The house of Trinh Cong Son and the ‘wanderers’

On the wooden writing desk that Sơn left, and in the chair made of big, weak rattan, he was still sitting and drawing every day, and there was a quiet scent of our youth.
In my opinion, one should not be too involved in the past, but it is also difficult for one to break with the past. Because it’s okay, the past is the most familiar of the soul and the past is the “secret garden” of the soul; It can be said that the past is the last remaining precious asset of a person’s life, forever unchanged.

That is why I insisted on staying in this house when Son moved with his family to live in Ho Chi Minh City and handed the house in Hue to me. It seems that in every dark corner of this house, on Son’s wooden writing desk left behind, and in the chair made of big, weak rattan fibers, Cuong is always sitting and drawing, scent quietly. of our youth. Portrait of musician Trinh Cong Son by artist Dinh Cuong. Photo: maivang.nld. At that time, Son’s family lived in this house, and me and Dinh Cuong lived together in a rented house in Ben Ngu alley across the river. I forgot how Cuong often hung an arm around his neck, bandages and red pills, and pretended to be injured to paint war. I sat in front of the writing desk in the silent room, when outside the tea fence, a train was carried south, carrying familiar faces from the classroom, trying to poke out of the window as if to say words. goodbye to me. Yes, we grew up to the age of the war, and that’s the foundation of Dinh Cuong’s oil painting, of the Trinh Cong Son antiwar music, and of our tragic youth circling this city. At night, Cuong and I used to walk past Son’s house on the other side of the small bridge to roam with Son along the Perfume River. Outside the house Son was living in was a long corridor, and down the road, the front side of the house was large camphor trees of the first generation of trees in the city left after the storms. At the other end of the road, there was a huge nacre tree that in autumn leaves the whole tree shining, just like each leaf was cast in gold by a jeweler. At the end of the corridor is a small river that we usually watch through each rain. Under the rain, the river was smooth and seemed wider; on this clear blue water, thousands of shining rain drops, and singing like piano keys, “little rivers, promises are rains”, as in Sơn’s song. The glass on the big door overlooking the street of the facade of the Son house was broken for a long time, Sơn was also lazy not to attach it; The wind outside, just blowing directly into the house, sounded like people. Later, when I came back to live in Son’s house, I sat and wrote in the back room, listening to people calling my name in front of the door. Now that the two children are all going to school, the house has become strangely lonely, I often hope to have friends over to play. I was so glad when I heard the call outside the door, I put the pen and ran to open the door. It turned out that it was just the sound of the wind blowing, the leaves dried in the wind running down the hallway. The back room, designed by Son himself, is designed as a classroom; I often come during recess to teach more for Son’s children. It must be honest that at that time in Hue, abstract painting was unfamiliar to the public, so among friends, Cuong was still revered as a man of the “light century”. From time to time, Cuong went to Saigon to hold exhibitions. Once, when I was busy teaching, I got a ticket from the school office. It was Cuong’s ticket to invite me to attend Cuong’s exhibition in Dalat. I hurried home to pack some luggage and go straight to the airport; A moment later I went to Da Lat, and was present at Cuong’s gallery. I remember it was a Christmas Day, and the painting Girl in cherry blossom color Cuong was asked by many people, in which Cuong painted a young woman’s face from the window frame of a villa, gazing down at a cherry blossom bud in spring. In Hue, Cuong drew me a painting Bridge drunk that is, the doodles of the Truong Tien bridge stand out against the brick background and a yellow dot of lights dangling overhead, as a sign of consciousness. Perhaps it was our drunkenness during our wandering nights in Hue. In Hue, wandering is also a cultural activity. Cuong always dresses properly, is always new, and often comes to his room to call me out. I wear an old suit of Mr. Do, the jacket is more than half-length, woven with coarse wool, probably the one Mr. Do often wears at night, while waiting for Mrs. Quy at the metro station in Paris. From time to time, we even have Ngo Kha join us. Ngo Kha, a well-known poet, was an officer in the I Corps stationed in Da Nang. Occasionally, Ngo Kha went to Hue on vacation and wandered with us. We often leave the house late at night, the streets are empty, and there are no traffic. We often stopped at the university professors’ residence to invite Mr. Do to go out; At that time, Ms. Quy had gone to bed, and Do was sitting alone, sipping a diluted coffee and reading the story of the attorney general. We considered the outing to start from the Son house, at that time, everyone was full. We walked along the street along the Perfume River, pulled over to Truong Tien Bridge and sat in a famous cafe at that time. The road was deserted, the two rows of salt trees on the side of the road were clustered together in an arch above the head, and the Le Loi street seemed to extend under the street light. Occasionally, on a deserted street, we would meet workers sweeping the streets carrying fallen leaves in tricycles and pushing branches on the road. Walking beside Sơn, I sang silently by Sơn’s singing: “The night cannon returned to the city at night. The man sweeping the road stops the broom to listen ”. And Ngo Kha read us new poems, Kha likes to recite poems under the trees at night, and I like to listen to everything outside of teaching. Apparently at that time, we realized that man is a freedom. I remember the verse of Ngô Kha made in those wandering walks: “Last resurrection on the ship Around him red sand silt He asked silently about his life Is the stone wood sad? “.