“But I can’t stand the awful smell of rubber in the truck. I just wanted to get some fresh air.”
It was then that I noticed her beauty, there on the side of the road, in the beam of the headlights from the passing artillery trucks. Her beauty was simple and fresh—it made me think of mist-covered mountains. Most of the female construction workers were short and stout, but she wasn’t like that at all. Her shirt hugged her slim waist perfectly and her thick hair was woven into two long braids. At her side she carried a bamboo bag and a white hat.
“Do you work at the Blue Stone Bridge tunnels,” I asked, “or are you visiting someone there?”
“I work there,” she replied. I could tell from her face that she was shy.
“Ah, I forgot to ask your name,” I said.
“I am Nguyet,” she said.
“Oh …” I said, pretending not to react to this information. I gave her a glance and then quickly turned away and opened the door to the cab of the truck.
“The smell of rubber is awful in the back,” I said, holding the door open and inviting her in. “Please join me here in the cab.”
The artillery convoy was so weighed down with stocks of ammunition that it made the roads and the mountains around us tremble noisily. I felt my heart leap into my chest. She purposely sat very close to the door, holding her bamboo bag neatly in her lap, leaving a big empty gap between us. I have to admit that I’d never sat next to a woman in the cab of the truck in all my driving career. But this was a special situation. I reached up and switched on the cabin light. I could see her looking around to examine my little cabin in a curious but hesitant way.
“Over where you work there must be many people named Nguyet, right?” I asked, trying to make my tone as polite and casual as possible.
“How did you know that?” She seemed shocked for a moment, then continued. “My unit has three Nguyets. One died, so there are only two of us left now. Another worker and me.”
“When did the other Nguyet die?” I asked hurriedly, with a feeling as if someone else were asking this question.
“About three or four months ago, when the enemy bombed the Blue Stone Bridge. She fought very heroically and was a great person. Everyone grieved for her.”
“Was she married?”
“No. But I think she had a lover.”
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. The ground underneath the truck seemed to be shuddering violently. I drove more slowly and cautiously.
“What about the second Nguyet?” I asked.
“She has four children. We tease her sometimes and call her Grandma Nguyet—she’s older than the rest of us. Why are you so curious?”
I said something jokingly; I can’t remember what exactly. Deep in my heart I felt extremely confused. Should I ask if she knew my sister Tinh? If I asked, everything would be clear. But I didn’t want to seem too nosey about personal matters, especially on a trip like this. But still the thought kept running through my mind: between two women, one young and beautiful and sitting right next to me at this very moment in the cab of the truck and the other who had died heroically, which was the woman who had apparently harbored that tiny sparkling thread of love in her heart for over ten years? I felt this question tormenting my mind, like a red-hot rod painfully piercing my temple.
The truck gained speed as we rumbled down a hill. The enemy’s bombs had practically destroyed the road ahead of us. Soil, rocks, and clumps of grass flew up onto the windshield as we drove. My instincts told me to slow down. Up ahead was a weak blue light …
“I don’t hear any planes,” I said, listening. “Where’s that blue light coming from?”
The hitchhiker was sitting with her elbows against the door looking out the window. She turned toward me. “It’s the moonlight,” she said.
She was correct—it was the moon. Today was the first day of the month. I had been driving under this strangely haunting blue moonlight all night long without noticing it.
She seemed comfortable enough in her seat, staring out the window, watching the passing countryside. I struck a match to light a cigarette and switched gears to speed up. I felt suddenly embarrassed. I was an experienced truck driver who had been in many dangerous situations—how was I unable to distinguish between moonlight and artillery fire?
Through the windshield the moon looked gray and dim behind layers of clouds. Whenever the truck hit a pothole, the moon seemed to move back and forth; sometimes it disappeared, as if it had fallen into the dark of the woods. Around midnight, the northwestern winds blew the clouds apart until they dissipated altogether. The wind rustled the leaves that camouflaged the truck, making strange sounds. The sky above us seemed infinitely high and clear. In the darkness I could hear the vague sound of a bird singing. Then a thick fog descended on the road, blanketing everything around us so that it was all we could see. Every now and then we spotted the peak of a black hill or a mountain standing all by itself in the distance.
Our truck traveled through waves of fog. Out on the horizon, the silver crescent moon stood still, as if it had been frozen in time. Moonlight lit up the hitchhiker’s seat. I’m not sure why exactly, but I felt extremely happy. In that moment, I believed sincerely that the woman sitting next to me was Nguyet, the same person my sister had always talked about. Every now and then, I’d secretly stare at her and her thick, sweet-smelling hair.
Suddenly she turned toward me and asked something, which I couldn’t make out because I was so absorbed in looking
