Lost In The Capital By Bao Ninh

Lost in the capital By Bao Ninh

Last updated: 16:42 - September 3, 2005 I’ve travelled extensively throughout my life, but I’ve only found my way to Hanoi on several occasions. So, apart from Hoan Kiem Lake, Long Bien Bridge, and Hang Co Station, I know very little about the capital. Nevertheless, whenever I close my eyes and conjure up the paths I took there in my past, I can always see them clearly, even if I don’t know exactly where they lead. The images of this strange city are engraved in my mind with the same richness as my childhood home, although most of them came from a single day. But these memories are only the sad melodies recorded by my heart in my youth, during the war, a period of life flowing into the past. These echoes will resound forever like the pats of raindrops on the window-panes of my house, the whistle of the wind through a bamboo cluster and the rustle of falling leaves on my village path. Since that fateful day, more than two decades have passed. The Hanoi of those war days and the Hanoi of today are now worlds apart. *** On that day, I drove my division’s commander from the Quang Tri battle front to the capital so he could attend a secret meeting at the headquarters of the general staff. When we reached Hanoi, the city was still embroiled in the war, a life-and-death struggle for the city-dwellers. Instead of returning to the base, I asked the colonel if I could take a short trip downtown to hand out the letters of my comradesin-arms to their families and perhaps wait for replies. I just had to be back to headquarters by H-hour. It was a cold, wet Christmas day, and I walked through the grey drizzle into the heart of the capital. The roofs and trees were drenched with rainwater. Vehicles passed by swiftly and pedestrians quickened their steps home. At first I thought I had nothing to worry about, even though I didn’t know the addresses on the letters in my satchel. I only needed to find one house, and then that family could help me find the rest, I assured myself. But things were not so simple. It was as if every house in the city was boarded up, and I had to seek out each house on my own. There was never anyone around to write a response. By the time I dispatched the last note, the streets were dark and eerily silent. I asked a passerby the way to Vong Street. The enthusiastic militiaman accompanied me a short distance along a long deserted road to the first crossroads, and then pointed me in the right direction. "Just go ahead and you can’t miss it," he said, moving his finger along the train tracks that extended as far as I could see. With my hard military hat pulled far over my eyes and my collar wrapped tightly around my neck, I set out through the thin veil of drizzle. The two wet rails were like a trail crawling out of the forest into a shanty town. The wartime city was deserted and gloomy, and seemed to hang over an abyss. I walked and walked, feeling so alone and increasingly concerned. At night, the streets had no lights, pedestrians or restaurants. I was hungry. The joints of my limbs felt stiff and the fever I had acquired on the battlefront grew worse. I began counting my steps so I could drag myself a few kilometres further. I was so lost in my thoughts, I almost ran into a deserted tram halted in the middle of the street. I could go no further. I walked over to the sidewalk covered with eaves. I leaned against a closed door and dropped down onto the step like a block of ice. I was trembling terribly, and I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering. My malaria had gotten so bad I thought I might die on the doorstep. Over my head, the torn corrugated roofs were vibrating violently. A strong wind blew rain at me from all angles. I tried to stand up but my legs felt numb, and as I stumbled, the door behind me flung open and I lost consciousness completely.

When I opened my eyes I found I was inside a dim room. I smelled camphor. When I moved slightly a wooden bed squeaked under my back. I felt a blanket wrapped around me and a pillow under my head. The room was warm and dry. A bed lamp close to me shed a dim yellow light. The only sound was the "tick tick tick" of a wind up clock. I sat up suddenly when I realised I missed my deadline to return. "Oh my dear!" A soft female voice whispered. " You’ve regained consciousness. I was really worried." My heart was racing. I was so late. Who was this woman? "Where am I?" I asked. "This is my house," answered the young lady. "You’re my special guest today." I turned towards her. She was sitting at the edge of my bed. Her face was half hidden in the dim light, but I could see clearly her bare shoulder and her long hair. "You still have a slight fever. But this is good luck. When I first saw you on my doorstep, I was sure you were done for." "Well, thank you. I must be going now. It’s so late. My leave’s run out," I stuttered. "You’re too weak to go out now. It’s very cold outside and you’ll only get worse. Besides, your clothes are still very wet and you can’t put them on now. Give them some time to dry," she told me. I touched my chest and thigh. I was naked under that warm blanket! "I’m going to get some porridge for you from the kitchen," she said, getting up. "I put a clean military uniform under your pillow. I think it will fit," she added. She made her way out of the dim room. Tossing the blanket away, I got up. My body was still burning from the fever. I put on the dry uniform, which was fairly new, with a camphor smell. To my surprise, it fit me quite well. With the clothes on I felt more secure, although my whole body still ached. A few minutes later, the warm fragrance of hot porridge wafted into my room. The lady stepped in very softly. Putting a tray with a bowl of rice gruel on the table, she turned up the lamp. "The rain has finally stopped," she said with a sigh. I silently watched the kind-hearted girl. Even though it was still dark in the room, I knew she must be beautiful. All of a sudden, the sounds of a plane tore through the tranquil atmosphere. It felt as though it was flying right over the roof. The girl snuffed the lamp. "I think it’s gone," she whispered. No, that was only a prelude to an airstrike. It just started with that reconnaissance plane. Things might get worse," I warned her. An alarm siren sounded loudly and my heart fluttered. "B–52’s are approaching," a nearby loudspeaker warned the city. "The planes are only ninety to eighty kilometres away." "Damn the American fliers!" I said. "They’re going to attack the capital."

"Another night under bombs and shells!" the girl cried. "We must run to the shelter at once. There must be one very close by. Be quick!" I said. "But can you stand the cold outside?" She asked. The danger was too great. My mouth dried up and my heart beat wildly. My intuition had never cheated me. "But you must eat some hot porridge first. It’ll make you warmer to bear the cold," she insisted. "No! Hot or cold doesn’t matter at the moment! There will be carpet bombings!" "How do you know that?" She seemed surprised. "My experience on the battlefield tells me so. Hurry! Go to the shelter at once!" She took my hand and led me out of the room. My tension had spread to her. She breathed hard. The tapping of her wooden clogs grew faster and faster as we walked through a wet, narrow corridor before finding the door onto the street. The rain had stopped completely. The old tram that I had almost run into was still sitting in the street, abandoned, and personal shelters were lying open here and there, waiting for last-minute refugees. "Let’s go to the common shelter. It’ll be safer there," she urged me, breathing heavily. "These small shelters are always full of dirty water. I’ve never been bold enough to climb into any of them," she admitted. "The common shelter’s over there." We walked straight ahead, against the wind. All was quiet. It seemed that everyone was underground. There were only two of us hurrying away, panic-stricken. That run took forever. All the shelters we came across had been covered, but she could not run faster because of her wooden clogs. But it was too late anyway. We heard the sounds of A-A guns. Rockets darted into the dark sky with brilliant red trails. Though my ears were useless now, my intuition told me that we were in danger. Bombs and shells would shower the capital. Suddenly, the ground under our feet shook violently and then a scalding draught struck my face and bomb steam poured into my throat. We were on the ground. The girl rolled over closer to me, looking for shelter. Her icy body pressed against mine. Her breath fell on my wet and cold face, and her tangled hair spread over my arms. Another cluster of bombs exploded on the other side of a nearby wall. Earth, stone and broken bricks fell around us. "We’ll die!" I exclaimed, hugging her tightly and waiting for my last breath. But death released us, and we were silent. We remained there on the ground, hugging each other. I couldn’t move, but a moment later, she fidgeted and moved away from me. I helped her stand up. One of her sleeves was torn off. Her tousled hair covered her face. With frightened eyes, she clumsily looked for her clogs in bare feet. Thick smoke surrounded us, and all we could smell was fire. The clouds were red. I heard several footsteps approaching, and then cries for help came from every direction. The street was suddenly in chaos. A group of people with shovels, hoes and stretchers ran by. "Why are you just standing there? The shelters have collapsed and people are trapped," someone yelled. "Oh no! The common shelter was bombed. People must be buried alive," she cried.

"I have to go help them," I said. "Go straight home and I will meet you there later." After prying myself from her arms, I joined the racing crowd. As I ran away, I turned and yelled. "Please go home. Wait for me at home, my dear." I turned around once more to wave, but I didn’t know that would be the last time I would ever see her. But it shouldn’t have been the last time, because the safety siren resounded at dawn, and I followed the tram rails back to her house. At first, I didn’t pay attention to anything. I just walked silently along the road. Though the sun was rising, it was still very cold. The street was nearly deserted again, and I realized that it was more empty than before: I could not find the tram, the only clue to her whereabouts. The street stretched out desolate in both directions. Along the sides, houses huddled together gloomily, covered with rusty corrugated roofs, and the doorsteps were all made of pre-fabricated concrete. I couldn’t tell them apart. Even though I remembered which side of the street her house was on, I couldn’t find the door. I passed rusty eaves, spotted walls, leafless trees and snuffed lamp-posts, but I never found what I was looking for. I finally had to give up my search. With my dirty clothes and my face covered with mud and blood, I silently hurried back to the suburbs with a heavy heart. *** Every time I went back to Hanoi, I returned to the street where I met that beautiful girl and searched for her house, but it was always in vain. I ended up wandering her street with no real purpose. On my most recent trip, I got off the train at the Hang Co Railway Station and lost my bearings. The narrow street with the low-roofed houses and the tram rails was nowhere to be found. Instead, I found only new stores and buildings. The land of my past was erased, and remains only in my mind’s eye. (VNS) Translated by Van Minh