My cousin Le Phuong Chi called and said he wanted to borrow a quiet place at my house so he could interview Huy Can. Huy Can the poet? Yes. Just come, I said. I imagined Huy Can the poet I had admired since I was a child, Huy Can of Sacred Fire and the current Deputy Minister Huy Can with a bunch of titles. At 7:30 pm, Le Phuong Chi came with a short, fat old man who looked like the monk Bat Gioi, slowly climbing the stairs. Oh my, is this Huy Can in the flesh? Is this the person who said “Hey, sleep, I'll fan you here”? Le Phuong Chi compared their seniority and said: I call you uncle, uncle Huy Can, but you can also call me brother Huy Can, he likes it better. I said there's no need to call me brother anymore, Huy Can is enough. Huy Can spoke in a slightly unpleasant Chinese accent. Le Phuong Chi handed me the manuscript and told me to sit and read the preface Huy Can wrote for his book, stalling for time while he interviewed Huy Can with a tiny tape recorder. I sat to the side, playing the role of a grandchild in the house. I read and eavesdropped. Huy Can's first poem? Le Phuong Chi asked. Very bad! Very bad! Huy Can said. Bad is okay. When did you write your first poem, what was it about, and do you remember which line to read a few lines? Very bad. Very bad. I wrote it when I was 10 years old, in first grade, for my teacher and my friends. Very bad. Huy Can answered reluctantly. Then he tried to read two lines. Really bad. And so the interview continued. I was suddenly startled to hear Le Phuong Chi ask: At what age did Huy Can fall in love? I observed Huy Can more closely. An old man this Tet is 78 years old, plump, short arms and legs, upturned nose, flat forehead, lower lip longer than upper lip, sparse silver hair, double chin, oversized belly, tight pants, bulging pouch like a fish with swollen gills, a tight, wide tie, drawing an arc around his belly, sitting back on the sofa uncomfortably. He burst out laughing at Le Phuong Chi's funny question. And the smile suddenly made him look like a naive child like Huy Can in the past. I listened attentively. Around eight years old. He said. Eight years old? Yes, but it was just a casual love affair. But who was that person? Where is that person now? Le Phuong Chi attacked repeatedly. Oh, a country girl, in the countryside... Does Huy Can have an old love affair now? Huy Can stuttered, answering, I couldn't hear clearly. The interview continued. I was startled again when Le Phuong Chi asked, "What about Huy Can and Xuan Dieu's love affair?" Is it… No no, To Hoai wrote nonsense. Huy Can seemed angry. Xuan Dieu and I had a close friendship, not a love affair or homosexuality. I observed him again. The old man was also strange. Sometimes shy, sometimes angry, quite cute, although from the outside he looked like the monk Bat Gioi, but inside he seemed to have Nghi Lam, a little junior sister. I suddenly got inspired to take a piece of white paper and quickly sketch his image, trying to describe the flat forehead, the upturned nose, the slightly arrogant but cute mouth, the double chin, the tie hugging the belly, then the bulging trouser pockets like fish gills, with a few sparse strands of hair at the back of his head…

I sketched really quickly, not letting him and Le Phuong Chi see. The interview seemed to be over. He wanted to go home. These sentences are too long, let’s make an appointment for another time. I’m busy now, I have to go now. Then he suddenly turned to me: Are you drawing me? I smiled, showed him the two sketches I had just finished, while Le Phuong Chi was completely surprised, he commented: Okay, this one is good. Oh, oh, and if you draw my forehead and nose like this, then... I will become an African! Le Phuong Chi was so happy that she laughed out loud. It's so similar, exactly like Huy Can! Give it to you. I will print it in the interview. I took back the "Huy Can Phi Chau" sketch and gave him the other one, he handed it back to Le Phuong Chi. Le Phuong Chi introduced: Ngoc is a doctor but sometimes he also draws and writes poetry. I stood up, took out the book "Giu Hoang Hon Xua" from the bookshelf and wrote: Dedicated to poet Huy Can of Lua Thieng, then handed it to him. He leaned forward: "Huy Can of Lua Thieng, okay, okay", he said, looking open. It was a good idea, since I had just finished the manuscript of the poetry collection, which was scheduled to be released this year, I showed it to him.

Huy Can took it and read it attentively. Then read aloud. Then hum. Then nod. Some passages he skimmed through. Some he read over and over again. The Temple of Literature, he read aloud: “Under the trees–the winding and twisting road–who has passed here a thousand years ago–but the breath is still so fragrant–I touch the wooden pillar–listen to whisper–carve–the lines of poetry.” Okay. I touch the wooden pillar–listen to whisper–carve–the lines of poetry. The idea is okay. He said.

Then he turned to the Milk Flower poem. This season in Hanoi there are no more Milk Flowers. He said, then read aloud: “I walk on Nguyen Du street–this season there are no more Milk Flowers–the tree and the branch alone are also strange–the strange entwining unexpectedly.” Ah ah, okay. Then he nodded. The strange entwining. Good. The tree and the branch alone are also strange! Is it a Southern accent? “This little girl is so funny! This little girl is so funny! I know a lot about Southern dialects too”, then he laughed heartily. He must have met “some really funny Southern girl” before to understand it so well. He didn’t want to go back anymore. Huy Can suddenly became a completely different person. With poetry. How strange.

Then he read the poem Eclipse. Just seeing the title, he exclaimed. Ah, I also have a poem about eclipse. Let’s see. “The bird flew back to the mountain, it was dark. You also sat next to me on the day of the eclipse”. The poem only had two short lines like that. He thought for a moment. Read it again. Thought again. “Should change it to “vã” instead of “vãng. The bird flew back to the mountain, it was dark. You also sat next to me on the day of the eclipse. A stronger affirmation”, he said. But oh my god, “vãng” and “vãng” are so different. It can’t be changed. That was the problem, not still, but surprise, fear, anxiety… But I didn’t say it. He read his poem Eclipse to me and Le Phuong Chi. The idea was that the moon covered the sun like evil covers a person’s clear conscience – it can’t be saved. He read another new poem about someone who lost his gold, sad to the point of losing sleep and appetite, becoming sick and emaciated, while someone who lost his conscience got fatter and fatter. I knew he was worried about the times. Then, after a long silence, he continued reading Hue from my manuscript: “A day in the royal palace – a day of going early and coming back at noon – a day of the moon shining on Vy Da –” He hummed. Suddenly he stopped. I was afraid he couldn’t read the word “doctor”, so I read it for him… “A day of breaking rocks…” but he waved his hand. Shut up. Shut up. I can read it. Then he hummed again. Good. This sentence is good. “One day, Dap Da leaned his shoulder and looked at the person”.

I remember when I wrote that sentence. It was clear as if there was something guiding him. One day, the moon shone on Vy Da, one day, Dap Da leaned his shoulder and looked at the person. During the day, the moon could not shine, but why did it look at the person? It was not just the coffee shop beside the green stream with shady trees, but also, oh right, it was someone’s boat that could bring the moon back in time tonight and someone’s garden with leaves still as green as jade. Yes, green should be green and the person should be jade. This Huy Can is really formidable. His reputation is truly worthy of its reputation. He reads and feels poetry with unimaginable subtlety. I just saw that he was the monk Bat Gioi, but suddenly he became Nghi Lam, then now he is the brother Linh Ho, only using sword intent without sword techniques. I began to admire him. He continued to hum the ending: “… One day, once upon a time – one day in Hue, just a hundred years ago”. Not good. The words seemed to be not right. He said. What word should I replace it with? I asked. He pondered. One day in Hue was just a hundred years old… The quatrain was good, but it was not right. Well, I didn’t know what word to replace it with. He was restless. Le Phuong Chi suggested: maybe it was also, just a hundred years old… Also? Already? Not right. Well, today is not the time to comment on poetry. Some other time, he said. Then he continued reading the poem Leaves. “The yellow ripe leaves – the leaves fall back to their roots – you are yellow ripe – surely fall – back to me”. He lightly tapped his thigh. A quatrain. Read it over and over again.

I didn’t see him wanting to go back anymore. I read the poem Remembering again. It was no longer agonizing – no longer writhing – only still smoldering – only lingering – then acute – then chronic.” He was pensive again. Chronic? Chronic? I spoke up, intending to explain, a medical term… No, he brushed it off, I knew it already. Remember. Remember… chronic, I knew it from the title. Okay. This article was fine. Le Phuong Chi reminded me, let’s go, it was late. Suddenly he asked: “Has it been approved yet?” I replied: “When will it be printed and submitted to the Publishing House for approval?” “No, has my wife approved it yet?” Oh my god, this Huy Can. Was there another incident? I stuttered and had to laugh. Le Phuong Chi laughed heartily: “This Huy Can, who thinks his wife is first and heaven second, don’t you know?” So that's it. Then he gave me his office address and phone number and his home address, telling me "when you come to Hanoi, remember to come and visit". He told me two or three times. Ba Dinh area, easy to find. Remember. He said while going down the stairs.

And there was a Huy Can like that, one day.

Saigon 7.2.1996
Do Hong Ngoc

DHN

(3/2017)