Hanh Le (1966–2006) is the pseudonym of Nguyen Xuan Hoang. He was born in Pleiku and lived most of his life in the central city of Hue, the former imperial capital of Vietnam. He was a member of the Thua Thien Hue Association for Literature and Arts and the editor-in-chief of Perfume River Magazine, a local literary arts publication founded in 1983. He published one collection of short stories and poetry, in addition to five books of nonfiction about topics ranging from memories of his relationship with his mother to Buddhist-inspired philosophizing on life and nature. Hanh Le died in 2006, at the age of forty, from a heart attack. The story “Ms. Thoai” is notable for its depiction of the wide-ranging impact of the war, how lives were sometimes destroyed on the home front as well as the battlefield. Hanh Le depicts Thoai as a long-suffering but fiercely loyal woman who never gives in to bitterness or cynicism, despite the fact that her life has been violently upended through no fault of her own. Ms. Thoai, Hanh Le seems to suggest, is another innocent victim of the war.
“Try to come home early this afternoon so we can visit Mr. Phuong’s grave,” my mother-in-law said as I took the motorbike outside. “Yes, Mom,” I said, nodding. It was a Friday morning. Every year, on the anniversary of Mr. Phuong’s death, we visited his grave and burned incense. My mother-in-law said that when he was alive, Mr. Phuong’s favorite food was sticky rice wrapped in an areca leaf, so she always brought this dish to the grave site. She also brought an old diary, the pages stained and yellowed, that usually sat on the altar in our home. My mother-in-law said that Mr. Phuong had treasured the diary more than gold. He’d even risked his life because of it—one time, he lost the diary during a fierce battle near Doc Mieu, then later returned to the battlefield all by himself to find it. Phuong knew that he shouldn’t have taken a risk like that, especially as a leader in his unit, but his life would have been meaningless without the diary. My mother-in-law said that Phuong’s life had been full of sorrow. For a long time, he considered his military unit his home, and fighting the enemy was his only pleasure and a way for him to conceal his private feelings and wounded pride.
The story started back in 1956. Everyone in Co Lieu village talked excitedly about Phuong’s wedding. They said it would be the biggest and most beautiful wedding the village had ever seen. The bride, Thoai, was secretary of the village’s local youth union. The groom had graduated from the Infantry Academy and wore the shoulder stripes of a second lieutenant on his uniform. He had a tall, lean body; his nose was straight; and his forehead and face were square. In wartime, weddings usually were not extravagant, but they were still beautiful. The ceremony was like a huge festival, full of people. Phuong and Thoai walked side by side, behind their relatives. The bride wore an aqua-colored ao dai and a silver necklace; her hair was untied and flowed naturally down her back. The groom wore a brand-new military uniform. His shiny black shoes stood out against the green, grass-covered ground of the rice paddies. The bride was shy; she stood shoulder height to the groom. The young men and young girls of the village whispered among themselves. They all wished to be like this happy couple.
It was a sunny afternoon, and the rice stalks out in the fields were still young and green. More herons than usual flew above the rice paddy, turning the sky white. Phuong looked serious. He seemed nervous; tiny drops of sweat appeared on his bronze skin. As they walked, Thoai stumbled a few times, nervous herself. The back of her ao dai was decorated with light-pink touch-me-not flowers. Occasionally she glanced at Phuong walking by her side and imagined that this was all a dream. She was delighted by the thought that Phuong was hers now. As they walked, Thoai sensed a group of young men, water buffalo herders, teasing her. Among the familiar faces she recognized Lo, son of the Bongs. Children lined up along the wedding procession path and chanted together, “A husband and wife! A husband and wife!” Thoai’s face felt hot; she glanced at Phuong and noticed that he was anxious too. Thoai felt as if she were flying. Gently she took Phuong’s hand and noticed that he was trembling slightly.
Those were Phuong and Thoai’s happiest days. Their wedding room was full of co co, a flower that grew only along the rice paddies in Co Lieu village. It was the season of the full moon, and every night during the first week of their marriage, Phuong took Thoai out to the rice paddies where, under the bright yellow moonlight, the land seemed to be drowning in fog. In the distance they could hear herons making panicky, screeching noises. Awkwardly, Phuong searched for the buttons of Thoai’s shirt. The sweet, earthy smell of wildflowers coming from her hair mesmerized him.
He asked her, “Thoai, what are you thinking about?”
Leaning against her husband’s shoulder, Thoai replied, “I’m dreaming about having a son.”
“And what if your son joined the military and never returned?” Phuong asked.
Thoai covered Phuong’s mouth with her hand.
“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “I know that next year we’ll have a son.”
Their happy days together went by quickly, as if in a dream. Then eventually it was time for Phuong to return to his army unit. The day she said good-bye to her husband, Thoai made two new shirts for him and prepared some sticky rice for Phuong to take to his unit. They walked together through the rice paddy. The bright red early morning sunlight looked like blood. It seemed as if the pink touch-me-nots lining the rice paddies were still asleep.
