Three on a Station Platform [Ba người trên sân ga] Free

Translated by Trang Cao

The letter arrived, heartlessly ending the old couple’s dinner and abruptly turning them in opposite directions. Mrs. Cảnh suddenly felt a bitter lump of rice stuck in her throat and a tightness beneath her flat chest as she saw the overt excitement and sudden, unconcealable joy on her husband’s face. She knew full well it was a letter from Tâm, Gianh’s mother. It was clear the moment she glimpsed the bearded smile and sly wink from Mr. Cảnh’s old buddy from the village transportation association, when he slipped the letter into Mr. Cảnh’s hand over the hibiscus hedge. Mr. Cảnh had just drunk a cup of wine before fluffing the rice, so he was in good spirits. Inexplicably, he excitedly recalled a story from their youth, making Mrs. Cảnh both smile with toothless abandon and feel a shyness redden her entire face. Those were the days—she was just a girl of seventeen and he was a boy of twenty, the youngest of the village. At night they joined the rallies, torches burning red in the sky. When the event ended, the two returned on the old dark path, where here and there, flickering embers burned in the grasses. Then, for some reason, he mentioned how it’s believed that banded krait snakes seek out flames to eat the ashes; and she, for some reason, pulled closer, grabbed onto his elbow, and demanded he escort her all the way home. Their hands found each other in the darkness, and it was as if an electric current surged between their bodies, making them silent, hot, hearing only the loud throb of their hearts pounding in their chests.

That was the only beautiful part of life that they had ever shared together in the past thirty years, and he only ever mentioned it when they were alone and he wanted to please her. Mrs. Cảnh had heard him retell this story countless times since they reunited, but each time she found it new and moving, and tears welled in her eyes. Today, Gianh was away on a high school field trip to Bạch Mã, so Mr. Cảnh could bring up old stories without having to be discreet.

The meal was cheerful and satisfying, but the letter arrived, and they couldn’t continue as before. Mrs. Cảnh sat limply, hands clutching her chopsticks down in a half-eaten bowl of rice. She looked at Mr. Cảnh with the pained, reproachful look of someone who “did not gladly share her husband.”² Mr. Cảnh, perhaps too overjoyed, didn’t notice. His hands trembled as he flipped the envelope over and over again, muttering to himself: “It’s Tâm’s letter, Tâm’s letter, oh yes, ma’am…” And he would have kissed the familiar handwriting on the envelope if he hadn’t glanced at his wife’s face in time. He tried to regain his composure with a booming tone: “Let’s see…what the letter says!” But his hands were so frantic that he tore the envelope, and when he held the page up to the lamp, he realized hastily that he’d misplaced his glasses.

There was no way Mrs. Cảnh could sleep. She kept groaning like she always needed to. But tonight, she felt too worn, too weary. She kept tossing and turning, feeling aches in each joint of her arms and legs. It seemed as though the old beatings from when she was tortured by the enemy, the beatings that had faded away, now came back to torment her. And this made her even more angry at “a certain someone.” Ughh…Why did “that person” get to be so blissful? He could regroup to the North, enjoy a free-roaming life far from the bombs and bullets, wasn’t that enough? But “that person” still wanted to pad the fat and grab at seconds, have this wife and that girl.³ And now…

Mrs. Cảnh seethed in silent jealousy when she saw that Mr. Cảnh had still not turned off the light to sleep. Sitting quietly at the tea table, he occasionally opened the letter to reread it, and even seemed to chuckle to himself. Tâm’s letter contained a few lines, saying she had been sick for the past few days, saying that she didn’t know why, but she missed Gianh so much…And this time, she asked permission from “elder brother and sister down south” to allow the girl to go north and visit her hometown for a few days.

Ughh…Oh now, this woman knows the dark pits of your hearts, I see right to your bowels.⁴ “I’ve been sick for the past while”—surely, sister, you’re not the only one who’s sick in this life. Ughh…“I don’t know why, but I miss Gianh so much”—missing Gianh or missing your “dear Cảnh”? This was clear as day and still you “don’t know why”! And how could Gianh, who’s just 15 years old, travel from here all the way out there alone? Vile. How very cleverly they transmit messages to meet up, how cunning! But they can’t pull one past this old girl’s eyes! She knows, teeth, tits, and toes, everything inside the dragonfly’s nest!⁵ Ughh…

The hidden anger and suffering kept torturing and tormenting her. First, she dumped the blame on Mr. Cảnh, the husband who betrayed his old vow: “Just two years, two years and I’ll return. You stay, dear, try…” She remembered how she tied the rice sack over his backpack, suppressing the grief and longing welling up in her throat, and said, “Darling, go on sturdy knees and strong legs. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of everything here.” She had to bite her finger to keep from crying aloud, the cry of a girl who had to part with her husband after knowing the scent of the marital bed for only three days. Ughh…And yet he went far away, not a shred of news, and only returned over twenty years later. And when he returned, he wasn’t alone.

Granted, the tale of not returning on time wasn’t his alone, and it wasn’t his fault, but she still felt angry. He returned, bringing with him a girl about ten years old, and beamed proudly as he announced, “Here! This is our child!” Oh now, would your blood not boil? He not only failed to recognize his offense, but even declared himself as though he’d achieved a military triumph. So, it turns out she had to suffer imprisonment and interrogations, just so “you people” out there could get your fill…At that moment, she was about to rain hellfire in front of everyone to vent her fury. But the childish innocence on the girl’s full, open face, and the meek look of someone who humbled herself in her mother’s place, calmed her rage.

But then, she felt so sorry for herself, for her fate. And she burst into tears. Mr. Cảnh thought these were tears of joy upon meeting again, so he kept stroking her prematurely gray hair to comfort her, saying, “the country is now whole again,” saying, “now that I’m back, don’t cry anymore, dear.”

Mr. Cảnh didn’t know that deep down, she felt profound sadness as she grasped just how much she had lost. Right. Just a few months after they parted, the surveillance and monitoring started. And then the blood-drenched Law 10/59 was unleashed, shattering the village, shocking like something out of a nightmare.⁶ They arrested and released her over and again, interrogated her, and kept demanding that she denounce her husband in the North. The frail, old mother-in-law couldn’t survive the assault and left her, stranded and alone as a weak branch in the storm, at the age of 25, endlessly longing for a husband far away…

She didn’t know how she would have lived on if the organization hadn’t come to recruit and guide her.⁷ And the longing for her husband, his parting vow, became something to hold onto, something she could lean on in those harsh years. She made just one mistake in her life as an activist. When the guerrilla troop arranged to kill the evil village chief in broad daylight, the task was performed in an extremely risky moment. She had just affixed the Front’s execution order on the middle button of the traitor’s chest, next to the bleeding bullet hole, when she got the signal to move. She only had enough time to retreat a short distance and change into normal civilian clothes before they arrested her. They suspected she had committed that terrible deed, but they had no solid evidence. More likely, they wanted to exploit her to catch her comrades, so they locked her in a tight cell. From then on, she was shoved from one prison cell to another, enduring so many afflictions she couldn’t remember them all. And what helped her overcome the enemy’s horrific tortures was flooding her mind with images of him, their brief nights of intimacies, the words exchanged the day they parted.

It wasn’t until the day she heard wild gunshots, when the cell door burst open and green shirts and boonie hats were flitting in the yard, that she could believe that she had escaped death. She overflowed with joy and tearful smiles on the day the country was completely liberated, in the eagerness of welcoming her husband home. Then husband and wife would reunite as before…

Even the initial resentment and jealousy over her husband’s “five wives, seven concubines” demeanor eventually passed. After all, he has returned to her, in flesh and bone, palpable, and not just in dreams as before. From now on, she will hold onto her husband tightly, she will not lose him again, she will not share him with anyone, anymore…

But on the first night they were together after more than twenty years of being worlds apart, she cried bitterly, aggrieved and disappointed with her lot of happiness. It was then that she realized she was too old, over fifty, that a woman’s fleeting youth had long since passed while she was in prison. Her miserable weeping woke Mr. Cảnh. Perhaps he didn’t understand her, so he pulled her into his arms, and consoled her like a preacher: “This is the plight of the country, the plight of history, it’s not just us, isn’t that right, dear?” In any case, his late-night words and affectionate counsel soothed her. Or perhaps she tried to calm herself down so that he wouldn’t lose sleep. She loved him so much, and angry as she was, she still indulged his whims, like so many women who lived devotedly for their husbands…

There was one thing though, yes, just one thing only: she could no longer indulge him out of love, out of respect for him. How could he even be considered old, as strong and limber as he was, with his burnished skin, and not yet sixty? Alas, how could the creator be so unfair? Especially when she was just a few years younger than him. Perhaps being tortured in prison, and perhaps living in a state of weary waiting on top of that, had pushed her past the threshold quickly. Now her body was like dried fish, drained of all lustiness, all cravings. Needless to say, “the act” had become extremely punishing for her. While mundane tasks distracted her during the day, her worries loomed silently at night.

Indeed, at night, she only wanted to repose early, after carrying the baskets of coriander back from the market each day, and as she tallied the money spent and earned, the gentle sleep of the aged would arrive at some point. When she felt like mush and the ache in her spine told her it was almost dawn, she would get up to start the fire, boil water for tea, and cook a fistful of rice for Gianh to take to school.

She could rarely fulfill that wish of hers. Because night after night, next to her, Mr. Cảnh seemed to not sleep but kept tossing and turning, propping an arm or leg on her, and sometimes crawling all over her body. She loved him, so she tried to indulge him, but that indulgence soon became a suffering…

Eventually she found a clever way to “isolate” him. It was the arrival of summer, and she told him it was too hot to sleep together. Then, she fixed him a separate bed. The house had three areas, and the area next to the kitchen belonged to her and Gianh (her room was on the inside, Gianh’s bed was on the outside next to the window, between them was the path to the kitchen). The altar was set up in the middle space, on the inside, and the tea table on the outside. The space at the far end was where his bed was placed. She felt assured that she had found a marvelous trick. But she was wrong: she didn’t take into account the fact that he had legs. One night, as she was drifting off, she suddenly heard the soft sounds of his slippers approaching, then she saw his hand grope her body, stroke her hair, and he gently lay down next to her…

From then on, she held her breath, anxious every time she heard his slippers creeping closer, even though at times he was just going to urinate. Once, perhaps too worried, or for some other reason, she let out a faint groan when she heard his slippers coming from afar. That time, the sound of his slippers hesitated a moment, faded, then went away completely. She held back her laughter…That was the reason she occasionally groaned at night.

But today she didn’t groan for that reason. She felt really sick and powerless. She worried about how she would handle the request, bound to come tomorrow morning, for him to go visit Tâm up there. In the past, he occasionally asked her permission to go visit friends or relatives somewhere for a few days, and she never hesitated, accepted immediately, and even carefully prepared his things to travel far away. But now, for some reason, she did not want him to go one bit. Her heart felt as if someone was squeezing it whenever she imagined how Tâm would take care of him eagerly, like a long drought greeting rain, how night after night the two would be pressed cheek to cheek, whispering “darling, darling,” everything missed and longed for, and then…

Ughh…No, no way! He is her husband, hers alone, and no one has the right to…Exactly! She can’t accept that. She cannot let him go…Ughh…ughh…And all night she didn’t sleep a wink, groaning while thinking up a way to hold him back.

The next morning, Mr. Cảnh did not sit and sip tea as usual, but paced in and out, now arranging vegetables in a basket for her, now looking in the cookhouse for the shoulder pole to carry the baskets…Mrs. Cảnh knew what he wanted to talk about, but she played dumb and didn’t touch on it. It wasn’t until she put on her hat and lifted the thin bamboo pole onto her shoulder that he stammered, like a guilty child, “Missus…Maybe…I have to bring little Gianh up north to the countryside…to see how sick her mother is…”

Knew it! Mrs. Cảnh stopped, used her hand to wipe the red betel residue from the corner of her mouth, appeared to ponder for a moment, then replied warmly, “Well…Let’s see…Since I became sisters with Gianh’s mom, when have you ever let me meet her relatives out there? Well, since I have a few days off, let me take little Gianh, so we sisters can see each other for some time.”

She spoke and hurriedly loaded the bamboo pole and baskets onto her shoulder, as if she was afraid of prolonging her time at the midday market, and as if there was nothing more to discuss, leaving him unable to react. Once she had gone out the door, it dawned on him, and he stood there dumbfounded, stunned, like a child whose fun had been cut off by her simple yet airtight argument…

Mrs. Cảnh, after returning from her trip with Gianh to visit the girl’s “auntie,” was as gleeful as if she’d accomplished a wildly successful business trip. Enthusiastically, rapturously, she told him about all the things you could soak up in the countryside “out there”: how the Gianh River’s waters were so clear and shockingly green, it seemed there was no bottom; how endless rows of young corn and peanut ran along both shores, with lush mulberry trees on all four banks; how sunlight soaked every place you walked on those forbidden country roads; how orange and grapefruit trees released their fragrance, lingering on your body; how the afternoon riverbanks were so strangely full of bathing girls, and oh, what incredibly long hair and astonishingly white skin…

Unintentionally, completely unaware, she had touched the most deeply hidden pain in his heart. She thought, naively, that by vividly describing the scene of the village out there, the village that truly did enthrall her, it would diminish his longing for Tâm. What she always wanted was to, somehow, prevent the image of Tâm inside him from surpassing her. But she didn’t know that the very things she spoke of had ignited a burning longing for Tâm inside him.

Alas, that village on the banks of the Gianh River seemed to be the very pointed source of his nostalgia. At that time, he was young and strapping. His naval unit was stationed at the Gianh Mouth Port, guarding the maritime zone and the river mouth, with its bustling wharf teeming with ships. In the afternoons, the verdant river carried white ships traveling between the shores of two prosperous and peaceful villages. The girls carrying fish ashore would cast backward glances to tease the sailors on the boats. But those peaceful scenes ended abruptly when the very first bombs launched at the North by the American enemy fell right on this port.

Unable to continue with the lopsided battle, between the ships that could only move on narrow open water and the hawks with their vast aerobatics and powerful laser weapons, his unit switched to guerilla warfare. At night the ships would creep upriver, then return to anchor hidden under the towering bamboo groves, by the trunks of ancient trees with luxuriant green foliage stretching out over the river surface, as if they had been long preparing for this fierce battle. From then on, every night, the Gianh River would quietly send the ships off in anxious anticipation…So that the next morning, before daybreak, some ships would return to rest beneath the towering bamboo groves, in the shade of the ancient, lush, green trees, eyes half-closed, listening to the lapping and lulling waves of the Gianh River as their exploits were printed boldly in the newspapers: the number of enemy warships sunk, the number of commando boats captured offshore…They dismayed the American sea pirates and terrorized the sky pirates to madness. And hundreds of jet parties searched everywhere, more and more frantically, trying to find any trace of his unit’s little ships.

He remembered one time his unit had to leave before they could camouflage the roof of their squad’s bunker, but when they returned early the next day, there was already a thick cover of young mulberry trees. He did not expect that work to have been done by the hands of a girl. And so, that sailor became “entangled in the threads” of a girl from the Phù Kinh silk lands. The soldiers who fought at night would try to sleep during the day. But how could he sleep when her soles were treading softly next to the bunker hatch and her weaving hands were dancing away? The corners of her mulberry-leaf eyes widened with worry and nervousness whenever they trailed after the shadow of his ship leaving at dusk.

Then one day, he remembered, it was a summer morning so clear that you could see the spindly branches with sparse foliage on the gray cliffs of the ninety-nine limestone peaks of the Phoenix Ridge running along the south of the river. He didn’t know whether they suspected that the ships were nested against the riverbanks, or it was just a mad, erratic hunt for revenge, but the calm morning sky suddenly blackened with the shadows of the sky bandits. At first, they split into two groups, flying in opposite directions. Then they turned back, lifted their silvery necks up high, and suddenly dived into the river. Amid the wild roars of dozens of aircraft engines, the deafening explosions of bombs and rockets, and the crisp blitzing sounds of the 12.7 mm machine guns of the militiamen on the hilltops firing back fiercely were columns of water from the riverbed and columns of fire from both banks, rising up into the sky. Everything seemed to be engulfed in a rampant war zone of fire and water coursing along both sides of the river.

But, as if by divine magic, the dauntless bamboo groves, the ancient trees on both sides of the river, reached out to shield the ships. And the Gianh River, like the motherland, received the torrent of bombs on both banks without hesitation. The more the sky bandits searched, the more frenzied they grew and frantically cut loose the bombs…

And in the roar of bombs and bullets, the sailors could clearly hear children wailing, the injured groaning, cattle bellowing, houses burning and exploding into bits…Their hearts ached. No! We cannot let people lose so much of their possessions, and even their lives, because of us! His ship requested orders to lift anchor and hoist the red flag with the yellow star, go face-to-face with the American sky invaders, and attract the stream of bombs to protect the people and dozens of other quietly hidden ships.

In an instant, the warship painted the color of seawater rushed out from somewhere into the middle of the river. Without anyone giving an order, the soldiers on deck—neatly dressed in their newest uniforms of white shirts printed with blue waves and green hats with two flying swallow tails—nimbly assumed their familiar combat positions around the double-barreled cannon, thrust confidently into the sky. The enemy planes, like a horde of flies, swarmed his ship…

He remembered that at that moment, he didn’t hear any bombs at all. He just saw flashing black shadows, large and small, dive straight from the sky toward the ship. The ship pitched and lurched, jerked up and reeled back, as they tried to dodge the bombs and bullets scattering everywhere while firing back fiercely. At the time, the Gianh River seemed to be boiling up on both sides of the ship and dyed red with the blood of his comrades.

By the afternoon, the ship seemed exhausted from the wounds all over its body, and from the trunks of ammunition transported from land on the little boats of the militia girls. They swam with their round hair buns and wet, black clothes clinging to their bodies, pushing on under a rain of bombs when there wasn’t enough charge to load the double-barreled cannon that was now red hot. He didn’t know whether the American pilots knew this, or if they were afraid of losing the ship in the dark, so they fixed on delivering its death blows. He remembered in that moment seeing a blazing flash of light envelop the ship, and then he was flung like a stone down to the riverbed. He didn’t know whether it was some unknown force or the last remaining life in his dying breath that pushed him from the sandy river bottom back up to the surface. But he had seemed to lose control of his arms then, and they grew heavy with sharp pains as he thrashed. He swam with only two legs, or rather, he fought desperately against the god of death, who was holding his two hands and slowly pulling him down to the suffocating riverbed…

He woke as dusk was falling on the water’s edge, on the dark green mulberry bank, lying faceup in the arms of a girl whose clothes were soaked. The river and the sky were hushed in a dark violet, as if there had never been a fierce battle of boiling water and scalding fire just minutes before. He didn’t know if the water that stung his lips with salt was dripping from the girl’s tangled hair or from the corners of her worried, wide, mulberry-leaf eyes…

It was love that helped Tâm find him in that desperate moment. And as she swam, she carried him from the middle of that immense river back to shore, with the soft, nimble, silk-spinning hands of a Phù Kinh girl, under that terrible rain of bombs.

Later, as the war grew fiercer by the day, and perhaps as each person’s time to return South grew indefinite, the higher-ups allowed those who had regrouped in the North to start families there. And so he married Tâm. To commemorate that unforgettable battle, they chose the name of the river for their daughter.

After the country was completely liberated, he returned to visit his home village, not expecting his wife from back then, haggard after many years in prison, to still be waiting for him. At that time, he followed Tâm’s advice: “Living with me as you have been, you’ve already given me a lifetime of happiness. Now, you should do this for her…She hasn’t had a single day that could be considered happy.” He returned and brought Gianh with him to ease the absence…

The completely unexpected and awkward thing that happened, a predicament beyond Mrs. Cảnh’s imagining (and perhaps also beyond Mr. Cảnh’s), was the sudden appearance of Tâm just three days after Mrs. Cảnh returned from out there. That afternoon, Mr. Cảnh had just finished swimming a lap, and as he dressed, he felt satisfied that he could still be limber and resilient. He returned with a relaxed heart. That was a rare thing. For a long time now, Mr. Cảnh had become an old man full of moods, quiet but profusely sad. There was no longer any trace of the famous ship captain, aside from the silvery hair, often crewcut in the soldier style, the coppery skin from a lifetime of weathering sun and wind, and the habit of going out to the river in front of the village twice a day, first thing in the morning and in the afternoon when the sun was fading, to swim a lap.

He had just entered the yard when he heard Tâm’s voice at the gate. At first, all three of them were silent for a few minutes. Perhaps for Mr. Cảnh and Tâm, it was the days of repressed longing, then meeting again—they were so happy that they were choked up. Besides, Mrs. Cảnh was next to them with her mouth gaping open in surprise, forcing them to hold back. But Mrs. Cảnh could never have anticipated as bold and cunning a chess move from her opponent as when she heard Tâm, after a moment of calming herself, find a way to explain that she was heading to sign some contract for the agricultural co-op and conveniently stopped by on her way…

The dinner played out cheerfully on the surface, but inside there were many conflicting sentiments. Mrs. Cảnh used the excuse that “auntie just arrived, a stranger to this place,” to take over the task of fluffing the rice and serving the food, to cover up a heart so knotted that she could not eat normally. It felt like something was pressing on her chest, and anger ignited when she saw Mr. Cảnh’s eyes, suddenly sparkling and youthful, looking in Tâm’s direction. My god! Why won’t you settle down in your old age instead of still fooling around?

They even picked up food and placed it in each other’s bowls, coaxing each other to eat more, like a pair of young lovebirds. The sight made Mrs. Cảnh’s eyes burn. And suddenly, she felt sorry for herself, for her fate. She felt like the superfluous person at the dinner table, even though they also picked up food and placed it in her bowl, urging her to eat. But she couldn’t possibly swallow. She glanced at Tâm’s long, smooth hair flowing down around her still-slim waist, envious and angry. Hey there, lady! Why are you suddenly here, leaning your back up against my husband? My god, why do certain people get to be so happy? Why are you people so happy? Suddenly, she dropped a groan, ughh…right in the middle of the dinner table.

—What’s the matter, elder sister? Tâm felt a bit panicked and asked anxiously when she faintly heard the groan.

—Nothing. Ah yes…that time they tortured me, from then on whenever the weather turns, I feel tightness in my chest…

Mrs. Cảnh mumbled and stroked her chest, trying to suppress the jealousy rising up inside.

Eventually, she was able to find a way to strike back against her opponent. That night, before going to bed, she spoke as though assigning tasks.

—Auntie and Gianh will sleep in my bed in the room since it’s more spacious; then mother and daughter can confide freely!

She said that to sound reasonable, when in fact at the start of the evening, Gianh had thoughtfully asked her permission to attend a study group session and sleep over at a friend’s house afterward. Then, before turning the light off, she pushed Gianh’s single bed to block the bedroom door, and as she fixed her place, she explained, “So that we sisters can talk more clearly.”

Like so, for the half-month Tâm was there, nightly Mrs. Cảnh lay guarding the bedroom door, despite Mr. Cảnh and Tâm tossing and turning restlessly at night…Damn him, there were a few times Mr. Cảnh boldly advanced, but the sounds of his slippers, no matter how soft or stealthy, were always detected by her keen antennae-like ears. And then she immediately emitted a groan, ughh…forcing him to shrink back.

Unable to linger in hopes of finding an opportunity, Tâm had no choice but to pack up and return. After more than half a month, husband and wife could only “revere the gods and spirits from a distance.”⁸ The day Tâm set off was a sunny afternoon at the end of spring; fragile golden light cast upon each tree limb along the road. Mr. Cảnh had just escorted Tâm a short distance; the two had not yet spoken a single private word when they heard scuttering footsteps behind them. Who knows why Mrs. Cảnh changed her mind at the last minute. She didn’t want Mr. Cảnh to send Tâm off alone, so she chased after them. She panted as she explained the need for her presence—ticketing matters at the train station are very complicated; Tâm was unfamiliar with things; Mr. Cảnh is a man, a scatterbrain; pickpockets could rob them clean…

And so all three of them were at the station, sitting like three statues on a bench in the corner of the waiting room, unable to hide their awkwardness and embarrassment. It wasn’t until the doors opened and people poured like water toward the train waiting for them that Mrs. Cảnh suddenly remembered something and charged toward the sundry shops along the station. She quickly bought a few packs of candy and a few loaves of bread, then turned back to the old place, but Mr. Cảnh and Tâm were no longer there. She chased after their shapes flickering at the end of the train.

She found Tâm’s seat number and recognized her simple bag of belongings stacked neatly on the rack, but the two were nowhere to be seen. She suddenly found it hard to breathe. And something filling up in her throat and swelling up in her chest, dry and tormented, urged her to rush forward. Ughh…ughh…She weaved her way toward the end of the carriage, where there was a small bathroom, but there the traders had crammed large sacks of goods to the roof. Like a cat chasing the shadow of a mouse, she scanned her eyes down all the aisles at once, calculating and guessing at something. She then dashed through the door on the other side, where the train had its back against a long, high wall surrounding the platform, edged with barbed wire. That was the most deserted place at that time. She grabbed onto the handrail and hurried down to the last iron step, intending to jump down onto the rocky pavement. She didn’t know if it was because the step seemed too steep compared to the rough road surface that it scared her, or if it was something else that made her stop. She felt her whole body go limp with exhaustion and the train rock beneath her feet. She leaned up against the rusty iron railing beside the train steps and slumped over.

No one saw a thing. People were flitting about, busy finding their seats and storing their luggage on the other side. Only she saw: Tâm, one arm wrapped around Mr. Cảnh’s shoulder, the other arm, with the long, white fingers of the Phù Kinh silkworm girls of ancient times, tenderly caressing his still-muscular shoulders and chest. Her head rested against his chest, her full, open face turned up toward him, eyes half-lowered, letting tears flow down her cheeks, mouth blooming into a full smile of utmost happiness. Mr. Cảnh stood fast, with one hand clutching her waist and the other hand gently stroking her hair tied into a pomelo-shaped bun at the nape of her neck. His back was partly turned toward Mrs. Cảnh, so she couldn’t see the expression on his face clearly. Then she saw him bend down, press his face against Tâm’s, their lips finding each other and sucking tightly…

Seeming to suddenly remember something, Mrs. Cảnh sprang up. But instead of lunging at them and prying them apart as she had worked so hard to hold them back for the past while, for some reason, she hastily climbed onto the platform and slipped down through the front doors, where people were still coming in and out in droves. She stumbled onto the gravel road with railroad ties laid across and knots of iron rails running along both sides mindlessly. It seemed she was no longer aware of time and space. She walked like a robot, at times nearly crashing into people walking in the opposite direction. She kept walking like that, stepping over everything, her thin, bony feet hitting the sharp rocks and still not feeling pain. She charged up the wide covered hallway, through the waiting room door, past the rows of seats, now empty, without lifting her head. Perhaps even she did not know where she was going. It wasn’t until she heard the voice of the ticket vendor with the central region accent asking from somewhere very far away, “Ma, what station are you getting off?” did she finally come to her senses and realize that her hand was passing money through the ticket window. “Lệ Sơn!” she said, then grabbed the ticket and turned back toward the train, as impulsively and unconsciously as she had come: bony, bleeding feet passing over the gravel road with the rows of railroad ties laid across and the iron rails running along. On both sides of the train, only those sending off the passengers remained, their faces fixed toward the windows, and here and there drifted final words of advice or well wishes.

She met Mr. Cảnh just as he stepped down from the train car, his face flushed red, eyes still wet with the tears of parting. Suddenly, tears welled up and gushed down her wrinkled cheeks and liver-spotted, tortoise skin, withered by age and the bitter years of imprisonment. She stopped him on the doorstep and thrust the train ticket into his hand.

—Don’t you ever come back again…

—?

—She’s still so young and green. Could you really bear to let her leave all by herself like this?

She didn’t know what power, what newfound tolerance and generosity, helped her stand firm and say those bold words, causing Mr. Cảnh to grip the ticket and hesitate for a moment before quickly dashing back into the train car, as if he had just received an order of no retreat.

Then suddenly, the train startled awake, as if it had been raptly witnessing the conflicted farewell of three people that nearly made it late, and howled a long whistle into the deep day sky…

Did it all happen in a dream? She didn’t know anymore. She just knew that only after the last black dot of the train faded completely into the far, distant space, did she finally turn away. She suddenly realized that the station was deserted. And she was standing alone in the middle of the gravel road, with rows of railroad ties spread across and iron rails running on and on, endlessly. She suddenly burst into a sob of self-pity, because it felt as though the train had abandoned her, stranded and alone in the middle of life…

She ran headlong out of the train station, forlorn and completely senseless. When her feet met the familiar riverside path, where her husband tried to swim one full lap twice a day in the early morning and afternoon, she tried to regain some composure to enter the house, because she knew that Gianh was still there. But once she got to her room, she collapsed on her bed and silently withered away. Her heart could not easily forgive her gallant act at the train station. So, the conflict between the altruism and generosity of a noble mother, and the jealousy and grief of a wife who was robbed of her husband, kept haunting and tormenting her; now and then she flipped her shriveled old body from one side of the bed to the other…

She vaguely heard light footsteps, then immediately felt something soft, cool, and gentle glide over her brittle hair, pulling her out of that anguished state. And only then did she realize that those were the slender fingers of the girl growing up in her house—the daughter who had bathed and drank the water of the Gianh River since birth.

—Mom…Dad’s left, hasn’t he…

She didn’t know if it was because of Gianh’s soft, sweet voice with the blended accents of the two regions, or something else, that made her suddenly feel healthy as if nothing had happened. And the feeling of being abandoned on the platform was no longer there. That’s right, her train was the last train with Gianh, even with Gianh’s children…

She sat up, pulled Gianh into her arms, and discreetly wiped her bitter tears on Gianh’s soft hair.

And then, the room suddenly glowed for a moment, as the last rays of sun shined through the bars of the west window…