He tried smiling his thanks to her but he had dropped off, back into his coma.
In the following weeks Kien began to improve, coming to his senses for a little longer each time and losing consciousness for shorter periods. In the brighter, dry surroundings of Hospital 211, which was little more than a shed, Phuong did not visit him. When he recovered fully and had been given notice he would be transferred to a regrouping point he asked news of Phuong, from Clinic 8. But none of the soldiers who had been there knew anyone named Phuong.
‘You’re wrong,’ said one soldier whose legs had both been amputated. ‘I was there when you were out to the wide, so I know. You kept calling her Phuong but she couldn’t correct you because she’s dumb. She can’t talk. She’s from Da Nang, struck dumb in some bad fighting there. Yes, a lovely, delicate, good-natured young brown-eyed girl. Shit, you were in terrible shape, mate! I can hardly believe you’d be able to remember anything.
‘But she’s probably dead. We don’t know for certain. We were transferred from there, you and me, along with other seriously wounded, to this place. Two hours later B52s bombed the place, completely wiping them out. After the bombing the enemy raided the place, too.’
‘Do you know what her name was, the nurse?’ asked Kien.
‘Lien. Lien, or Lieu something. Never called her by name. Just “dear Sister”. What a pretty girl! Struck dumb she was. Dead now, most likely.’
Kien, in later years, never told Phuong that story. They had avoided serious discussion of the ten war years. Yet when he looked at her without her being aware of it he would suddenly see a parade of war figures crossing his vision.
It was that connection with the long-gone nurse and her likeness to Phuong that brought back events and images he wished to forget. Even when he knew it was Phuong, and not the nurse, just her words, her profile, were enough to trigger the same violent memories.
Phuong had decided to break it off. She had left him, that early winter evening, brushing past him out of the door without even bothering to switch off the lights in her room next door.
Seemingly without cause Phuong had decided to end the merriment they’d shared during the autumn. The noisy, festive atmosphere was swept aside by the early cold winds of winter.
Her apartment, until recently a place of joy and laughter, was now silent and empty. The guests who so frequently bustled in had now stopped coming, as if by magic. Kien had guessed this was an annual occurrence with Phuong; she had indulged herself in all forms of partying and pleasures and then suddenly ceased, as though preparing to enter a convent.
When she was in this mood Kien too became depressed. He would rather stand by night after night listening to her lovers’ noisy jokes than not have her there at all. As she wound herself down from her activities Kien noticed a decrease in the number of rather sad men knocking on her door, waiting patiently for her to unlock the door from the inside. Then they stopped coming altogether as she confined herself to her apartment.
And now Kien, himself depressed, remembered it was her birthday. He bought a bunch of roses, intending to invite her to a restaurant to celebrate. There had been another power blackout so it would be an ideal excuse not to stay at home.
Although they had separated some time ago he had wanted to see her again. He knocked gently on the door, using a secret code reserved for him alone. But it was not Phuong who answered the door. He heard the key turn and saw the door open slightly.
Through the small opening came the smell of cigarette smoke, and cognac.
‘Good evening, uncle,’ Kien said to the slim man standing just inside the door. He shook a smooth, soft, well-manicured hand. It belonged to a man with a wrinkled, withered face. His tiny eyes blinked rapidly as he looked at Kien, mumbling some greeting. He had a rough, uneven beard and salt-and-pepper greying hair. Kien handed some roses past him, to Phuong.
‘Thank you, Kien!’ Phuong said delightedly. ‘I forgot my own birthday, yet you remembered Ah, let me introduce you. Kien, this is Mr Phu, an artist.’ The men stood looking at each other in silence.
Phuong had dropped into a seat, near a flickering candle. Her guitar lay on a small table in front of her. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘sorry we can’t do our usual. I didn’t even think of it.’
Her visitor became solicitous. ‘If you’ve got a date, please go ahead…’ he said.
‘No. No date. Don’t worry, Phu.’
Kien looked over to her, but she wouldn’t return his glance. He nodded to both of them and withdrew, closing her door behind him.
Back in his room he walked over to his desk, lit a lamp, and started looking at his manuscript. He had a choking sensation in his throat and a feeling of total inadequacy, which brought on a hot rush of self-pity. He stood and looked at winter raindrops hitting the window, sliding down in gloomy patterns on the window-pane.
He poured himself a glass of wine, filled it to the brim and tossed it down hurriedly. He sat in his chair and held his head in his hands.
Suddenly his door creaked open. Phuong had come in and softly moved to his side. ‘Kien,’ she whispered, standing close to him and stroking his hair, ‘Kien, you’re in sorry shape,’ she said, bending down and kissing his forehead.
Kien looked up, mumbling some foolish nonsense.
‘I had to come to see you,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell you everything, but some of the things I had to do in the past just to keep afloat, well, at times I felt like an animal. I did a number of beastly things. I’m badly soiled, rotten through and through now.’
Kien tried to say something, but she interrupted. ‘Now I just can’t help myself,’ she said. Kien remembered hearing late-night callers squabbling amongst each other to get her favours, the losers turning away in disgust. ‘I can’t help myself, but I also have to live. I’ll probably die some sinful, pleasurable death. But ignore me, I’m finished. This is the way I’ll see my life out,’ she said.
He pleaded with her to return, saying naive and foolish things, which she ignored. He said he wanted to live with her again, instead of just next door to her. But she cut in. ‘Don’t even think about it. It’s over. We deserved to have had a happy life together, but events conspired against us. You know that. You know the circumstances as well as I do. Let’s go our own separate ways from now on. Forever. It’s the only way.’
Kien looked up at her, a question in his eyes.
‘I met him last week, by chance,’ she said. ‘But I’m not leaving because of him. I’ve not decided anything with him yet.’
‘So why?’ he asked.
‘Because I can’t stand this tension any longer, that’s why.’
‘I don’t see why you have to run after that old clown. It can’t be that bad,’ he said.
‘Old? I’m no spring chicken myself. You still think I’m seventeen, that’s your problem. You’ve never adjusted.’
‘When are you leaving?’
‘Tonight. Now. We won’t see each other ever again,’ she said.
‘Just like that? Like closing a bad book?’ he said.
They stood and embraced, kissing for a few moments. Phuong pushed him away. ‘That’s enough!’ she said.
Kien followed her as she walked to the door. As she was about to leave she turned and leaned against the door. ‘Forgive me, and now forget me,’ she said. ‘I may not know what exactly my future holds, but I do know we can’t meet again.’
‘Are you in love?’ he said.
‘I loved you, and only you, Kien. I never loved anyone else. And you?’ she asked.
‘I still love you,’ he replied.
She departed, forever. He had had only two loves in his entire life. Phuong at seventeen in the pre-war days, and Phuong now, after the war.