Illustration: Tuan Anh
The rented room was located deep in an alley dotted with blue-frosted flower beds, with delicate petals falling all over the walls and stone steps as if a shower of flowers had just fallen. The brick houses were stacked side by side, interspersed with stone crevices covered with moss, vines, and ferns. A few half-closed windows looked like dreamy eyes facing the small alley, and somewhere echoed the sound of bells as if from the distant horizon, dissolving in the mist. It felt like the wings of time had closed and landed here a long time ago.
Leaving the bustling city, Lan spent half a day on the train to reach this town. His luggage was light, and couldn’t have been any heavier, perhaps only the memories he brought with him were full. Before that, Lan had only seen a few photos of the rented room from the owner, the four walls inside seemed to have just been repainted with a new coat of paint. Outside, on both sides of the entrance door were a few pots of purple evening primroses, and gypsophila, under the bare rose bushes were a few small, late-season ripe fruits. The shadows of the silver-gray hillsides, dark with fog, appeared behind him. Perhaps because of this silence, Lan chose to stay in this house, in the town at the foot of the small hill, like a cradle in the fog.
Lan would find a job here, maybe he would have to move further to the city. At least for now, he understood that he needed the silent spaces of the mountains and hills. Quietly removing all the seemingly strong but actually fragile ties, no one knew that Lan had boarded another train of his life, and he himself could not predict what would happen next.
Waking up while the mist still lingered on the blue misty flower slopes, Lan felt nothing but emptiness. Curling up in the cold air of the mountain, like a thousand hands touching his skin, from the unconscious, the afterimage of the old city reappeared. So much vanity. So many bouts of drunkenness. So many long tears in the alluring fumes of alcohol. Love affairs without beginning or end. Youth broken and lost. So many moments of slack, meaningless drag. Lan had left everything behind, as if he had just released the remaining feathers after a long migration season.
The sun was rising. Lan gently opened the window and let down the silvery white curtains, swaying lightly like thin wisps of smoke interwoven with sunlight. The cold sunlight here was new to Lan, each piece of gold seeping into the room made him feel a little happy. From the window across the street, Lan saw a small book stall nestled under the shade of an ancient Bodhi tree. Perhaps that was why the sign on the porch was painted green with the words "Bodhi Book Stall".
A few old men had gotten up early, sitting on plastic chairs sipping tea on the steps. They talked softly, and communicated with each other mostly through eye contact. A moment later, Lan saw an old man slowly walk out of the book stall, carrying a chess board in his hand. They all stood up to arrange the chairs and then sat down together. A cold wind blew by, causing the blue dew petals to fall one after another. Lan looked closely at the book stall. It was an old book stall, the fish-scale-shaped roof tiles seemed to have been painted with watercolors many times, and the leaves of the Bodhi tree were heavily fallen. Looking in from the outside, one could see stacks of books, high and low, arranged on shelves. Above the main door hung a sign with the red words in capital letters: "Văn - tư - tu". On top of the bookcase near the entrance was a wooden Buddha statue, next to a vase of dark yellow chrysanthemums.
The early morning smoke from the gongs and chimneys of a nearby house rose. The smoke dissipated into the sunlight shining on the persimmons hanging precariously outside the window. Lan realized that hidden in the figures and the scene before him was something that radiated warmth and sparkled with familiarity.
***
Lan found a job as a cashier at a small supermarket in the city. He was assigned to work the night shift, until 10 pm. After finishing his work, he turned off the lights and closed the door. He walked out of the supermarket when the darkness was as thick as a swamp. The road from the city to the market was cold and windy. The lonely lights were like lonely men standing on the edge of the world. All the noise was behind him, sometimes the whole night was just Lan driving towards the dark shadow of the mountain. At those times, he often thought about the loneliness of life.
When returning to the alley of the boarding house, Lan always saw a familiar figure blending into the fog. Every night, an old man bent over sweeping dry leaves from one end of the alley to the other. The sound of the broom seemed to be sweeping the thin, light pieces of night, making Lan's heart feel less empty. That was the old man who owned the Bo De book stall. Lan had heard that the book stall had been there for decades. Perhaps that was why the old people in the area all called him "Mr. Bo", as Lan often affectionately greeted him every night when the cold wind blew.
Lan closed the door, went into the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and looked at himself in the tiny, steamy mirror. His whole body felt limp and limp. Sometimes he couldn't even recognize himself in the mirror. Lan looked at the mole under his left eye for a long time. In the past, his grandmother had said that people with a mole in that position would grow up with a lack of tears. People who cry a lot for others are easily moved and forgive easily, and therefore are easily betrayed. In this life, there are many types of tears. Lan never thought that any of his tears were fake. He only saw them sometimes as salty with loneliness.
Amidst the darkness, the dreams are still there.
***
Sometimes, strange visitors come to Bo De book stall. They come from far away and bring stacks of books with the scent of old books as gifts for Mr. Bo. The old man does not sell books. Those who come to him with a heart, he lends them without a return date, and does not accept payment. There are books that are thought to be lost, but a few years later, the borrowers trace the old tracks to find and return them. Mr. Bo says that each book has its own life. His book stall is only a temporary resting place for books waiting for the right person. In the hands of a good person, the horizons will appear before them. Throughout the four seasons, Mr. Bo sits leisurely waiting for the people who have sown seeds of faith in him to return. He believes that they will come back, say a few words to him, or sit down and whisper stories inside and outside the pages of the book. And so, his book has another part of life.
Lan understood why the sign Mr. Bo hung on the porch said "book counter" instead of "bookstore". On weekends, the children in the town would chatter around Mr. Bo and the stacks of old books. They brought books to the front row, happily turning each page, swinging their feet on the dew-fallen blue flowers. Inside the house, Mr. Bo often sat with new and old guests, placing a cup of warm dew-infused tea on a stool in the middle. His shirt always had a ballpoint pen tucked into the pocket. His glasses were slightly lowered to the bridge of his nose, as he looked at his guests and smiled warmly.
***
Late that night, the wind from the mountain pass blew fiercely all the way back. Lan curled up, shivering as he drove. Occasionally, he touched his forehead, feeling as hot as sitting in front of red coals, sweat dripping down his temples despite the cold late-season wind like a thousand claws. Halfway up the hill, the clouds kept rising higher and higher, like towering white waves about to crash into Lan. The lampposts suddenly turned into long, illusory human faces. Lan gripped the steering wheel tightly. Sweat poured out, soaking his palms. The entire road was dark and deserted. Night birds were boldly escaping from the trees sleeping in the fog.
Lan began to feel dizzy. His hands were shaking and he was flustered. His heart was pounding like a galloping horse. A truck coming from the opposite direction rushed past, its bright lights flashing across Lan's eyes. Lan suddenly woke up from his hallucinations. He braced himself and pushed the car down the steep slope, the town appeared hazily before him.
Lan staggered after his father's shadow. But he did not turn back. The October sky poured down a thousand branches of rain on the white misty field. The branches of rain seemed invisible but sharp as needles, piercing Lan's eyes with a sharp pain. He called out to his father, trying to call out as loud as possible. The call echoed far and wide. But he still did not turn back. His cold back gradually disappeared behind the dry, weary grass slopes at the end of the season. Lan remained silent, keeping himself from crying. He remembered his grandfather's words, about the black mole under his left eye. His father's shadow had disappeared into the horizon. All the colors of the afternoon had sunk deep into the ground. Only Lan remained standing in the middle of the silver-gray October field, next to the orphaned cotton tree, seemingly asleep in the middle of the heavy rain.
***
- Last night I heard you calling for dad repeatedly in your delirium.
Mr. Bo's voice was soft. He had just finished boiling the pot of herbs. He had planted the herbs in front of the porch, then picked them and dried them in case of illness. His father was a herbalist, and when he was young, he often went with his father to the hillside to collect herbs. The scent of the herbs filled the room with warmth. It was as if Lan were returning to his grandfather's dusty kitchen.
Yesterday, Lan collapsed in front of the door before he could even put the key in the lock.
***
Mr. Bo brought three books over and placed them on the table, then he returned to continue his unfinished story with the children. "I hope you find something in these books," he said slowly before turning away. Lan answered him with a grateful look. He had to stay home for a few days to recover.
The pot of medicine boiling on the stove emitted a light fragrance as if it were opening doors from the depths. Outside the small alley, the blue mist flowers seemed to gently hold the human clouds drifting low. Perhaps Lan had found something even before reading the books that Mr. Bo left behind.
He looked out at the distant hilltop, wandering like the color of his grandmother's eyes, pretending not to wait, but every afternoon looking back to the vastness. When Lan still had his grandmother, he often lay beside her listening to her whispering. Grandma once said that in his previous life, his father was a wild horse, so in this life his legs refused to sleep. Was that true, that even on the day Lan was born, his mother was bleeding profusely after giving birth, his father was still busy being a wandering cloud somewhere?
***
Lan sat alone among the towering bookshelves, facing the Buddha statue on top of the cupboard. Mr. Bo had reserved this corner of the room for books on Buddhist philosophy and Eastern medicine. Lan had just finished reading the book Mr. Bo had left behind the other day, and he sat quietly listening to the echoes of the words fading into the distance. Over the past few days, the loneliness had gradually been replaced by a source of pure energy. The restless dreams deep in the pit of the night had drifted back to a still, quiet place. At this moment, the smell of old books made the room seem to expand toward the horizons of memory.
"Following my father's instructions, I took him back to my grandmother's house. Every night, he would wake up and call your name." Lan still hadn't responded to the message from her aunt's eldest son.
***
- Should I go home?
- When you asked me that question, you already had the answer in your heart.
Mr. Bo's silhouette was bowing his head pensively beside the bookshelf. The birdsong on the roof was so clear it seemed to be able to dispel all the murky, gloomy clouds of the world. Lan turned to face the window. The blue dew flowers were at the end of their season, their fragrance drifting through their long hair in the wind. In the fading afternoon sun, they all shone with a wandering light, like strings of pearls from the sky...
Source: https://thanhnien.vn/hoa-lam-suong-truyen-ngan-du-thi-cua-tran-van-thien-185251018183610472.htm
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