Trinh Cong Son's love letters (Part 3)
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Following is the third part of love letters from Vietnam’s legendary composer Trinh Cong Son in English - only published on Tuoitrenews:
>> Part 1
>> Part 2
26-2-1965
Blao,26/2/1965
Dear Ánh,
I read your letter yesterday afternoon. As was in August last year, your letter was the first one I received during my pining days here.
I have read your letter many times. And to celebrate its arrival, I put on warm clothes last night, drank myself to intoxication, then went to bed, holding your letter in my hands, its familiar scent accompanied me in my sleep, while the white candles silently burned over me.
These days, I did nothing but wasting my interminable hours on smoking and staring into the distant space. I have finished composing a song, A thousand years singing you to sleep, and dedicated it to you, Anh.
It’s the afternoon now. I really have no more words to describe the forlornness of the afternoons here.
Friday has almost come to an end. The land is being immersed in a silvery brown color. The earthworm and the crickets have started singing earlier outside. I may have to stay here one more Saturday and Sunday.
What are you doing now, Anh? The line of trees must still be standing on the river’s bank. They have been standing there, looking down at the timeless flow of water and the green leaves, red leaves of each passing day, month and year. I can visualize you walking through these familiar scenes; each day that sees you grow up takes you farther away from the days and years you left behind. The peaceful afternoons you left behind, the sweet memories you forgot of a passionate time in the life of a young woman. All that lies ahead now is a life marked by order and monotomy, and the memories silently fading away (as I have once mentioned to you).
Like a sudden rain that occurred at the end of the steep road – sweeping our memories clean. I knew some people like that. Behind them is a wall erected to hide them from the days of the past. At times they turned round to look at the past, but only with as much indifference as that of the high mountains. Why did I mention this? Is it because I thought some days you would take your leave like that? That is for certain. I think I will be forever a clumsy kid, holding the sand in my hand and letting it slip through my fingers. The precious things, we can never keep.
Darkness is creeping up to where I sit and outside, too. During my free time, just by accident, I came across “The tinted glasses” by Vo Dinh Cuong. Completed a long time ago, more than 17 years ago in fact, but the book was just published recently. The writing style is old-fashioned, but the plot is as sad as could be. There are some journal entries of Thu, very similar to those of Alissa. The meaning of love to a girl is always lovely, passionate and sad. There are two girls in the novel, one from Hue and one from Hanoi. In the end, there is no one left and Lac has to endure the loss with pain and sorrow – his life inundated with a heavy emptiness. There is no understanding among them. They all look at each other through the tinted glasses. I was as sad as when I read La Porte Étroite.
At present I have almost gotten back my usual calm appearance, though it is a false mask only, I guess. I find it hard to get adapted to this lifestyle. Not even when I get older.
An acquaintance of mine has just arrived from Saigon and told me that they have had the conscript list for the 20th military training course. My name might be there. The drafts will be sent out in April and I have no idea how I will be at that moment. Anyway, let it be.
Strange, torturing landscapes keep opening up in my path. My life has been swept into a toxic wind that would be even more harrowing. And there will be more bewailing to come. What good will it serve? We will lose and forget each other. Destiny always digs very deep abysses between me and peacefulness. It must have watched me with vengeful eyes. I may have been too self-centered, as you said. I have thought too much about myself. I have seen only me but no one else around. When I get the final confirmation about the draft, I will let you know. There will be opportunities to place myself in new situations, testing new limits. I will begin a harder life of a student. I will load the bullet of irrationality into my gun to shoot at others’ eyes, heads and hearts. Am I too cowardly to be a man or is the war too ruthless, I wonder? I will shut my mouth, though. In this society of ours, arguments put forward by the weak are always easily brushed aside as false ones.
From the examination of the society, the deeply-rooted prejudice, to everything, everywhere.
The night has become darker and a heavy rain is falling. Those singing voices have begun from time immemorial.
I’m sitting here and suddenly realize that our entire life will finally prove a futile effort, just as it has, and will be for many centuries to come.
Let’s turn round to face the hill with me, Anh. The hill is darkened and the raindrops are weaving themselves into a fine net under the light.
I am falling prey to the chronic bouts of boredom. At these moments, I am torn between two opposite feelings, love for everyone and the need for no one. I think the role of each of us on this land will unfold according to fixed formulas, ending as it certainly will in the same tragic fashion for everyone. That is why I’m often scared of the ludicrous disguise under which human beings exist. I am proud that ever since I became grown-up, I have never lied to anybody.
It is not very late at night yet but silence can be heard clearly all round. I miss you very much and this is what I can only whisper to no one but myself. You can doubt the truth of it since you only read about my feelings through these barren, arid sentences. How can I justify myself? Outside my window, a lone star shining brightly remains in the sky. When did the rain stop? I have no recollection of when it stopped.
The sound of cannon fire has come very close. Everyone is sleeping peacefully. I have slept very little these past few nights and I don’t know why.
Your words seem to have begun their echo in my head: What can I do to make up for you, to make up for you, for you?
The cannon fire just rattled the glass window in front of me. I will make up for you, for everything, everything.
It’s time to light up the white candles. I will light the candles to continue writing to you. I'm lying in bed, inside the mosquito net, and writing to you.
The sound of gunfire is very worrying. So is the roaring noise of military vehicles barreling into the night.
Are your fingers still cold? I miss you and those long fingers.
Now you can ease into sleep. The night is very late. "Sleep and I will be the breezing wind fanning you in your sleep..."
