The time had come when she felt stirred at the glimpse of that young man at a distance. He was small, with a soft voice and a modest carriage. A sometimes abashed smile appeared as an apology.
The first time he came and just stood, unaffected among customers moving in and out, which rather irritated her. Then he left with a small pile of books in his arm. Whether he was cheerful or sad, she couldn't tell. In fact, he was strolling or floating on the street scattered with patches of light. It was that taking-no-notice-of- life attitude that created a kind of pride that drew attention from such a beautiful lady usually surrounded with admirers.
He came the second time hiding himself beside a counter giving way to customers moving in and out. He seemed to wait for something, to ask something…
How strange! She had never known him, when they were very young and all through university life, merry and hard-working then…
The store turned quiet all of a sudden, with only two of them left. Before she could say anything, he had begun his soft breathless voice,
"Miss…miss…can I…"
That very voice, soft and formal, startled her.
That was the voice she used when it came to asking favors from people, asking for a job… She couldn't stand it, that tone of shame, humiliation and bitterness. She would rather manage things her own way. Be your own boss, not forced to be afraid, flattering, shunning and winning people's hearts… Oh, that tone, the one of that once proud but now humiliated man, unbearable. She encouraged him, "Come on. Don't worry. Call me Ngân. What can I do for you?"
His face turned bright, but his voice still hes-itant, "Isn't it… because…"
He held up his hand, and she saw that small pile of books. She smiled, "I can sell those books for you."
"But they are… books of poetry." For no reason, he blushed.
She comforted him, saying, "No problem.
Leave them here. Some people do like poetry."
Then she read his poems in that book. Author not well-known, but his poetry was so close to her. They were real deep, quiet, compressed, open, and above all, rebellious to sincerely live and to ardently love with one's own heart…
However, no one got to buy a copy.
The next time, he hesitated at a distance. She beckoned him over. "I've sold two copies, you see! A friend would like to buy ten copies to bring to his province."
"Oh, is it true?" How lovely his bright face!
She was happy, too, with her know-how to deal the situation. She kept the "sold copies" in her own drawer at home. She would buy all these fifty copies, one by one, at times to avoid his suspicion.
He needed, she believed, encouragement and confidence to go ahead. As for her, she loved those lines, that mood, that feeling… For the first time in her life, she felt that she was missing him, everyday, every hour and every minute.
It seemed like…
Then he was not to be found for four, five months. She was expecting him, longing, sad and quiet and tried in vain to forget him.
One day, a red motorbike noisily came springing and stopped short along the counter edge.
And… was it true: her once poet? She was happily speechless, "Oh, dear! All your books are sold."
He let out an unpleasant utterance, "Hmm, those books of poetry? Silly stuff!"
She was stupefied to insensibility, ignoring his boasting about his getting a job. Just to look at his glossy figure, mannered air and haughty carriage. Her "poet" was dead!
In silence, she turned to the shelves of books and newspapers. She saw them blurring and fading away.
- Phạm Đức