That song you mentioned, twice was it sung at my wedding by two different groups. I don’t like that song, I said. And you replied, neither do I. And yet somehow you still recall the name. You wrote its name twice in a letter, once. I have lost it, but the tune still echoes in my head whenever I wish to write to you. In the end, even though the letter is still missing, I go on to write a response.
Brother dear, I begin. In all earnestness, I’ve stepped out from the dark shadows of the past. I remember still how we all sat on that one single motorbike. Imagine, at times I’ve wondered, if we had each a bike of our own. Perhaps at own, you will pause. And perhaps, if you are sitting by a window, you will turn to look outside. I imagine your gaze drifting away, upwards, to the bluest of skies. I know how hard you are trying to excavate those memories. A shadow descends upon your face in such instances, like on that Tết afternoon, at the twilight of a new year, as we sat and talked after a long time apart. I understood then you were perturbed, trying to exhume all those memories buried once upon a time. What is this day, Tết, to you. Is it a beacon of hope, or a black hole? Perhaps, I will never know because I have yet to ask. That day, I was telling you about my plans for after the wedding. Your face brightened up immediately.
At the mention of Tết, you will certainly cut me off and begin your rant about the ennui of Tết over there in that land of yours. You often bring this up in letters written as the year is coming to an end. And I will tend to all of your words, and I will listen and not cut you off like you do whenever we sit and talk after a long time apart. When we would sit together, and you would open by drawing a comparison. Here, that’s what we do; over there, such things don’t happen; no such things as honking, cutting lines; thank yous and sorrys. If you say too much, I once asked, would they admonish you. No, you said, cutting me off. Once, you wrote, these are habits rooted deep in our veins. Once, you wrote, children here learn to say that from a young age, even to strangers. But you always end your letters by the saying how sad Tết is here.
That song, I remind you, people sing it at weddings as though it’s a custom, a tradition. You will then lay out further reasons as to why you don’t like the song; its origin, its significance, what it represents. You will defend this thesis page after page, an onslaught, like when we sit and talk after a long time apart. And if you are sitting by a window, perhaps you will not notice how the light outside has dwindled. Out on the balcony of the shop are electrical cables left behind from the past. Naturally, you will make a connection.
Having spoken to you and written this letter, I understand you could not have remembered about Tết that year. And truth be told, neither do I, for I was too young. Yet, the memory of the five of us on the motorbike is different. I remember it clearly like a child’s poem, with nothing more than memories of the bike and simple verses.
Four years after that Tết, I began a letter. We were all sitting together on a bike. I know you will make a face when reading this. To you, it was just a bike. But to me, it was the bike.
No one looks after a memory for that long, one of us has said in writing. You had mentioned this in your letter. We are beyond the reach of the shadows anyway, and the bike is a meaningless utterance. The tank, the Honda SS90, what’s the difference. Right, I had responded, but we are brought into this story, of us sitting on the bike, through a different voice, that of another historian. How can you criticize the tank with your voice, when the vehicle you should be talking about isn’t given a voice? Three, thirty or fifty, would it ever be enough pages to truly tell the story of the bike on which all five of us once sat? Perhaps, you will stop reading here to light the cigarette you had the habit of smoking before moving away. The brand is another remnant, once sold in the black market. I’d continue to ask you, what if the cigarette between your lips were the same as the one between the lips of the man driving that Honda?
The expression on the man driving suggests that the wind is billowing, his hair blown and flattened backward. A touch of worry imprints on his face, but the full picture remains hopeful. Maybe, if I put a cigar to his lips, surely you wouldn’t protest against me saying that his resembled a cool James Dean. His face feels determined, and his hands, sturdy. Perhaps, you will ask me if he is acting, if this scene comes from a movie, you will write me a five-page letter detailing how this scene is in fact orchestrated by the director, and why we need to read more to understand the golden ratio of a photographic image. And I will not cut you off because I cannot do that when I’m reading you in a letter.
I will find a way to write about the five children. Some are sitting in front, while the others are behind the man. I’m certain that they are all siblings, three of them have very similar features. At the very least, a few of them are related. The man could only carry his children like that on such a bike.
The bike, it is speeding along Highway 13 towards the south, running away. Behind is the An Lộc battlefront that will be soaked in blood in the following days.
I tell you, the background to this scene of the five siblings on a bike is a bleak landscape along the highway. Perhaps, you will say, with your hands waving towards the electrical cables outside, how everything has changed so quickly. No such expansive scenery exists anymore. In its place, a city has sprung up, tunnels and boxes have bloomed, and nature remains only as a black-and-white memory inside a photograph. Concretization and cementization, you say, is destruction and regression. Water will no longer have paths to escape, and here you will begin to reminisce about the river from your childhood. In your letter, the river is mere empty utterance, soulless. That is because I know you don’t remember anything about the river. Ah, your river is a dead end with no way out, like the city’s river. But my river is another story. It is situated south of An Lộc, where people once placed a bridge.
The current of words surges like an imaginary river, while the real one has lost its vigour. A dry riverbed, it has become. Maybe you’ll say I’m talking nonsense, so I erase what I’ve just written. Why search for the memory of the five siblings on the motorbike. A child with a clean-shaven head opens his mouth to ask this question. He is sitting at the front of the bike, right in front of the man, his small body slid into a gathering of bodies. Or rather, these people are sitting so close, they are sticking to one another on the Honda, like an ammunition belt. A four-to-one. All the same, one by one, yet from time to time, one singles themself out. The kid, the singular one with his mouth open as though saying something to the cameraman. Ah, I know you will not care about this. But I feel perhaps you should know. To my letter then, I return.
When I write about the children, I know your mind will wander back to someone else. Whether it is truly a person or an idea, perhaps I’ll know better when you’re here in person. You voice plunges low to warm depths whenever we talk about these things. You will tell me of the woman behind the man, or to be exact, hidden behind, as though becoming one with the background. Only her face reveals itself. It is easy for people to think there is fear in her expression. Like in physics, the past and present converge here, in an interference of waves, cancelling out and strengthening meanings. You sound as if you’re in a trance, talking about the face and what it represents. Not only does your voice reverberate warmth but each wave is tinged with emotion, the kind of emotion of someone who hasn’t experienced empathy for a while. Instead, you have been living in fear. What is more painful is that I have realized this for quite some time. Your fear is exactly the continuation of what is most beautiful on that terrified face. I have yet to tell you about this. Neither do I want to write it in this letter.
The Honda bears the weight of the five siblings, and fear. You will certainly sneer if I were to write that down. You will light another joint, but it won’t be the one you used to have before finding an anchor, over there in that land of yours. It is the kind of cigar that I see often these days. You will also sip a bit of wine. The red kind, the strong kind, whatever is in your reach: a little cupboard and bar you keep nearby where you sit and write your letters. No one drinks besides you. You are inclined to complain about the people currently on this earth. Fear? What a bunch of losers. They don’t let any opportunities to show fear slip away. Only when you are most afraid do you want to win at all costs. You take a few puffs of the cigar before putting it down. Violently you wave your hands in the air, behind are the electrical cables from the old quarter. Your voice resounds in the apartment above the empty coffee shop.
It’s the illness of our time, you continue. All because of that selfish, lying president. A veritable time of cholera! To be honest, you say, that Honda bike and the tank, they are all lies. That’s why I don’t think of them anymore. Everything is a hoax; everyone is being lied to. The World once took Vietnam under its arm, and now we go and support those opposed to refugees and immigrants. But surely, you still have a bit of hope? I once asked. Then, my writing hand stops. The letter comes to a halt mid-page. I look down, shocked. There are no words on the paper but a sketch of the bike carrying the five siblings. The man still has his sleeves rolled up, braving the wind. His face still determined, full of hope. The once terrified face of the woman hidden behind doesn’t look so scared anymore. Now the bike’s background is a bright hue, radiant. Perhaps, it’s the light emanating from the paper, or maybe you’re right about people. Regardless, now the bike carrying the five siblings races through a brighter landscape. This way, we might know where they are headed. But for you, the bike can only ever reach a waterless river, or better, dock by a port in a land where Tết is a time of sorrows; the bike can only ever be another symbol of hollowed-out luxury. You will wave your hand with disdain at the bright background and the faces full of hope. Nothing here to see, you will declare and write that exact thought down. Remember to come visit me, you will end your letter. I will stop writing and put the half-written letter in the envelope. As for the sketch, I rip it out and stick it in my diary.
