5 / A CRESCENT MOON IN THE WOODS

  NGUYEN MINH CHAU

  Nguyen Minh Chau (1930–1989) was born in the central northern province of Nghe An and is known mostly as a novelist. He is perhaps most famous for authoring a 1978 essay in the national Military Literature Magazine in which he called on his fellow writers to be less propagandistic in their writing and to depict the war with more realism and humanity. “A Crescent Moon in the Woods” was first published in 1970 and made into a film in 1980; in 2014 the story was performed as a musical at the Hanoi Military Theatre. The moon is a recurring symbolic trope in Vietnamese literature, often associated with romance and unrequited love. In this story, Nguyen Minh Chau juxtaposes the idyllic love between the characters Nguyet and Lam against the cruelty and everyday drudgery of the war.

  * * *

  The flame crackled as it burned the wick of the candle made from an old condensed milk can filled with oil. They were deep in the woods. It was quiet except for the sounds of a flowing creek in the distance and the persistently melancholic song of two lone birds. The time was past midnight, but a dozen drivers from the oil delivery team were still awake, scattered at random around a bamboo hut, some sitting, some standing. A folded piece of corrugated cardboard had been placed around the candle to diffuse the light that illuminated their tired faces. Outside the hut, the rough country road was gutted with bomb craters and knee-deep tracks from their trucks. It had been raining all night. The rain meant an opportunity for the transportation platoon to spend some downtime together. The atmosphere inside the bamboo hut was boisterous; sometimes their laughter seemed to shake the entire woods. Was there anything in life more jovial than a night like this when the drivers from various routes returned from their assignments and gathered together? You might expect them to want nothing but rest, especially after several sleepless nights behind the wheels of their trucks. But no one felt sleepy.

  Before one person had finished their story, someone else was ready to tell theirs. Their minds were full of images collected during driving trips all across the countryside. And at this moment, on this night, those images were in competition to come alive.

  “Are you finished yet?” said one driver who was lying in a dark corner of the hut. “It’s my turn.” He moved closer to the dancing flame of the makeshift candle behind the corrugated cardboard and began:

  One night in early March, my truck pulled out from the K3 Storage Unit. My assistant driver was behind the wheel that day because I had to attend a meeting with senior drivers at the battalion headquarters. I would join him after the meeting. Let me tell you a little about my assistant driver. He was a young and happy recruit; he worked very hard, but he also liked to flirt. The story I am about to tell happened back when I was assigned to the Mekong Delta routes. It was flood season, but the enemy still attacked the area regularly. They targeted the underground bunkers and the trenches, especially around the Blue Stone Bridge where we were protecting the border from the enemy. That night, immediately after sunset, it began to rain. After the meeting, I left the battalion headquarters and was waiting for my truck at the top of a hill. I had my hammock under my arm, wrapped in plastic, and a flashlight around my neck. I was smoking and felt relaxed. For a person who drives all the time, a person whose life is chained to the cab of his truck, a quiet moment like this is quite rare. I crossed my legs and leaned against a tree on the side of the street, breathing out rings of smoke and staring up at the small sliver of a crescent moon in the sky. This peaceful moment was short-lived. Soon I started to get nervous as trucks came flying like racehorses down the road in front of me. My assistant driver wasn’t among them. The darker it got, the more nervous and frustrated I became.

  It was usually a relief when my truck was faster than the others, even by half a wheel. And for this trip I wanted to get an early start so we’d have enough time, when we returned from the delivery, to hide our truck in the Sang-Le woods. It was safe to hide the truck there, and it was close to where my sister worked. I had already asked my commander for permission to visit her. She’d written me a letter complaining that it had been three years since we’d last seen each other. But this was just my own personal concern. I was frustrated mostly because my assistant driver had been unable to get things done.

  Then suddenly I saw him driving up from the bottom of the hill. When he came to a stop I started yelling at him for being so late. But he just ignored these reprimands and quietly handed me the paperwork and a receipt, then placed in the cabin a package of peanut sticky rice and a bottle of water mixed with sugar. “Have a safe trip,” he said, winking and tapping my shoulder. He crouched and jumped down from the truck. On this trip I was assigned to be the only driver. My assistant driver said good-bye and started to walk away, but he paused and banged heavily on the truck door.

  “Hey, Lam. On the receipt I noted that a spare tire is missing, and I got the storage keeper’s signature to confirm that.”

  “All right,” I said. I felt satisfied with what he’d done.

  “There’s one more thing,” the assistant driver said. “But this one isn’t written down on the receipt …”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “There’s a hitchhiker in the back who wants a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge.”

  “We’re not supposed to take hitchhikers,” I said, annoyed again. “You know that.”

  He gave me some excuses for breaking this rule, which all sounded logical enough. But I was still upset with him. I was sure that the person sitting in the back of the truck was a woman. I could imagine the scene perfectly: a shy woman, holding a white hat and standing at the door of the truck, while my assistant sat up in the cab with a grin on his face, asking her flirtatious questions as he finished a cigarette. How could he agree to give some woman a ride when our truck traveled through so many dangerous areas? But at the same time, how could one have refused and asked her to walk instead?

  My assistant had already left, so I decided to get going. Before starting the engine I turned around to glance through the iron screen behind me, but I saw only darkness. The cab of the truck smelled like fresh rubber sap. I had no clue where exactly in the cavernous back of the truck the hitchhiker was sitting.

  “Who’s in there?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound as stern as possible.

  No answer. But I could hear the spare tires shifting in the back of the truck and sounds like a chicken fidgeting in its nest. I figured that the hitchhiker must have heard my conversation with the assistant and was probably too scared to answer.

  “Who’s back there?” I repeated, less aggressively this time.

  “It’s me. Please give me a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge.”

  My guess wasn’t wrong. It was a young woman’s voice. Her voice sounded clear and calm—strong and confident, even.

  “Male or female?” I inquired.

  “Male.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Don’t mess with me. I could order you to get off. This is an army truck.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then I asked, “Why do you need a ride to the Blue Stone Bridge?”

  “I am a road construction worker. Your assistant checked my ID. I have some business to take care of so I need to return to my unit.”

  “What kind of business?” I asked, skeptical. My tone was teasing. “Are you visiting your boyfriend there?”

  “Yes,” she replied, without hesitating. “I’m visiting my boyfriend.”

  Hurriedly I started the engine. It seemed strange that she’d respond so candidly. But her voice didn’t sound like she was joking. Maybe she was being honest.…

  “Who was she?”

  “Yeah—who was this young woman?”

  “Where did she come from?”

  The other drivers chided the storyteller to finish his story.

  “Be patient,” he said calmly.

  From the woods came the sounds of melancholy birdsong. The driver stood up and walked toward the old condensed milk can. Squinting from the oil smoke, he bent down and blew out the blue flame of the makeshift candle. The hut suddenly plunged into darkness. He continued his story:

  Don’t get too worked up about the woman just yet. Let her sit with the tires in the back of the truck for now. I have to explain something else to you first.

  I have a sister who is an officer in a transportation unit located very close to the Blue Stone Bridge. If you drove one of the Mekong Delta routes four or five years ago, you probably remember the busy and productive atmosphere at the Blue Stone Bridge construction area. My sister Tinh was stationed there back then. There were hundreds of women on the construction team. One of them was named Nguyet, which means moon—a very beautiful name! Right out of high school, she volunteered for the construction teams in the Mekong Delta. Tinh treated Nguyet like a younger sister. She cared for her deeply because Nguyet was a hardworking and obedient girl. In her letters to me, my sister always mentioned Nguyet. Then in one of her letters she wrote, “I have thought seriously about this, and I’ve decided that I want to introduce you to Nguyet. She is very special, and it is difficult to find a woman like her these days.” In another letter, she was even more insistent: “When I told Nguyet that I wanted to introduce you to her, she blushed. She didn’t say anything, but if I talk about you, especially about how you ran away from home to enlist in the military, she listens closely. Try to come up here as soon as possible. I can tell that Nguyet is looking forward to meeting you.”

  Back then, I was an assistant driver and often drove in the North. I made a few trips down to the Mekong Delta and visited Tinh, but I had never met Nguyet. In my letters to Tinh, I usually included a few sentences asking about Nguyet and implying that I would like to meet her. I’m sure that Nguyet saw all those letters and knew that I wanted to meet her. In the isolated woods, of course, a letter must be shared with everyone. A few years went by, and my sister moved to Hanoi to attend college. Then the war against the Americans broke out. I had already been discharged from the army, but I reenlisted. Right away, the enemy bombed and destroyed many roads in the Mekong Delta and the central highlands. I had never married, but I’d long ago forgotten Tinh’s letters and her friend Nguyet. Eventually, as the war continued, Tinh left school and returned to the Mekong to help the construction teams near the Blue Stone Bridge. Again she wrote to me, talking this time about the enemy’s constant bombing of the bridge and about the transportation units that were trying to protect the roads. These weren’t new stories to me. But the most interesting part of those letters was this: Nguyet, she said, still thought about me. She was waiting for me, Tinh said. Over the years several men had proposed to her, but she’d always said no. Tinh said that Nguyet worked in the underground tunnels, a very dangerous assignment. But they still saw each other often. Nguyet was now a grown woman, more mature and courageous, and apparently even prettier than before.

  As I read Tinh’s letter, I felt moved and overwhelmed. It seemed hard to believe that after so many years living in the middle of constant bombing and destruction, a woman could still treasure in her heart the image of a man she had never even met. Deep in her heart a tiny sparkling thread had remained intact, despite the passage of time. Thinking about this made me happy, and I felt like I was indebted to Nguyet. I knew that I had to meet her, so I decided to write my sister and ask her to arrange a meeting on my day off. After completing my delivery run, I’d hide my truck in the Sang-Le woods and then make my way to Tinh’s unit. Tinh would take me to see Nguyet, and I would stay for the day as a guest of the female transportation platoon.

  That’s where I was going that night I found the hitchhiker in the back of my truck. That particular night was quiet and peaceful. My truck ran smoothly on the road. As I gripped the steering wheel, I pictured myself laughing and having fun among the playful group of women. I knew that Nguyet would probably talk only a little, but that didn’t matter. The women were all friends to us drivers. They were brave, sincere, and hospitable people.

  I’d driven about ten kilometers when I ran into an artillery convoy descending the hill and had to pull over and stop. Holding my flashlight, I slipped underneath the truck to check a light bulb. As I was unscrewing the bulb I heard a voice ask, “Is it an apple- or watermelon-sized bulb?”

  “Who’s there?” I called out.

  “It’s me.”

  Ah, it was the hitchhiker. She was standing in front of the truck. The beam from the flashlight illuminated the clean pink skin of her feet, her clean rubber sandals, and the hem of the black pants around her ankles. She can’t be a construction worker, I thought. I got up and wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands.

  “Hello there,” I said, coming out from underneath the truck. “If I stop again, please don’t get off like this.”

  “But I can’t stand the awful smell of rubber in the truck. I just wanted to get some fresh air.”

  It was then that I noticed her beauty, there on the side of the road, in the beam of the headlights from the passing artillery trucks. Her beauty was simple and fresh—it made me think of mist-covered mountains. Most of the female construction workers were short and stout, but she wasn’t like that at all. Her shirt hugged her slim waist perfectly and her thick hair was woven into two long braids. At her side she carried a bamboo bag and a white hat.

  “Do you work at the Blue Stone Bridge tunnels,” I asked, “or are you visiting someone there?”

  “I work there,” she replied. I could tell from her face that she was shy.

  “Ah, I forgot to ask your name,” I said.

  “I am Nguyet,” she said.

  “Oh …” I said, pretending not to react to this information. I gave her a glance and then quickly turned away and opened the door to the cab of the truck.

  “The smell of rubber is awful in the back,” I said, holding the door open and inviting her in. “Please join me here in the cab.”

  The artillery convoy was so weighed down with stocks of ammunition that it made the roads and the mountains around us tremble noisily. I felt my heart leap into my chest. She purposely sat very close to the door, holding her bamboo bag neatly in her lap, leaving a big empty gap between us. I have to admit that I’d never sat next to a woman in the cab of the truck in all my driving career. But this was a special situation. I reached up and switched on the cabin light. I could see her looking around to examine my little cabin in a curious but hesitant way.

  “Over where you work there must be many people named Nguyet, right?” I asked, trying to make my tone as polite and casual as possible.

  “How did you know that?” She seemed shocked for a moment, then continued. “My unit has three Nguyets. One died, so there are only two of us left now. Another worker and me.”

  “When did the other Nguyet die?” I asked hurriedly, with a feeling as if someone else were asking this question.

  “About three or four months ago, when the enemy bombed the Blue Stone Bridge. She fought very heroically and was a great person. Everyone grieved for her.”

  “Was she married?”

  “No. But I think she had a lover.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The ground underneath the truck seemed to be shuddering violently. I drove more slowly and cautiously.

  “What about the second Nguyet?” I asked.

  “She has four children. We tease her sometimes and call her Grandma Nguyet—she’s older than the rest of us. Why are you so curious?”

  I said something jokingly; I can’t remember what exactly. Deep in my heart I felt extremely confused. Should I ask if she knew my sister Tinh? If I asked, everything would be clear. But I didn’t want to seem too nosey about personal matters, especially on a trip like this. But still the thought kept running through my mind: between two women, one young and beautiful and sitting right next to me at this very moment in the cab of the truck and the other who had died heroically, which was the woman who had apparently harbored that tiny sparkling thread of love in her heart for over ten years? I felt this question tormenting my mind, like a red-hot rod painfully piercing my temple.

  The truck gained speed as we rumbled down a hill. The enemy’s bombs had practically destroyed the road ahead of us. Soil, rocks, and clumps of grass flew up onto the windshield as we drove. My instincts told me to slow down. Up ahead was a weak blue light …

  “I don’t hear any planes,” I said, listening. “Where’s that blue light coming from?”

  The hitchhiker was sitting with her elbows against the door looking out the window. She turned toward me. “It’s the moonlight,” she said.

  She was correct—it was the moon. Today was the first day of the month. I had been driving under this strangely haunting blue moonlight all night long without noticing it.

  She seemed comfortable enough in her seat, staring out the window, watching the passing countryside. I struck a match to light a cigarette and switched gears to speed up. I felt suddenly embarrassed. I was an experienced truck driver who had been in many dangerous situations—how was I unable to distinguish between moonlight and artillery fire?

  Through the windshield the moon looked gray and dim behind layers of clouds. Whenever the truck hit a pothole, the moon seemed to move back and forth; sometimes it disappeared, as if it had fallen into the dark of the woods. Around midnight, the northwestern winds blew the clouds apart until they dissipated altogether. The wind rustled the leaves that camouflaged the truck, making strange sounds. The sky above us seemed infinitely high and clear. In the darkness I could hear the vague sound of a bird singing. Then a thick fog descended on the road, blanketing everything around us so that it was all we could see. Every now and then we spotted the peak of a black hill or a mountain standing all by itself in the distance.