Fiction from The Literary Review
The River's Curse
TRAN NGOC TUAN
The protective spirit of our village worked with a bag and a cane, he was a beggar.
Each January, all the children in the village, rich or poor, went begging everywhere for about a month. It was also a way of paying homage to our ancestors.
I went back to my home village every year.
There, I could relive my early childhood, and breathe in the pure air. My lungs were purged of the stench of the filthy city.
My father said: “Your vocation as a wordsmith is inferior to being a beggar.”
My mother said: “Only when you go begging will you understand what's in man's heart. As for words, I just don't get it.” (That's the logic of country folks; it's hard to explain words even to the enlightened.)
My village had the Luong River, a very benign river flowing listlessly, like someone just waking up from sleep. Since when I don't know, but the villages on its opposite sides despised each other. In Vinh Village (our village), there were always confrontations involving both adults and children (just like in the days of the Trinh/Nguyen Lords).
In my village there were lucky families and accursed families. There were those who were successful, who passed exams to become government officials, bringing honors to the village, but also those who “sold their faces to the ground, their asses to the sky” their entire lives. Pitiful.
This I won't talk about any more because it's not unique to any community; everywhere, there are tragicomic aspects to each individual fate. (This part I'll leave to the sociologists, the mediums, the astrologists, the sorcerers and card readers, those who tell fortunes by looking at chicken legs.)
1. Mrs. Indigent and Thoan
The village would only be an abstract place without actual people.Mrs. Indigent was not an outsider but a native. Her husband served in the Colonial Army in France. She had three children, twelve grandchildren, and three daughters-in-law. Thoan, one of her grandchildren, was a playmate of mine from the time when we bathed together naked, before we knew what embarrassment was.
According to people in the village, Mrs Indigent was being punished by the river spirit. When young, she had bathed in the river during her period; drops of foul blood from her vagina had dripped into the river as the river spirit was throwing a feast. Humiliated in front of his guests, officials, generals, and subjects, the river spirit cursed: I'll punish her entire family; she alone will survive, to mourn her relatives. This punishment was truly horrible (only someone very powerful could carry it out). Not satisfied, the river spirit also brought animosity to the two villages by the river (as I've said above).
Mrs. Indigent's three children (and her daughters-in-law) all drowned in sucession in the benign Luong River, with its water flowing listlessly like someone just waking up from sleep. Every night, Mrs. Indigent went to the river to burn incense sticks and to leave fruit offerings, to beseech the river spirit to withdraw his punishment. In the dark night, she let her hair down; the embers from the incense sticks were as red as the eyes of a wolf, blurry, mysterious, occult. Her prayers were as follows:
Oh river spirit!
Take your curse to the ocean
So you can be more benevolent
I had to cry for three children I gave birth to in pain
Then I had to cry for three daughters-in-law
All of them
Died in your river
Oh river spirit!
If only because I had inadvertently
Ruined your festivities
Do you have to be angry for so long?
Your mother also gave birth to you from blood
Your mother also had periods
That dripped into the river
That I had to drink
Flow rapidly river spirit
Take your curse far away and don't come back
Look and listen
Be me for a minute
Then you will pity me
Oh river spirit
Don't make my grandchildren die
Please drown me
In place of innocent people
Thoan (Mrs. Indigent's granddaughter) and I often ran around in the fields. Her head was sunburnt, with innumerable head lice. We had a game we played with dog grass. If I lost, I had to catch twenty head lice. I would give each louse a sharp bite after catching it. The blood from the louse, or from Thoan (it was hard to tell), was always tasty, sweet, a bit salty.
My mother looked at Thoan and smacked her lips: “What a pity, so small and already an orphan, let me cure you of head lice.” The next day, she took seeds from a custard apple, grinded them, mixed them with wine, rubbed them on Thoan's head, then covered her head with a towel. “Leave it alone for a day and a night.” It was truly remarkable: there were no lice left on her head, including eggs.
From then on, there was a new condition to the dog grass game. If I lost, I had to pull my pants down so Thoan could flick at my penis. I lost so many times once that my penis became all puffed up. Enraged, I tried hard to get even. When I won (which was seldom), I would pull Thoan's pants down and pinch her upper thigh, where the flesh was tender, so that she would shriek in pain. I would gloat like a victorious general, and scream in ecstasy the way a destitute man would in winning the lottery.
I often told her stories from long ago (the majority of which I made up). These stories generally ended with: “The poor suffering girl married the prince. She took money and gold and distributed them to the poor.” Or: “The tiger roared, then ran into the forest.” After hearing a story, Thoan said: “Back then, there were fairies and buddhas, and prayers were answered. Nowadays, when I pray, nothing happens.”
I had seen, and heard, Thoan pray. It was very sorrowful and pitiable! She prayed like this:
O river!
Don't make my grandmother kneel down each night
Our family is made up of human beings
Like the shrimps and the fish, all children of the river
To appease you
We have sacrificed six to the water
My grandmother's arms are worn out
From tying funeral headbands on our heads
The old leaf cries for the young leaves
Don't make our beloved ones leave in succession
Only to come back in death
Although we've erected a shrine
Loaded with sticky rice and meat offerings
The dead cannot eat it
Dead because of the river spirit
No one's a hero
In our family
There are ten death anniversaries a year
O river spirit!
I bow to you
Please be as magnanimous as your mother the sea
O river spirit!
Laugh and let go of your anger
Don't make our house
Be emptied of all occupants
Oh please river spirit!
Try to be kind
Don't hoard your anger
Strike your head on the ground
Be compassionate
After finishing middle school, I went to the district capital to continue my studies. Thoan stayed behind. When I went back home, we'd meet, but our relationship was not as carefree as before. Once, I asked Thoan to accompany me to town to see a stage performance. She wore a white blouse, black silk pants, her long hair braided and wrapped in a Chinese kerchief. She roasted corns to take along, and made me eat them. She said: “Corns in our village are sweet, because of water from the Luong River.” We watched a folk opera: a militiawoman had lost her entire family to an American bomb. She used a rifle to shoot down the jet plane. The pilot parachuted down, and was now singing an arias (to the tune of “I'm About To Cross A Bridge”) in the middle of the stage:
My name is An American Pilot
American, eeee . . . riding a phantom bolt of thunder
I was shot down, eeee . . . shot down into a rice paddy
Now I beg everyone to forgive me . . .
Thoan said: “Our folk opera is truly fantastic, considering. Even the American pilot knew how to sing.”
At the end of the opera, the militiawoman had suppressed her grief and did not shoot the American. She tied him up and turned him in to the authority. Thoan said: “Vietnamese are generous to outsiders, but mean spirited to their own kind. Even now, Vinh Village and Quang Village are still feuding with each other.”
It was as if I was paying no attention to my surroundings, but preoccupied only with chewing corns, tirelessly, the way a tiger chews pebbles.
Thoan died at eighteen.
My mother related: “Thoan's family's buffalo tore away from its rope and jumped into the river. Thoan swam after it, past the sandbank (the demarcation between Vinh Village and Quang Village). The children in Quang Village tried to outdo each other throwing rocks. One probably hit Thoan in the head. The Luong River carried her away. Her corpse was only found three days later. Mrs. Indigent nearly passed out crying next to her granddaughter's corpse.
The flowing river had not cancelled its curse . . .
It was moonless that night. I wandered along the river, under the faint light of a thousand fireflies. I looked at the surface of the river and imagined it to be the face of a terrible old man, laughing smugly and wickedly. A chilly wind wafting from the surface of the water gave me goose flesh. Like a sleepwalker, I took mud and smeared it on my face. Near sunrise, I returned home. My mother asked: “Where did you go, Son, that you're looking so dazed?”
I answered: “I went to find what is lost. There is no comfort left, Mother.”
My father said: “The lowlifes are the ones who are comforted. Gentlemen eat shit. It's better to be like Old Quan. Oblivious.”
2. Old Quan
Old Quan was a migrant. No one knew where he was from originally.Someone said that, way back, he was a mandarin, riding in cars, with servants. It made sense: he knew the Confucian classics, was fluent in history. He even knew French. Someone else said that Old Quan was a famous head bandit, now lying low, incognito, his sword retired. That also made sense. I have seen Old Quan beat up, empty-handed, a whole gang of armed youths from Quang Village. That was the first time he showed what he was capable of, because the gang from Quang Village had swam across the river to steal sweet potatoes from our collective farm, and bloodied our militia guard's head.
Living alone, Old Quan fed himself by fishing and by planting vegetables. His house, at the end of the village, right at the foot of Chua Mountain, was forlorn, dismal, like an abandoned shrine.
Old Quan often asked me to pour rice gruel on banyan leaves to pray for those who died homeless, without relatives, on Wandering Souls Day.
He confided: “There are spirits. I often talk to them. There's no need to be guarded, the dead never harm anyone. There is nothing, good or bad, they don't know about the living.”
He counseled: “Before, people studied to improve themselves, to be righteous, to help others. Nowadays, people study only to gain notoriety. There are few who are truly exceptional. You should study the old ways.”
I asked: “What is meant by helping others?”
He said: “If a king is enlightened, then he should become a mandarin after studying. But if a king is immoral, then he should hide in obscurity. If everyone is good, then it is bad to be impoverished. But if everyone is base, then it is disgraceful to be among the privileged.”
I flashed my teeth: “A mandarin's famous enough. Who needs a king?”
He said: “If a mandarin is famous, maybe he's a phony, pretending to be righteous. You look closely, and he's only one of those who knows how to 'dig into walls.'”
I said: “It's hard to tell them apart. I think all mandarins are equally impressive.”
He laughed: “A man knows himself. Shit inside the belly will come out sooner or later. You can't hide it.”
I boldly asked: “Way back, you were a mandarin, right? Or a head bandit?”
He laughed again (as gentle as a buffalo calf): “Mandarins and head bandits are not different from each other. They differ only in their means, and what they are called.”
I answered: “It's much more impressive to be a head bandit. You're the big shot of an entire region.”
He shouted: “Nonsense! A self-destructive knight errant wandering in the woods is still considered by most people to be a hoodlum.”
Old Quan often cooked rats for me to eat. Fussily prepared, it took up a whole day. The rats he caught were often the plump ones, from the rice paddies. I got impatient just watching him boil water to pluck the hair. The water could not be boiled for too long; little bubbles were just popping on the surface. Old Quan said: “The best part of a rat is the skin, which overheated water would ruin. Dip the rat into the water, pluck it clean, and remember to cut out the bladder, liver, and testicles, else it would stink, even a dog won't eat it. After pulling the rat from the water, you have to rub it with salt, then you get rid of the head, the intestines and the feet. Boil the water once more, leave the rat inside the pot, uncovered. When the broth is clear, pull the rat out. Chop some lime leaves. Dip the meat in fish sauce with hot peppers and garlic. There is also the roasted dish. I'll let you enjoy it some other time.”
Enjoying rat meat and wine, he banged his chopsticks and sang hoarsely. The lyrics sounded mournful but were extremely arrogant:
The sky's nothing
The earth's the same
I'm only a guest here
Glory's a dream
I'm a solitary man
Women are like roses
Flowers with thorns
Cowards fear thorns
So as to be in charge
I'll hack it with a sword
I'll be a loner my whole life
I throw up love onto a straw mat
I can't digest a single female
I shit on all celestial beings
And on all the royal tombs
I'm the only man
Everyone wears a mask
But everyone's a wolf
I curse the one who gave birth to me
My misshapen self
Was made from my parents' obscenity
La . . . La . . . La . . .
In my soul
Is the river's curse
Against a barbaric yellow race
My skin's also yellow
The punishment is solitary confinement
But I'm not alone
My friends are the ghosts
My lovers are the demons
I'll rape the sun
I'll kidnap the moon for ransom
I'll use the stars as seasoning
To marinate rat meat
I'm still me
Dead broke, with a lavish soul
I'm a solitary
With neither family nor possessions
Oh river!
Your curse has caused many conflicts
Only poetry can erase hatred
It's a shame I'm not a poet
To nullify your curse
Don't make these lowlifes
Die in fear of offending others
You don't know folk poetry
You can't even speak proper Vietnamese
Don't make us downtrodden
Speak the language of the white skin with yellow hair
Or the red skin with black eyes
This entire tribe was hatched from a sack of eggs
La, la, la . . . Oh, melon . . .
I'm still me.
Done with singing, Old Quan was inspired enough to skip out to the courtyard to show off his martial arts.
With flickering movements, his feet raked the earth, creating grooved patterns. Only the whistling air could be heard. After a snake routine, he started on a homage to the ancestors' kata. The source of his style was hard to place. It was a patchwork, sly, wicked, clearly a martial art of forest bandits. He thrust his hand into the trunk of a banana tree, spun and kicked a water jar to bits, then innocently head-butted a rotting wall, collapsing it.
He asked me: “You like to study martial arts?”
I answered: “I'm a little guy. I wouldn't dare.”
I said: “It doesn't matter if you're little. Suppleness will overcome strength. A silk rope could tie up an elephant.”
I said: “If you have to resort to martial arts, then you're a coward.”
He said: “It's true! Force is clueless. Try hard to learn words.”
Old Quan was looking for death, or maybe death was looking for him, it was hard to tell. My father told me: “That year, the Luong River's water level rose (it happens only once every fifty years). Old Quan was drunk, he drowned inside his own house.”
The river's curse does not spare even a migrant.
3. Conclusion
After reading this story, my wife (who is knowledgeable about literature, and is working for a magazine in the capital) said:“According to you, how many characters are there in this story?”
I said: “Three.”
She said: “No, four, including the river. You should revise the poetry parts, the prayers, and the songs sung by the characters. Get rid of what Thoan said after watching the folk opera, generally 'forgiving to outsiders.' We are practicing diplomacy out of self-interest. It's not fitting to write that.”
After contributing those opinions, my wife stopped talking. The associate head editor came by to pick her up, as usual. He greeted me gushily . . . That night, I saw Thoan clearly in a dream. She was walking on water, wearing pristine, white clothing. She said to me: “You should burn my prayer, then mix it with the blood of one devoid of anger. Only then will the river's curse be nullified.”
I woke up suddenly. My wife, lying next to me, was mumbling: “Deeper and harder, Q, I'm climaxing, faster.”
I spat in her face (it turned out she'd been planting horns on my head). Q was the name of the associate head editor at the magazine where my wife was working.
The next morning, I went back to my home village. That night, feeling impotent, I went to the river and cried. Where would I find the blood of one devoid of anger? (Maybe only a monk could fit that requirement.) But how would I ask blood from one? I did not want to be a murderer. Forgive me, Thoan! The river's curse was certainly severe.
I sobbed when I realized that I was like a floating duckweed on the surface of the river, helpless against the flow of destiny.
The Luong River flowed on. It looked at me as if in mockery.
Translated by Linh Dinh
