Family of Fallen Leaves: Stories of Agent Orange by Vietnamese Writers

The Quiet Poplar

฀ 147฀ thu฀tran฀ the฀quiet฀poplar Any time the stress of the office got to be too much, Bich Tra would turn to her window on the eighth floor to gaze down at the city below. Whether mist enshrouded dawn or late afternoon sun, she always found something within her view to impress her; the streets, trees,andriverremindingherofbeautifulpaintings.Eachsetofroofs becameinherimaginationanotherstilllife,thepaintedbackdropto the tumbled lives of the big city’s working class. It seemed each roof haditsownlevelandbuildingmaterial.Intheeast,asquareroofmade of a dark purple, imitation corrugated steel sparkled under morning sunlight. At a lower level, uneven roofs made of real corrugated steel had over their long lives already turned a rusty brown. Most of the roofsclosertoherofficehadbeentiledinvariouscolors,usingawide varietyofstyles:doubletile,hooktile,evenimitationtilemadefrom plastic.Butasmuchpleasureassheobtainedfromherview,italways seemed to her the “still lives” lacked something, like the white handkerchieflaidacrossaflowervaseshe ’dseeninapaintingatagalleryin the old district. Or the blade of grass that managed to seem to waver in the Carrots and Potatoes painting hung on her living room wall. Each time at the window, she looked for something new. “How could I have missed that?” she wondered one day, seeing a low, charcoal gray roof for the first time. It crouched over its small cottage toward a lone green poplar, just downwind from a factory’s twinchimneys.Whenshementionedthegreenpoplartoherfriend, Mai Linh, whose desk was next to hers, Mai Linh craned her neck toward the window and asked, “Which one do you mean?” 148฀ thu฀tran “That one,” said Bich Tra. She walked to the window and pointed to an area near the horizon. “It’s the only tree in that bit of land below the old airport.” Mai Linh shrugged her shoulders and said, “Girl, that’s no poplar. It’s a willow. I think poplars only grow in Russia.” MomentarilystruckdumbbyMaiLinh’sassertion,BichTraknew at once she’d gotten the name wrong, but she tried to save face: “It doesn’t matter if we call it a poplar; they’re both in the same family.” Bich Tra knew why she liked thinking of the tree as a poplar. Her favorite book was a translated collection of Chingiz Aitmatov’s stories called The Little Poplar with a Red Scarf that Quang had given to her on her twentieth birthday. In those days, she dearly loved all the Russian things he introduced to her. She loved smoked salmon. She loved the ballet. And she loved the poets like Akhmatova and Esenin who expressed such an intense nostalgia for the old Russia. A favorite Tchaikovsky song came flickering through her mind: Again, as before, I’m alone, Again I’m filled with longing. A poplar stands by the window, Flooded with moonlight. A poplar stands by the window, The leaves are whispering about something. The sky is aflame with stars . . . Where, now, darling, are you?* *Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky and Daniil Ratgauz, “Again, as before, Alone,” Op. 73, No. 6, trans. Richard D. Sylvester, Tchaikovsky’s Complete Songs: A Companion with Texts and Translations (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), 281–82. the฀quiet฀poplar฀ 149฀ Quang still lived far away in Russia. After many years of study, he finally gave up on his PhD dissertation and switched careers to make money as a businessman, returning to Viet Nam only to buy consumergoodsforexporttoRussia.HisRussianwife,Natasha,was as beautiful as a fashion model, but Quang still always called Bich Tra and arranged to meet with her. Many times she had resolved not to see him again, to try to forget the wound she’d been nursing for so long. But her heart had its own way of doing things, and so she continued to allow him to visit her several times each year. Bich Tra watched her poplar attentively. Did it tremble? It seemed its long branches shook now and then. It had been the same at this hour the day before, and perhaps also the day before that. She adjusted her glasses to watch her favorite still life more carefully. If ever the poplar were to be cut down, her painting would be ruined; no white handkerchief lying across the flower vase, no blade of grass wavering over the carrots and potatoes. . . . The poplar really was shaking. Bich Tra went to Mai Linh and asked, “Do you know the way to the cottage with the poplar?” “Just take the elevator to the ground floor,” said Mai Linh, raising her face and smiling, “then you’ll find it somewhere outside.” “Stop kidding!” complained Bich...