Late Moon:

  Nguyễn Thị Châu Giang

  My grandmother had given birth to eight children, six of whom died. Grandma died when Aunt Duyên was nineteen, and I was sixteen. On the day Grandma died, the sky erupted in a downpour. Fallen leaves littered the ground in the garden beside windswept trees.

  “She died at an inauspicious time, and is a frightened spirit,” Mr. Nhiên said after counting his fingers. “Get a piece of white, homespun fabric and hang it on the altar. That will drive away any bad luck.”

  That year, Dad left Mom due to complicated, inexplicable reasons. Mom’s life was stuck in the doldrums. One day, I got up and noticed a piece of white cloth on the altar.

  Since then the aroma of burning incense has filled our home. The red and blue pieces of paper on the wall make the rooms look like a Chinese restaurant but the atmosphere is deathly quiet. The three women in the house—my mother, Aunt Duyên, and I—are like shadows living and moving in our own private worlds.

  The rainy season ended. The sky became limpid and the air cold. The trunk of a plum tree had been eaten by worms and stood in a corner of the garden among a tangle of weeds. In the morning I went to get my bicycle to go school and experienced a great sense of foreboding, as if Grandma were sitting near me and telling me, “That tree is dead.” I lowered my head and said to myself, Life and Death—that’s the law of the world. I shuddered at the idea that one day I could die without having accomplished anything, just like that plum tree.

  The older Aunt Duyên got, the more beautiful she became. Her eyes were bright and her eyebrows arched elegantly. Her light-skinned face was framed by a unique haircut that swept her black locks toward the back of her head. Auntie was passionate about several things but also seemed as if indifferent toward everything—so capricious. Her life resembled an abstract painting characterized by large, barely visible black strokes among which thin red strokes slithered in no particular order. These strokes were like the smoldering remains of a fire that could burst back into a blaze and burn everything into ashes.

  To her, I was merely a naïve young girl. I was studious but ridiculously and pitifully ignorant. To me, Auntie was neither too close nor too distant. She led an unusual life, often exaggerated things a bit, and then laughed at herself, which I found rather annoying. But sometimes, I wanted to be like her—leaving everything behind for the sake of living completely carefree. But I remained a good and meek girl living in my own realm of love and hatred, and nothing could change me.

  I climbed up to Auntie’s small room in the attic a few times. Several unfinished paintings lay about, and even the finished ones were incomprehensible to me. A few dust-shrouded bookshelves held some Bibles, Buddhist books, Kim Dung’s novels, thick classics, and a few books about palm reading. Once, Auntie was sitting with her legs on the desk, extending her arm to turn on the cassette player. The horrible noise that came out seemed to harmonize with the big cobwebs hanging in the room’s corners.

  “Do you like it?” she looked at me and asked.

  “Not really. I prefer relaxing music.”

  “What about the paintings? Are they beautiful?” Her mind was seemingly wandering elsewhere. “My friends gave them to me.”

  I smiled, and neither nodded nor shook my head.

  “Yes. They’re beautiful, but I don’t understand them.”

  “You don’t need to understand them. If you think they’re beautiful, that’s enough.” She smiled slightly and then looked up at the window. A bright star in the sky shown at the corner of the view. “It’s a lonely star.” Auntie sighed.

  She then hummed a song, her eyes watery. After a while, her head dropped to one side, her eyes and mouth closed, and she fell asleep. At that moment, sleeping peacefully, Auntie looked like Mom when she was younger.

  Gradually, it dawned on me that Mom was lonely. She relied on spirituality and everything else besides me and Auntie to give her life meaning. But Mom was still lonely. Her deep feelings and longing for Dad made her age rapidly. He never came back, but Mom remained hopeful and kept waiting for him.

  “Why do you torment yourself over that bastard?” Auntie said boldly to Mom. “Even if he comes back, he brings you nothing good.”

  “I’m not tormenting myself,” Mom defended herself feebly. “But in life, we must be forgiving.”

  Auntie pouted and immediately turned her face toward the door. Mom and I were sitting on the couch. It was late in the afternoon. As usual, the spirit of Grandma returned wearing a white silk blouse, and her hair tied in two buns. She wandered around the garden reliving memories although she could no longer touch anything.

  Auntie coughed and told Mom, “I’m going on a field trip with some guys tomorrow. Living in the city is stressful.”

  “Nonsense!” Mom shook her head. “You’re an adult now and should get married. Young people like you are immature and reckless,” Mom frowned and exhorted. “A woman must be gentle and know how to manage a household efficiently. Look at yourself.”

  Auntie was stubborn and shook her head in defiance.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, even if you don’t approve. You’re a gentle and responsible woman, but that bastard left you, anyway.”

  Mom’s face turned pallid and she frowned. I looked at Auntie and said nothing. If I were my aunt, I would leave, too. At least, I would be able to change my monotonous life for the better, so that in my old age I would have something interesting to look back on.

  Hội came over. He sat next to a vase of withered asters in the living room with a jaded expression on his face. I didn’t like Hội but didn’t want to upset him. I found him boring. He always surrounded himself with books and wore glasses with very thick lenses. Hội seemed to be floating on the surface of life. My aunt once said he was a pitiful chump.

  “Please tell him I’m not feeling well, so I don’t have to see him today,” I mumbled to Mom.

  “You can’t do that. Be polite,” Mom said while arranging the paper offerings for the dead on a tray. “Go out there and talk to him. I think he’s a fine man. Nothing’s wrong with him.”

  I obeyed Mom reluctantly and felt drained of all my energy. I put a cold expression on my face. Auntie stood at the door and pulled my hand, saying, “If you don’t like him, tell him so. It’s best for both of you.”

  I looked at Hội sitting on the couch, leaning forward, and wondered to myself how he could be so pitiful. I worried that one day I would be as pitiful as him.

  “Hội, you should leave. Our relationship isn’t going to change. I’m actually seeing someone,” I said.

  I then saw him off at the gate. It was a moonlit night and the wind blew the leaves off the trees. I closed the door, went inside, and felt relieved.

  Aunt Duyên had been gone for over a month without sending any word home. Mom became quieter amid all the incense smoke and the somber garden full of rustling leaves. I biked to school every day and frittered time away in the library or in coffee shops with friends.

  One day, Auntie sent home a letter, informing us that she was dropping out of school. She wanted to test her luck by joining an affluent man from Hà Nội on a business trip. In today’s society, having a lot of money meant living in paradise. All life’s values were impermeable. She wrote, I’ll be away for a few days. I’m not sure about the future, but I remain optimistic. One is happy when one has something to wait for, right?

  The letter left my mother dazed.

  “How come young people nowadays are so different from my generation? This is not a good idea,” she complained.

  “Auntie is just trying to make a life for herself,” I defended Auntie. “As long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

  I climbed up to the attic. Through the window, I gazed at a single star that looked as if it were nailed onto the sky. I thought, wherever Auntie is now, she can’t be as lonely and dismal as that star.

  One day, Auntie came home. She had gained some weight. Her beautiful eyes were partially hidden under an even more unusual haircut. She wore an elegant, expensive dress, but I detected anguish in her eyes. I could tell immediately that she was no longer the same person. She had become more experienced, more mature, and charier.

  “How have you been?” she caressed my hand and asked.

  “I’m still in school, studying international business. I’ll graduate very soon.”

  “That’s great! A bright future lies ahead of you. But don’t be too practical.”

  “You’re funny,” I said while sitting and fidgetting in my chair. “Everybody told me not to be too dreamy. Only you say the opposite. Is being practical bad?”

  “No, but money doesn’t bring you happiness.” She rubbed her belly, then lay on the couch and asked, “Are you in love?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m feeling exhilarated,” I replied.

  That evening, we sat around our small table in the corner of the kitchen. The delicious aroma of cooking food filled the room. After putting a spoonful of rice into her mouth, Auntie placed her chopsticks on the table and announced, “I’m pregnant.”

  My mother and I were stunned. In her letters, Auntie had always talked about how much she was enjoying single life. My mother took a napkin and wiped the grease off her lips.

  “When did you get married? Why didn’t you inform me? Where’s your husband?” my mother inquired.

  “There was never a wedding,” Auntie looked at Mom and said glumly. “The guy disappeared.”

  My mother’s lips quivered. Her face turned white.

  “How many months along are you?”

  “Almost three months.”

  “You can still get rid of it,” my mother frowned and suggested coldly. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you to Từ Dũ Hospital. They’ll take care of it quick.”

  Auntie stood up and smirked.

  “Thank you, but I must take responsibility for what I’ve done. Don’t force me to get rid of it. I’ll leave if you don’t want me to live here.”

  “You’ve tarnished this family’s reputation,” my mother exhaled loudly and cried. “It’s shameful!”

  I didn’t know what to say or what to do in this situation. I merely sat there with a heavy heart. I asked myself, Why do young people never learn from the mistakes made by older generations?

  We didn’t finish the meal; the dishes grew cold. My mother got up from the table and staggered to her room. Auntie rubbed her belly with a pained expression on her face. She was powerless and bitter.

  “Please don’t be upset at Mom,” I came closer to her and mumbled. “She’s very strict about everything. It’ll all be okay. Your baby won’t be a mistake.”

  “Is what I’m doing wrong?” Auntie looked at me regretfully and asked.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think freedom means that you can break all the rules.”

  I held Auntie in my arms and felt that I had become more mature. I had never felt so close to her, nor felt so sorry for her, either.

  I walked into the garden. The moon had risen. The moonbeams illuminated the corner where the plum tree stood dying. I saw some young new buds and sighed with relief. There was no need to torment and hurt each other. Spring had finally come, and everything was starting to change.

  The Eternal Forest :

  Trịnh Bích Ngân

  The enticing words from a TV commercial for an eco-friendly tour caught her attention: Discover the sublime beauty of the lake at night, enjoy the moonlit sky, and watch the sunrise. Unable to resist the idea, she decided to book a weekend getaway. As recommended by the travel agent, she bought a bottle of mosquito repellent, a small flashlight, and a high-collared, zip-up jacket. She packed all of the necessities neatly into her suitcase and looked forward with great excitement to the excursion. She imagined how magical it would be to sit in a boat beneath a moonlit sky and drift across a serene lake surrounded by a forest.

  She and her fellow tourists got off the bus and followed the tour guide on a well-worn path into the woods. The forest was half old growth, half new growth. The travelers acted like rambunctious children—they were curious about everything and asked the guide and the forest ranger all kinds of questions. Questions about the birds and butterflies. Questions about the plants and the flowers. Questions about the monkeys, weasels, and foxes that were probably hiding somewhere in the bushes. Questions about endangered wild animals. Questions about which plants were edible before they broke into small groups and trekked along the edge of the woods to pluck the recommended leaves. After a few hours, everybody returned to the guest lodge and enthusiastically handed the chef their baskets filled with edible greens.

  By the time dinner was served, it was dark outside and multiple twinkling stars lit the sky. They made a toast to the chef while he shared his recipes. After dinner, they sat around a fire and sang together until nearly midnight. Then they each returned to their rooms for a few hours of sleep before they would wake up at 4 o’clock to get on a boat, floating on the lake to greet the sunrise.

  She put on her nightgown, got into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chest, turned off the light, and tried to get some sleep. In the other bed, her roommate, Hạnh, was snoring. Although they sat next to each other on the bus and shared the room, they had only just exchanged phone numbers and barely looked at each other’s faces. They only shared necessary words, like “Go ahead and use the restroom first,” or “I have shampoo here if you need some.”

  She did notice clearly, however, Hạnh’s long slender fingers while she sat transfixed with her iPad. They moved quickly across the screen as if grasping for something in the virtual realm. Her fingernails were painted purple with a layer of silver glitter. Sometimes Hạnh snored loudly as if the air had gotten trapped in her throat and it sounded like she was suffocating. She thought about getting up and adjusting her roommate’s head into a proper position on the pillow but didn’t do so in case that would startle Hạnh, who might then blame her for interrupting her sleep. Normally, we can’t hear ourselves snore or detect our own body odors. Yet, when you desperately want to fall asleep, the slightest snore becomes a tormenting train engine.

  When the tour guide knocked on her door to tell them to get ready, her head ached and she felt dizzy. As soon as she got out of bed and paced around the room for a while, she lost her balance and plunged back into bed. Hạnh, on the other hand, woke full of energy. She loaded her backpack, unplugged her iPad from the charger, and quickly scrolled its screen before looking up and asking, “Why are you still sitting there? I’m heading out now.”

  After Hạnh and the entire group had left to join the tour, her dizziness subsided. In the dark room, she lolled for a while and fell asleep. When she woke up, the sunlight already had reached her window. She opened it wide and from the second floor she could see the carpet-like green lawn and yellow flowers below. A path. Two rows of areca palm trees. A tree branch quivering in the breeze. A yellow dog wagging its tail while burrowing its nose in a pile of pebbles on the ground. The scene was tranquil. The air was fresh. She saw no one and heard only birds chirping in tree branches.

  She left her room and ambled along the sunlit path, quickening her steps as she approached the road that joined the national highway. A few bicycles, some motorbikes, and every now and then a few small trucks passed by. She turned left and arrived at a small but crowded open-air market that was selling a variety of products, vegetables, food, and household necessities. It was a typical countryside marketplace, and the sellers and buyers were hardworking, frugal people. Not far from the market stood a hat shop with purple bougainvillea vines framing its entrance. The glaring sun was stinging her eyes, so she walked into the shop and bought a basic, floppy camouflage hat. She put it on and stopped at a food stall for a bowl of crab noodle soup. It was a bit salty, even after she had squeezed four slices of lime into the broth.

  After breakfast she walked around to find a coffee shop, thinking that she would enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee while waiting for her group to return from the early morning boat trip. Suddenly a blue sign that read Eternal Forest caught her attention. She had no clue why the adjective eternal, often associated with things that are not material, was named for this place, where everything was so worldly. She was enticed by the word and walked toward the sign.

  She took out her iPhone, held it as far from her face as she could, and captured two selfies with the sign in the background. She looked at the photos but wasn’t pleased, thinking she looked goofy in them. When she was about to take another photo, someone offered, “Let me help you.”

  She turned and saw a man wearing a brand new military uniform and a fresh camo hat. He was strong, tall, and handsome, resembling the actor Nguyễn Chánh Tín in the movie Cards on the Table. She was taken aback by his attractive face and handed him her phone without hesitation. He graciously took several photos for her, politely gave the phone back, and asked if she was pleased with them. The photos were perfect—she looked much younger and prettier than she had in her selfies. She couldn’t have asked for better images. She sat down, posted the photos on Facebook, and waited to see who among her friends clicked the “like” button first. The man was still standing there, so she put her phone into her bag and stood up. The sunlight made the word Eternal sparkle but also cast shadows on the stranger’s face, which made it impossible to see clearly.

  “Follow me if you want to take some nice photos,” he moved closer and suggested, as he pointed at the straight path stretching under a row of trees toward the forest.

  She was mesmerized and walked at his side without saying a word. He took several photos for her with sunbeams shimmering through the foliage in the background. Stubble covered his attractive face. His mustache and beard must grow in thick if he doesn’t shave for a few days. She thought about how she liked to look at and touch her husband’s facial hair as it grew in. She bought him razors so often that he sometimes reminded her affectionately, “Are you buying razors for an entire military unit? I still have plenty.”