After a little while, Hanh An seemed to regain her composure.
“Cuong, I apologize,” she said. “It has been twenty years, but it’s difficult for me to forget the battlefield.”
Hanh An stood up and walked briskly over to her old piano. The nanny motioned for me to stay seated. From the piano bench, Hanh An turned toward me and said, “Let’s get to know each other.”
Then she began to play. The sound of cheerful piano music filled the room. I recognized the tunes she played—the melodies, the rhythms—as marching songs used in the war. These must have been songs about soldiers—and could one of these songs have even been composed by Doan Thanh, for Hanh An herself?
Her fingers glided effortlessly over the keyboard, producing sounds that reminded me of rolling ocean waves. In that moment, sitting there listening to the music, I recalled the time I’d stood on top of an artillery cannon and raised a flag to signal the order to attack; then from far away an American plane suddenly appeared in the sky, and I pointed the muzzle of the cannon directly at it. There was an extremely loud explosive noise, and I collapsed as a piece of shrapnel pierced my thigh. I watched the plane, off in the distance, making loud noises before crashing into a field and then bursting into flames like a torch.
“Please sit down,” the nanny said to me.
This startled me, since I didn’t know how long I’d been standing.
Hanh An stopped playing the piano.
“So, do you remember the smell of gunpowder?” she asked.
I forced myself to calm down and walked toward her.
“I heard an explosion,” I said, “and saw a red flag with a yellow star flapping in the wind.”
Hanh An smiled. She said, “Only those who have fought in the war can imagine such things. On which front did you fight?”
She stood up from the piano and went to sit next to the nanny. I held up the plate of sliced apples, offering them to her.
“My first battle was in the highlands,” I said.
“That’s impressive,” Hanh An said. “You’re a true Hanoian soldier.”
She had a charming and cheerful smile.
“So,” I said, “when can I hear you play Chopin’s sad music?”
But the nanny suddenly stood up and said, “Let’s just talk and eat the apples. Sad music another time. What do you think?”
Hanh An laughed and I did the same. I didn’t know, really, why I was laughing so happily—probably from some sudden, unexpected joy.
Then the doorbell rang and the nanny ran outside.
I placed a piece of apple in Hanh An’s hand. Surprisingly, she took my hand and held it.
“This apple tastes really good, doesn’t it?” she whispered.
The old nanny came back into the living room.
“Mr. Thai who came here a month ago is here to see you again,” she announced.
Hanh An was silent for a moment. She turned toward me and took off her glasses. I couldn’t control my emotions when I looked directly into her dead, soulless eyes. I held her hands firmly. At this very moment, I felt as if I were back next to my comrades in the trenches years earlier, and the female soldier standing in front of me was someone I could rely on for the rest of my life.
I took Hanh An’s warm hands and placed them on my shoulders. Hanh An smiled and turned toward the door.
“Nanny, please tell him that I am not taking new students for my music class.”
I laughed again. What she’d said was funny. But the old nanny understood and quickly returned to the gate to deliver the news.
Hanh An and I enjoyed the sweet, crispy red apples.
9 / THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL IN THE VILLAGE
TA DUY ANH
Ta Duy Anh was born in 1959 and studied at the Nguyen Du Creative Writing School in Hanoi, where he taught from 1994 through 2000. Since 2000, he has worked as an editor at the Vietnam Writers’ Association. He has published several novels and short stories, often writing about politically sensitive or taboo topics, like corruption. As a result, several of his most recent books have been banned in Vietnam. “The Most Beautiful Girl in the Village,” on the contrary, is among his most widely read and celebrated stories in Vietnam. Set in a lang que Bac bo—a northern pastoral countryside, where life is considered simpler and more idyllic than in the city—the story centers around Tuc, a young woman who is depicted as almost unrealistically perfect. “You are indeed Tam, with hundreds of magical talents. You’re not a flesh-and-bone being,” the character Hao tells her at one point, invoking Tam, the most famous female character from Vietnamese folklore, often compared to Cinderella in her pure innocence and stoic suffering. The irony is that, for Tuc, this suffering does not prove redemptive; she ends up a tragic figure by the end of the story, and largely as a result of her moral purity.
Tuc, back then, was as beautiful as a flower. She concealed her young, supple body and firm shoulders under a light brown blouse. At the age of eighteen she was irresistible; men could not keep their eyes off her, and many couldn’t help but express their feelings for her.
“Will you please stop for a second?”
It was the voice of one of the men in the village, imploring Tuc to stop in a desperate, frantic voice, as if he’d been suppressing his feelings for a long time.
Slowly Tuc turned around. She opened her lips and smiled gently. Her eyes were like two pieces of elegantly cut areca nut. She was beautiful, but not stuck up. She blinked as she looked away from the man at the ground, waiting for him to speak. But the man seemed intimidated by her beauty. So he just stood there, speechless, until finally Tuc continued walking.
In the afternoons, Tuc usually went to the village well to collect water. In general, well-behaved girls were taught not to stare at themselves in
