“Aren’t you afraid, saying that?”
“Like I told you: I find you a good person, therefore I tell the truth. With others I change my tune. Like this kind of wine.”
At this moment, the old man pulls out another basket to show Vu: inside is a vat made of plastic, washed clean and full of wine.
“My gosh, why are you storing the wine in this plastic vat, isn’t it toxic?”
“To each its own device. With you I offer my superior wine served in the blue phoenix cup. With others I sell this kind of wine from the chipped cup. Our elders say: ‘Of people, there are three grades; of things, three kinds.’”
“But…”
“It was different in the old days. Nowadays it’s different, too. Don’t you see that the situation has turned upside down? I display the good vessel and the pretty cup to let the rotten ones report that I am suspect, one who opposes the revolution.”
“Yes, now I understand…” Vu slowly replies, and a pain penetrates his soul as the wine stirs his nerves: if drinking from the blue phoenix cup makes you a suspect, then his father was among those in opposition who were subject to suspicion. It was fortunate that his father had died before he could have been tripped up by the revolution, which his own beloved son supported.
Vu takes the last sip of wine then hands the cup to the old man, who immediately puts it back in the wooden box, because, just then, a new customer had walked in.
“It’s cold, old man…give me some wine.”
The customer rubs his hands while talking. He stands instead of sitting down. A wide-brimmed hat still on his head, he looks like someone who recruits workers for construction jobs or factories. He not only rubs his hands together wildly but his legs shake uncontrollably. His body rocks back and forth in an odd manner.
Without looking up, the stall owner says, “Yes, really cold,” as if he is repeating the chorus of a song. Then he pulls out the plastic box and pours wine into an old cup taken from among the chipped and stained ones.
The customer takes one gulp, then hands the cup back: “One is not enough, pour me another one.”
“Yeah, the February cold is very, very cold,” the old man replies, pouring a second cup.
Quietly Vu looks at them and pursues his own thoughts:
“We had the revolution to liberate the people, but, at the end, what we have is only a miserable drama in which decent and honest people can find no place to stand. Those who can make it are forced to be dishonest and disloyal. Or at best, little people like this old man must look upon life as having two sides — like some kind of reversible armor. When I was still young, people were not that bad. It’s the new society that pushes them down the slope.”
“Well, good-bye, oldster. I’ll stop by and pay you tomorrow,” the customer says loudly, then lays the empty cup on the settee and walks out.
Vu waits until he is far away then asks, “Do all your clients drink on credit like that?”
“It’s not on credit, it’s theft. They say that but they never pay a cent.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, clearly you are someone who doesn’t hang around stalls. When I first saw you I knew that already. A guy like that was called an ‘informer’ when the French were here. If I do not give him free wine, he will find stories to tell the police and spoil my business.”
“I see…”
The old man continues: “You guess correctly. I do not have a lot of time to play around. Today I have a bad headache so I am looking for some diversion.”
“That’s it. That’s life. Everyone has issues that cause headaches and heartaches.”
The old man lowers his voice in a consoling manner, and, a few seconds later — as if he wants to express his sympathy in a more effective way — he asks: “Do you wish to have another cup of wine? This time it’s on me.”
“Thank you, sir. I am not a heavy drinker, even with your wonderful wine here,” Vu replies.
At that moment, he sees his wife with a bicycle on the sidewalk. Even from a distance, he can see she is looking pale. Because of the cold weather, she is draped with a large blue woolen scarf, making her face sadder. Vu stands up.
“It’s so cold, what are you doing outside?”
She looks up quietly with a reproachful air. Guessing their situation, the proprietor quickly says, “Why don’t you give your bike to your husband to put across the street? I guarantee no one will steal it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Van replies and gives the bike to Vu. Then she sits down in the stall, shivering from the cold.
“Please warm up with some ginger bud tea,” the proprietor cheerfully offers.
“Thank you, sir. Here you also have ginger bud tea?”
“I have everything. For I have lots of regular customers. Those ladies prefer only ginger bud tea.”
Again he bends down under the settee, pulls out another box containing many dark brown lacquer cups decorated with golden flowers. At that moment, Vu returns. He is surprised to see this owner like a magician with all sorts of boxes underneath the bamboo settee. He says, smiling:
“How many other boxes do you use to store your various cups?”
“I already told you. Special guests deserve precious objects. To such a beautiful person, I dare not sell tea in a ceramic cup.”
“My goodness: such gentility!”
“Not really. I am just clay feet that happened to be born on the Yen Phu dike,” he remarks, his voice as if in song, his face full of pride. “My parents were not wealthy, but they had enough to get me educated through high school. Thus people say: ‘Not gentlefolk, but at least comfortable.’”
“You must have been very talented when you were young,” says Van.
“Oh, please don’t. It’s too much. But, in reality, during my youth I was not bad…Pas mal.”
The old man’s French surprises both Vu and Van. Vu smiles.
“You still remember French? That’s very strange; people in your generation have given all their learning back to their teachers.”
“I am half a century old; my brain is slow and my tongue stiff. But there are some words scattered in my head. It’s like sprouts of watercress in the early January fields. They still threaten that French is the enemy’s language, so I challenge them by once in a while using a few words to see what they will do to me.”
“Aren’t you afraid some will snitch on you?”
“I worry more if they will snitch about my wine. But snitching about some broken pieces of French does not concern me. I do not fear reprisals as would a government official. I am a black ass who sells drinks by the sidewalk, the lowest-down-in-the-abyss kind of person. Is there any lower place that you can fall to?”
Silent, each follows his or her own thoughts. Then a very young but already heavyset woman with reddish complexion steps in. She cheerfully greets everyone, then turns around to ask the owner:
“Old man, sir, you open your stall so regularly. It is cold, why don’t you wrap yourself in a blanket and sleep?”
“If I could sleep like you all, I would be a young man, not an old one.”
“You may be an old man but there are plenty of interested ladies. In Yen Phu village alone, there are seven at least.”
“Wash your mouth out; you talk nonsense.”
“You wash my mouth! Who is going to cheer you up? Who else brings you rice cakes and pressed sticky rice every day from those interested ladies?”
The woman giggles with devilish delight, and the stall owner, Vu, and his wife laugh along. Piles of flesh shake on her ample body, her face bright red with simple happiness; she makes the little stall warmer. When she is done laughing, she takes out a cloth to wipe the sweat on her forehead, then says, “I am leaving. In the afternoon when the little boy comes over, please feed him.”