“You have to say it clearly. Brother Vu does not understand what you mean by that word ‘property,’” interjects Tran Phu.
The writer nods, winking. “Property means accessories that are now old and torn. I am sure Older Brother has seen houses with peeling walls and leaky roofs, sinking or broken columns. Try to visualize people as if they were a house being hit by bombs, or storms, or by destructive time. Please, Older Brother, disregard the vulgar comparison. But it is hard to find more exact words to describe the thing. But the ‘property’ of these ladies is sagging breasts, soft, fleshy, and saggy thighs that spill over into the crotch of their pants, and pairs of eyes that no longer exhibit any brightness but only crust and pus. Not to mention ladies who sport outrageous or dirty clothes.”
Le Phuong then clears his throat like a singer about to go onstage and empties his coffee cup. Vu cracks a smile, knowing that Le Phuong is now ready for the main story, a chapter pretentiously titled “Little Secrets of Little Lives.” But the writer puts his dragon-decorated cup on the table, turns to his friend, and says, “Tell them to brew new filtered coffee. This coffee is worse than sock laundry water. Our traditional foods have been destroyed by all these state enterprise products.”
“You’re right. It is disgusting,” Tran Phu replies, then turns to tell the girl attendant: “Brew me a double-filtered coffee and charge me double. Just like yesterday morning.”
“Right away, Chief.”
Le Phuong turns back around to Vu with a twinkle in his eyes: “Definitely the things I am about to say are forbidden in your circle, Older Brother, and definitely after these confessions, we will seem to you to be immoral as compared with people of rectitude.”
“Oh, don’t beat around the bush. Each of us lives as we see fit. Don’t compare one to another.”
“Most inconveniently for all of us, each person is indeed different, in different life situations, but within one common sense of what is valuable. And this value system is set in place by law and power, which forces everyone to conform. Thus, it is like setting out one standard bed and asking everyone to do whatever they can to fit on it. Perhaps you do not recall, in the old days, they used a steel bed to torture and ill-treat prisoners. Those who were longer than the bed had their feet chopped off, and those who were too short had their arms and legs stretched. Enough said. We are, nonetheless, sitting in this room, enjoying this ease — an occasion that has been long awaited. Whether we go up or down in your estimation is of no importance to me.”
After these words, Le Phuong grins and waves his hand at the cafeteria employees, who hastily bring out the coffee. This time, the steam holds some fragrance. The two golden friends gleefully drink the hot coffee while Vu sips his tea. He does not know why he feels so lighthearted while sit-ting with these two talkative men; it has been a long time since he had felt this way. It made him think of the idle talks of his youth: a bit vulgar, a bit light-headed, and a bit playful; but not a hint of plotting or behind-the-back meanness.
“Now, this is almost coffee. But compared with coffee from Hanoi this deserves to be called dishwater.”
“If we keep talking about the old days, we could spend all day complaining: What happened to the green rice cakes, the candied lotus seeds, the jasmine tea of the old days? But enough: don’t say any more, as it saddens Brother Vu. He is one of the most enthusiastic authors of our new society.”
“Correct, I am most heartbroken,” Vu affirms. “But I am waiting to hear more about how you ‘attack.’”
“Well, we are just ordinary people who love to live ordinary lives. Therefore we always follow the call of what you called the new sources of inspiration. Our soul is divided in half: one is for duty and the other for oneself. We have to make sure our conscience stays intact but we cannot let our souls molder and wither. That is why our lives are a series of plots mediating between the two itineraries of our way forward. Monthly salaries, social benefits, we turn over to our wives on schedule, because they care for the kids and manage the home. Whatever else comes in we call the ‘black budget’ and is set aside for fun. To prepare escapades of fun, we must get to know the whole network of accommodations for relaxation. To be more accurate, we must look for all the ways in which to get close to the group of cadres who run those rest houses. This task we call ‘assuring the safety factor,’ a necessary but not sufficient condition. To reach sufficiency, we need to hold in our hands a stack of blank travel permits. When we start out, we only have to fill in a day, month, and add a scrawling dragon signature and it is done. Lucky for us we have stupid wives. They read well but can’t tell if the signature or the work order is genuine. Those two priority requirements are Tran Phu’s responsibility because he is a Party cadre and thus has more power than I.”
“In this sense, the Party is useful,” Tran Phu adds joyfully. “Every time he accepts an assignment, I force Le Phuong to sing this song: ‘Forever Be Grateful to the Party!’”
“Exactly,” says Le Phuong. “When you eat fruit, thank the grower. I have sung this song for more than twenty years, and hope to continue singing it. Now I will let you hear about all the fun that those who look at life as a game of enjoyment can have. Outside our duties to our wives and children and to our work, a new wind blows in every once in a while, a rose suddenly loses its way and enters our lives — some fresh and pretty girl who is lonely or sobbing because of a lost love, or who is horny and wants to escape from the steel cage of the family, or is tired of a weak husband, or is unable to endure the attacks from a witch mother-in-law. In short, gentlemen that we are, we are willing to help out in all such circumstances. If the pretty swallow flies to land on Tran Phu’s shoulder, I am the one who will write and sign the order: ‘Immediately investigate the N, A, Z case.’ Or: ‘Make a detailed report on national festivals, in cooperation with the Ethnographic Institute.’
“Or vice versa. In all the investigations there must be two people. I carry a bag to Tran Phu’s house to let his wife and kids see clearly that two patriarchs are on the road to carry out their duty. We eat a last meal before departure with the solemnity of the Japanese warrior who drinks the ‘Determined to Die’ wine cup before getting into his plane and diving into the American warship.”
At this moment, Tran Phu suddenly bursts into loud laughter. “Do you remember the time we went to Tam Dao?”
“I do, as if it were yesterday,” Le Phuong replies and turns to Vu to explain:
“This is a recollection that belongs to the category of ‘never to be forgotten.’ That time, there was an apprentice actress who had been fired from her troupe because she was pregnant out of wedlock. I do not know the reason or who told her to come to my house crying. I was scared because it was after ten in the morning, just an hour before my wife and my two kids would return for lunch. If they saw her crying on my shoulder, I am sure the tray of food would have gone flying out to the patio followed by other noisy chaos. But I could not rudely force a pretty girl like that to leave the house. For the longest time, I could not find a solution and the hands of the clock zipped around the dial. In the end, too terrified, I took her to the flower garden, bought ice cream for her, and went to Tran Phu’s house. Down at his gate, I called up to the second floor: