|
Waiting for the woman in the photo
By Luong Thi Van Anh
 |
I was five years old, when my
paternal grandmother began teaching me how to count. I
pursed my lips as round as possible to pronounce the
digits properly. For every successful attempt, father
gave me two sweets out of his pocket as a reward.
However, despite granny’s efforts, I could never go
beyond the fingertips of both her hands, which were
always spread out like the fan that grandfather left on
a rattan chair in the corner of the corridor. Every time
the table had to be set for a meal, I took four bowls
and four pairs of chopsticks out of the larder and
placed them all on the food tray, granny issuing
directions in a low voice, "This one for grandfather,
this one for granny, this one for father and the last
one for Bi." After a few times, I came to know that
there were four members in our extended family.
Father was out all day long. Every time he came home, he
placed one of his hand on my head, and bending down,
would ask, "You’ve behaved properly at home today,
haven’t you?" Then he went into the house, sat on
the sofa and looked attentively at the photograph on the
wall over his bed. The woman in the picture had a
serious look and two eyes wide open, full of desires and
anxieties. Every time he returned home, father just
looked at it for a long time and said nothing. Granny
only left the kitchen where she worked to prepare
everything for the next day, entering the main house at
dinner time and before bedtime. I played near
Grandfather until late in the afternoon. When granny
prepared to go to the market I asked to go along as well
and she usually agreed, of course. Our village market
was at the foot of the dyke. The first time I was led
there by granny I was very happy. How wide and long the
path was! Lined with coconut trees on both sides it ran
through green fields of Indian corn, past rows and rows
of sweet potatoes. At the market, I always found several
dirty young children in tattered clothes playing under
the shadows of the pine trees. Their toys, simple as
they were, and their games had me so captivated that
granny had to struggle to get me away for fear that it
might soon turn dark. Before leaving the market she
always bought me some sweets. Once, while eating them, I
counted the amount of sweets and all of a sudden asked
her, "Why are there only four people in our family,
granny?"
She looked at me for a while without speaking, and said
that previously the family had had five, and the other
woman was now missing. She was a very beautiful young
lady, so beautiful that granny could not express her
beauty in words. She was certainly the most beautiful
woman in the region. She was the only daughter of a
teacher who taught my father. Father was the only one to
pass the GCE examination in the district, so the rural
scholar regarded him as his own son. After completing
four years at the Secondary High School, father was
urged to get married by my grandparents. At first father
did not agree, but finding Granny in tears often,
decided to give in. But, he said, "I’ll marry Thoai,
no one else." A few days later my grandparents went
to the scholar’s house to ask for his daughter’s hand in
marriage. The old scholar agreed at once, but his
daughter refused, saying she wanted to study further.
Nevertheless, her father had the last word in the
matter, and at last she was compelled to accept her
grandparents’ proposal unwillingly. She showed her
unhappiness by staying at home all day long, saying she
might fly into a rage if she met father on the road.
Oddly enough, when Thoai became my grandparents’
daughter-in-law later, she behaved properly. She was
very polite to them and took very good care of father:
making tea for him, presenting him his hat before he
went out, or taking his bicycle out of house as he set
out to work. She seemed to be another woman altogether.
That was the happiest period in father’s life.
***
When Thoai gave birth to a baby boy, me, my grandparents
were even happier than when father got married. Dad was
deeply moved. He took annual leave to stay at home and
look after her, doing housework that he had never done
before. Afterwards, on a cold and rainy afternoon in
winter, she went to the river to fetch water home. And
never returned. Three years had passed, and still nobody
knew of her whereabouts. Grandfather intended to put up
an altar, but father resolutely opposed it, resolutely
maintaining that she was alive somewhere and would
return home some day. One of the villagers told father
that he had seen her walking to the station, perhaps to
visit her relative in Quang Ninh province. This
consolidated father’s belief that she was still living.
On the day she left home, I was two years old, no more
nor less.
***
Those days, I was not old enough to understand what
granny told me. But I always felt that I was missing
something, and over time realized that home would have
been merrier if there had been five members in the
family. Whenever father went away on business for
several days, I found the house quite deserted and quiet
and wished that the woman called Thoai in Granny’s story
would come back to us and talk and play with me. Once,
standing at the iron gate to our compound, I had a
glimpse of a little girl my age holding a small and
beautiful doll in her arms. Delighted, I waved an
invitation to come nearer to the gate. As she left
suddenly, taken home by her elder sister, I asked her, "Who
gave it to you ?" "Mother," she replied with
a brilliant smile. There was nobody at home I called
mother. That was the first time I conceived, vaguely
though, that I had no mother. I burst into tears.
The knowledge did not make the situation better. Father
was out all day long again. Granny remained busy in the
kitchen as usual while Granddad busied himself with his
brickwork. Every evening, after finishing his work, he
sat in a rattan armchair placed in a corner of the
verandah and cooled himself by waving a fan, looking
blankly ahead. I was alone in the house. The rhythm of
the life was played unchanged day after day, until one
rainy evening in October, when the wind from the dyke
blew violently into our house as we waited for Dad to
return so we could have dinner. Never had he come home
so late. I was very hungry. I took turns staring at the
rattan cover over the food tray, and glancing at the
gate hoping to see father come in and sit down to start
the late meal. We waited and waited.
When he came back home with his bicycle, it was quite
dark. He was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold.
Leaning his bicycle against the step of the verandah, he
turned back and called out, "Come in, please."
There was no answer. We could hear hesitant footsteps in
the courtyard. Then a strange woman came in. She was
very pale, arms trembling with the cold. She seemed to
be on the point of fainting. My grandparents did not say
a word. Granny silently went into her room, took out a
blouse and a pair of trousers and handed them to her.
Consequently, there were five people in my family. Now
each time I counted, I could spread out my whole hand
with its five fingers, not four with one finger bent
down. The woman never smiled. Her eyes looked
frightened. Granny called her Dan. She seemed glad with
the presence of the strange woman in our house. The
newcomer worked very hard. Each time she took hold of
the broom, she swept the whole house and courtyard up to
the gate. To me, our gate looked larger and the kitchen
garden appeared greener. Granny smiled happily. Dan
often looked at Dad when he stared at the old photo.
From then on I rarely went to market with Granny,
staying at home and playing with Dan or watching her
work. Time and again, she drew me close to her and asked
me something or told me a story that Granny had not told
be before. Many days, she talked to me until dinner
time. After the meal I asked father to let me sleep with
her that night, so that I could enjoy the whole story.
He nodded his consent. He seldom talked to Dan, keeping
a distance always. Her presence in my family did not
disturb its routine at all.
Sometime later, Dad bought her a new beautiful flowered
blouse. She wore it frequently. Once, coming back from
the market, Granny gave her a brand-new white hat.
I am not sure whether it was the fact that I’d been
separated from my mother when I was still too young, or
the care and affection I got from the woman Dad led home
that rainy day that convinced me that she was Thoai of
yore. Many nights, she hugged me tightly and pressed her
cheeks against my forehead. I rubbed my little hand over
her face, and one night suddenly called her Mother. She
was trembling, and warm teardrops fell on my forehead. "Bi,
go to sleep, dear," she said affectionately. I
buried my head in her chest and rounded myself in her
arms, expecting that from now on she would always be
beside me, lulling me into sound sleep with interesting
stories that I’d never heard before.
Days passed. I got accustomed to her warm breath like a
cat becomes familiar with the warm straw when winter
sets in. I was really happy that there was someone in
the house that I could call mother. Sometimes, lying
beside her I would bite one of my fingers to see whether
I was still awake or in a dream, and when I found her
beside me, my mind was at peace and I went to sleep in
her arms. Then one chilly winter night, after dinner,
while everybody was sitting around the shiny brown table
to have some tea, father sat lost in thought for a long
time, saying nothing. Granny seemed to be tensed up,
looking at him and then at Dan. Dan sat with her head
bowed, fingers running over the flap of her blouse. A
moment later, she looked up and said something to Granny
who just stared at her and said nothing. When she
finished speaking, Dad heaved a sigh and looked at the
photo. Looking very sad, Granny stood up and walked
towards her bed. There she lay for hours with her back
to us, saying nothing.
The next morning, Dan left home early with father. She
ruffled my hair, saying, "Bi, behave yourself. Your
mother will come home some day." That afternoon she
did not return with father. She’d gone away for ever.
Grandfather became less talkative and Granny was in bed
for nearly a week. She seldom smiled since. I did not
know why Dan had left us that way. Was it that father
made her too sad? Or was it the fact that in a far-away
corner of the country, another family like ours was
waiting for her to come home? I cried a lot but could
not find the truth. Years later, I learnt that the woman
that I had regarded as Thoai in Granny’s story was a
woman father had saved from drowning at the place on the
riverbank that mother used to fetch water from.
Again, there were only four members in the family. A few
months later, Granny went away to stay with my aunt H»ng
at her house to look after her new-born baby. Only three
of us remained in the house: Grandfather, father and me.
When I was eight years old and preparing to go up to the
second grade, Grandfather passed away, and Granny came
back to stay with us. Father began talking to me more
frequently and taught me how to solve difficult problems
in the evening. One night, before going to sleep, he
embraced me tightly and asked, "Bi, do you believe
that mother will come back home ?" "Who’s my
mother, father?" I asked. That night he told me the
whole story about the woman in the photo for the first
time.
***
Now
my father’s hair has turned grey. Granny is no more and
I no longer count the number of people in my family on
my fingertips. But there is one thing that I keep
believing: Some day "the woman in the photo"
will come back to us.
Translated by Van Minh |
Best websites
