliage covered the whole coastal villages that stretched to Cù Mông Pass—Phú Yên was a valley-province between Cả Pass in the South and Cù Mông Pass in the North. Thủy remembered living, playing, and walking in the all-day shade and breathing in and out the fresh sea air that blew from the sea. She felt happy then, comparing the blue of the sea and the green of the coconut leaves.
Every morning Thủy and her mother came to the sea wharf to purchase fish from the in-coming fishing boats. Her mother used to choose big, tasty, and best-selling fish, such as big mackerel, halibut, red tilapia…while Thủy collected trash fish for her sow and its five piglets, and her poultry.
“Thủy, take this trash fish,” said to her a youth, robust, broad-chest, and smiling, one morning.
“How much?” asked Thủy.
“For free,” he replied, “you pay me next time.”
Next morning and many days on end, he refused to take her money. Thủy was wondering the reason. He spoke with a northern accent. He worked in the team of his father’s fishing boat. Later she found out his name was Long. His family and others, originated from Ba Làng, Thanh Hóa Province, had moved south to Mỹ Á Beach in 1943, due to a horrible famine in the Northern Vietnam. Father Đại, Vicar of Tuy Hòa Parish, settled down those catholic families in Mỹ Á Beach and helped them with means of fishing.
“Thủy, you know that boy’s house, don’t you?” asked her mother.
“No, I don’t.”
“His house was not far from ours,” her mother went on. “His father tore down his thatched house to build a big brick one last year because our villagers had a good season of fish catches.”
At home, Thủy put aside the trash fish and helped her mother arrange the purchased fish into two foamed tin-boxes fixed against both sides of the Honda motorbike luggage rake. To keep fish fresh, she put a block of ice on the top of each box before closing the box-top. They started and rode their Honda motorbike to Tuy Hòa market, mother and daughter, joking and laughing along the road with other fisher women. They were home in time for her mother to prepare lunch and for Thủy to cook pig food.
One morning Long bravely took her hand and put in it a six-pound mackerel. She was at a loss, her heart-pulse pounding while he held her hand for a while. Later on her way home, she was angry at her why she had not withdrawn her hand. She then felt pleased because that guy was handsome and polite.
“Thank you, Long,” she mumbled.
“I meet you here at 3:00, okay?” he asked tentatively.
“No. I am busy then.”
“So, I come to your house to help you, right?” he continued.
“Oh, no. My father’s strict. He scolds me.” She started to leave.
“Be here at 3:00,” he said after her, “I wait for you.”
The clock on her sitting-room wall stroke 3:00. Thủy was restless, going out of the door, then in back. He was waiting for me, she thought, should I go? Where was dad? Would he get angry at me? She seemed burning, her heart thumping.
“Mom, I go out to the beach,” she said, hastily making for the gate. Her mother eyed her running, smiling.
Reaching the beach, she looked for Long, shyly standing behind a coconut tree. She felt that everybody knew her intention: dating with a boy. Some children were swimming in the sea, splashing water to each other, and shouting noisily. A man, bared sun-tanned bust, wearing a conic, fan-palm hat was laying hot tar on his new round bamboo boat, placed overturned on the sand. Under the coconut shade two women were mending their fishing net. Suddenly she spotted Long sitting at a big coconut foot, his face turning around. He was searching for her. She slowly walked, evading the attention of those women. Upon seeing Thủy, Long hastily came near her, holding her hand and told her to sit down.
“Would you like to have cherimoya?” he handed her a glass of it. “My mom bought it yesterday.”
Thủy accepted without a word. “Taste it,” he said. “Is it sweet enough? I have more sugar.”
“It's okay. Thanks.” She looked at his lovely smiling face.
“How old is your sow?” he asked.
“Almost two years.”
“How big are its piglets?”
“About two pounds.”
“Are you gonna sell them?”
“Next month. But I keep another female piglet.”
When she finished her glass of cherimoya, she stood up, “I have to go home and my father might be home now.”
“Stay for a while,” he begged.
“No, I can’t.”
“I see you tomorrow evening right here at 6:00. Please be on time,” he said.
“No, I can’t.” She ran home, worried, and then pleased.
Stepping in the house, she ran into her mother. “You saw him, didn’t you?” her mother asked.
She did not answer, but she nodded. “That boy’s from a good family,” her mother went on. Thủy’s father was a barber. He rented a small shop at Mỹ A market. He worked 10 hours a day and seven days a week. He knew everyone in the village. During dinners, he used to talk with his wife about Long’s family. Thủy’s mother was willing to accept her daughter’s dating with Long.
The following morning, Thủy seemed braver to talk and smile with Long when he handed her the trash fish.
“I cannot see you this evening because I have to prepare dinner for my parents at that time. Sorry,” she said.
After dinner, her father murmured into his wife’s ears, “This morning I did a haircut to a stranger I haven’t seen before.”
“Is he from the stronghold in the mountain?” she asked.
“Maybe, I’m not sure.”
“During the night, I heard a lot of dog barking afar in the outskirt of the strategic hamlet,” she said. “I’m scared.”
“Do not worry,” her husband assured her. “Our local armed forces take ambush every night.”
It was raining the following morning. The sea was rough. Fishermen could not go out fishing. They stayed home, mending their net or relax. Thủy’s father got many customers for haircut, busy all the time. Thủy set an earthen stove with burning charcoal and some small tables and wooden stools in a shed next his father’s. On the grill cuttlefish and dried fish noisily broiled, their tasty delicious aroma beckoning his father’s hungry customers to have some shot of sticky rice wine and grilled cuttlefish or fish before haircut.
“Thủy, how much do you hire this young helper,” asked a friend of his fathers’, pointing to Long.
“He does the work Thủy’s father did when he courted her beautiful young mother,” chimed in another customer. Thủy’s face reddened, bending her head while Long hid a wry smile with his palm.
“My family will run out of rice if this storm lengthens two more days,” complained a middle-aged fisherman. “I’ve got four mouths to feed.”
“The radio weatherman has announced this morning that the wind and the rain will die down tomorrow.”
“Well, it could be because now the sky’s clearer than this morning,” an old man added, stepping out of the barber’s shop. He was the last customer of the day. Thủy and Long carried home all her stuffs.
“Thank you, Long. What time do you go to open sea tomorrow?”
“About 2:00 a.m. See you when I come ashore. ”
“Okay.”
A week after the storm, fishermen were lucky with good catches, including mackerel, blue runner, and anchovies. They took two days off work to have fun, but their wives were very busy, cleaning mackerel and drying them, and salting blue runner and anchovies to make fish sauce. Long and Thủy went fetching firewood in the forest-covered mountain chain from Trường Sơn Range, which stretched from the North to the Central Vietnam.
After one hour of climbing, they entered a dense spot of trees.
“There’s a fallen tree, Thủy,” said Long.
“It’s too big,” objected Thủy. “Here’s a dead small one. It’s four-inch diameter.”
“Okay.” They started cutting it down and sawed it into one-foot chunks. They tied them to the ends of Thủy’s carrying pole.
“Thủy, try the load to be sure it’s not too heavy for you to carry.”
“Well, I can carry it. Now we looked for your firewood.”
They found enough dead small trees for Long after a while. They began descending the mountain slope when the sun was at its zenith. They came to the ruined catholic chapel. The only remain was its façade looking straight to the rising sun. A French missionary found this platform land with an all-year-round spring and he built a small chapel as a retreat-resort. The two teens washed their faces and their hands before eating the sticky rice cake.
“Eat some more, Thủy,” said Long.
“I am full, thanks,”
“I like looking at your mouth chewing rice, especially your two rose lips,” teased Long.
“Stop saying non-sense or I go home first,” she protested.
“Okay. But watch your hand. There’s a scorch or a scratch, isn’t it?” Long grabbed her hand to see it and held fast.
“No, it’s not,” she replied calmly. “It’s a mud-smear.”
“I’ve seen your hand for the first time.”
“I don’t want you to see them,” she said and stood up. “Let’s go home.”
They went down to the beach. Long put the firewood load down on the sand and ran to the sea.
“Thủy, want a swim? The sea’s very cool.” She threw her firewood down and ran after him to the sea, forgetting her shyness. Two young people swam and dove in the clear blue water, shouting and plashing water.
“Let’s compete who’s diving longer, okay?” Long challenged.
“I’ll win for sure,” she boasted and she dove. He did after her. Long suddenly embraced her and covered her mouth with his. She pushed him out but in vain. He was stronger—she was subdued, tying her arms around his body. They rolled and rolled in the cool, clear and salty water, eyes closed, bodies excited and legs entwined. They emerged at last out of the water, exhaling strongly. However she felt embarrassed, leaving the beach with her firewood, without a word. Long felt extremely happy, walking after her, smiling.
That night Thủy could not sleep, rolling over and over in her bed, remembering the maleness, the body strength, the softness of his lips and the new desire in her body. She felt afraid of them, but queerly she wanted them more. She asked herself, “Is it love?” She chased that idea. She was eager to see the day dawn.
“Thủy, why are you up too early?” her mother asked suspiciously.
“I slept well last night, Mom.”
“By the way, your piglets are big enough for sale. Do you intend to sell them today?”
“I don’t know. It’s up to you, Mom.”
“Okay, I am gonna sell them today, however I want to keep one female. What’s your idea?”
“Fine. We keep the big female one,” she agreed.
Aimée came back to her mother who was sitting on a bath towel spread on the sand at Huntington Beach.
“Mom, what are you thinking about? Who are you smiling at?” her daughter Aimée asked. Startled and at a loss, Thủy mumbled, “Nothing. Nobody, my dear.”
“I’m hungry, Mom. Let’s go home,” her daughter begged. They shuffled on the sand to the parking lot. Before her eyes afar, rows of red-tiled roofing buildings separated by passageways bordered with palm trees and by green lawns contrasted with the blue sea doted with white sail boats. Her love to her unfortunate husband was still lingered in her soul.
“Mom, I think uncle Lộc’s waiting for us somewhere in front of our apartment,” her daughter reminded her. She did not answer. Lộc, an electronic technician had fallen in love with Thủy for years. He ardently proposed marriage to her many times. But she did not respond to him yet.
“Aimée, would you like a hot bowl of phở for dinner?”
“Yes, I would, Mom,” replied her daughter. “And you don’t have to cook the dinner.”
They were walking to their car. Trees and bushes were in lines and well taken care of, Thủy thought, while coconut trees in her home village grew at random. The sun slanted its golden rays on green lawns or palm foliage shades on car bodies. Thủy started the car and pulled out into the street, mingling into the heavy traffic of the Sunday evening. They reached home late, mother and her daughter.
“Aimée, review your lessons and do your homework.”
“Yes, Mom,” replied Aimée. Her mother prepared tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch. She put them into the fridge.
“How old were you and dad when you got engaged? Asked Aimée by surprise.
“I was 17 and your dad, 18,” answered Thủy. “The engagement ceremony was simple. It was a dinner at mom’s house where your dad’s parents sat with mom’s parents.”
“How was my grandparents’ house?” her daughter asked.
“Well, the house was not big. It had three rooms—one for grandparents, one for me, and the middle one for the sitting-room with an altar. The house faced the ocean, cooled by the sea wind. However the storm sometimes made me afraid because its strong wind brought rain into the house.” She went on, “On the engagement day there also was a celebration in the village temple where a classical drama was performed. Your dad’s parents and mom’s went seeing that drama.”
“Did you see it?”
“No, we did not. Your dad and I went to the sea shore and sat on a big rock, chatting. The moon slowly rose, a shining half-disk above Chùa Island flat top, two miles from the land.
Your dad told me, “I start loving you at the age of 18, like that moon rises today, the 18th of the lunar month.”
I added, “And I go on loving you with the moon’s course from the rising to the setting.”
“What a beautiful vow under the moon’s witness,” exclaimed Aimée.
“Then we, dad and mom, chased small crabs. There were a lot of them running faster than we did…Are you with me?” No answer. Looking at her daughter sleeping, she pulled the blanket up to Aimée’s chin. Her face had something familiar to her father—the eyes’ shape, the long eyebrows, the mouth…, she thought. She remembered the first kiss in the sea water. She still felt embarrassed. She lay in her comfortable bed with thick mattress, which reminded her of the bamboo mat. The nuptial night Long passionately made love to her on it. Now she still felt that happiness.
During one rainy night, dog barking followed by gun shots echoed throughout the hamlet, waking up villagers: nothing happened afterwards. As soon as Thủy’s mother stepped to the gate, she picked up a soiled envelope. She handed it to her husband.
Seeing that letter, he mumbled, trembling, “Vietcong’s taxes.” He read it and remembered it, without a word.
“I’ll tell you when the date comes,” he whispered into his wife’s ear. He stayed home the entire day, ruminating on the idea of “report or not report” to the authority. He pondered that his barber’s shop was vulnerable, that a guerilla in civil cloth, riding a motorcycle could throw a grenade into his shed and disappeared in a small alley. No one could see that fugitive.
On the dated day, Thủy rode the Honda motorcycle, carrying her mother to the market as usual. At the designated point, she told Thủy to stop the motorcycle and she got off at her daughter’s surprise.
“Thủy, go to that refreshment shed and wait for me.” The mother went up the mountain slope, her legs uncontrollably trembling, to the indicated sign. Turning left, she saw a flat granite rock. Furtively glancing around, she lifted it and put the envelope of money, the one she had received a month ago. She then dropped the rock back. She hurriedly left the place, like the ones fleeing phantoms.
“Mom, why did you get off at that place?” Thủy asked.
“Well, nothing, I took a pee,” she lied.
In the afternoon Thủy and her mother returned home late. At the money-dropping spot they saw many soldiers and local policemen. Thủy’s mother knew that some informant leaked the news to the police. The armed forces had planted an ambush and they caught the guerrillas collecting taxes.
“Thủy’s father, do you think the village government knows we paid taxes to Vietcong?” her mother asked.
“I don’t know. But there’s no trace, no mark on the envelope,” comforted her husband. She was somewhat relieved.
Two months flew by without any event. Thủy and Long saw each other every afternoon, raising pigs and poultry together, the preparations for their future wedding. However, one night a burst of gunfire was heard very near Thủy’s house. One man was shot dead just when he jumped over a cactus hedge-fence of a house.
“He could be a guerrilla, husband of the girl in that house,” Thủy’s father told his wife. “She was one of many pregnant girls without husband or missing husbands when the Republic government regained control of this province after the Geneva Accord.”
“That man might have visited his wife many times,” his wife added. “He was caught this time.”
“You’re right.” He went on, “The night security will get stricter.”
When Thủy met Long in the evening, she was informed that he would sign up for the regional forces. He would be sent to a three-month military training.
“Don’t worry, Thủy,” he consoled, “I won’t be out of the district. I’ll carry out my duty in the nearby coastal villages.” She was still anxious, restless.
Long’s military training was over. He came home stronger and more active. He was assigned to the local forces of the village. The two families got ready for their wedding.
Two months before 1972 Easter, Long walked his beloved bride to his father’s house during an open countryside wedding procession—groom’s parents, bride’s, their relatives, Long’s comrade in arms, their friends, and neighbors, making two parallel lines, applauded and cheered by curious, excited children. A band of musicians opening the way, the wedding guests, smiling or laughing, clad in white, blue, pink, red, green áo dài, shirts, and pants, waved through coconut trees, like a moving multicolored paper dragon, under the foliage shade and in the fresh sea wind.
Noisy with talk and laughter, the groom’s house was filled with alcohol smell and cigarette smoke. After about two hours, it got quieter so long as wedding guests, drunk and full started leaving for their home. Long and Thủy felt at ease, running down to the sea shore for their honeymoon night on the sea. They pushed a round bamboo-strip-braided boat out to the sea and sailed it with oars, reaching Chùa Island as they had planned before the wedding.
The sea was black. The sky was blue with a crescent moon and myriads of stars. Looking back to the villages, they saw tiny yellow lights standing out of the black blanket. Silence and desert around two lovers. They stared at each other, but they vaguely saw the features on their faces.
“Thủy, where are your eyes? I hardly see them.”
“Long, is this your ear? Let me touch it.” And they laughed. That’s nonsense. He embraced her, covered her mouth with his for a long long kiss.
“I love you, Thủy.”
“I love you, too, Long. I want to be with you all my life.”
“I’ll be your very good husband.”
“I’ll be your devoted wife.”
“The sky, the sea, the moon, and the stars will be the witnesses of our vows,” said Long. “My life started with the existence of those natural things because I am a fisherman. I enjoy living with fish, sea waves, and boat.”
“Wonderful idea,” exclaimed Thủy. “Long, the sea is very calm.”
“Yes. We feel a bit hot. Would you like coffee or sweet soup?
“Sweet bean soup, please.”
“I drink coffee.”
They kissed each other. First she was afraid of his movements, then slowly she co-operated with him because she really desired them—their repressed emotions, natural desires, being released in the open air and on the high sea, among desert-nature. They let their boat float with the waves, counting the stars, amazingly and happily shouting at the shooting ones.
The stars disappeared one by one. The sky got lighter. The day dawned when they rowed the boat back to the shore.
Time flew by as quickly as the horse raced by the window. Long’s seven-day leave came to an end. He had to report to his unit. The newly-weds lived with the bride’s parents. Thủy went to the market with her mother every morning. Long did not have a fixed schedule of duty—sometimes two or three days on end, sometimes he stayed home 24 hours. At home they were like lovebirds, together day and night. They cooked meals, ate food in the kitchen, and swam in the sea all together.
Late one evening, Long was strolling back home with his wife after a swim in the sea when he saw through the deepening rainy day twilight an old lady in black pajamas move a sedge mat above a burning mass of rice husk to intercept the spiral of smoke. So smoke-line was cut off in dots and dashes. A thorough study of her actions with the schedule of local military operations led the local forces to arrest suspects and seize caches of ammunitions in different houses in the villages. Long was then appointed as deputy chief of local police, in charge of the intelligence services. During a short time, he discovered many covert enemy cells and disrupted many liaison spy lines.
Beside bonus and rewards, the young couple and their parents were very happy at the news of Thủy’s pregnancy. A party was thrown at Long’s house to celebrate the big news.
“Thủy, our child will be like you, beautiful eyes, straight nose, rose lips, and attractive body,” said Long, caressing her cheeks.
“I want him to be smart, strong, and handsome like you,” said Thủy, tenderly touching his back.
“I want to save money to build our own house.”
“So, do I,” tenderly said Thủy.
Easter holidays of 1972 came to South Vietnamese without happiness, but with horrible suffering and death because Northern Vietcong troops with tanks crossed the Bến Hải River and occupied Quãng Trị Old Citadel. In the valleys near Trường Sơn Range guerrillas supported by northern Vietcong units attacked the government posts at night. Long and his team had secret mission in Đồng Xuân District, a valley 40 miles west of Mỹ Á Beach.
“Thủy, I am away from home for some days,” said Long, stuffing his clothes into a bag. “Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon.” He kissed his pregnant wife, caressing his child in her belly.
“Take good care of yourself,” she replied, but she felt unrest. She waved him as he got on a Jeep.
Her worry vaguely lingered on her mind. Every morning Thủy went to the sea shore to collect fish trash while her mother purchased fish for the market.
“Thủy, be nice and calm,” her mother consoled. “I love you and you’re my only child. Your sad face makes me afraid. Your husband comes back soon.”
“Thủy, my dearest daughter,” said her father in the evening, “your mom and I support you. Eat and sleep well. Don’t worry.” Thủy felt relieved.
Seven days passed without any incidents.
In late afternoon of the 8th day, at about 5:00, a postman came and said, “You've got a letter.”
“Thank you, postman,” said Thủy. Glancing at the sender’s name, Thủy exploded in joy, embracing her mother and said, “It’s Long’s letter, Mom.” She hurriedly opened it and read, her parents listening,
“Dear Thủy,
“After 6 days of hard work, today I have time to write this letter telling you that day and night I think about you. Here you find some wild purple flowers I got from the grove of mằng lăng trees. Their scent is very sweet, I think, because lots of bees fly around them, humming and sucking their nectar. When I come back, I’ll bring you a big jackfruit, the kind you love eating. I hope to see you soon. I’m sorry about my bad, twisted writing due to my stiff hand—I haven’t written for a long time…” Thủy and her parents were very pleased, laughing. Suddenly, they were surprised to see a truck carrying a casket covered with a three-red-stripe yellow flag. It stopped in front of Thủy’s house.
A sergeant approached and Thủy heard, “…our deep condolences…” Before her eyes a gloomy, lugubrious and macabre blanket shrouded her house, coconut trees of the village and the sun, disappearing in the West behind the Trường Sơn Range. She fainted, falling forward on her husband’s casket. The letter free from her hand flew, swirling some rounds and landed on the other end of the casket. Wailing, crying, and sighing. A blossoming cherry flower battered by a strong wind right in the morning. A wonderful youth with happy love was broken by an insensitive bullet. A young heart was hurt by suffering, sharper, fiercer and crueler than a knife.
Her mother and some women neighbors helped carry Thủy into her room. Her father asked the sergeant what had happened to his son.
“This morning,” the sergeant recounted, “when the battle to regain the control of Đồng Tre Village had been over, Standing near a pond of lotus, Long and his team were discussing the next plan of rooting out all covert cells. Suddenly emerging from the water and lotus leaves, a Vietcong guerrilla threw a grenade to the team. Long was killed, others were wounded.”
Thủy was then hospitalized for a week. Her parents were anxious, worrying about the baby.
Her father comforted, “Dear Thủy, your mom and I love you very much. Long’s parents love you and their grandchild as well. They are suffering as much as you are. Please eat and try to think about the future, about your child, our grandchild.” She kept silent.
One night she ran to the sea shore and her mother anxiously followed her. She got on the bamboo boat and her mom did the same. She rowed it to the open sea and let it float. She cried, complaining, “Long, you said you love me one hundred years and you left me just three months after marriage. Our child won’t see you when it will be born. You owe me and our child a lot of things. You’re supposed to rear our child, but now you let me to do it alone. That’s not fair.” Then she fainted. Her mother rowed the boat back to the shore and her father carried her home.
The fate of the South Vietnamese widows was extremely anguished and heartrending, Thủy’s father thought. He let out a long sigh. A charming girl was born the following year. Every member of the two families was pleased. More bad news came to South Vietnam in 1974, then 1975. Long’s parents, their grand daughter, and Thủy fled to Saigon in April, 1975 by their powerful boat. They went to Hong Kong, finally to the America. But her parents did not want to leave their home beach.
Thủy woke up early and got ready for work.
“Aimée, get up for school.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Twenty minutes later, Thủy took Aimée to her school and drove to work with a sigh.
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