Dad begun his day at 4 a.m. He rose early to prepare breakfast, boiled water, and placed the food on a small tray with a bowl and a pair of chopsticks… then he woke me. Hot water was already in the bathroom, my bike was taken to the front yard. Having finished his chores, he sat down to study.
He read until mom woke up, poring over poetry, any new and old poem so long as it was good. He learned plays, prose and literature, things beyond literature even, until he was nearly 70. My dad was always a hard – working student. Despite his age, he could penetrate the farthest recesses of the garden of culture.
… Around 7:30, Mom and Dad had breakfast and after that he sat down at his desk, which is now mine, a place where no member of the family risked loitering when he was at work. Books and papers piled up on his desk and at times, an open ink bottle would spill and create a mess. A day never passed without him sitting there and writing, even when a broke his arm and wore a cast. The next day there he sat, scribbling away with his left hand.
It sometimes seems to me, writing is a yoke. Writers are always anxious, afraid that they have not read enough or written enough. A work left unfinished is a fret, like an unspeakable injustice. Presumably, Dad had chosen a particularly heavy yoke for himself. He was always in a hurry. He loved flowers, but never had the time to spend gazing at the flowers over a cup of tea. He dreaded cafés and looked down on them as graveyards for his time. The fifteenth night of each month, he would take a break, when the moon lit up the garden he would turn to me and say, “Turn off light, let’s enjoy a moon-lit night on the porch”. Then we all followed, but after only a few min-utes, he would start talking about literature again. Mom and Dad talked and soon they argued, forgetting all about the moon.
His mind was never at peace. Why couldn’t he relax, having reached such a high position on the literary ladder? He always taught me, “Study is not for fun, but for survival”. He wanted me so much to study. I already had ten notebooks in my possession, each with an inscription, “Things for Vàng Anh to learn.” Dad wanted a space some of his time a day to teach me. Unaware how precious that time was, I made up excuses to avoid it. I only wanted to write poems, not to learn poetry. Only when he was in hospital, when I knew he was seriously ill, that he didn’t recover did I pay him regular visits after school.
He never failed to set aside an orange or some sweets for me and I would ask him to explain something to me to satisfy him more than to get any real information. All those lessons, prepared and arranged on separate sheets, signed Chế Lan Viên, Dad, Chợ Rẫy (hospital) date… as if to mark out different periods in some infernal race.
His daily schedule always left some time for gardening, usually around 10a.m when he was tired of reading and writing. Out in the garden, he toiled like a true peasant, taking great pride in it. Our garden was huge, large enough for every member to experiment. As a result we had a great variety of trees: a coconut on a high mound rising out of the water, plums and orange trees fought for light. But I loved it because Mom and Dad cherished it. He left traces of himself everywhere in the garden: orchid pots he brought back from the forest, a guavatree he planted by the well in my honor, an herb bush for us all to use as shampoo.
No one outside the family knew he was capable of such things, but we who knew these little secrets could not fathom his great achievements. Sometimes I accompanied him to conferences and classes where he gave his lectures. There he was always seated in the first row and people came to ask him about his poems and books. I felt sorrow and shame to know so little of my own father. I went with him just for fun, not for the lectures, nor for his opinions. I was more concerned that his hair be well combed, his collar straight and his glasses there in case he needed them. In these matters he trusted me to help.
Once, when I was still in fifth grade, I accompanied him to Cổ Cò for a party. There, from time to time, he would turn to me and ask, “Is my face turning red?” “Not yet,” I said. But when I told him finally it was red he put down his glass and stopped drinking.
He lost his temper easily. Everyone knew about that. No one in the household dared to joke with him except Thắm. She was the only one who could ask him to do her lessons for her and then dozed off right beside him. She was the only one who plucked his grey hair and cleared out his ears and she would do it when it suited her, even if he was reading or studying. After graduation, she spent a year in An Giang for practice and sometimes returned for a visit. His hair was turning white that time. After she had gone for a few days, her fiancée went to see her in An Giang and when he returned and described her life in the country, he and Dad both sniffled, “such a pity!” Mom and I saw that he was easily moved.
Then his illness turned serious. During the last months, he was confined to his room. He could not talk, nor reveal any facial expressions, but wore a surprised look out the window at the sky. As was his habit, he still could not see a newspaper without picking it up. He stared a long time at a book Mom brought along, trying to decipher its title though unable to understand anything. His many friends came over to visit him and they all felt that Heaven was so cruel as to make such an intelligent man into a new-born child once again. When I came home from school, I took his wasted hand and cried.
He came to once and looked at me, frowning and then he began to cry too. A few days later, he died.
After the cremation, brother Định and I were given the task of dropping his ashes in the river. I sat holding the still warm vase. This was my Dad, who had once held me while I was asleep on a bus; my teacher, now shrunken to a vase of bones and ashes. We went to the Saigon River and when we let go and the ashes dropped beneath the water, I knew for sure I had lost him.
I had lost my main support in life, now I would have to learn as he had taught me, “Study is not for fun, but for survival!”. Study to make a human being.
- Phan Thị Vàng Anh