“Yes, that’s me,” the young woman replied. “Are you Cuong? I received a note from the newspaper that said you’d be coming today. Please come in.”
At that moment an elderly woman hurriedly ran out from the house, greeted me with a nod, and closed the iron gate. Then she held Hanh An’s hand and led her up the steps to the house. I followed behind them.
“Do you like Chopin?” Hanh An asked cheerfully. To the elderly woman she said, “Nanny, please take Cuong to the living room.” She turned to me and smiled. “Give me a few minutes.”
Hanh An went into the adjacent room and I followed the old nanny into the living room.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “Every morning, Hanh An teaches music here. You’ve come at a good time.”
A cold wind blew in through the open window, scattering sheets of music all over the floor. The nanny began picking them up, and I went to help her collect the scattered music from the marble tiles. One of the sheets of music, I noticed suddenly, had been written by hand. It contained a handwritten note across the top of the page: “For you, Hanh An. This is a song written in a combat trench, a memory of the days we fought side by side. Composer Doan Thanh.”
Gently I placed the handwritten song on the piano and sat down quietly in my chair. There was a photo hanging on the wall above me; I could clearly make out Hanh An’s oval face and sad eyes as she leaned against a young soldier. She must have joined the war as an entertainment performer, I figured, adjusting my collar so I looked as proper as a soldier. I was fully aware that making conversation with a musician was not a simple proposition. Maybe I had no hesitation when crossing a combat trench, a gun in my hands, the sounds of trumpets and marching chants urging us forward, but I felt that in this moment it would be difficult for me to express my feelings accurately to Hanh An. Before coming here, I had arranged logically all my ideas about what I would say to her, but now my mind had suddenly gone blank.
Well, whatever happens, happens, I thought, taking a deep breath. As long as I am honest.…
At that moment, Hanh An entered the living room carrying a big plate of apples. They were red apples and smelled very good. I noticed now that Hanh An’s body had a nice symmetry to it and she was actually taller than I had previously realized. The old nanny seemed upset when she noticed me staring at Hanh An’s dark glasses.
“Cuong, please have some apples.”
“Thank you, Hanh An.”
Nanny hurriedly stepped forward and said, “Let me peel the apples for you.”
“You don’t need to, Nanny. I can do it myself,” Hanh An said. “Look, they are big apples.”
I felt uneasy because the old nanny seemed perplexed.
Meanwhile, Hanh An seemed to be staring at me attentively as she peeled the first apple.
“Hanh An,” I asked, “do you often play sad music by Chopin?”
“Yes. Almost every day.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeated. Then suddenly she flinched. “Ouch!”
“Oh no! I told you. Now you’ve cut yourself,” said the nanny. “Here’s a bandage.”
She must have known this was going to happen; that was why she’d placed some gauze bandages in her pocket.
A drop of red blood ran down the white flesh of the apple. I hurried over to Hanh An and helped her tighten the bandage around her index finger. Nanny took the plate of apples away and left the room.
Hanh An’s arms were trembling. I tried to comfort her.
“That’s nothing! It’s just a minor cut. Soldiers aren’t afraid of a little blood.”
“Blood?” Hanh An screamed. “Is there blood?”
Her face turned pale. It seemed like she had suddenly descended into some sort of bad dream. As I finished tightening the bandage around her finger, she held my hand and whispered, almost babbling, “I see blood on his forehead, where the bullet hit …”
My heart was beating fast at seeing Hanh An so terrified. All of a sudden, the old nanny re-entered the room and said, “Please don’t scare your guest.”
I was speechless and didn’t know what to do. But Hanh An stood up suddenly.
“Get up from your seat and run away like everyone else,” she said. “Yes, I am blind. Look …”
Hanh An removed her dark glasses. Her eyes looked soulless and cold. They stared directly at me.
“You are afraid, so please leave,” she said.
“Please don’t say that. I beg you,” said the nanny to Hanh An.
She hurriedly ran to Hanh An and slid the dark glasses back over her eyes. The nanny then told me that Hanh An had been blinded by an exploding artillery shell while performing for a military unit that was on the verge of launching a large offensive attack. Hanh An stood there silently while her old nanny spoke. In a croaking voice the old woman concluded her story by adding, “It was after this incident that she learned of her boyfriend’s heroic death on the battlefield.”
Regaining my composure, I walked toward Hanh An and held her hands.
“I am a soldier as well,” I said calmly. “Don’t think that I’m scared. I will peel the apples and eat all of them. You’ll see. I’m not leaving.”
The nanny pulled Hanh An to a chair and gave me a small knife. I began peeling an apple.
“Hanh An,” I asked, “will you let me join your music class with the children?”
I waited for her to answer, but she remained silent.
Slyly, the nanny said, “We’ve never met anyone as kind as Mr. Cuong, have we?”
I smiled at the nanny and felt suddenly very close to this household.
“Hanh An,” I said, “I’d like to hear you play the piano.”
Hanh An was quiet. Her face remained bewildered, like a silent wall. The nanny went over to her slowly and said, “Please play the piano,” then began gently pulling her by the
