The sky and earth

The sky and earth looked gloomy as the rain came in. Dien found some small umbrella trees, he invited me to plant them. We got soaked in the rain, used the knife to dig a few small holes, then covered the roots with soil. The feeling that my father had given up was loving and protecting a (weak, small) creature, so sweet. Dien asked me to cut reeds and plant them around, afraid that the ducks would eat all the leaves, and besides, this bank was frequented by many people, and if we were not careful, they might be trampled. The two of us sat looking at our work, suddenly sad, not knowing if we would have the chance to come back to see these trees grow, to climb up to pick fruit, to hang a hammock, and have a good sleep. My sisters and I had a desire, a longing to plant trees since leaving Bau Sen, because we knew we would never return to live - normally - again. It seemed like we missed it, missed it terribly. The nostalgia includes running around in the square yard full of star apples, planting something yourself, having fruit, and edible fruit, very delicious. But the small dream of watching it grow is also fragile, when we haven't even warmed up yet and have to move to another place. Luckily, this time we stayed in Co Ua for quite a while, taking care of the ducks (which had just become skinny) with "smooth belly feathers". One day, when Dien went out to watch the tree take root, he suddenly smacked his lips, "I wish this was my - land -...". I laughed, that was so far away. Once, passing through the village, in the afternoon, we met old men playing with their grandchildren, Dien stood hesitantly by the hibiscus fence, saying, "If only this man were my grandfather, I would love him less, Hai?". Hearing that, I suddenly felt so poor, so poor that I didn't have... a grandfather to love and long for on the side of the road. I shook my head, saying no, for example, if I fell in love with someone, and tomorrow I would move away, it would be very sad. But, having absorbed, having torn our hearts apart with the pain of separation, are we not afraid?

Living the life of a shepherd, we forced ourselves not to love or be attached to anyone, so as not to be sad, to be indifferent when we rolled up the tent, pulled up the pole and went to another field, another canal. We were more uncertain than any duck farmer running the fields. Because my father's love affairs were increasingly short-lived.

My father had a - normal - appearance, often talking and laughing, cheerful when there were people (this word "people" does not count my two sisters). Many times I could not hide my

astonishment, thinking that I had met my father - of - the - old - days again. Many times I sat watching people in the village visiting the rice fields passing by the hut, at that time, my father would call, "Nương,

grill some dried fish, I will drink with the uncles...". My younger brother was also very happy, carrying a bottle to the store to buy wine, he was delighted to hear his father call, "Điên ơi! Điền...". Just a little bit of joy, when the man was gone, my sisters and I looked bitterly at our father, who looked like a playwright who had just shed his clothes. Pale, cold, bewildered and lonely. No, when he was alone, my father was more frightening. He was like a beast returning to its nest after being full of prey. The beast lay dreamily savoring the taste of its prey, and pondering its desire for the next prey. Sometimes the struggle made the beast's old wound hurt, it licked the blood, and I was horrified to realize that the pain

kept getting wider. Sometimes I remembered the woman in Bau Sen, remembered the haphazard figure running after the boat in the morning. She must have come back, picked up her

daughter, and put her clothes back in the closet. No matter, she would love someone else, but she would never forget the humiliation of being left on the side of the road (the proof is that the three of us could never forget). With the women later, my father calculated very well, so that he loved them just enough, hurt them just enough, humiliated them just enough, and abandoned them at the right time. Some had just sold their small shop. Some had just said goodbye to their husbands and children. Some had just cruelly divided their property, some

girls were about to go to their husbands' houses, big and small firewood piled up on the roof... All of them were obedient, trusting and loving. My father took them a distance just enough for the one who stayed behind to clearly see the portrait of betrayal, then the woman was thrown ashore

The way back was blocked.

Father did not spend much effort on conquest (Countryside men have pushed their women to him by their own hands, in many ways. They

like to get drunk, they like to use their hands and feet to show their authority. Tired of working hard in the fields, men have become dry, sometimes all their lives, they do not say a single kind word of love to women. They do not know how to caress, caress, when needed, they turn the woman over and satisfy, then turn their backs and sleep). How many more people will my father let taste that pain, I asked myself when looking at the man in his forties, charming from his smile, from his words, his deep, sweet gaze. Oh my God, except for my sisters, no one can see that behind that radiant square face is a deep, dark pit, a vague, uncertain shore, easy to

fall.

So every time my father gazed and smiled at a new woman, we were tied together. Another painful love affair before the first day (which my sisters and I could not stop). I felt my father grabbing that person, burying his face in her skin and flesh, devouring her, but his heart was cold. Dien bitterly said, “Father, doing that is like ducks mating with hens…”. I scolded, “Don’t talk nonsense…”.

But deep down, I also thought, my father was a bit different from humans. More bland than seasonal, instinctual relationships, my father had no more emotions, his face was full of plans, he planned to betray us before meeting.

My father pushed us into a long slide into endless deprivation. Every time we left a place, it was hard to tell if we were leaving or running away. We

lost the right to see them off, to be moved by the waving, to receive some gifts from the countryside like a bunch of bananas and incense or a bunch of spinach cut in the

garden, along with the affectionate advice, “Go well…”.

My sisters and I tried our best to keep our anger and frustration from burning. We fed the ducks far away in the field, lying there from morning to evening. The desolate

wind in the field did not cool our hearts. Luckily, the wind only blew dry the tears that were always flowing on my sister's face.

I no longer wanted to treat Dien's eyes. Because Dien cried all the time (just like me), even though his face was very calm (I did too, except my tears dried up in

my heart). We were both so strange that sometimes we were startled

One time, the two of us sat on a bank, around which the harvesters were eating. The midday sun was scorching hot. I said, is there anywhere else with such fierce sunlight? Dien said, the smell of fish stewed in fish sauce was incredibly fragrant. Yes, I nodded, but the smell of poverty was too good. So what smell of wealth, Dien asked back. I laughed, braised pork. Obviously the two of us argued back and forth, but then a harvester looked surprised, "You two sat there all day, not saying a word, and yet you can still stand it?" Dien laughed, "Huh, we can't speak human language!?" I realized that he didn't move his lips, I read Dien's thoughts. There, there was a raging storm, the wind whipped madly into his small heart full of painful wounds. Dien rebelled. The signs started from one day in the dyke neighborhood, accidentally watching a pair of dogs fighting each other, seeing the sisters drying rice and screaming, I asked Dien to pretend to close his eyes (this game was extremely childish, because everyone could clearly imagine the two dogs in heat). Dien burst out laughing, he shouted loudly, "Hai, look..." then grabbed a piece of wood and rushed to beat the pair of dogs repeatedly. The two dogs cried out in pain, panicked, and rolled around in the dust. In extreme pain, they huddled at the foot of the haystack, but refused to leave each other. The male bowed his head to the ground, groaned, and drooled. Don't run? Slap. Don't run. Slap. Dien screamed. The bamboo was crushed. I held Dien's hand and said, "Why are you so cruel to them, honey", seeing tears streaming down my sister's face.

From that moment, I wanted to run home and tell my father "What happened to Dien, dad...". I was scared, panicked when I had to witness it alone.

Dien knew I had seen something, he bowed his head bitterly. Dien denied the joy of becoming a real man. He suppressed his strong instincts at puberty with all the contempt, anger, and hatred. He protested by emptying everything my father had and did.

Struggling until he was exhausted, many times, he wallowed in the pond until his body turned pale. He ran like crazy at night, on the grassy rice fields until he was exhausted and collapsed. Then he lay sprawled on the field, in tatters.

It's not like that, it's not like that, Dien, I wanted to cry out, unfortunately my illiteracy prevented me from expressing it in words. I'm not sure, but lust and flesh are not evil, not worthy of contempt, not the reason that pushed my sisters and I to this life with these brokenness...

Dien was sixteen years old, he could lie contentedly beside me, letting me fondle his earlobes. Dien was cold. It indifferently looked at the girls weeding rice, pants

rolled up high, young thighs. Sometimes it saw couples entangled between the huts or bushes, it laughed contemptuously. It calmly said in a slightly trembling but very thin and gentle voice, "Hai, stop it. I'm fine, why be sad...".

I smiled, said yes. But wanting to stop being sad was not simple. It took a long time for me to look at Dien normally, I tried to forget about her, imagining

that she was now nine or ten years old (when we were like bonsai trees, equally straight, Dien often imitated sitting to pee).

And I suddenly thought, Dien's abnormality was simply part of a very long series of punishments. That explained why nature was becoming more and more fierce, more severe. With thunder and lightning, growling, it seemed that heaven and earth had held back a lot, the rage was about to begin. One time, I used rubber to wrap the mosquito nets, watched the rain stick its wet tongue into the tent, happily tasting every inch of the ground, I wondered if it rained as much elsewhere (where we weren't). That thought kept appearing in my head, that the sky only poured rain and sunshine where we stopped. The humiliation of the women abandoned by my father (and the broken heart of those around them) penetrated the clouds.

And it seemed that my and Dien's secret communication was also in an unusual chain, which made the relationship with my father more fragmented. The meals followed each other in silence. When eating, I often had hallucinations, thinking that I was sitting in the field of nine years ago. An endless field with the wind swaying the withered sunlight, a very thin and scattered cloud floating lazily above. The horizon was hazy and distant. A few patchy graves under the cluster of myrtle trees.

The sound of birds chirping, dripping stale drops. The smell of new straw mixed with the fishy mud. A flock of ducks tucked their heads into their armpits, sleeping listlessly under the shade of the tra tree hanging clusters of yellow flowers, hopelessly shaking like mute bells. The scene did not change, nor did the people, just sitting there, scratching old wounds, shedding tears.

Like the graves sitting, Dien commented. Luckily, at noon, the sun shimmered on the straw, we could feel the chattering voices.

Dien exclaimed, "Are we really three-eyed, Hai?" when he realized it was the sound of... ducks. I smiled, happily. The world of ducks opened up. No jealousy, no anger, probably because the duck's head is too small so it's only enough for love. I stopped wondering why a flock of hundreds of ducks only needed ten or fifteen male ducks.

Immersed in the new language, we accepted letting people look at us like crazy people (as long as we could temporarily forget the sadness of the human world). My sisters and I learned to love the flock of ducks (hoping it wouldn't hurt like loving a certain person). But sometimes when I saw Dien listening to what the ducks were saying, I was startled, swallowed my bitterness, and wondered if it had come to this, that playing with humans made me sad, so I switched to playing with ducks. Every night,

also tiptoeing, slowly, the two sisters lit a lamp in the middle of the cage, so that when we came out, they would see, know we were not strangers, and not be disturbed. While quietly taking the

egg, I sang a song absentmindedly, sometimes because I lowered my voice and lost my breath. The ducks were terribly sensitive, later, when I tried to correct those breathless places,

they immediately recognized it, and looked at me with suspicion, "Oh, is that you - the person from the other day?". A blind duck snorted and laughed, "It's not who, the voice is different,

but it's clearly the sound of its heart. Very familiar. Flickering, whimpering, swaying as if it's about to fall...". "Are you kidding me, old man?" "Why not, you guys try going blind

and you'll know." I unconsciously closed my eyes to hear my heart again.

But the calculated punishment was just right, just enough fun, just enough love, clinging, it stood behind us and laughed at us.

The wind turned, on the fields filled with sad news. We heard a strange phrase, bird flu. The duck farmers laughed,

"Tsk, the ducks died in the wind, the government guys are exaggerating...". The day the government announced the destruction of all flocks, they suddenly exclaimed, "Oh my god,

are there no more jokes, guys?"

No one was joking. People used Cao Cao's idea of ​​the Three Kingdoms period, "it is better to kill by mistake than to let go by mistake", gathering all the ducks in the field and digging holes to bury them.

Dien cried: - Guys, my ducks are very sick, they don't have any diseases...

One person grumbled: - How did you know? - The ducks clearly told me.

Everyone laughed, today was so much fun. They started to cover themselves with raincoats. They spread lime on the large burial holes the size of several ponds combined. They stuffed the still-living, still-struggling, still-screaming ducks into sacks, tied their mouths and threw them in there.

The duck farmers gathered in one place, facing each other's backs. They felt sorry for their belongings, they felt sorry for their money, they felt the exhaustion and poverty surrounding them. This time of risk (of a profession with many risks) was really fierce.

My father sat alone on a bank of land and lit a cigarette, looking up at the sky, his expression slightly indifferent. indifferent. With the deep pain already in my heart, other events were just like

a small scratch on the skin, nothing.

That image, that expression made me despair. But, at that time, I was numb, why did I look towards my father? Because I wanted to call for help (like children

when startled, they often blurt out "Mom" or "Dad")? Because I found myself unable to bear the pitiful cries of the ducks buried

deep underground?

It took half a day for the holes to be filled with dirt. Through the layers of muddy soil, I heard my - ducks - still gasping, they were in pain because of their broken, twisted necks, they asked each other why - we - people were cruel. Then silence. In the eerie silence, I recognized the voice of the blind duck, perhaps because

it was not afraid of the dark, so its life lasted

Then the last dim light of the day fell, Dien and I sobbed, feeling the last duck's breath getting shorter and shorter. And then it stopped. And disappeared. Only the wind laughed in long bursts... I regretted that the little creature had penetrated my heart.

The next morning, people found a duck herder lying close to the edge of the hole, his eyes staring at the sky without blinking, his mouth bubbling foam, clear as crab foam but

strongly smelling. The pesticide bottle rolled nearby, empty to the last drop. Living is hard, but dying is not easy.

I stood there, regretting, oh, that person lying there, why wasn't it us?

Retribution seemed to be very near

I began to regret saving her and taking her with me. It felt like we were pulling her out of one swamp to push her into another, equally deep one.

She appeared at the wrong time. My father showed signs of fatigue. For my father, the more women experience, the more bored they become. The more they spread, the more painful it is. The old wound opened wide, no flesh could fill it. My father did not accept even the women he had painstakingly taken (from others), so how could he

believe in devotion?

So, she finally understood why my father ignored her. Dien and I were forced to tell our story so that she would not have to feel guilty about her

status as a prostitute. The patchwork, fragmented memories were told quite slowly, partly because we had not used verbal communication for a long time, partly because some details made us stop the story, because we felt pain somewhere or waited for her to stop crying. For example, the part about my first period. The blood

flowed between my thighs and wouldn't stop, I crouched down, covering that place. The blood slowly flowed through the gaps between my fingers, I felt hollow, pale, dying. Dien reached out to pick a banana shoot, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it greedily, madly, to use the pulp to stop the bleeding. The medicine that was said to be very good at stopping bleeding was also ineffective. The two of us looked at each other

crying, I dreamed of my grave, like a bed surrounded by water... My sister sobbed and pressed my head against her chest, "Oh my God, poor thing. Where was your father at that time?". I was bewildered, not knowing, but even if he were right there, we couldn't ask for help.

We had said that we sisters had to learn everything ourselves. What we didn't know, we tried. What we didn't understand, we piled it up in our hearts. Many times

when we understood something thoroughly, we had to pay a high price. Once we let the ducks rest in a shaded canal. Suddenly the shame of being human rushed up my nose, when I discovered that they never

raped and deceived each other. The time before the male climbed on the female was very real, soft, peaceful... Absolutely nothing vulgar. I was shocked.

Dien was shocked. Oh my god, different from what we knew (through my father, my mother), in the joy (of the ducks) was filled with something called love - love. Dien

was bewildered, doubt spread like a wave. And when she appeared, there was only regret and torment in him.

Dien loved her, but that love was defective. After a long sleep, his instincts did not awaken. His heart was just a small piece of coal, unable to reheat

the ash-colored body. The emotional thread is like a path that has not been used for a long time, covered by weeds, broken, broken bridge...

But, the kind of spiritual love to look at each other, to hold hands, to stroke hair, to endure and sacrifice only exists in literature. She needs more, more, terribly much, as if she can devour and wear down all the men in this world. At first it was to make a living, but gradually, the physical contact made her

addicted. Dien was desperate.

I felt the breakdown when Dien chased after her, and she ran after her father.

A race that was exhausting and didn't get us anywhere. We still had to save our strength to make a living under the scorching sun. My father decided to sell the ducks. The three of us, each time

carrying a few ducks, we divided them up and went around the neighborhood to sell them. But that way didn't yield much results, holding a skinny duck in our hands, its sternum sharp

we could guess. Furthermore, the lean season was long, many households were still running out of rice, duck meat became a luxury. The TV was still broadcasting about the flu, those who knew a little bit, pulled their heads back, "Eating ducks to catch the disease and die?".

We brought the ducks back, the road leading to the fields was filled with purple mua flowers. Also following this path, a few days later, the hamlet chief led a commune cadre and rushed

to our place.

I was both scared and grateful for people like this. They made us feel less wild, made us understand that, even in the most desolate fields, we were still bound by thousands of rules. But at the same time, they always brought disaster. It seemed that punishment was hiding behind two faces, baked under the sun, shiny and greasy. They spoke cheerfully in a funny language (we duck herders never used directives, eradicated or resolved...). It was so simple, when they said "you must destroy the ducks". My father nodded irritably. Dien and I cried out a sharp cry, oh, our friends were about to be buried alive again.

Her gaze flowed with Dien's tears, she softly said, it's okay, my dears. She was friendly, pulling the two strange men towards her, "You guys have mercy on me, how can we let my whole family starve to death". One grumbled: - The order is from above, how can we argue.

The smile swaying, carefree in the corner of the eyes, I didn't tell you guys to argue with anyone, you guys just pretend not to know, not to see my flock of ducks. Easy...

The fat Dien gritted his teeth, he restrained himself by squeezing my shoulder painfully. Five or seven steps away, her voice still flowed like a steamy wind, absorbing the two (pretending to be) stiff faces. One person swallowed his saliva, his lustful gaze like a needle sticking out of a bag, wandering. His eyes stripped her naked, and calculated for a moment. The other person seemed interested, eager as if he was about to watch a good opera. She understood men so well that, immediately, she looked at us, secretly announcing that the negotiation (about an exchange) was over. - You two go home first, in a bit, I'll choose some young ducks to bring back for you guys to enjoy. This is Mr. Nam's house, you know, why don't you? Wherever you go, you always look at the local people's faces first...

Her smile suddenly became tired and weary. There was a bit of cruelty, a bit of savagery in this negotiation. The two men turned back to the village, not forgetting to say back, half threatening, half casual, "we respect your wife...". My father laughed very generously, oh those children...

She ruffled Dien's hair, said "it's a small matter, go catch ducks for me, my dear". And turned a deep gaze towards my father, very slowly, she changed her clothes, took out her hat, put on her sandals... Time dragged on. I knew she was waiting, hoping. I knew, after a long distance, she was still waiting for a call, "come back, Suong". But

only the wind whined, piercing the flesh behind the woman's shirt, slanting on the swaying grass.

She came back when the moon was shining brightly overhead (I was still terrified of that moon color). Her pants legs brushed against the dewy grass. The smell of alcohol mixed with the smell of cigarettes

made me feel uneasy. When she saw my sister and I sitting there, she exclaimed, "Oh my god, why are you two waiting for me?" "I... am used to being a whore, what are these things that make you two sad?" Then, bending over to look at the hut, she clicked her tongue and said, "Look... Oh my god, today the wind is so cool that people sleep so soundly". Wow, my father's snoring was so even, so peaceful. I was about to cry, right at this moment, it seemed like she was - dying. She quickly wiped her eyes with her hand, the water was smeared on the temple, sticking to her sideburns.

The next morning, meeting at the duck pen, my father smiled, a little mockingly, "So, was it fun last night? They must have thought you were my wife and were very excited? Let them think so...". She stared at her father, then turned to me, letting each word fall: - My mother is one evil, but this father of yours is ten evil.

Saying that, she turned away. Her feet stumbled into the grass. The small path was soaked in the purple color of mua flowers. I waved bitterly in my heart. The figure disappeared in the garden. Dien brought water back, he frantically asked where his sister was. I pointed to the path covered with wild flowers and grass. My younger brother ran panting in that direction. Dien, also did not return.

I waited for him until the rainy season poured down on the Chia Cat field (I temporarily called it that) in a sky full of stars. Waiting for fun, but I knew Dien would not return. I missed him (and

missed my sister) endlessly. Every time I served dinner, I used to take bowls and chopsticks for all four of us. My father was very upset, he stood up in dismay. I sat alone, pouring water into my rice bowl as if to relieve the terrible emptiness. Passing through the bustling canals, I often looked up to the shore hoping to see Dien and his sister. I didn't know if my brother had caught up with her, or was still searching. I didn't know if he had awakened his instincts, found sensuality, or known desire. I didn't know if Dien would be exhausted tonight, lying on his sister, or lying somewhere, on the wall of the room (or a cloth table), writhing in pain, listening to the pleasure flowing into streams of moans and screams. I didn't know if his tears had dried or were still dripping like fresh blood. I miss Dien, including missing a fellow - kind (and I am the other fellow - kind), missing a way of talking (reading each other's hearts), missing a person who can hear my heart (this is something a blind duck can do, but it is dead), and missing a person who protects (this job, should be my father, mother's). I am grateful to Dien, from

a white bandage package Dien brought home when I was fourteen, saying that this is used when having menstruation, it will prevent blood from staining my pants. Dien asked someone, he

said, the blood cannot be stopped until it stops flowing on its own. Dien felt sorry when he saw me develop into a woman, "Why be so beautiful, Hai? In this corner of the countryside, even if you are beautiful, you will still have to get married, have a bunch of children, work in the fields and gardens for the rest of your life, flat like a cicada's shell. Beautiful, it is a pain to keep...". Dien told me

not to roll up my pants too high, not to wear shirts with too wide necks... With the group of young men who always found excuses to hang around, Dien spread his arms around me, he mocked, "You

there, pick up your eyes, look at that, my sister is worn out". The group of people who were stumped and dull scattered. Even when Dien left with his sister, he left me a big

gift.

My father began to care a little about me. It seemed that Dien's empty place reminded him to cherish what was left. Starting from one night, my father stood far away,

saying, "Mother, go to bed early!", I felt my eyes sting, overwhelmed as if someone had stuffed a cloud of smoke into my face. Funny, the words had no great meaning, fathers

and mothers told their children thousands of times, until they were annoyed, but I was excited.

I wished I could be dizzy for a long time, but it quickly disappeared because of a strange thought. It seemed like there was no time left to mend the brokenness, to arrange

the fragments that were rattling in my heart.

We practiced looking at each other, how difficult it was. Especially with my father, I felt a great effort. Every time he looked at me, he had to swallow his emotions, because I looked terribly like my mother.

Without a mirror, I saw my mother's image in the eyes of the person opposite. In front of my father's gaze, I felt like I was reflected in the night water. With other

men, I was glowing as if standing before the sun. With their eyes, they groped all over my body. Their eyes were like the hands of the blind man I had met, stopping wherever they touched, stroking and squeezing (probably to make it easier to imagine), then groping to another place, fondling and fondling. And I received it with resentment, grumpiness.

The day the ducks were sold, my father bought a gold ring, he pushed it towards me, embarrassed as if he was about to die, "Save it for when I get married...". I choked out a mouthful of laughter, oh my god, who should I marry now?

During the years of living in the fields, I had known no one but the old country men. Who should I marry among them? Someone who buried his face

in the ground, exhausted with the fields, so that every time the harvest was over, I would hear the sound of my child scraping, the sound of the coconut spoon scooping rice from the bottom of the jar, burning my heart?

Or would I choose a duck herder, tired of long trips, living a life of temporary indifference, anxious about risks, and at some point, I would hold my child and listen

to the long harvest night with the snickering of my husband and the old prostitute. Who should I marry now, a harvester? A ferryman? The thought of being a copy

of my mother scared me. I'm not sure if I have enough patience to live that poor, boring life for the rest of my life, or give up halfway. And the tragedy piles up

on those who stay behind.

My father was a little panicked. That's it, just pay a little attention, you can realize, feel sorry for my strangeness, my abnormality. My father just saw it, confused to the point of not knowing how to express his heartache, on the face, or just silently in his heart. But even if it hurts, it seems too late...

The thought is too late, too late, too late, like a navel, frantically sucking me in, feeling all my father's efforts become meaningless, I think. I think of punishment, retribution regardless of the quiet sky as if the past has been forgotten. Now, it's the most beautiful season of the year