A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 7

  The front yard was decorated with two three-legged concrete urns, as tall as a man. At the conclusion of anniversaries and festivals, the gold and silver votive papers were brought from the altars and burnt in the urns. In a corner of the yard and leaning against the wall was a raised goldfish pond built to the shape of a half-moon. In the middle of the pond rose a miniature rock-mountain, with its miniature bonsai trees. Most prominent among them was a si tree, of the same species as the one which gave to the village gate its name, with countless roots hanging down to the surface of the water. Even the snails living around its base were miniature in size. Here and there in the mountain were tiny earthen temples, bridges, cottages and figurines of wood gatherers carrying their packs home, old men fishing at a stream, chess players enjoying a game and a sage contemplating the beauty and mystery of nature. Such sceneries adorned many a garden, be they owned by scholars, businessmen, farmers or artisans. The Taoist dream of retiring to the mountains to live among the trees and the clouds and away from the cares of this world lay close to the Vietnamese heart. The rock-mountain, miniature trees and goldfish pond were more than a popular hobby; they were part of that dream.

  The compound was surrounded on all sides by a high brick wall, which gave it a rather forbidding aspect. It had an imposing gate house with a green tiled roof showing the traditional curved lines, heavy iron gates and a guard room on top. What was special about the gate house was its position, tucked in one corner of the compound. From the village’s entrance to our place, one had to follow the edge of the compound along its whole length before reaching the gate. Then, one had to make a sharp turn right, enter the gate, walk half the length of the front yard and make another right turn to face the new house. Next, one had to go through the new house and through the hall before coming to the inner center of the compound, which was the altar house. Many visitors intrigued by this roundabout route put the question to my grandfather. He replied that it was chosen on the advice of a Chinese geomancer, without giving any further explanation. Actually, the new house and the gate were built at the same time in the 1930s, some ten years after the altar house. The same Chinese geomancer was invited back and he made some radical recommendations. Firstly, he would place the new two-storeyed house right in front of the altar house, at a distance of only a dozen meters, thus blocking the latter’s view completely. This went against a basic principle in geomancy, for to block a house’s view would be to block the progress of its occupants. Secondly, the gate was to be built in a corner and oriented in such a way that part of it was hidden behind a hedge. Such a position did not bring out the imposing character of that construction. However, my grandfather accepted the recommendations. I was never given an explanation, but his reasons probably had to do with the prophecy of the Mountain of the Twins. Possibilities of high achievements existed in Kim Bai, but the way to the top was particularly difficult to find, according to the prophecy. The geomancer must have been inspired by it, for what he set out to do was to transfer the geomantic characteristics of the land of Kim Bai onto our compound. It was difficult to reach the peaks of the Mountain of the Twins. Accordingly, the geomancer made it difficult to get to the inner center of our compound. He hid the altar house behind the new house, devised a tortuous route to get there, placed obstacles on the way, put the gate house out of place. He counseled against some basic rules in geomancy to reach for a higher reward that our family may benefit from the auspicious character of the Mountain of the Twins. Four centuries ago, the prophecy came true with the ancestors of our first generation. Now, the geomancer aimed to ensure that it would continue to hold true for their descendants.

  4. School Holidays in Kim Bai

  Summer vacation lasted three months, from mid-June to mid-September. After 1942, as the economic situation worsened and Allied air attacks became more frequent, there were no more holidays on the seaside for our family. Instead, our parents sent us to Kim Bai. At times, we were a group of up to ten boys and girls and it was great fun. But often, I found myself there with only my brother Dong as companion, who was then only seven and six years my junior. I felt lonely and missing out on all those exciting things happening in the capital. At the end of the academic year, when the subject of vacation in the village came up, all of us children asked to remain in Hanoi. Or if we had to go to Kim Bai, it should be only for a short time. We argued that a few weeks’ change of air should do enough good for our health; more importantly, we needed tutoring so as to be ready for next year’s studies. I was then a skinny child and often sick, but I did well at school, so these arguments were of no use to me. Every year, I stayed in Kim Bai for the whole duration of the school holidays.

  It was not all holiday and play, but also work. My grandmother was nearing sixty, but remained very active and industrious. She abhorred idleness, which she said was not only a vice, but also a disease. The wife of a retired mandarin, she could have spent old age in leisure, yet chose to immerse herself in work. Like other women in Kim Bai, she made paddy into polished rice and went to the market to sell it. Soon, our group fell into the rhythm of village life. We got up early. Grandmother always was up at the crack of dawn. I learned how good it was to start a day in that way. It gave me a wonderful feeling of physical well-being and the reassuring thought that a whole new day lay ahead of me. To get up late in the country, when the sun was already high and the house empty because everybody had gone to their tasks, would really mar my day. Food was cooked and the family sat down for the first of the two main meals of the day. Then, the men went out to the fields and the women brought their wares to the market. In tropical countries, the best time of the day is early morning, after the rest given by a night’s sleep and when the air is still cool and fresh. As the folk saying goes:

  In a year, how many months of spring can there be,

  In a day, how many hours of early morning can one have!

  Such precious moments have to be put to good use; that is why the habit of rising early is so prized. Begun early, the day also ended early. Dinner was eaten in late afternoon and by dusk it was nearly bedtime. Between the two main meals, people usually had a snack of some sort. Around midday, children would be seen going out of the village carrying woven baskets containing food and drink for those working in the fields. Food generally meant sweet potatoes, manioc or corn, either boiled or grilled. Drink was either black tea, or, if in season, green tea made from freshly picked leaves. Out in the open under a burning sun, nothing could quench a thirst better than a bowl of steaming green tea. It looked greenish and was strong and bitter. Taken hot in hot weather, it made one perspire profusely. Many villagers were just as addicted to that green tea as to tobacco or liquor. After the snack, everyone had a siesta. Men and beasts repaired to some shaded places to rest. Trees were few and far between in the fields but, here and there, brick huts had been built for workers and travellers to shelter from the heat. In the village itself, all activities came to a stop. The red brick paths were deserted. Even dogs disappeared into the shade and stopped barking. Only the chirping of birds was to be heard, and from time to time rising above it, the strange crow of a rooster greeting the blinding light of the midday sun. Siesta-time did not last long. After half-an-hour or so, activities were resumed. The short nap acted like magic to clear one’s head and refresh one’s body for the afternoon’s work.

  Our group of teens and pre-teenagers included two of my grandfather’s children, two or three of my great-uncle’s children and five of us: my elder brother Hong, my younger sisters Trang and Giang, my younger brother Dong and myself. Following the morning meal, we all worked to make paddy into rice, all except for Dong who was still too young. Firstly, paddy had to be ground to break the husk and free the grain. Rotating the mill was a heavy task performed by the men in our household and we boys took turns to relieve them. Grains of rice came out of the mill mixed with their husks. Then came sieving, which was done by the women and girls. The sieve was a round and flat bamboo basket, loosely woven. On a s
ieve shaken in a circular motion, the heavier rice grains went to the bottom and were separated from the lighter husks which congregated on top. A girl who knew how to sieve well was a pleasant sight to watch. She would be seated on one of those low stools very much in use in the country, her body and legs at once in an elegant yet modest pose. Her long and graceful arms would move the sieve rhythmically. Rice grains and husks would roll faster and faster in the sieve until all the grain finally fell through, leaving only the husks. It was a charming picture, especially when the girl was attractive, as many in Kim Bai were. My sister Trang soon got the knack of doing this task and my grandmother watched her approvingly. “The family who will have that girl as a daughter-in-law,” she said, “will be very lucky indeed.”

  Sieving had to be done two or three times before the bulk of the rice was clear of husks. Next came winnowing, to blow the last of the husks away. That was also a girl’s task. Pounding followed, to take off the reddish-brown bran from the rice grain. The rice was poured into a cement mortar set into the ground. A long tree trunk served as a lever. At one end of the lever a pestle was attached, with its head covered in metal. Two or three people stood at the other end. They pushed their side of the lever down with their feet, the pestle came up and then, as the pressure on the other end of the lever was released, the pestle came down pounding on the rice. I enjoyed the slow and rhythmic pounding, in which both men and women participated. It was usually a time for singing to the tempo of pestle hitting mortar. Making paddy into rice being one of Kim Bai’s main activities, the sound of rice pounding could be heard all day long. My memory associated it with summer afternoons, when the sun was at its fiercest and everything seemed to stop, except for that slow cadence which induced me to sleep. The final job was to separate the white rice from the bran. That meant sieving again, by the women.

  Five men,

  Holding two poles,

  Into a cave,

  They direct a flock of white ducks.

  What is that?

  Villagers at work liked to sing, recite poems or pose short riddles like the one above. Males would be grouped on one side, females on the other. The men would start by challenging the women to find the answer to a riddle. The women would respond, then throw a riddle back to the men. Questions would go back and forth until one side either could not answer or ran out of riddles. The contest could go on for quite a while, as villagers not only had a good collection of riddles but also improvised new ones. The answer to the above riddle, by the way, is eating rice. The five men with their two poles are the fingers of a hand holding the two chopsticks, the cave is the mouth and the white ducks stand for white rice. In those working sessions, we sang and taught one another poems taken from the rich folklore of our region. More exactly, we recited them in a modulated voice to bring out the music in our tonal language. They were short poems of no more than two or four verses. Each of us had a repertoire of them. They mirrored the lives of our people and expressed the whole range of their feelings, but those I have come to love best were rather sad ones which spoke of love and duty, of the homesickness of the young bride for the village of her birth, of the pain of separation as the soldier prepared to leave for the border. Out in the fields, the white egret presented a lonely and sad sight, for it was most of the time wading by itself along some deserted ditch. Rarely would one see a flock or even a pair of egrets. Thus, the white egret had come to represent in folklore the young wife whose husband was away and who toiled by herself to bring up a family. This is the poem of the egret:

  Like the white egret wading along the river bank,

  She was carrying a provision of rice for her husband.

  Softly, the sound of her crying could be heard.

  “Please darling, go back to our village,” he told her.

  “To look after our mother and our children.

  For to the border, in the mountains of Cao Bang,

  I have been called to go.”

  As the pounding developed into a cadence, a voice would rise. Firstly, it would shyly recite a few verses. Then, as it grew bolder, the modulation would appear and gain momentum. Eventually, everyone in our group would chant their poems, instead of just reciting them.

  My grandmother was busy moving from one group to another. She sat down to teach the girls how to sieve. She held the basket of rice and poured the grain down while behind her, someone agitated a big fan to blow the husk away. She interrupted the pounding to see whether enough bran had been taken off the rice. At midday, we all stopped for a snack of boiled potatoes, or manioc, or corn on the cob. It was time for grandmother to launch into one of her discourses. She liked to tell us ancient tales and fables in verse, chanting them in traditional style. Her favorite fable was a long one. She did not always remember all of it. Often, she improvised and her verses did not rhyme well. But she was totally absorbed in it and we were all listening attentively. I cannot remember all the verses, but the gist of her story was clear. Once upon a time, the Lord in Heaven bestowed on humanity peace and self-sufficiency. Everyone had enough to eat and enjoyed security. No thieves or robbers caused any need for a door to be locked or bolted. They should have all been happy and contented, so the Lord thought, but it was not to be. After a while, people started coming to Him, asking for special grants and privileges. Day after day, their numbers increased. Human greed really had no limits. The Lord in Heaven thus became angry and decided to teach mankind a lesson. This he did by granting each and every request he received:

  My young man! whatever you want,

  I will gladly give to you.

  You want trouble and disorder?

  I will give trouble and disorder to you.

  Hence the troubles of the world, grandmother concluded. Even after this long time, mankind still did not seem to have learned the lesson.

  My grandmother also reminded us repeatedly of a proverb, which seemed to sum up her attitude to life:

  It is not difficult,

  To learn the ways of high living.

  But how to live a poor and humble life,

  That is indeed difficult to learn.

  I have often wondered what made her have such a stoical and rather dour view of life. Her own family was rich and she had married into one that was poor. My grandfather had obtained his licentiate degree, but it was still many years before he entered the mandarinate and even then it took him many more years to move out of the lower ranks. So, it had not been easy for my grandmother. However, the latter part of my grandfather’s career was a remarkable success and he reached the top of his profession. Perhaps, my grandmother wanted to tell us that anyone could make the transition from difficult beginnings to wealth and honor. It was when confronted with adversity that coping and remaining true to oneself was difficult. Therefore, it was necessary for us children to be trained in manual work so that, when the need arose, we could adapt. I believe that, in those early years of the 1940s, my grandmother already had some premonition of the tremendous upheavals that would shortly affect our country, our society and our own family. She wanted us, the young generation, to be able eventually to face adversity and to see it as a challenge.

  After the bran was removed from the rice, our day’s work ended. Nothing from the paddy was thrown away. The bran, boiled and mixed with marsh lentil, served as pig’s feed. The husk was used as fuel in the kitchen. The white rice of Kim Bai sold well at market because it was well clear of husks and had the right color and taste. Our people’s main trade secret was the pounding. If not pounded enough, the rice would retain too much bran and would not be white enough; at the same time its taste would be too strong. If too much bran was removed, however, the rice would become rather insipid and tend to break.

  In town, we used to have white rice. Most villagers, on the other hand, ate rice with plenty of bran left, which made it reddish when cooked. That “red” rice was more nutritious, and a good prevention from beriberi, a disease common in the tropics and caused by a deficiency of Vitamin B. When in
the village, we continued to have white rice, but every few days my grandmother, who had a quite modern and scientific outlook in spite of never having gone to school, would give us a meal of red rice. We children rather liked it, mainly because it was a change. A more special treat was broken rice, which came out in small pieces from the mortar after the pounding, and was not sold at market. Steam-cooked and mixed with fried onions and spices, broken rice is delicious. Many Vietnamese living abroad missed their broken rice. I did so in my student days in France, until the day I went into an Arab restaurant and discovered that its couscous was a good substitute to the broken rice at home.

  Grandmother also wanted us boys to go out and work in the fields. As all our rice fields were let to tenants, she asked her cousin, whom I called Great-uncle Mayor, to take us to his fields. His response was not enthusiastic. “They have worked hard enough at school during the year,” he told her, “let them enjoy their holidays.” Still, one morning, the four of us found ourselves walking behind the mayor and his buffalo and heading for the open fields. Two of us were carrying the heavy plough. At the plot of land to be tilled, the mayor attached the plough to the buffalo and gave us a demonstration. Then, he let us take turns to handle the plough. The other three did not do too badly, but I found it very hard to press the ploughshare down so that the furrow would be deep enough. Also, to make the furrow run straight was a problem. Fortunately, the buffalo was quite used to working in the fields. It knew when to stop and to change direction, so my problem was only to deal with the plough. We managed to finish the plot as best we could. The mayor did not say whether or not he was satisfied with our work. “If they are bright enough to study at school, they should be able to work in the fields when they have to,” was the rather oblique comment that he gave to my grandmother at the end of the day.