A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Read online

  One evening, a commotion occurred in the hamlet. A crowd gathered near the Si Gate around a sixteen-year-old girl who, her hair let down and her eyes wide, was sitting in the middle of the path. She was a maidservant in our household but, in that state, was barely recognizable. She was being possessed by a ghost who, in a deep manly voice, was telling its story: how it had been the victim of an injustice, how it had died and become a lost soul. Relatives used mulberry branches dipped in urine, a well-established way of getting rid of ghosts, to whip the girl quite hard all over her body. Two persons took turns to use the whip, but she continued to be possessed and rambled on. Having watched a while, I left the scene to return home. My grandmother was not pleased. “You must not listen to those ghost talks,” she said. A cousin of mine joked that I could have been possessed by the ghost myself. He was immediately silenced by her glare. “It would not have dared!” she muttered angrily. The commotion continued and intensified outside. It only stopped when the girl was carried into our compound, sound asleep. I was told that after I left, the ghost got up and started walking about in the hamlet. As it passed in front of houses, it uttered predictions about the future of people living there. Villagers were naturally superstitious and ready to believe in fortune telling, so the crowd which followed the girl grew in size. At one point, the ghost said that the Nguyen Dinh (our family) had held leadership position but the coming period would see our village placed under the authority of other people, so saying it pointed towards some thatched houses belonging to poor farmers. The crowd fell into a hush. Darkness had descended and the atmosphere grew scary. Those who beat the girl with mulberry branches had stopped doing so. The ghost continued its walk, foretelling the rise and fall of various families, until it came to the gate of our compound. There it stopped and remained silent. The crowd waited. Finally, in a tired and almost choked voice, the ghost said that the Nguyen Dinh had reached the top thanks to the auspicious feature of their ancestral land, but their way there had not been easy; they had not been spared difficulties and would have to face new ones. Then the girl sunk into a deep sleep. Strangely enough, the next morning she remembered nothing of what happened. Even more strangely, all the whipping she had received left absolutely no mark on her body. People said it was not she but the ghost which had been whipped.

  In 1943 when that ghost incident took place, the Second World War was raging around Vietnam but our country had not yet been subjected to any upheaval. My grandfather was a retired mandarin and the Head Dignitary of his village. The status of our family seemed totally secure. Nobody could have foreseen that after only a few years, the communists would seize power and some poor farmers would indeed be put in charge of Kim Bai’s affairs.

  Each village had a Communal Hall located in its central part. The village deities and spirits were worshipped there; at the same time the Hall was also the seat of village government. It was therefore both a temple and the main public building. Our Communal Hall was a large building sitting majestically on a raised platform eight or nine steps high. The roof in traditional curving style was decorated with mortar sculptures of flying dragons among clouds. The Hall pillars consisted of big trunks of shining dark brown ironwood, so big that a fully grown man could not put his arms around them and join his hands. They divided the building into three sections. In the middle were the altars of deities and spirits. Our village worshipped in the first instance the deities who presided over the land of Kim Bai and the waters of the Hat. Next came the spirits of great men and heroes in our national history. On either side of the altars were rows of wooden platforms, where citizens met and had meals after the traditional ceremonies, some desks and chairs for village council meetings, and cabinets to keep official documents. Down the stairs in front of the Hall lay a large courtyard paved in red square bricks which led to a lotus pond. On one side of the yard was a small park shaded by several big trees. On the other side stood the entrance constituted by four tall brick pillars ornamented with sculptures of dragons and bicornes. Left and right of the entrance ran a brick wall carrying bas-reliefs of battle scenes with warriors, elephants and horses, all painted in bright colors. It is to be noted that the entrance was built, not in front of the Communal Hall, but on the left side, so that after passing through it, one had to make a right turn to face the Hall.

  On top of the stairs, under the eaves of the Hall, was placed a big drum. The beat of the drum called villagers to attend ceremonies and festivals and announced meetings of the council. If the drum sounded suddenly, it was to warn the people of some danger or emergency, such as fire, flood or attack by bandits. On hearing it, it was the duty of all to go at once to the Hall-be it day or night-in case their services were required. Every citizen with an urgent problem to submit to the Council could at any time beat the drum and call the authorities. This was a traditional democratic right recognized in all villages. When I was thirteen years old, our soccer team was practicing one day when the ball landed in a private garden. The owner refused to throw it back, or let us in to get it. One word followed another and a shouting match ensued. Without a ball, we were unable to resume our practice, so we decided to go to the Communal Hall to call the authorities. It was early afternoon, siesta time. I beat the drum, not fast and continuously as in an emergency, but slowly and just a few times. After a while, some people turned up to see what was the matter. Then a village notable arrived. He was a former mayor who still held a position of influence. A relative of our family, he belonged to my grandfather’s generation, so I addressed him as “Great-uncle Mayor.” He settled the dispute swiftly. The owner was asked to return the ball. Our team was warned to be more careful with it in the future and, if the same thing happened again, to try and settle the matter amicably, instead of disturbing village officials. Notice that, although we were all teenagers, he did not say that we had no right to beat the drum. A full village citizen was a man who had reached maturity and had gone through an admission ceremony. However, anyone with a diploma was admitted, even when still under age. I was then a holder of the “end of primary school diploma,” and thus had full civic rights, including that of beating the drum at siesta time to summon village notables. Normally, the front doors of the Communal Hall were kept locked. They were fully opened only for important ceremonies. At meetings of the village council, only one or two of the doors were opened, letting enough light in for the representatives to work while the rest of the Hall remained in the dark. As Head Dignitary, my grandfather presided over such meetings. I usually accompanied him, to carry his writing brushes and water pipe and to be there, in case I should be needed. Summer days in the north could be unbearably hot and the red brick courtyard in front of the Hall glowed under the sun. But once across the threshold and inside the Hall, coolness pervaded everything and my eyes felt the relief of shade. With a faint scent of fragrant wood and incense, the atmosphere was extraordinarily calm and restful. Often, when the council members were deliberating, I walked into the inner part of the Hall and sat upon the cool surface of the wooden platforms. There, just letting myself bask in the calm and restfulness, I felt wonderfully secure and happy. The Communal Hall was like the bamboo enclosure protecting our village; each represented all that was stable and permanent. Other things might change or disappear, I thought, but they would always be there.

  On one side of Kim Bai was the highway. On the other side, a dike ran along the Hat River. It was a solidly built earthen wall up to ten meters high. The top was wide and flat, about five meters wide and all kinds of vehicles, cars too, could use it. In summer, we often went up there in the evening for a walk. ‘We” were then a group of boys and girls, home in Kim Bai for the summer vacation. After the sun had set, the far mountains were clothed in dark purple. Everything became quiet and peaceful. A gentle breeze blew past and from down in the village came the sound of the pagoda bell. It floated in the cool air of the evening and seemed to linger for a long time around us, over fields, orchards and hamlets before spreading towards the mountai
ns in the distance where, so we believed, was to be found the cradle of our race. I have known other pagoda bells in Vietnam, visited many Buddhist temples in India and Japan heard church bells in Europe. Nowhere have I found a sound so clear and blending in so well with its environment. The story was told that, after the pagoda was built, the first bell cast was “dumb.” No sound came from it. A bad omen. The Kim Bai people believed they must have done something terribly wrong. They redoubled their efforts in prayer, searched for a better qualified person to cast the bell, but again it failed. One day a stranger came to the village. When told about the pagoda bell, he suggested that, as the word Kim in the name Kim Bai meant gold and gold was the geomantic sign of the village, a larger quantity of gold should be added to the bronze to make the bell ring. “With the right amount of gold,” he said, “the bell will toll with a sound which comes from the very soul of your village.” Villagers invited him to stay and cast the bell himself, but he would not accept. Following his suggestion, however, a great communal effort was made to contribute more gold. And the sound which was finally produced came up to our people’s highest expectations.

  Our dike had a distinguishing feature. Standing on top of it, one could see no river, only fields and orchards. The Hat River was several hundred meters away. As a child, I had often wondered why the dike was built so far from the river that, even during the flood season, water never came up to it. What was it for then? Later on, I found out. When it was built a long time ago, the Hat was flowing quite close to our village. But, like many rivers in the delta, it did not stay in one place. Every year as rainwater poured down from the mountains, it broke its banks and moved its bed. It happened that the movement was always in one direction, and thus every year the Hat wandered a little further away from our village. In the 1930s, a dam was built upstream at Day, in Son Tay province. It prevented annual flooding and, since then, the course of the river had stabilized.

  After the Hat stopped breaking its banks, the space between our village and the river came permanently under cultivation. Villagers called it Bai, or the Field. On its alluvium-covered soil, anything could be grown: rice, maize, potatoes, beans, sugarcane, green vegetables, and a lot of fruit trees. Three sides of the Field were bordered by the Hat which made a wide bend there. During autumn and winter, mist rising from the river covered the place most mornings and evenings. Fruit which ripened in the mist acquired a delicate flavor, bananas in particular. A great variety of bananas grew there, such as the “moorhen banana” which, when ripe, had spots like those of moorhen eggs and the “skin banana,” of which both the flesh and the inner part of the skin could be eaten. But what stood out most in the Field were lichee trees, so many in fact that it was also known as Bai Vai, or Lichee Field. One of the fondest memories of my youth was the lichee season. The trees were of a beautiful round shape their neat and tidy branches were full of dark green leaves. Bunches and bunches of red fruit hung down. In our scholarly language, the lichee is known poetically as “the tear drop from the branch.” Harvest time was in summer. The tree canopy offered its shade. The sandy soil underfoot was fresh and clear of grass and weeds. With trees neatly aligned in rows, a lichee grove conveyed an idyllic image, as if it belonged to golden ages long past. Every family in our village owned a few trees. Our own family had about twenty and we all knew where they were. When the fruit ripened we, the boys, would go to the Lichee Field early in the morning before the pickers came to take them for the market. Having chosen the best trees, we climbed up. This was easy, as lichee trees are of medium size with plenty of lateral branches. Once up, we took the ripest fruit; their flesh and juice were deliciously cool and tasted as only lichee eaten straight after being picked could. Sitting on a branch, I idly looked down on the river bending its way around the grove. The season was still dry and the water flowed indolently, untroubled by anything except the occasional small boat. When the sun was high, we went down the bank to wash our fingers sticky with the juice of lichee and, if the day was hot, to have a dip before going home.

  The population of Kim Bai was over one thousand strong. Most dwellings were thatched cottages, but an indication of the prosperity that the village enjoyed was the presence of some thirty brick houses. The main lanes were laid with red bricks, which made the place look nice and tidy. From the highway a brick path, wide enough for cars to use, led up to the village center. The 1930s were, for Kim Bai, a period of growth. A proverb said that “when a man became a mandarin, the whole family could get assistance from him.” In fact, his entire village could get assistance. My grandfather was a mandarin and he greatly contributed to the welfare of his village. Whereas markets in neighboring villages consisted of a few thatched huts, our own market had two large brick buildings under tiled roof. It was built in 1936 off the highway, outside our village’s enclosure. I was only six at the time but could well recall the excitement on the day when the market was opened. High officials came from Ha Dong for the inauguration, bringing with them soldiers and military music. Products from everywhere in the region were displayed, especially delicate and shiny textiles made of raw silk for which our province of Ha Dong was famous. For the crowd of villagers, the occasion was a big festival of games and competitions which lasted all day. There was wrestling, fighting with wooden staves and, a great favorite with villagers, climbing a greasy pole to take the prize tied to the top, which was a live duck making a deafening noise. In the evening, a theatre group performed a traditional opera. Concluding the festivities was a display of fireworks, something people in the countryside could perhaps see only once in a lifetime.

  The new market boosted the village economy. After a few years, it developed into a small shopping center. Though market day in Kim Bai was once every five days, villagers started to set up tea stalls which remained open all day every day for travellers on the highway. Then the bus began to make regular stops there. Finally, a sure sign of business opportunities, Chinese traders came to set up shops. There was a chemist selling herbal medicines, a bicycle repair shop and a small bazaar selling all sorts of things, from haberdashery to the sweets and dried salted fruits which we children were very fond of.

  A state primary school was established in the early 1940s. In the old days, when Chinese script was used for teaching, Kim Bai was a local center of learning, with several private schools catering to students from the whole region. After the turn of the century, when the new Roman mode of writing was officially adopted, private schools teaching Chinese script died out, and for “modem” schooling, families had to send their children to the town of Ha Dong or even the capital Hanoi. The presence of a state school was a source of pride to village elders, who saw in it a return to the scholarly eminence that Kim Bai had held in the past. But the school was modest. It had a single classroom, built in solid brick and painted cream, with a red tiled roof. The floor was compacted earth. Tuition was free. Only one teacher had charge of the whole primary cycle, which covered six years. Still, there were very few villages which could boast of having a state school like ours.

  Our village even had a soccer field next to the market. Unfortunately, lack of maintenance soon made it a great hazard to play on. Time and again I hurt my ankle by stepping into potholes. Water buffaloes grazed there, so that dung was an added risk to players. Next to the soccer field was a “swimming pool,” which was in reality the place where clay was dug out to make bricks for the market. Rainwater filled it and youths used the brown water for swimming on hot afternoons while their buffaloes also took a dip.

  Kim Bai enjoyed a relatively good standard of living, derived not only from agriculture, but also from industry and commerce. Farming was based on rice and a number of secondary crops such as maize, sweet potatoes, beans and manioc. The land yielded two crops of rice per year, the main one harvested in the tenth lunar month and a smaller one in the fifth month. A major cottage industry, traditional to our province, was silk. The soft and smooth raw silk of Ha Dong was highly prized by city women, who used it to m
ake long dresses. That thin and delicate material was ideal for hot weather and light enough to flutter at the slightest breeze or movement. Dyed in soft pastel colors, the long flowing silk dresses added charm to our Vietnamese streets and many a poet has sung their praise. Fine silk of this kind was not made in our village, which produced only the rough cloth worn by country people. The yellowish cloth was dyed dark brown and sold in local markets. Down south in the Mekong delta, villagers all wore black pajamas but here in the Red River delta, the customary color was brown. The men had brown pajamas while the women wore brown blouses and skirts. Many families in Kim Bai had weaving looms. On both sides of the dike were found numerous mulberry fields.

  Other occupations in Kim Bai included raising honey bees and manufacturing incense sticks, the latter quite a significant activity, as in every house stood an altar for ancestor worship on which incense was lit daily, or at least on the two holy days of the month, the first and the fifteenth. To travellers, the tea stalls in our marketplace offered a variety of food, of which mention should be made of soya bean curd. The white bean curd made in Kim Bai was not the soft and jelly-like kind usually found nowadays in oriental groceries, but a firm and compact variety. Heated up over steam or grilled and dipped in tuong, or thick bean sauce, it was a simple and popular dish of delicate taste which could be eaten with rice, or just by itself as a snack. Making thick bean sauce, which is different from the liquid Chinese soya sauce, was a specialty of my grandmother. Every year she produced it in numerous big jars, both for the family and to give away as presents. Her bright-red sauce had a flavor and consistency which earned her a high reputation among gourmet friends. In Vietnamese food, soya bean sauce is, with the nuoc mam or fish sauce, the most commonly used condiment. Making bean sauce requires precision because any slight variation can spoil the result. My grandmother’s sauce was made from soya beans and glutinous rice. The beans were first roasted, then steamed, after which they were put in earthenware jars with water and left to soak for five days. The glutinous rice was steamed until cooked, then thinly spread on large flat baskets, covered with banana leaves and stored in a cool place to ferment. After about five days, it became covered with greenish mould and smelled strongly. The secret was to know exactly when to stop the fermentation by spreading salt over the mixture. If that was not done at the right time, the flavor and color of the sauce might be spoiled, or it might even go bad. When my grandmother was making bean sauce and the critical moment approached, the whole household had to stand ready. The atmosphere of crisis was heightened by the fact that this always occurred in the middle of the night. My grandmother would not go to bed at all. She kept a watchful eye on the jars of beans and kept smelling them, to judge the right moment. When it arrived, she woke everyone up. Under the light of small kerosene lamps, we quickly mixed salt with the rice and beans, then poured the contents of the baskets into the jars. After that, there was nothing more to do, except to wait until the sauce matured.