Tình thứ nhất

Xuân Diệu

Anh chỉ có một tình yêu thứ nhất,

Anh cho em kèm với một lá thơ,

Em không lấy và tình anh đã mất,

Tình đã cho không lấy lại bao giờ.

Thư thì mỏng như suốt đời mộng ảo,

Tình thì buồn như tất cả chia ly,

Phong giấy kỹ mang thầm trong túi áo,

Mãi trăm lần viết lại mới đưa đi.

Lòng e thẹn cũng theo lời vụng dại,

Đến bên em chờ đợi mãi không về,

Em đã xé lòng non cùng giấy mới,

Mây đầy trời hôm ấy phủ sơn khê.

Cũng may mắn lòng anh còn trẻ quá,

Máu mùa xuân chưa nở hết bông hoa.

Vườn mưa gió còn nghe chim rôn rã,

Anh lại còn yêu hoa lựu, hoa trà.

Nhưng giây phút dầu say hoa bướm thắm,

Đã nghìn lần anh bắt được anh mơ.

Đôi mắt đẹp chưa bao giờ dám ngắm,

Đôi tay xinh chưa được nắm bao giờ.

Anh vẫn tưởng chuyện đùa khi tuổi nhỏ,

Ai có ngờ lòng vỡ đã từ bao.

Mắt không ướt nhưng bao hang lệ nhỏ

Len tỉ tê thầm trộm chảy qua vào.

Hoa thứ nhất có một mùi trinh bạch,

Xuân đầu mùa trong sạch vẻ ban sơ.

Hương mới thắm bền ghi như thiết thạch,

Sương nguyên tiêu trời đất cũng chung mờ.

Tờ lá thắm đã lạc gìòng u uất,

Ánh mai soi cũng phai nhạt màu ôi.

Anh chỉ có một tình yêu thứ nhất,

Anh cho em nên anh đã mất rồi.

***

The first love

Translation by Kitty

I have but one first love,

I gave it to you along with a letter.

You didn’t accept it, and I’ve lost it,

Love can’t be retrieved, once it is given.

The letter was fragile like every dream,

The thoughts were wistful like every form of parting.

Carefully wrapped and secretly kept in my breast,

A hundred times rewritten before it’s handed over.

My shy love clumsily reflected in my words,

It waited by your side for a reply that didn’t come.

You have torn away a young soul along with the new sheet,

The clouds that day covered all the landscape.

Fortunately my soul was still too young,

The spring sap hasn’t yet blossomed all its flowers.

The rain-shaken garden could still hear its birds twitter,

I also liked pomegranate and camellia flowers.

But even in moments I was deep in contemplation, 

Many a time I caught myself dreaming

Of the beautiful eyes I had never dared look at,

And the lovely hands I had yet never taken.

I had thought it’s was only a trifle of youth,

Did I know that my heart was long ago broken.

The eyes were not wet, yet many a tear

Stealthily in silence had returned inside.

The first flower has its virginal perfume,

The early spring breaths its crystal-pure beauty,

The first love is like engraving on stone,

The young night mist blurs the whole landscape.

My hearty letter had lost its way,

The brightness of morning sun had lost its beauty.

I have but one first love,

I gave it to you and so have lost it.

***

My bosom friend

I was about eight years old. I had a bosom friend with whom I had fallen out for many days, after a childish stupid bickering. In class, we used to sit together at the same table. But that day she left me and went to sit alone at the back of the classroom. I was very sad.

That morning the mistress asked me to go to the blackboard and conjugate the verb “to have a friend”  in the present tense.  I thought hard about the question for a moment then said that the verb “to have a friend” could not be conjugated in the present tense.  There was an up roar in the class following my answer. The mistress was very surprised, she asked me to explain why. I calmly said “because we only realize that we have a friend when we have already lost her”. The whole class fell suddenly silent, apparently everybody was very astonished by my answer, or was puzzling out my words. From the back of the class, my ‘bosom’ friend dashed towards the blackboard, hugged me tightly in her arms and planted two kisses on my checks in front of everybody then rushed back to her usual place, sobbing.

My mistress understood at once what had happened between us, as everybody knew well that we were two inseparable friends.  Then she quietly said: ‘So, now, I think that you can conjugate the verb in the present tense. Go on !’

The First Thunder Of Summer

(Tiếng Sấm Đầu Mùa)

by Trần Thanh Diệu

Short story prize awarded by Viet-Nam Pen Club - 1965

Translated from the Vietnamese by Kitty

        I have this phobia that I don’t seem to be able to overcome: I’m scared of thunder. Not the thunder that tears off the sky and brings along driving rains, but only the thunder that rumbles, echoing through the valley, thunder that breaks out from a reddish horizon at the end of a hot day, announcing the arrival of the summer, like today.

        I have never determined the reason for that state of mind, but every year, with the coming of the first summer days, this image of the reddish stormy sky reminds me of an event which ended my childhood in my home village. It was an insignificant anecdote, but it took me from pre-adolescence to too early an adulthood – like a young fruit that has parted from its branch with its velvet powdery skin to ripen in a jar of rice or husk and whose bitter juice will never turn sweet.

***

        At that time, I was still only a schoolboy finishing his classes at the village’s elementary school. My village was on the Binh-Luc river, a branch of the Perfume river, but in fact it was separated from the Perfume river by a solidly built rock dam. Every year when the season of rains and floods came, for children my age, it was an opportunity for lots of fun mingled with fear. Day and night we listened to the river roaring over the dam like waterfalls. The river swelled to immense proportions, became like a sea, and the village seemed to have shrunk into a small isolated island. Rains poured down incessantly, but that didn’t keep us, the village children, in groups of four or five, from playing merrily, wading in floodwaters, or following our parents to collect driftwood that the floods had brought down from the mountains a long way upstream, and that we would use for fires. We also often spent hours and hours anxiously watching the ferries that precariously transported travellers across the river to the town. Even at our young age, the roaring of the river, and the image of ferries which might sink into the waves and drown people would keep us from sleeping at night.

        Nevertheless, every time we heard the warning that the dam would be flooded, we, the village children, were secretly elated because there would undoubtedly be special days off school.

        One day, when the dam was well covered by floodwaters and no ferry would risk transporting travellers across the river, the level of the water in our village reached our knees. Of course, for children like us, it was like a festival day with lots of fun. Apart from the very old people and the very young children who could not yet wade in the water, everybody was out, whether having fun like we were, or collecting firewood like the grown-ups.

        Completely naked, I was splashing the floodwater, pretending to be a car. Behind me were three or four boys about my age who belonged to my form at school. We held each other around the waist, and so our little chain ran through the area like a miniature train. We were having so much fun that we forgot that in the village there were schoolgirls the same age and that on ordinary days, when we met them, either we, the boys, or they the girls, usually showed timidity and reserve.

        When we got to the corner of a street we slowed down, “honking” the horn hard like a car about to take a dangerous bend. Suddenly I heard someone call my name at the same time as he touched my side:

        ‘Lâm, please let me be part of your train.’

        I turned round, not specially surprised:

        ‘Ah, Tuân, yes ! Get on quickly or we’ll leave without you.’

        And so our little train had a new small “wagon”. But as he was so small – he was three years younger than me – I should have let him join us at the tail end. Instead, I let him join us straight behind me. He had to reach up to grab my waist with his arms, and the boy behind him had to bend down to reach his. From that moment on, our train ran no longer smoothly, either as a result of our uneven height or because of some psychological reason that I did not know about. The only thing that I was aware of, was that Tuân was wearing a pair of blue shorts with suspenders, while the rest of us, including me at the head of the train, were in our birthday suits – stark naked.

        When we arrived at the village market I decided to break up the train without explanation, and rushed straight home. Tuân who had just joined us was very disappointed. He called after me, but I went on running, saying nothing. After slipping on a pair of boxer shorts I returned to the market, where the others were still wondering why our train had stopped.

        I took Tuân’s hand and led him away from the others.  When we were out of earshot, I asked him:

        ‘How did you get to come alone, you cheeky brat ?’

        ‘I like wading in water, but my parents don’t allow me to, so I slipped out’, he replied, hopping joyfully from foot to foot.

        ‘And what if your parents got to know ?’

        He didn’t hear my question, but pointed at a wooden box floating on the floodwaters a little way from us. I quickly ran after it to fetch it. It was an empty cigar box. Tuân was very pleased with it, but at once I thought of its usefulness. It reminded me of the beautiful boxes of certain rich friends of mine, in which there were separate compartments, and the words “Le plumier ” (pencil box) were beautifully written on it. I turned to Tuân:

        ‘This box is completely soaked. I’ll dry it and bring it to you in a few days. And also, if you take it home right now, your parents will know that you have been out, wading.’

       Whereupon, someone launched a pebble which hit me hard on my back. It hurt a lot, so I looked around, trying to spot the culprit, when roars of laughter broke out from behind the village small shrine:

        ‘Hey ! Hey !  Lâm the bootlicker !’

        Stunned, I couldn’t understand why they called me the bootlicker.  And whose boots was I supposed to be licking ? I turned around. There was no one besides Tuân and me. They couldn’t have understood my secret thoughts about the cigar box. And even if this was the only reason, it certainly wasn’t reason enough to call me a bootlicker… I thought for a moment. Perhaps they thought that I was sucking up to Tuân because his father was a teacher in a school in town!  Nevertheless, I felt that my ‘pride’ had been wounded, and my rage was ready to explode. I needed to show everybody that I was a hero, particularly in front of “someone” like Tuân, even though till now, I had never won a fight against any of the boys my age; moreover, they were four of them now against me. Tuân looked frightened, he pulled me away. But that response from him convinced me to stay. I turned to face the others, one hand on my waist, shouting:

        ‘Damn you !’

        At once, all four of them rushed threateningly towards me. But fortunately, at that moment, someone shouted out from a small tea kiosk. I recognized the voice of  Mr. Tinh, who was a member of the village militia squad:

        ‘Hey ! You boys there ! You want to fight ? I’ll chain you all and put you up on the guard post !’

        Feeling reassured, I considered myself the winner of the battle. 

        On the following day the floodwaters had receded a lot. The ferries, loaded with travellers, started crossing the river. Students of the town schools resumed their work, but in our village there were areas where the streets were still flooded, and so was our school. We had a few more days off.  However that morning I had woken up early as usual. I went to the street along the river bank with other people who had come to assess the damage caused by the floods. I meant to meet Tuân, because I knew that he would be going to school with his sister. I had the cigar box in my hand. In the box, I had slipped a piece of paper on which I had written something, meaning that I offered him the box. Now thinking back, I realize that it was totally ridiculous from my part. But when I put my pen down to write these words, I thought that I was doing something really “sublime”. Tuân was only a fourth form schoolboy, and perhaps my handwriting at that time was not even legible enough for him to decipher. However I wanted him to keep something from me, something that would make him remember me; I didn’t really know why.

        I waited for a moment. I started feeling disappointed and was about to go back home, but then a vague hope made me walk towards Tuân’s house. When I reached the blacksmith’s workshop I saw the shape of a small girl about my age, still in the distance. She was wearing a long raincoat. I thought that it was Liên-Hy, Tuân’s sister, but Tuân was not with her. I hastily hid behind the corner of the workshop, waiting for her to pass by, then I stepped out and followed her silently, holding the cigar box in my hand, not knowing what I was going to do.

        After a moment, Liên-Hy turned her head round unintentionally and caught me staring intently at her. Her expression was completely indifferent, to the extent that I wondered whether she had recognized me. However, I felt something hard to describe, a pinch of joyfulness mingled both with a twinge of reproach to Liên-Hy who didn’t seem to recognize me, as well as a bit of shame at the memory of the word ‘bootlicker’ the boys had called me the previous day.

        I was still lost in my thoughts, when the horn of a bike startled me; I turned my head and saw Mr. Minh, Liên-Hy’s and Tuân’s father.  Mr. Minh was a teacher, of a very kind and jovial nature, he liked me very much because I was neither an unruly boy, nor an insolent child. Sometimes he came to my house as a village elder to ask my parents about my schooling and studies. Nevertheless, taken unawares, and especially as I had the impression of being caught red-handed doing something illegal, I couldn’t reply him in time when he asked me:

        ‘Aren’t you going to school today, Lâm ?’

        I still heard his voice fading away as he rushed past me on his bicycle. Hesitating for a moment on the spot, I watched Liên-Hy’s shape and Mr. Minh’s bicycle disappearing behind the village shrine, then suddenly  I  remembered  Tuân:  “Why  didn’t  he  go  to  school ? Perhaps he was sick because he had waded in water the previous day !” A sense of guilt seized me, and I ran straight to Tuân’s house, to try to find out why he had not gone to school, and whether he was ill. But no, he was not ill. Simply because his parents thought that he was too young to cross the river in those weather conditions, and had allowed him one more day off.

        I lingered under the bamboo trees in front of Tuân’s house. Gusts of winds showered down what water was still remaining on the leaves from the previous rains. I shivered with cold but still tried to stay and wait. I whistled a scout tune, and Tuân hesitantly appeared on the threshold. I walked out from under the bamboo trees, holding out the cigar box. As soon as he saw me, he rushed out towards me when Mrs. Minh’s voice sounded at the same time, making me fear that perhaps I was doing something at the wrong moment.

        Tuân also looked frightened, he grasped my hand and pulled me to the house. I had no time to protest when Mrs. Minh arrived on the threshold too. To explain his doing, Tuân hastily said:

        ‘I wanted to invite Lâm to come and play with me’.

        Shyly I followed Tuân into the house. The old people in the house saw that I was only a child, they left us alone and paid no attention to us.

        Tuân showed me around every nook and cranny of the house and I was filled with wonder by everything. In reality there was nothing really special, but compared with the simplicity and the total lack of decoration of my house, what I saw in his own was for me something too wonderful, surpassing anything in my imagination, even though the outside of the house was already well-known to me. How often had I attended campfires on his square clay yard – I was at that time a cub scout, and Mr. Minh was my troop leader – but I had never known what the inside of his house looked like. Sometimes I had imagined how it might be, but all my imaginations and suppositions were wrong, and far from the real thing.

        That whole morning, I went from one wonder to another. Tuân showed me his toy box, full of “real” toys, mechanical toys, all kinds of toys and all beautifully made or coloured, not like my own toys which were all designed and made by myself. Suddenly I envied him, I envied his way of living, and I hoped I could have some relationship with him, with his family, I didn’t know really why, and what it really meant.

        Then Tuân left aside his toys when he was tired of them. He led me to his room, which was also his sister’s. Seeing the books and school stationery on the table and the shelves, I thought that it was a student’s studio. But what mostly drew my attention in the room was the enlarged portrait photo on the wall. The photo in itself was not special, but what made it special to me was that it was Lien-Hy’s portrait. I stood perplexed, silently hesitating while Tuân showed me his picture books, cheerfully chirping away beside me. I became suddenly thoughtful, I didn’t know why, because at the age of ten, I could not truly analyse my state of mind. Tuân took my hand and pulled me down on the bed.

        ‘Sit down here, and look at these beautiful pictures.’

        He told me stories from his picture books, as he had heard from his father. But with his way of tale telling hopping from one subject to the next, plus my kind of stupefied state of mind, I didn’t take in a single word he said. I was only aware of a strange newly born emotion I felt in me. Then from time to time I turned around and moved closer and closer to the pillow which bore the sky blue embroidered initials    “ LH ” in the corner. I felt a warm sensation flowing throughout my body.

        The wall clock struck ten.  Although I didn’t want to part from this particularly attractive room, something, on the other hand, made me fear that perhaps it wouldn’t do to linger; I got up and left the room, leaving the cigar box on the bed where I had been sitting, pretending I had forgotten it.

        I went home in the stillness of the world that was enclosing me and the seething emotions in my heart, the heart of an elementary class schoolboy.

        What had happened during these last two days is not really the subject of my story for, in itself, it was insignificant.

        Since that day on, I felt that I wanted to be closer to Tuân. That was not difficult for me, but paradoxically, the closer I became to him, and the more opportunities I had to play with him, the more I felt that it was not enough for me and that it was not my true desire.

          From then on, every time I talked to my sister, I tried to turn the conversation to subjects concerning Liên-Hy or having something to do with her. My sister was two years older than me, and we were very close to each other. And I knew that she was a friend of Liên-Hy’s too, even though there was a difference of three years in their ages. Liên-Hy liked my sister very much. Sometimes she came to ask my sister about her homework, or to show her new knitting or embroidery patterns. Every time after her visit, I lingered around my sister trying to know what her visit was about, what she had said, but each time I learned nothing more than homework or knitting and embroidery patterns. Normally I should have tried on these occasions  to  find  ways  to  come  near  my  sister  and  join  in their conversation. It was the other way round: I lost all my normal countenance. Even when I was doing something very important, I would drop it at once and run to the rear garden to hide myself. I wanted Liên-Hy to feel free so that she could stay longer with my sister. I feared that my presence could make her feel uneasy and would make her leave quickly. Sometimes I tried to get a look at her through a slit in the bamboo woven wall of our house.

One morning near Christmas time, I was playing on the threshold, admiring my aeroplane that worked with a rubber string, a new creation of mine, when Liên-Hy and Tuân entered the gate. I felt very embarrassed but managed to pull myself together thanks to Tuân’s prompt reaction. He broke free from his sister’s hand and rushed towards me. I had just time to stand up to make room for her to come into the house where my sister greeted her. This time, thanks to Tuân’s presence, I didn’t have to hide in the rear garden, but was able to play freely on the front yard, knowing that from the window, Liên-Hy could easily look at me, or I could easily be seen by her.

I showed Tuân my new-made toy to impress him. In fact I wanted to make an impression on Liên-Hy. I imagined that she would undoubtedly admire my intelligence and skill, but I dared not look into the room to know whether she looked at me or not. Tuân asked me to let him try it out. I handed it to him after rewinding the rubber string carefully. But I didn’t know what he did wrong when he launched the plane; the result was that instead of flying up, it went straight on the level and came crashing against the window sill, damaging the wings and breaking the tail. I rushed to the window to pick it up, and allowed myself a quick look into the room. Liên-Hy was sitting facing my sister, with her back to the window, indifferent, speaking to my sister as if  nothing special was going on.

And so, that meeting between Liên-Hy and I happened and ended in the simplest way possible. I learned that Liên-Hy had come to ask my sister to mend a woollen jumper of hers. A woollen jumper in a faded red colour. I can see it now in my mind’s eye, how its knitting pattern was, and where the woollen thread had been broken.

After she had left, and taking advantage of the absence of my sister (who was doing the washing in the rear garden), I stealthily approached the woollen jumper, delicately took it in my hand and lifted it to my face.  A soft  perfume filled my lungs,  it was difficult to say which kind of perfume, but an indescribable delightful sensation overcame me. I didn’t know why at that moment I was so bold, like a drunken man unaware of what he was doing, I pulled the jumper over my head, but it was too small and my head couldn’t get through. I took it off, and felt that something got caught across on my face. It was a long hair, surely it was Liên-Hy’s hair that had stuck on the jumper long ago. I promptly took the hair and placed it reverently between two sheets of one of my copybooks.

And so, small anecdotes of my childhood had nothing really special. They only showed small developments of a young soul that had not yet taken shape.

Days and months passed by with joy or sadness according to the state of mind of a young boy facing  nature and everything around him, and sometimes even facing his own childlike, fantastic thoughts and imaginations.

My leisure activities had changed. On days off school, instead of spending my time, all day long, at the carpenter’s or at the blacksmith’s workshops to immerse myself in the fabrication of toys, I spent them reading. The “Pink Books” with fairy tales and fantastic stories enriched my thoughts and nursed my imagination. I was haunted by the images of golden castles, jade towers, springs of eternal life … And every time, when I thought of the characters in these tales I was always hoping or imagining that I was the prince of a small country, and that Liên-Hy was the princess of a neighbouring one, or that I was a tiny young king and she was his beloved tiny young queen.

So, the escapism of my soul and the development of my imagination were in such full swing like a star crossing the firmament in its endless course…

… Spring was driving away … and summer was coming …

Kites were already seen flying in the sky, and the perfume of newly cut sheaves of rice drying on the farmers’ clay yards filled the atmosphere and added its special note to the charm of the countryside. This year the days of transition between the two seasons seemed rather unusual.  Spring seemed to have left a little earlier and summer was coming in a rush.

One afternoon… one afternoon that was ending spring and announcing the arrival of summer… It was particularly hot. The western sky was red, with a cover of  grey-black clouds. It felt to me like some remote country in that corner of the globe was on fire. There was no wind. The kites, losing height, were floating down uncertainly like wounded birds. The bamboo trees in front of the pagoda were motionless like in the images in Chinese ink-drawn pictures. We were playing football on a newly harvested rice field.

Suddenly a crash of thunder broke out and its rumble echoed and reverberated through space up to the innermost places in my heart. A whirlwind rose up and darkened everything with dust and sand.

We stopped our game at once, at a very critical moment of the match. A premonition, an intuition or an obscure invisible force unknown to me urged me to leave the game at once. I rushed home, very uneasy and anxious. I had the precognizant feeling that something was waiting for me at home, but what ?  I didn’t know, or perhaps my parents were having a heated argument ?

When I reached the gate, I caught sight of a small figure. It was Liên-Hy. She was sitting as usual on the bed with my sister. And also, as usual when she came without Tuân, I rushed to the rear garden, and peered through the slit in the bamboo woven wall. I felt very hot for having played during the whole afternoon and for having run a long way home from the rice field, but suddenly I felt an icy stream flow through my body and cold sweat streamed down. I heard my sister call out to my mother who was in the kitchen:

‘Mother ! Have you put away Liên-Hy’s blue Bombay silk tunic I had hanged on the peg ?’

My mother seemed embarrassed and had not yet answered when my sister dashed to the kitchen and whispered something in her ear. Then my sister returned to the room, I noticed that she was looking pale. She said to Liên-Hy with an effort to sound normal:

“I’ve already made the bow, the only thing to do now is to stitch it to the tunic.  This morning as I had to go out, my mother put it away in the chest, for safety. Stay here a moment, when my father comes back, I’ll take the key from him and give it to you. Or else, if it’s not urgent, I’ll bring it to you tomorrow ?’

I started thinking hard, trying to understand what was happening.   Liên-Hy’s soft and anxious voice reached me:

‘I need it for tomorrow morning, I’m marching in the “Vạn-Thọ” parade celebrating the king’s birthday. As it’s not late yet, may I stay and wait for your father ?’

My sister nodded reluctantly. I knew that something was happening in the house and it didn’t sound good at all. Then suddenly my sister got up purposefully. She took Liên-Hy’s hand and said:

‘Come with me. Let’s walk to the market, maybe we’ll come upon my father?’

The two of them left. My mother rushed into the room, rummaged around for a moment then called for me. She handed me a parcel wrapped in a shawl that I had seen my sister wear in the previous cold days, then she instructed me in a whisper:

‘Take this to ‘aunt’ Hanh and tell her to kindly keep it as security in exchange for the parcel I gave her yesterday.’

I obeyed.

Mrs. Hanh, who was the village’s pawnbroker, asked me in a tone usual to a rich and very busy lady:

‘Isn’t it the blue Bombay silk tunic your mother gave me yesterday? What’s all this fuss about?’

Stunned, I didn’t know what to say, but she had already opened my parcel to check. I saw a black gabardine tunic, and a pair of white cotton trousers. Those were the only clothes I usually wore to go to school and which I would wear tomorrow to take part in the “Vạn-Thọ” parade, and to receive sweets and cakes as usual like the previous years. Thunderstruck, I couldn’t help tears  pouring down my face.

Mrs. Hanh agreed to the exchange, then she took another parcel from the cupboard, which was wrapped in a worn-out sheet of newspaper and handed it to me. Sadly I took it and walked out of her shop. On the way home, I gazed down at the packet.  Through the splits of the torn newspaper the blue Bombay silk material obscured my view. I shivered with cold. My feet became like lead, so heavy that I wondered whether I could drag them home. I thought hard and a deep sadness and despair drained away my breath.

A deafening thunderclap crashed, tearing off the sky, and drops of rain started falling down. I broke out and ran straight home. I handed the parcel to my mother, and went to the rear garden. I sat there, in a corner, and wept silently in darkness through the whole evening.

***

The next day, I stayed motionless in my bed as if sick, listening to the chants of ranks upon ranks of schoolboys and girls from my school and others which echoed and reverberated from the rock dam to me through the bright morning sunlight:

“ Long live the King ! ”… “ God save Viêt-Nam ! “ …

I silently wept and wondered:

“Among the crowd listening to these chants, is anyone aware that my voice is missing ?”

From that moment onward, a distressing thought overwhelmed me:

“Good bye for ever  … childhood … and … illusions !

THE END

La Première Foudre de la Saison

Traduction réalisée par Kitty

J’ai une phobie que je n’arrive pas à surmonter, c’est la peur de la foudre. Je ne crains pas celle qui déchire le ciel et qui amène avec elle des pluies diluviennes, mais plutôt celle dont les grondements et les échos se succèdent à travers les vallées, éclatant depuis un horizon rougeâtre à la fin d’une journée de chaleur étouffante annonçant l’arrivée de l’été, comme aujourd’hui.

Je n’ai jamais su d’où venait cet état d’âme, mais chaque année à l’arrivée des premiers jours d'été, la vue d'un tel spectacle fait remonter en moi un souvenir qui mit fin à ma jeune enfance dans mon village natal. Une anecdote insignifiante mais qui a transformé précocement ma vie de pré-adolescent en celle d’un adulte, comme un jeune fruit qui a prématurément quitté sa branche avec encore sa robe veloutée et poudreuse pour mûrir dans un sac de riz ou de balle, sans que son jus acide puisse jamais se transformer en sucre.

***

A cette époque, je n’étais encore qu’un écolier dans les dernières années d’une école primaire de mon village. Celui-ci se trouvait sur la berge de la rivière Binh-Luc, un affluent de la rivière des Parfums. Mais en réalité, une digue de pierre solidement maçonnée les séparaient. Chaque année, la saison des pluies était une occasion d’amusements et de joie mélangée de peur pour nous, les enfants du village. Jour et nuit nous écoutions la rivière gronder comme des chutes d’eau. Elle gonflait et devenait immense comme une mer, transformant le village en un minuscule îlot. Des pluies incessantes tombaient jour et nuit, mais nous, en groupes de trois ou quatre, jouions en pataugeant dans l’eau. Ou bien nous suivions nos parents pour ramasser du bois que les eaux ramenaient depuis les montagnes lointaines et que nous utilisions comme bois de chauffage. Parfois nous passions des heures à regarder les barques bondées de passagers tanguer dangereusement sur les vagues de la rivière en crue.  Cependant, malgré notre jeune âge, il nous arrivait parfois de ne pouvoir dormir la nuit, hantés par les grondements sourds de la rivière et l’image des barques sombrant dans les flots, emportant les passagers.

Et pourtant, quand nous entendions annoncer que la digue allait être inondée, nous étions tous secrètement transportés de joie à l'idée qu'il y aurait sûrement des journées spéciales sans école.

Un jour, la crue était particulièrement importante, et aucune barque n’osait  traverser la rivière. Dans le village, l’eau montait jusqu’à nos genoux. Bien sûr, pour nous autres, enfants, c’était comme une journée de foire avec beaucoup d’amusements. A l’exception des personnes très âgées et des très jeunes enfants qui ne pouvaient pas patauger dans l’eau, tout le monde était dehors, soit pour jouer comme nous, soit pour ramasser du bois comme les adultes.

Complètement nu, je jouais à faire jaillir l’eau, faisant semblant de conduire une voiture.  Derrière moi étaient trois ou quatre autres garçons de mon âge et aussi de mon école. Nous nous tenions par la taille, les uns derrière les autres et nous courions ainsi à travers le quartier, à la façon d’un convoi. Nous nous amusions tellement que nous oubliions qu’il y avait dans le village des filles de notre âge, et que pendant les jours ordinaires, quand nous les rencontrions, soit nous les garçons, ou elles, les filles, nous nous comportions déjà avec réserve et timidité.

Arrivant au coin d’une rue, nous ralentîmes en criant, imitant le klaxon d’une voiture avant un virage dangereux. Soudain, j’entendis quelqu’un crier mon nom, en même temps qu'il me touchait le côté :

– Lâm ! Laisse moi me joindre à vous !

Je me retournai, sans aucun étonnement :

– Ah, Tuân ! Monte vite ou le convoi va partir sans toi.

Ainsi notre convoi avait un nouvel élément. Mais, comme il était petit – il avait trois ans de moins que moi – j’aurais dû l’intégrer à la fin du convoi. Au lieu de cela, je le laissai prendre place directement derrière moi. Il devait faire un effort pour arriver à entourer ma taille avec ses bras, et celui derrière lui devait se courber pour entourer la sienne.

A partir de ce moment là, notre convoi ne roulait plus convenablement, soit à cause de la différence de taille des participants, soit à cause d’une autre raison obscure qui m’échappait. La seule chose dont j’étais conscient, était que Tuân portait un short bleu avec des bretelles, alors que nous tous, moi y compris en tête de convoi, étions nus comme des vers.

Arrivé au marché, je décidai, sans raison, d'interrompre le jeu, et partis en courant à la maison. Tuân qui venait juste de se joindre à nous, était très déçu. Il m’appela, mais je continuai à courir, sans répondre. Après avoir enfilé en vitesse un caleçon, je retournai au marché où les autres étaient encore là, se demandant pourquoi notre convoi ne fonctionnait plus.

Je pris la main de Tuân et l’amenai loin des autres. Quand nous fûmes hors de portée, je lui demandai :

–  Comment as-tu osé venir seul ?

– J’aime patauger dans l’eau, mais mes parents ne me l’autorisent pas, alors je me suis glissé dehors, me répondit Tuân en sautillant joyeusement sur ses pieds.

– Et si tes parents s'en aperçoivent ?

Il n’entendit pas ma question, mais me montra du doigt une petite boîte en bois flottant sur l’eau, à quelques mètres de nous. Je me précipitai pour la ramasser. C’était une boîte à cigares vide. Tuân était ravi, mais aussitôt, je me demandais à quoi elle pouvait bien servir. Je me souvenais avoir vu, chez certains de mes amis riches, de telles boîtes avec les mots « Le Plumier  » joliment gravés dessus.

Je retournai vers Tuân :

– Cette boîte est complètement mouillée, je vais la sécher et je te la rapporterai dans quelques jours. Et puis, si tu l’emportais maintenant à la maison, tes parents sauraient que tu es sorti pour patauger dans l’eau.

Soudain, un choc violent dans le dos me fit très mal: quelqu'un m'avait lancé une pierre. Je me retournai pour essayer de repérer le coupable quand une rafale de rires et de moqueries éclata depuis l'arrière du petit temple du marché :

– Hé ! Hé ! Lâm le lèche-botte !

Très étonné, je ne compris pas pourquoi ils m’appelaient « lèche-botte ». Et de qui étais-je censé lécher les bottes ? Je regardai autour de moi, il n’y avait personne d’autre que Tuân et moi. Ils ne pouvaient pas avoir deviné mes pensées concernant la boîte à cigares. Et même si cela était le cas, ce n’était pas une raison suffisante pour m’appeler « lèche-botte ». Je réfléchis un instant. Peut-être après tout, s'agissait-il bien de Tuân, car son père était maître dans une école en ville. De toute façon, je sentis que mon  « amour propre »  bouillonnant de rage était sur le point d'exploser. Je devais leur montrer que j’étais un héros, surtout en présence de « quelqu’un » comme Tuân. Même si jusqu’à présent, je n’avais encore jamais gagné aucun combat contre un garçon de mon âge. Et en ce moment ils étaient quatre contre moi.  Tuân semblait avoir peur, il me tira par la main voulant m’entraîner ailleurs.  Mais cette réaction au contraire m’incita à rester. Je me retournai vers les autres, une main sur la hanche, criant :

– Lèche-botte vous-mêmes !

Aussitôt ils se précipitèrent tous vers moi, menaçants. Par chance, à cet instant, une voix cria depuis un petit kiosque de thé. C'était celle de M. Tinh, un membre du peloton de la milice du village :

– Hé ! Les garçons là-bas ! Vous voulez vous battre ? Je vais vous enchaîner tous et vous enfermer en haut du poste de garde !

Me sentant rassuré, je considérai que j’avais gagné la bataille.

Le lendemain, les eaux s’étaient beaucoup retirées. Les barques pleines de passagers recommencèrent à faire la navette entre les deux rives de la rivière. Les élèves des écoles en ville reprirent leur chemin...  Ce n’était pas mon cas, car mon école se trouvait dans un quartier assez bas du village où certaines rues ainsi que mon école étaient encore inondées. J’avais donc droit à quelques jours supplémentaires. Cependant, ce matin là, me levant aussi tôt que d’habitude, je me rendis jusqu'à la rue longeant la berge de la rivière, avec d’autres personnes qui venaient évaluer les dégâts causés par la crue. Je désirais secrètement croiser Tuân qui devait passer par là avec sa sœur pour se rendre à l’école. J’avais la boîte à cigares dans ma main. Dans la boîte j’avais glissé un petit mot disant que je la lui  « offrais ». Aujourd'hui , en y repensant, je trouve que c’était vraiment ridicule de ma part. Mais quand je reposai ma plume après avoir écrit ces mots, j'avais pensé avoir fait quelque chose de vraiment « sublime ». Tuân n’était qu’un élève du cours préparatoire, et mon écriture, à cette époque, n’était peut-être même pas assez claire pour qu’il puisse la déchiffrer ! Je savais cela, mais mon intention était surtout que Tuân gardât quelque chose de moi, ou ayant un rapport avec moi. Je ne savais pas pour quelle raison.

Après avoir attendu un moment, je commençais à désespérer, et pensais rentrer à la maison, mais un vague espoir m’incita à longer la rivière vers sa maison. Arrivant près de l’atelier du forgeron, je vis de loin la silhouette d’une petite fille de mon âge portant un long imperméable. Je pensai que c’était Liên-Hy, la sœur de Tuân. Mais bizarrement Tuân n’était pas avec elle. Je me précipitai pour me cacher dans un coin de l’atelier, attendant que Liên-Hy passe. Puis, je sortis de ma cachette et la suivis silencieusement, la boîte à cigares dans la main, ne sachant que faire.

Après un moment, elle se retourna, non intentionnellement, et rencontra mon regard fixé intensément sur elle. Son expression était complètement indifférente, au point que je me demandai si elle m’avait reconnu.  Cependant, je ressentis une émotion difficile à décrire, un mélange de joie, de reproche, et un peu de honte en pensant aux mots « lèche-botte » dont les garçons m’avaient qualifié le jour précédent.

J'en étais là de mes pensées, quand un klaxon de bicyclette me fit sursauter. Me retournant, je vis M. Minh, le père de Liên-Hy et de Tuân. M. Minh était un maître d’école gentil et jovial de nature. Il m’aimait beaucoup, car je n’étais pas un garçon turbulent, ni un enfant insolent. Souvent il passait voir mes parents chez nous, en tant que notable du village, pour parler de mes études. Je savais cela, mais pris au dépourvu, et ayant l’impression d’être pris en flagrant délit à propos de quelque chose d’illégal, je n’arrivai pas à lui répondre à temps quand il me demanda :

– Ne vas-tu pas à l’école aujourd’hui, Lâm ?

J’entendis encore sa voix s’éteindre au loin quand il me dépassa rapidement. Hésitant un long moment, je regardai la silhouette de Liên-Hy et la bicyclette de M. Minh se perdre derrière le petit temple du village. Je pensai alors à Tuân. Pourquoi n’allait-il pas à l’école avec sa sœur ? Avait-il pris froid en jouant dans l’eau hier ? Un sentiment de culpabilité m’envahit. Je courus d’un trait jusqu’à chez lui, pour essayer de savoir pourquoi il n’était pas allé à l’école, ou s’il n’était pas malade. Non, il n’était pas malade, ses parents lui accordaient tout simplement une journée de plus, vu le temps qu’il faisait.

Je me mis sous les bambous devant le portail de sa maison. Des rafales de vent faisaient tomber ce qui restait d’eau sur les feuilles des dernières pluies. Je grelottais de froid mais essayais de rester et de patienter encore. Après avoir sifflé une chanson de scout, Tuân apparut hésitant, sur le seuil de la porte.  Je sortis de ma cachette, en lui tendant la boîte à cigares. Me voyant, il sortit tout de suite de la maison et courut vers moi. J’entendis en même temps la voix de Mme. Minh appeler Tuân de l’arrière de la maison, me faisant craindre un instant que je ne sois pas venu au bon moment.

Tuân aussi semblait terrifié. Il attrapa ma main et m'entraina dans la maison. Je n’eus pas le temps de protester, que Mme Minh arriva sur le seuil de la porte. Tuân s’empressa de s’expliquer :

– J’ai demandé à Lâm de venir jouer avec moi.

Timidement, je suivis Tuân à l’intérieur. Voyant que je n’étais qu’un enfant, les adultes de la maison nous laissèrent seuls sans se préoccuper de nous.

Tuân me montra tous les coins et recoins de sa maison. J’étais rempli d’émerveillement. En réalité, elle n’avait rien de très spécial, mais comparée à la simplicité et l’absence totale de décoration de la mienne, ce que je voyais chez lui paraissait pour moi trop beau, trop « classe ». Pourtant, l’extérieur de sa maison ne m’était pas étranger. Combien de fois avais-je assisté à des feux de camp dans cette cour de terre battue – J’étais à cette époque un louveteau et M. Minh était mon chef de troupe – Mais je n’avais jamais encore vu l’intérieur. Quelquefois j’avais bien essayé de l’imaginer, mais j’étais bien loin de la réalité.

Durant toute cette matinée j’allais d’un émerveillement à un autre. Tuân me montra son caisson de jouets. Il était rempli de beaux et « vrais » jouets joliment façonnés et peints, fonctionnant à l'aide de mécanismes compliqués. J’étais  fasciné en pensant à mes modestes jouets, tous inventés et fabriqués par moi même  ... Je l’enviai, lui et sa façon de vivre. Je fus pris du désir brusque d'être plus proche de lui, et de sa famille, sans comprendre vraiment pourquoi.

Lorsqu’il en eut assez de ses jouets, Tuân m'emmena dans sa chambre, qui était aussi celle de sa sœur. Voyant les livres et les fournitures scolaires sur la table et les étagères, je me serais cru dans le studio d’un étudiant. Mais la chose qui attira le plus mon attention fut le grand portrait sur le mur En réalité, il n’avait rien de particulier, mais ce qui le rendait spécial pour moi, c'est que c'était  le portrait de Liên-Hy. Tuân me montra ses livres d’images, babillant sans cesse à mes côtés, alors que j’étais tout d’un coup devenu pensif. Je ne savais pas pourquoi – à dix ans, on n'analyse pas clairement ses états d'âme ... –

Tuân me tira par la main vers le lit :

– Assieds-toi et regarde ces livres d’images.

Il me raconta les histoires de ses livres comme son père les lui avait racontées. Mais avec sa façon de sauter du coq à l’âne, je ne comprenais rien. Je n’étais conscient que des émotions que je venais de sentir naître en moi. De temps à autre je me retournais sur moi même et me déplaçais à petits coups doucement vers l’oreiller qui portait dans un coin les initiales LH  joliment brodées de fils bleus. Je ressentis un agréable courant chaud traverser tout mon corps.

L’horloge sur le mur sonna dix heures. Je ne voulais pas vraiment quitter ce lieu si attirant, mais pensant qu’il ne serait peut-être pas convenable de rester trop longtemps, je me levai et allai vers la porte, laissant la boîte à cigares sur le lit, comme si je l’avais oubliée.

Je retournai à la maison dans le calme de l’univers qui m’entourait et les troubles effervescents de mes émotions: les émotions d’un garçon de l’école  primaire.

            A partir de  ce jour là, je sentis que je voulais être plus proche de Tuân. Ce n’était pas très difficile pour moi de réaliser ce souhait. Mais paradoxalement, plus j’étais proche de lui, plus j’avais d’occasions de jouer avec lui, plus je réalisais que cela n’était pas suffisant,  et que ce n’était pas mon vrai désir.

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