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TRUYỆN
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FOUR-BED ROOM
I think, at last, he’s fallen into a form of existing which is terribly meaningless. This is what I’d always been afraid of for years, and when it came, I didn’t even want to realize it. I’ve been forced to realize it only recently: His condition today should be seen as something inevitable.
At first it wasn’t easy for him himself to accept such a limit of existing either. (But whoever is able to accept it, no matter how differently from one another people may react against it? And he is no exception.) Yes, he was too amazed and even angry as well when he was informed that he wasn’t found injured in any part of the body, nor did he have any disease. The reason was only one, which was too simple yet quite impossible to understand: He wasn’t to live any longer, and was instead to lie here and wait.
Thus, it is for at least three months already (, or even if you say it’s for three centuries already, it still won’t sound unbelievable,) that he has been lying and waiting here, in a corner of this room of the hospital. Besides himself, there are still three other people: A very old woman, who is so good-looking in her age, a very old man, who is so good-looking in his age too (yet not as good-looking as the old woman), and a youth. All four people are in white: bed, bed-sheet, blanket, pillow, and clothes. All the four do not eat or drink or void anything at all, either: All those functions are fulfilled thanks to the nylon tubes which enter the passages of their body. Neither do they even breathe: There is already a big container of oxygen at each bed. Besides, there is constantly a bottle of sérum, deliberately transfusing its content, drop by drop, into the vein on their right hand, and a bottle of blood – their left hand. (How many tubes are there in all, then? What an odd scene!)
The very old woman, who is so good-looking in her age, will definitely become a fairy as soon as her soul leaves her body, I bet. But not now yet, with her eyes all the time opening wide, staring silently at the nocturnal sky outside the window, and her mouth from time to time puffing out: Red!, or: Yellow! Certainly, out there in the sky, there has just been a shooting star or, very possibly, an angel, swiftly flying by.
The very old man, who is so good-looking in his age too (yet not as good-looking as the old woman), never utters a word, despite his wide open eyes, too, which must have seen everything, of course. No, he won’t even feel like blinking even if those heavenly bodies happen to hurl themselves right into this room. He looks quite experienced. Obviously, there is only one remaining thing on earth that he is still waiting to experience; apart from that, don’t expect to distract him with anything else.
As for the youth, with his eyes always tightly closed, he looks as if already dead. There is a glistening streak of scarlet color running from each of his eyes down his temples. Is that blood? Or just tears?
*
Sitting knitting at the end of his bed, beside my daughter, right from the beginning, I have said the cost at which we have to pay for the farces is unimaginable. At first, he doesn’t quite seem to understand what I say. My daughter doesn’t either; talking with me, she is all the time asking.
The what, mom?
The farces, dear!
A nurse comes in catwalking with an index put on her lips in a charming way, softly saying hush, then comes up to one of the beds, skillfully takes the temperature, feels the pulse, replaces the needles, changes the tubes, or something of the sort, and then goes out catwalking again, without forgetting to remind me: Whenever the bottle of urine is full , please empty it for him! , and, towards my daughter: Don’t talk loud, right?! Only then does the poor little girl suddenly remember about her job and bury her nose back again in the heap of books as well as the school bag, which she has brought in with her and put right under her father’s bed. (She has been preparing for the primary school final exams.) Anyway, only after a while is her head already found raised again.
You say, the what, mom?
The farces, dear!
*
I have always suspected that our biggest mistake ever made is to get married: He’s not happy, and I’m not, either. Since very long ago he has been considered as having lost all reflexes.
For a very long time hardly have we had anything to exchange. His silence is the very thing which makes me the most uncomfortable. And I’m afraid now he won’t bother much to deny it even if somebody tells him that his being obliged to lie here like this has turned out to be quite advantageous to him, after all, because, yes, you may not believe it, but truly I was still trying to make him open his mouth even right before the day he was brought here : You intellectuals today are very disappointing indeed. Holding now a pen, now a piece of chalk, preaching the ready-made and canned truths, which, I suspect, have gotten stale out of date and rotten long since already. At times you will make such a noisy fuss about something as if it were very important, at other times – keep as silent as a mouse , pretending to be terribly meditative, yet always leaving the greatest question untouched, or even behaving as if it didn’t exist ever. It is always pretence only, is it? How saddening it is! It is quite possible that tomorrow you will be appointed official member of some Association (- One of those holding a pen? or One of those holding a piece of chalk?) You may be recognized, asserted, or even commended and rewarded. But, I think, maybe some monkey, in its indispensible process of evolution, will be able to do that business, eventually, or any robot in the future will be more than capable of replacing and outdoing you. Yes, if you can’t answer this question yourself: What to exist like that for? or: Can it be done differently? Each of us is given a hundred years’ time in order to answer it himself, before dying; he may do it, and may even do it wrong, but if he refuses to do it, he’d better not consider himself man any longer.
Anyway, I was unsuccessful as always: He just didn’t reply. Truly, since very long ago, he has been considered as having lost all reflexes.
*
I can’t understand anything. My daughter says.
Open your eyes and look at the other three beds – the other three people, who are lying there. They are humans, all genuinely, and all deservedly so, try to remember that, daughter, - the rare heroic characters, who are all lying here today. And there, that is the cost at which people have to pay for a farce.
But what farce, mom?
The ‘The King’s New Suit’.
Ah, I know it then. A tale in the West, in the nation of dear old Andersen, isn’t it?
Yes, but it isn’t as simple as you may take it, daughter. Formerly, your dad and I were once there. It was a great nation, you know? There people presented just great plays, especially this one, ‘The King’s New Suit’, which was all the time being performed in the Fantasy Theatres there during the annual Festival Season for Theatrical Dramas. To be fair, in the history of Theatre so far there has been found nothing better than that. Of course, that’s not including the ‘Crucifixion of Jesus Christ’, or the ‘People Read But One Book’, which are really in great demand no matter where and when. Yes, there is no need to mention those two; this one alone is already enough. It is said that it is the greatest among the great dramas. But , do you understand, the cost at which it is paid for is unimaginable. Truly, so far there hasn’t been found anything which is as much wasting and as much exhausting to both property and humans: It gathers quite a mass of people, 90% of whom are feeble-minded, and the 10% left are short on common sense, or sense of shame (, it’s all the same!) – a band of courtiers struggling for a bite and competing in sycophancy, a gang of aristocrats being vainglorious, craving for fame and seeking after filthy lucre in a coarse manner; they all crowd round together, noisily giving fulsome praise to the invisible suit which those two great imposters are putting on the King’s body. And what about the King himself? He is always openly poor in intelligence and aesthetic, needless to say.
But what is next, mom?
What is next? Audiences are so absorbed that they are soon found taking part right in it. The whole theatre turns out in no time to be the stage itself, and things won’t finish until everything has been broken into pieces, making such a mess that nobody knows how to name it.
Oh, that sounds truly terrific, mom! If only I could go and see it once. How sparkling the girl’s eyes look! Clearly, I’m unsuccessful again, aren’t I? I feel terribly angry.
You are never going to see such a thing. I told her.
Never mind, mom! I will only stand just outside the door. She is a real saucy hussy as well , making as if the theatre were just somewhere quite nearby.
Nobody is going to stand just outside the door. I nearly shout. Nobody is going to allow you to do that. I tell you beforehand, with that game, it is miserable for anyone to expect to stay outside. That’s true. Just have a look at the other three beds! Yes, it was them. They used to live in that nation, used to be unwise enough to go and see the farce, yet didn’t consent to join it. The old lady, do you know, being then much younger than now, said right from the start, ‘That’s just trickery again. There is not such a fabric on earth ever! The gang is just trying to cheat again , folks!’ Truly, one can’t tell whether it should be said that she was courageous or just crazy, but there is one sure thing: Nothing could be taken as more offensive than that to the proud mob. Obviously, she did break the rules of the game, and the consequence, as you can see today, has been so fatal.
But … The girl stamps her foot. She is also a very stubborn child.
If you don’t believe me, just ask your dad!
So, what about that old man? Of course, her curiosity is quite another thing, I know.
That old man? In those days he was much stronger-bodied than now, daughter, but his fate was no better. Right in the middle of the show he didn’t bother to make, as so should it have been, an excuse, say, to go to the privy, for example; he just, without much ado, stood up pat and asked to leave, ‘I can’t see anything. There is no fabric in that weaving loom. What the hell are you crowding together round there, treading on one another, for?’ Oh, you can’t imagine how the gang of scoundrelly courtiers there got furious. Possibly, they might have felt even much more comfortable, being spat at in the face. I had thought he was at least crushed into dust and ashes. Whoever can expect him to be on earth until now? It can only be a miracle!
Poor him. God bless him! At the moment, you can believe she’s serious enough. And what about this third one, mom?
Who? This youth? Ah, yes, but he was only a little boy then, having to be led by the hand by his parents.
Did he ask to leave too?
No, daughter. Only that, when it came to the procession, he … Ah, but you do know him. Yes, definitely.
Me? What did you say?
Why not? You have read the tale many a time already, haven’t you? The last part … about the little boy, don’t you remember?
What little boy? Uh …Ah yes, I recall it now. The part about the procession, when there is a little boy shouting, ‘Oh there, The King is naked!’, is that right? But how could it be him here? So, those people also…?
No, hardly anybody did anything to him; he was just little. Only it was enough for him to be frightened to death.
But what’s the matter with his eyes? He makes me scared.
It’s only tears, daughter. Sometimes red , because of some blood.
But why is that?
I don’t know. I only wonder how we are all here again. The earth is round indeed.
My little girl keeps quiet for a while.
And dad, mom?
But I don’t reply.
*
Just a moment ago there was a star shooting across outside the window. It was blue. (But the old woman, who is so good-looking in her age, puffed out: Red! ) It can’t be known whose soul it was among those who are lying waiting in this hospital. However, it couldn’t have been his: Had it been, he believes, it must have been amber, or green (I believe so, too) I didn’t show it to my daughter. It was too late; furthermore, I didn’t want to make her distracted.
The little girl has now buried her nose back again in the heap of books as well as the school bag. (Anyway, she needs to pass her primary school final exams at any cost, doesn’t she?) She is truly naive. I think, just now, it is very possible that she does believe in the story. Oh no, I don’t mean the The King’s New Clothes, which everybody on earth already knows; I only mean the other things. He must think that I’m much too extravagant indeed. Usually, he can’t understand where I’ve learned those things from. I never come to any schools or libraries like people do. There, I believe, there is nothing left to learn. I’d rather brood over all the things people today throw away, all the things being sold by the kilo, sold off, sold like junked. Only those things may now be reliable and expected to have some nutrient left, - some answer. And, such things should never be expected to be there in his libraries or academies today, should they?
Anyway, he won’t open his mouth, I know. Even if I had answered the little girl’s question, saying: Dad played intellectual, it would have been the same. He has been faithful to his role for so many years; what does he have to betray it now for? Especially in this situation, when his being silent is not only permitted but also extremely necessary? Yes, and he can’t fail to know this. I have therefore begun to suspect that, finally, he has found himself a form of existing which is the most suitable although, in others’ opinion, that might only be a death which is the longest and most luxurious, yet, at the same time, the most nonsensical, most meaningless.
*
It turns out to be that the star just a while ago was the very old man’s. Yet only when smelling the fragrance of white lilies vaguely exhaling from his bed do I suddenly realize that, and, a little wonder-struck, I even drop a knitting needle on the floor. The old man had gone quietly, his eyes having already closed, not needing to be shut by anybody else. Certainly, there had been nothing more on earth being worth his experiencing. I don’t call the nurse, only reaching for my daughter’s hand, not taking my eyes off him. The little girl realizes it quite quickly too, and her face turns white. (This is the first time she’s seen a dead human.) But I don’t want her to mistake my intent.
He is saint, daughter. Just come near him and see.
I slightly push her towards the poor old man, and there she comes, standing quiet at the end of his bed,… Just a while later the nurse has already shown up catwalking as ever with an index put on her lips in a charming way again, softly saying hush, then comes up to his bed, skillfully takes his temperature, feels his pulse, then shakes her head, turns off all the tubes entering his body, without forgetting to ask my daughter: You know this one? The little girl shakes her head. She is still standing there while the nurse shrugs her shoulders and then, catwalking again, goes out for the doctor…
… My little girl comes back, her face being still deadly white.
Does everybody have to be like that once, mom? She almost whispers, coming close up to me.
Yes, if he is a saint, daughter. I’m almost whispering too.
And how about an ordinary one, mom?
An ordinary one has to be like that quite a few times, before his actual death.
I say, and suddenly feel terribly sad in my heart. The streaks of scarlet color are still running from each of the youth’s eyes down his temples , glistening more than ever… Right at that moment, the very old woman, who is so good-looking in her age, puffs out again: Yellow! Another star has just fallen across the nocturnal sky outside the window. A star of amber color. Yes, it was amber. I’ve seen it just in time while raising my head, and burst into tears. In spite of everything, I still love him, do you understand?
Saigon, October-November 1991
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Chú thích: Tác giả tự dịch 2002 từ truyện ngắn PHÒNG BỐN GIƯỜNG, theo yêu cầu của Nguyễn Hưng Quốc & Hoàng Ngọc Tuấn để họ sử dụng trong Tuyển Tập Văn Học Đông Nam Á do Dennis Haskell chủ biên, mà Đại Học Western Australia (Úc) dự kiến xuất bản vào thời điểm đó. Theo Quốc, anh và Tuấn phụ trách giới thiệu mảng văn học VN đương đại với chín tác giả do họ chọn lựa, gồm sáu thơ - Chánh, Hạo, Linh,…(theo thứ tự alphabet), và ba văn - Hoài, Thiệp, Vị. Cũng theo Quốc, Dennis sau khi đọc các văn bản dịch đã cho biết rất bất ngờ với chất lượng thơ văn đương đại của VN, mà ông xếp vào hạng tốt nhất trong số các quốc gia Đông Nam Á bấy giờ. Song, rất tiếc, với nhà nước Đông Timor mới được thành lập, dự án nói trên đòi hỏi bổ sung, nên đã phải hoãn lại cho đến… “tháng Mười” - hay “bao giờ” - thì họ vẫn chưa thông báo lại.
Nói thêm về bản dịch này, tác giả vẫn muốn sử dụng nó thay vì bản đã được Đinh Từ Bích Thúy biên tập lại để công bố ở damau.org 15.06.2007 (http://damau.org/archives/15575)
bất chấp văn bản sau có thể hoàn hảo hơn, vì tác giả-dịch giả muốn trung thành với kết quả lao động dịch thuật của mình.
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Translated 2002 by Bùi Ho@ng Vi, as requested by Nguyen Hung Quoc & Hoàng Ngoc Tuan so they could use it in their Anthology of Southeast Asian Literature, expected to be published by Western Australia University, AUS
Published 15.06.2007 in damau.org #28 (http://damau.org/archives/15575)
Tác giả tự dịch 2002 từ truyện ngắn PHÒNG BỐN GIƯỜNG, theo yêu cầu của Nguyễn Hưng Quốc & Hoàng Ngọc Tuấn để họ sử dụng trong Tuyển Tập Văn Học Đông Nam Á do Dennis Haskell chủ biên, mà Đại Học Western Australia (Úc) dự kiến xuất bản vào thời điểm đó. Theo Quốc, anh và Tuấn phụ trách giới thiệu mảng văn học VN đương đại với chín tác giả do họ chọn lựa, gồm sáu thơ - Chánh, Hạo, Linh,…(theo thứ tự alphabet), và ba văn - Hoài, Thiệp, Vị. Cũng theo Quốc, Dennis sau khi đọc các văn bản dịch đã cho biết rất bất ngờ với chất lượng thơ văn đương đại của VN, mà ông xếp vào hạng tốt nhất trong số các quốc gia Đông Nam Á bấy giờ. Song, rất tiếc, với nhà nước Đông Timor mới được thành lập, dự án nói trên đòi hỏi bổ sung, nên đã phải hoãn lại cho đến… “tháng Mười” - hay “bao giờ” - thì họ vẫn chưa thông báo lại.
Nói thêm về bản dịch này, tác giả vẫn muốn sử dụng nó thay vì bản đã được Đinh Từ Bích Thúy biên tập lại để công bố ở damau.org 15.06.2007 (http://damau.org/archives/15575)
bất chấp văn bản sau có thể hoàn hảo hơn, vì tác giả-dịch giả muốn trung thành với kết quả lao động dịch thuật của mình.
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