a cruel time," she said, "and so very long. The war swept away so many people. So many new recruits used to be based in my house. They used to call my mother their mother, and called me younger sister. But of all of them
only you have returned. My two brothers, my classmates, and my husband, too, were all younger than you, and joined up years later than you. But none of them has returned. From so many, there is only you left, Kien. Just you."
She went with him to pay tribute to her mother. Kien burned incense sticks and bent his head in prayer for some time, letting the painful memory of those days throb through his temples while he tried in vain to conjure up the image of the godmother's face. The last rays of the sun were slanting over the long grasses, now tinged pink in the sunset.
She began speaking quietly: "If people had been patient in those days and let parents know of their son's deaths one at a time, my mother would still be alive today. But in the first weeks of peace the bureaucrats wanted to speed up the delivery of bad news, to get it out of the way quickly. My mother was here one fateful morning when an official arrived bringing a death certificate for my brother, her first son. She took the news badly, although she had feared and expected it. She was buoyed only by the expectation of her second son coming home soon. But a few hours later another courier arrived with a second death certificate, telling her my other brother, her second son, had also been killed. Mother collapsed in a faint, then lapsed into a coma. She hung on for three days without uttering another word, then died."
Kien stared down at Lanh's tombstone, noticing for the first time a second, much smaller grave alongside it. Lan said quietly, "My son. He was almost eight pounds when he was born, but he only lived two days. His name was Viet. My husband was one of the Tay tribe, far from his province of Ha Giang. He had been based here for less than one month, so there was not even time to complete the formal wedding ceremony. Six months after he left I got a letter, but not from him. It was from one of his friends, writing to tell me
he'd been killed on the way into Laos. I'm sure that's why our baby faded fast and died. It had no will to live."
They rose and slowly walked down to the house.
"So that's the short story of my life. First my brothers, then my mother, then my husband, then my son. No wonder I feel a little weaker every year. I live in this shell of loneliness, going from house to hill, hill to house, and around the hamlet, with no one paying any attention to me and me not noticing others.
"By a strange quirk of fate, my husband's was the last unit based here. After his group left no others came to Doi Mo. Now, after many years of peace, you are the only one to return here. Just you. None of the others."
She asked him to stay the night and he silently agreed. The short summer night softly enfolded them, and all that was heard was the sound of a nightbird calling from the edge of the forest and the distant rippling of the hamlet's slow stream.
Kien and Lan walked out together early in the morning; she stayed with him beyond the first hill, neither of them saying a word. The sun was warming them and the dew evaporated, rising around them. Lan's face seemed pale and drawn.
"A few years ago I decided to leave here," she said suddenly. "I intended to go south and rebuild my life. But I changed my mind. I just couldn't leave my mother and my son lying over there. I just wait and wait, without knowing what I'm waiting for. Or for whom. Perhaps I've been waiting for you."
Kien remained silent, avoiding her gaze.
"I knew who you were straight away, although you look very different now. Back then I was so small. But I knew. Perhaps you were my first love and it took all this time for me to realize it."
Kien tried to smile but his heart felt constricted. He gently raised Lan's hand to his lips, bent his head, and kissed it a long
only you have returned. My two brothers, my classmates, and my husband, too, were all younger than you, and joined up years later than you. But none of them has returned. From so many, there is only you left, Kien. Just you."
She went with him to pay tribute to her mother. Kien burned incense sticks and bent his head in prayer for some time, letting the painful memory of those days throb through his temples while he tried in vain to conjure up the image of the godmother's face. The last rays of the sun were slanting over the long grasses, now tinged pink in the sunset.
She began speaking quietly: "If people had been patient in those days and let parents know of their son's deaths one at a time, my mother would still be alive today. But in the first weeks of peace the bureaucrats wanted to speed up the delivery of bad news, to get it out of the way quickly. My mother was here one fateful morning when an official arrived bringing a death certificate for my brother, her first son. She took the news badly, although she had feared and expected it. She was buoyed only by the expectation of her second son coming home soon. But a few hours later another courier arrived with a second death certificate, telling her my other brother, her second son, had also been killed. Mother collapsed in a faint, then lapsed into a coma. She hung on for three days without uttering another word, then died."
Kien stared down at Lanh's tombstone, noticing for the first time a second, much smaller grave alongside it. Lan said quietly, "My son. He was almost eight pounds when he was born, but he only lived two days. His name was Viet. My husband was one of the Tay tribe, far from his province of Ha Giang. He had been based here for less than one month, so there was not even time to complete the formal wedding ceremony. Six months after he left I got a letter, but not from him. It was from one of his friends, writing to tell me
he'd been killed on the way into Laos. I'm sure that's why our baby faded fast and died. It had no will to live."
They rose and slowly walked down to the house.
"So that's the short story of my life. First my brothers, then my mother, then my husband, then my son. No wonder I feel a little weaker every year. I live in this shell of loneliness, going from house to hill, hill to house, and around the hamlet, with no one paying any attention to me and me not noticing others.
"By a strange quirk of fate, my husband's was the last unit based here. After his group left no others came to Doi Mo. Now, after many years of peace, you are the only one to return here. Just you. None of the others."
She asked him to stay the night and he silently agreed. The short summer night softly enfolded them, and all that was heard was the sound of a nightbird calling from the edge of the forest and the distant rippling of the hamlet's slow stream.
Kien and Lan walked out together early in the morning; she stayed with him beyond the first hill, neither of them saying a word. The sun was warming them and the dew evaporated, rising around them. Lan's face seemed pale and drawn.
"A few years ago I decided to leave here," she said suddenly. "I intended to go south and rebuild my life. But I changed my mind. I just couldn't leave my mother and my son lying over there. I just wait and wait, without knowing what I'm waiting for. Or for whom. Perhaps I've been waiting for you."
Kien remained silent, avoiding her gaze.
"I knew who you were straight away, although you look very different now. Back then I was so small. But I knew. Perhaps you were my first love and it took all this time for me to realize it."
Kien tried to smile but his heart felt constricted. He gently raised Lan's hand to his lips, bent his head, and kissed it a long
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