Ialways thought that I was an unfortunate child. My family was poor, so getting an education was difficult. At the age of eleven, I had to leave my home for Hải Phòng where I lived with my uncle's family, going to school and working to support myself. I returned home some years later to find my parents in severe conflict and the family broken. I asked my mother, "Where's my sister?"
And she grimaced tearfully. "She went to Saigon to be with your senior uncle." I looked in the direction of the wall: beneath her conical hat my sister was half smiling, her eyes wet with tears.
Two years later, I dropped out of school and came home. The house was in good condition. I asked my mother, "Where's my sister?"
And she replied, "She's now in a high position.
She has a rich husband and sends back regular sums of money."
"Does it include the money that supports my schooling?"
She nodded then said, "She said that women don't need a good education, but only nice manners.
But boys must be educated since they will only become good men with both of these qualities."
I stayed silent, quietly grateful to my parents having borne my sister.
My mother asked, "You drink wine, don't you?" I nodded.
"And smoke?" I nodded again.
"And fight?"
I sighed looking in another direction.
Then she whispered, "Don't fall into love too soon. Those provincial girls are not to be trusted!" I smiled, "That depends. Men away from home, how can they… "
When I left, mom handed me some money and said, "Your sister doesn't like what you do. She wants you to make the family proud." Gradually, I reduced my drinking and smoking.
After all, wine only helps you forget your sadness for a moment. Afterwards, there is only a feeling of boredom and an intense desire for something that's missing. This vague feeling is more frightening than any sober sorrow. I entered university without having seen my sister. She was close yet remote and decades had passed.
I passed the graduation exam with honors and was retained as teaching assistant at the university.
My parents were getting old and no more serious conflicts existed.
They seemed to be tired. I reminded my mother of the old days and she smiled. "To me, life is the most precious thing now," she mused.
A telegram arrived from my mother. It read simply, "Uncle died. Come back soon."
I returned. The next day, the whole family boarded a south-bound train. My parents mourned for senior uncle and thought about their own old age. I also mourned, but missed my sister even more. I wanted to see her so that she could realize that she needed no longer to worry about me.
When the train pulled into the station my mother became excited. She pulled me back suddenly, saying, "Lean back. If a train passed by, you'll be beheaded."
But there was no oncoming train. Mom was still deeply disturbed by something and I was suspicious of her panic. I looked out but there was nothing to see. Only a woman, on the other side of the railway, was staring at us. She was small and untidy with black pants and a short shirt. By her feet lay a tray of cigarettes next to a plastic hand basket. She stood, still as a statue, dead among this noisy bustle. A long train, crowded with passengers and cargo, rumbled by.
It pulled past the station with an air of exhaustion and finally passed us.
I looked again but the woman was gone.
I followed my parents to Uncle's house.
Two days later, after the funeral, I returned to Hanoi alone. I came back for my job and because I had not seen my sister. My hopes of meeting her had failed. Mom said my sister had gone to Taiwan with her husband. As they had no children, they often traveled.
The rainy season in Saigon was refreshing and the air was fragrant with fruit. I had boarded the train early and was looking around. Suddenly I caught sight of the same woman, selling cigarettes.
She stared at me and although I no longer smoked, I beckoned her over. My sister had not liked my smoking. Perhaps the woman had been waiting for me to call her, for she came rushing over the rails and into the car. Her eyes were watery and her face was lined with wrinkles, like a darkened sky crossed by lighting during a raging storm. I knew that a pack of Vinataba cost VND 6.500, but she insisted on taking only VNĐ 4.000. I was angry and regretted my impulse to call her over. Only fake cigarettes sell for such a price. Maybe she knew that she could not cheat me, so she had offered a discount. I was irritated and threw back the pack of cigarettes. All of a sudden, she pushed all five packs towards me and disappeared into the crowd. I was stunned.
Why was she so afraid of me? Did she think I would report her to the police? The train began to move and I looked out of the window. The woman was where she had been, separated by a network of rails.
Five days later, my mother phoned me, "Your sister is dead. She was hit by a train." After a string of sobs, she added, "Her body was burned."
"You said she was in Taiwan," I shouted. Mom continued to wail. "Your sister was the cigarettes woman at the train station." I ran out into the school yard. The sunlight was soft and there was a light breeze. Running into my friend's room, I looked for the packs of cigarettes. Only the empty boxes; I held them to my heart and burst into tears.
Now I understood that these were the last things she had left me.
- Nguyễn Thị Thu Huệ