Autumn Rain

Trần Khải Hoài

“Its raining.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Perhaps, but sad. Its Mid-Autumn and once again its raining. That makes three years in a row now. What a pity! The weaver girl and the herder boy are up there in a celestial paradise with everything they could ever desire, except one another. They have everything except love. How sad! You’d almost think it better to muddle through life a miserable human. How those two must curse their fate, they must hate it. Three years and they haven’t shared a moment’s happiness. Now all that they have left of their former love is the sorrow of their torn souls. No wonder heaven’s tears are especially ardent this year.”

“The rain’s so beautiful.”
“If you say so old Trieu. Hey, its Mid-Autumn. Is there anything particular you’d like me to prepare.”
“The same as usual of course, the way Mai Huong likes it, some pickled vegetables and a squash broth with salty fish balls. Mai Huong could eat that day in and day out and never tire of it.”
“As you like old man.”
“Say, where is Mai Huong? Why isn’t she back yet? She’ll miss our meal if she doesn’t hurry, I’m afraid.”
“Come on old man, you know she can’t come see you tonight. You might as well enjoy your Mid-Autumn meal here with just me. That’s fate I suppose. Who knows, maybe that herder boy is having squash broth with salty fish balls tonight, too. Maybe the weaver girl is preparing it as well, a meal they can share in their forlorn hearts, sundered apart long ago.” 
“Then shall we go to visit her?”
“But it’s raining!”
“The rain is so beautiful.”
“Heavens! You’re hopeless old man. Even now you want to jump out into the storm like you’re still a spry young cadet. If only it weren’t pouring rain, the moon ought to be most magnificent tonight. But now it is lost amongst the clouds with none to adore it.”
“How is it that someone so young does not understand the beauty of the moon? The moon is always up there, glowing brilliantly. Its light is soft and gentle, like a mother’s kiss and cool as a southern breeze. In the light of the moon one may find comfort for a troubled soul and a vessel of vicarious sentiments that may at last salve, or at least mollify, the pains of life or even the inebriated fervor of love. Why don’t you see it? It’s not that the moon isn’t there. It is shining as brightly as ever. You just have to look harder for it on a night like tonight shall be. You have to look past the dreary clouds and the misery of everyday existence. Therein you shall find to most brilliant image you have ever seen. It is omnipresent, always up there, waiting for you to take notice. What is a little rain to the passions of a pure heart of gold?”
“If you say so old man. Come, lets go.”
It rained. The autumn wind turned, throwing raindrops aslant onto the muddy earth, the leaking rooftops, the canopy of trees. Scattered raindrops careened about the garden, the dirt road, the little heads of laughing children, a fetid gutter. The wind was fierce enough that Lan was compelled to grip her parasol with both hands to prevent old Trieu from getting too wet. Yet, the wind did not howl. It only gathered the strength to whisper gently through the eaves, echoing with the patter of raindrops as they filtered through canopy leaves. Some lingered there on supple greens, others on withered yellow patches. Some fell quickly to the earth, a puddle beneath their feet. Plop! Plop! A pair of toads met them with a smile. Others were blown into the garden. There, upon an autumn flower, a late blossom, a single raindrop descended softly with a kiss. 
***
The rain seemed so different then. When it rained the wind spoke. In its voice Trieu could not discern its words, but in its whispers, he thought he heard it call to him. It beckoned him to search out his perfect blossom and he was young. As it fell, arousing the stark, yet fragrant earth and as water trickled in rivulets nearby, Trieu found in the autumn rains evidence of the continuity of life and was filled with hope and dreams. Trieu craved adventure. He thirsted for life. His father past away when he was only a child. Now he was seventeen. His mother worked for the Americans. She had learned some English and became an interpreter. It was a lucrative occupation and high in demand at the time. Nevertheless, it was not enough to provide Trieu and his five brothers and sisters a descent living. Times were hard. Thus, Trieu’s mother began serving the Americans at night, in other ways, as well. Money started to pour in. Moreover, Trieu had two sisters of the fairest and prettiest complexion. They were still children, but Trieu knew that they would grow into the most beautiful jewels in the village. The sad thing though was that his mother lived quite a distance away, so he and his siblings lived with an iniquitous aunt. She was happy to raise them because they were rich. She saw them as a benediction. As for Trieu, he was the oldest child and grew restless. He could not stand his ravenous, incorrigible, aunt and the lugubriousness of his existence. 
Luckily for Trieu, there was a war going on. One night, Trieu snuck out of his house and surreptitiously went to the Viet Cong’s secret headquarters. Actually, the headquarters’ whereabouts were not a secret at all. Everybody in the village knew it was the barn of old Le Khang. Only the Americans were entirely oblivious to this, because though everybody knew that old Le Khang was the local Viet Cong leader, no one dared to report him out of fear. They were afraid that the Viet Cong would retaliate and murder their entire family. It was fear that protected the Viet Cong. Fear was their most potent weapon. Later, after much hardship, Trieu learned that it was also fear that drove them. They had little motivation otherwise.
Trieu joined the Viet Cong that very night. Of course it was not easy. He had to steal quite a sum of rice and money from his stingy aunt. A formidable task! Nevertheless, Trieu succeeded in outwitting her. From then on, each night he had to sneak out of his house and meet in some secret place to be educated in the communist way. This was a simple task, as his aunt never really paid much attention to him. She was not the gregarious type and was occupied with hording money and feeding her opulent existence. During the meetings, Trieu absorbed the lectures wholeheartedly. He was young, gullible, and full of excitement. At last he had escaped the tedium that had thus far been his life. Eventually, he even received a gun, but he had to steal extra rice for bullets. Trieu only saw this as an additional challenge.
For a time Trieu was happy. Each day he would study at the local school. Then he would return home and help his younger siblings sell trinkets they had discovered or stolen during the day. When night fell he would feign sleep and slip out of the house unnoticed. Each night was a new adventure. He was only distressed that his exploits went unknown and unsung. If only he could somehow celebrate his newfound happiness. Such morose moments continued to plague Trieu until one day his dream came true.
One evening, after the Americans left the village alone for several days, Le Khang and the other Viet Cong soldiers held a rally. They denounced those they saw as traitors and cursed the Americans. They also praised those who had proved their patriotism. Among those praised was Trieu. One night, Trieu and a comrade were making their errant rounds on one of the minor roads that led to the village. Then they came across an American supply jeep parked in the middle of the road. Normally, they would have just fired one shot and then taken off on their heels, running for their lives. It was Trieu’s favorite game. What a rush! But this night was different. At first they thought that the jeep was empty, or that it was a trap. However, they eventually decided that the Americans could not be so clever, especially just to trap two unsung soldiers as themselves. As they approached the jeep they discovered that there was only one American inside. He held a gun in his hand while warm blood gushed from a wound at his temples. There was a note in his other hand, but it was written in English, so neither Trieu nor his friend paid attention to it. Perhaps no one would ever know what happened to this luckless man or what pushed him to his death. In any event, Trieu and his friend did not care. They threw the dead man in the back of the jeep, full of American war supplies, and drove victoriously toward the Viet Cong camp. When they arrived Le Khang personally praised their valor. He said that it was young patriots like Trieu who would win this war. Perhaps he said that because they told him that they had ambushed and killed the American and stolen the jeep. 
Trieu became the object of praise in the village. Everybody feared him. His aunt was shocked the most because the useless nephew whom she thought slept peacefully each night turned out to be a real hero. Trieu grew even happier, but from then on he had to be extra careful whenever the Americans came around. 
For a time Trieu was happy. He loved everyone. He loved his village, his compatriots. He only disliked the Americans, whom he had never really seen face to face and never spoken to, yet had come to know by empting cartridge after cartridge of machine gun fire. However, as the fighting intensified and his responsibilities increased, Trieu became weary of the game he played each night. He grew tired of deceiving himself. He grew tired of the delusion that if he killed, he himself could not be killed. He killed to delude himself. Gradually, he grew to resent his life as a soldier and the sick game he participated in each night. Eventually he learned to fear. 
It rained then, too. When it rained, the wind spoke to him, but Trieu could not discern its words. Its voice, but a whisper, seemed to call to him. It beckoned him to search out his perfect blossom and he was young.
***
It was late afternoon. As they walked the mud was pleasant and warm beneath their bare feet. Lan clung to the parasol as the wind gathered round. It was an autumnal wind, but it was still warm. The bottom of Lan’s yellow dress, which old Trieu had once tailored for her, was soaked and soiled with mud. Trieu did not seem to notice as he walked wistfully through the lilt of falling rain. Lan was accustomed to old Trieu’s unconcerned disposition and almost senile indifference. She had married his son, a husband who returned to her only occasionally, twice a year at most. Each time he visited, he was greeted like a returning hero, but for Lan, with each visit they grew increasingly distant. Due to her husband’s prolonged absence, Lan was in charge of the household. She also became old Trieu’s caretaker. She often found old Trieu stupid and stubborn. She was not surprised that he insisted on going out, even in the rain. This trip had become a daily ritual for the two of them. She was used to Trieu’s ways, the aimless dialogues and the daydreaming serenity of an old man that, in his senility, she was sure, perpetuated his existence. It was the serenity about him that Lan hated the most. However, she was content. Trieu had relatives in the south that left for America after the war and who turned out to be a gold mine. Moreover, Trieu had once been very influential and respected. Thus, Lan could feel safe accepting their money. She thought she was very lucky to be so well off, but also hated dealing with the onerous old Trieu.
Raindrops pattered against the parasol. A swollen rivulet could be hear coursing behind them. A pair of toads engaged in lovemaking as they graced past their muddy puddle. Lan glanced at old Trieu. “The old toad!” she thought to herself. “Life’s tough enough as it is. And yet, out here in this wretched rain, he’s still thinking about love.”
In the autumnal rain, young children, like the toads, did not seem afflicted. It was Mid-Autumn and no quantity of rain could spoil their cheerful smiles and their innocent merrymaking. They could not carry their lanterns in such rain, but they found other ways to amuse themselves. Some darted around trying to chase one another. Others were catching frogs to give their mothers for a snack. Lan thought she saw old Trieu smile with approval as they walked past them. “What is he hoping to find out here?” she thought. “A lost dream, perhaps?”
As she shielded Trieu with her parasol, a willow bowed with each raindrop that fell upon its branch, reverberating the echoes of the autumnal wind.
***
It was raining the day he met her. She normally dressed in simple attire, slacks and a plain shirt. She did not even wear jewelry. Few women of her generation could afford such luxuries. They were at war. Today, however, she was clad in a yellow traditional dress with an embroidered apricot branch, full of blossoms, above her left breast. She was slender as a willow leaf and her complexion was like that of a blanch rose yet to blossom. Her hair was long and well kept for a military woman. Her name, he learned, was Mai Huong. She was one of the new spirited youth. She was one who dared flout the injustices of her world. An uncanny aura exuded from her seemingly delicate frame. In the downpour of rain, she was like a fragile blossom at dawn, soaked with dew, a young flower who’s grace is threatened by the very substance that engenders it. Though ever so frail, it exudes a subtle fragrance that stirs the hearts of men, making it all the more beautiful thereby. It was that beauty which enthralled Trieu. 
Though Mai Huong was a young patriot, she was never allowed to hold a gun. However, it was not because she lacked courage. Instead, she was charged with performing for the soldiers, singing and composing patriotic verses. Mai Huong became, for the young men who knew her, a source of cheer in an otherwise desolate place. In the trill of her voice, they could for a moment escape their sordid lives. In her songs, they could forget the sorrows of war. It was a common inculcation back then that song and verse is a powerful weapon in the hands of the proletariat against the oppressive classes. Perhaps, then, it was unpropitious that she wielded it with such freedom and spirit. However, such prescience was unknown to Trieu. He only knew the strange warmth that flooded his heart as he first approached her. It was still raining softly. The wind was still for a moment. The span of an eternity passed in the breath of two words as he spoke,”Mai Huong.” She turned to him. Raindrops tricked in a steady patter from the roof of a makeshift hovel. In the glow of evening, a raindrop caught the glimmer of a lantern as it descended to the earth. Were these truly tears of heaven? For whom did heaven lament? In his heavy heart Trieu wondered where the wind would carry this falling raindrop, that tender wish that was his love. 
***
“The rain is so beautiful.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Mai Huong oi, it was a day like today that I finally met you. Do you remember the rain back then, Mai Huong?”
“It rains in every age old man. For whom does heaven never offer a tear?”
As they walked, Trieu seemed to be listening intently to the sounds of the autumn wind. He seemed enthralled by the pleasant patter of rain and the trickling of the nearby rivulet. “Where shall the wind carry you, dear raindrop?” the old man seemed to ask. “Will you find a morning blossom on your way to the sea? Or will you end up in a pitiless well somewhere? We are all like raindrops, falling and falling. We’ll capture a glimmer of life and return to the great sea again. Where shall the wind carry you, dear raindrop?” 
“We’re here old man,” Lan announced. There was a certain degree of indignation in her voice as she spoke. She harbored a secret hatred for the old man, but in the depths of her soul she knew it was actually jealously she felt. She was jealous of Trieu’s love for Mai Huong, a love that was perfect because it was snuffed out in its infancy; she was his perfect blossom, complete in the realm of memory. Lan distained him because he had found life in a desolate land and through the hardships of war, he had loved. She, however, was miserable with her happiness. Hope for her was but a dream. She looked down at the martyr’s stone that bore Mai Huong’s name. Raindrops all return to the sea, she knew, and that sea was the sea of death. She was not moved by old Trieu’s words, the same words he spoke each evening.
“Mai Huong oi, Mai Huong oi, where are you? Where have you gone?” 
For a moment the skies parted. A shimmer of light filtered through dark clouds. “Perhaps the weaver girl and the herder boy shall meet tonight after all,” Lan thought.
Trieu smiled. Happiness is a fragile as a sunray. How beautiful it is! A rainbow appeared in the distance, only to vanish. Dreary clouds once again enveloped the light of the sky. In the space of a moment a heartful of flowers was exchanged for a handful of empty mist. Where will the wind carry you, dear raindrop? Only heaven knew. Would the two lovers ever meet each other again? Only the phantom of a dream could tell.

T.K.H-- Cornell University, Ithaca-NY

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