Chapter 18

Old Tu sprawled on the bed.

The television had been on from afternoon to night, from local news to old movies shown over and over. The people on the screen cried, laughed, loved each other, betrayed each other, then made up again. He watched and could not remember who was who. Sometimes he held the remote and changed channels nonstop, only to hear human voices instead of the silence in the room.

Since the day everything temporarily settled down, he suddenly did not know how to live.

Before, he still went to exercise, still wandered around, still ran back and forth between the rental block and the company. Later the company had Hoang handling it, the rental block had Ngoc collecting rent, meals had Mai and Ngoc, paperwork had Nhung and Hang. Minh ran deliveries. Vy went to the bank. Everyone had something to do.

Only he was free.

So free he felt like extra.

In the daytime he sometimes practiced a few movements down in the yard. When Tieu My came, at least he had someone to nag him, someone to force him to raise his arms, force him to bend his legs. But Tieu My did not come every day. On the days she was absent, Old Tu practiced for a few minutes and got bored, sat down on the chair, drank water, then looked out at the rental yard that had become less noisy than before.

In the afternoon, he lay there watching television.

After dinner at night, he lay down again.

He felt like an old thing placed in the corner of the house. No one threw it away, but no one really needed to use it either.

Only Vy made him happy.

On days she came home early, as soon as she took off her shoes she ran down to the ground floor, not even changing clothes yet, already chattering:

“Grandpa, today I was so mad I almost died.”

Old Tu was lying down and immediately sat up.

“Who messed with my granddaughter?”

Vy dropped herself onto the chair and told a whole stream of things. The bald boss at the bank who always liked to act knowledgeable, every time he opened his mouth it was, “You young people these days lack experience.” The older woman in her department who specialized in gossip, asking the price whenever someone wore a new shirt, peeking at the caller name whenever someone answered the phone. And there was an intern guy who kept trailing after Vy, buying coffee in the morning, asking what she was eating at noon, pretending they were going the same way in the afternoon so they could take the elevator together.

Old Tu listened and laughed loudly.

“He likes you, doesn’t he?”

Vy curled her lip.

“Likes what. One look and I know he wants to get on my good side because he thinks I’m easy to fool.”

“Then is my granddaughter easy to fool?”

Vy put her hands on her hips.

“Grandpa looks down on me too much. I work at a bank, okay. Whoever can fool me probably has to borrow at an interest rate higher than allowed.”

The old man laughed until tears came out.

Vy had always been a cheerful girl. But before, her cheerfulness was always covered by a layer of tiredness. Poor family, exhausted mother, sick stepfather, lack of money, unstable work. She laughed, but in her laughter there was always something hurried, like a person singing while running so she would not hear her own breathing.

Now, Ngoc was healthier.

Minh was better too.

The house no longer lacked rice.

There was money to buy medicine.

Because of that, Vy finally looked like a real young girl. Knew how to complain about office matters, knew how to hate the bald boss, knew how to tease her grandfather, knew how to laugh without looking into her wallet first.

Old Tu loved Vy very much.

Loved her as if she were proof that his life still had something bright in it.

As for Mai, he almost rarely saw her.

It was not that she clearly avoided him. She still greeted him, still asked whether he had eaten, still set a glass of water on the table when she saw him cough. But Mai no longer sat long. No longer stood by the kitchen door saying a few idle sentences like before. When their eyes accidentally met, she usually lowered hers first.

He understood.

He wanted to be near Mai. That was something he could not lie to himself about. A man was already old, but some desires did not grow old with the body. But he also knew Mai was clear. She did not want that relationship to become even more wrong.

Hung was in prison.

He was her father-in-law.

What had happened that night, no matter what the circumstances were, was still a shadow that could not be brought out into the sun.

So he accepted it.

Accepted it by calling her over less.

By looking after her shadow less.

By giving himself less right to be sad.

Sometimes he watched Lan.

Teacher Lan was much thinner now. In the morning she carried her bag to go tutor, in the afternoon she came back to change clothes, at night she went out again. Some days it rained, and she ran into the yard with her jacket over her head, hair wet and stuck to her face, her arms still holding a few of her students’ notebooks. He saw it and wanted to call her back to give her some money, but then he stopped.

How could he help?

What would giving money once do?

Lan’s suffering was not only lacking a few hundred thousand. Her suffering was that people were already looking at her with a different pair of eyes. Once a woman had been labeled by life, wherever she went she heard the sound of that paper stuck to her back.

Old Tu did not know how to peel it off.

Minh, he heard, had been better lately.

Ngoc told him:

“It has been a week and he hasn’t gone into the closed room.”

When she said that, Ngoc’s eyes lit up. Not a brilliant light. Only a very small bit of light, like a coal stove still red under ash.

The old man heard it and was happy too.

“That’s good. Slowly, he’ll get better.”

Ngoc nodded.

“I hope so too.”

In short, everything was temporarily fine.

There was someone to cook rice.

There was someone to handle money.

The company was operating again.

Minh did not have a fit.

Vy had work.

Mai was learning the books.

Lan was still teaching.

Quynh was still performing.

Thao was still working as a sewing worker.

But for some reason, Old Tu’s heart still was not at peace.

When he lay alone, looking at the ceiling fan turning slowly, he often thought of Van.

His daughter.

Since the day he met Minh, he had only then realized that every one of his children had problems.

It was not that they were completely unfilial.

It was not that they did not love him.

It was more like this society had pulled each of them away from him with different strings. Some were pulled away by poverty. Some by face. Some by accidents, sickness, marriage, food, greed.

Minh was far from him because of an accident and a stretch of life wiped clean.

Hung was far from him because of money, because of the name of being the boss’s son, because of greed like a worm boring from inside the bone.

And Van?

Van was his daughter.

The only one among his children who had married properly.

On her wedding day, he remembered himself wearing a white shirt a little tight at the belly, standing on the bride’s side and smiling stupidly. Van’s husband was the educated type, wore glasses, spoke softly, looked like he had studied. His in-laws were not the type at the end of the road either. His mother-in-law sold pork at the wholesale market, supposedly had a big stall, money going in and out every day. His father-in-law was a little younger than Old Tu, solid-bodied, quiet.

By reason, Van’s life should have been decent.

At least better than the others.

Not running deliveries like Minh.

Not going to prison like Hung.

Not living half-dead in the rental block like so many other women.

But the more he thought, the less Old Tu felt at ease.

He could not remember the last time Van called him.

His daughter had married out already.

People still said a daughter belonged to another family.

But after meeting Minh, after seeing that a child could vanish from his life for more than twenty years and live in hardship to a point he could not even imagine, Old Tu began to feel afraid.

What if Van had something going on too?

What if she did not say it?

What if this thing called a “proper marriage” was only a layer of colored paper pasted outside a rotten box?

The next morning, Old Tu went to the company to find Hoang.

The company had just opened. The yard was still wet with night dew. A few loaders were unloading goods from a truck, the cardboard boxes knocking against one another with hollow thuds. In the office, Mai was sitting before the computer, beside her a notebook. She lowered her head and read something, sometimes typing a few keys very slowly, as if afraid the computer would scold her if she typed wrong.

Seeing Old Tu step in, Mai stood up.

“Dad, you just came over?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. Is Hoang here, child?”

“Yes. In the inner room.”

After saying that, Mai lowered her head and gathered up a few papers, moving aside. She was not cold, but she did not stay long either. The way she lightly greeted him and then left made Old Tu feel a small empty space in his chest.

He looked after Mai’s back.

Then let it go.

There are things where the more you want to hold on, the more you have to let go a little.

Hoang was in the room, several stacks of files before him. Seeing Old Tu, he immediately stood up.

“Uncle Tu.”

The old man pulled a chair over and sat down, a little hesitant.

“Hoang.”

“Yes?”

“You ... can you help me find news of Van?”

Hoang looked at him.

“Sister Van?”

The old man nodded.

“Yeah. My daughter. She married a long time ago. Her husband’s family is across the city. I don’t want to bother her. I only want to know how she is living.”

Hoang did not ask much.

He pulled a blank sheet of paper close.

“Give me her full name, birth year, her husband’s name, the old address if you still remember.”

The old man read them out one by one.

Van’s name.

The name of the husband who wore glasses.

The name of the mother-in-law who sold pork at the wholesale market.

The name of the father-in-law.

As for the address, he did not remember.

Hoang wrote very quickly.

His handwriting was small, neat, almost without any extra strokes.

Old Tu looked at Hoang’s hand holding the pen and suddenly felt reassured.

The old man said:

“I don’t want to drag her back or demand anything. I just ... just want to know if she’s okay. Since the day I found Minh again, I keep feeling scared. Being a father and being this stupid. I don’t even know whether my own children are alive or dead.”

Hoang’s pen stopped for a moment.

Then he said:

“I understand.”

The old man looked up.

Hoang folded the sheet of paper.

“Uncle, wait for news. I’ll have people ask lightly. I won’t make things awkward for her.”

The old man breathed out.

“Yeah. I’m counting on you.”

“Yes.”

The old man stood up and patted Hoang’s shoulder.

“You really are the one who understands me best.”

Hoang smiled.

It was not clear whether that smile was because he was happy, because he was tired, or because of another reason.

Outside, Mai had just passed by the door and heard that sentence. She paused very slightly, then continued walking.

No one called her.

No one asked what she thought.

But Mai knew, every time Old Tu handed one more part of his life to Hoang, the net around this house closed by one more ring.

Now, back to Thao.

Thao was still working as a sewing worker.

Every day was the same. She woke early, ate in a hurry, put on the worker shirt, tied her hair, went to the factory. Twelve hours in the rushing sound of machines. Needle up, needle down. Fabric through her hands. Thread breaking. Line leader yelling. Back aching. Eyes stinging. At the end of the day, she held her monthly wage and calculated it, and saw her life shrink into a few numbers.

Ten million.

Twelve million if she worked a lot of overtime.

It did not sound small.

But divided into each day, each hour, each meal, each thing she needed to buy, each petty debt, it was frighteningly thin.

And then there was the old name clinging to her.

Thang Scar’s girl.

Whore.

Hung’s mistress.

People’s mouths were very diligent. They chewed old stories again and again like betel, then spat the pulp onto someone else’s back. In the sewing factory, not many people cursed her straight to her face anymore, but the eyes were still there.

Some people avoided sitting near her.

Some saw her pass and lowered their voices to laugh.

Some man in another team texted to proposition her, thinking she was easy because she had that past.

Thao did not answer.

She just bent her head and worked.

But if a person bent her head and worked forever, she was worn down too.

One afternoon, when the shift ended, Thao met Huong.

Huong stood in front of the factory gate, under the shade of an old tamarind tree. Hair dyed light brown, long nails, a small handbag hanging crooked on her shoulder. On her body was the smell of sweet perfume, the kind of smell that made other people turn their heads when she passed. Her clothes were not too revealing, but just enough to show she knew how to make herself stand out.

Thao looked for a while before recognizing her.

“Huong?”

Huong took off her sunglasses.

“Who else. Long time, huh.”

The two of them had once both been controlled by Thang Scar.

Had eaten cold boxed rice together.

Had been cursed, dragged out to serve customers, sat in the narrow room putting on makeup with a cracked mirror. Back then Huong was thin, dark, her eyes always afraid. Now she looked like another person. More stylish, whiter, mouth smiling more confidently.

Huong looked Thao over from head to toe.

The faded worker shirt.

Black pants stuck with fabric dust.

Hair tied in a hurry.

Bare face, tired eyes, shoulders a little slumped.

Huong burst out laughing.