“The Slope of Life “ ’s Nguyen Mong Giac

After the ban on playing prewar songs and disco music had been announced and some of the
coffee shop owners on Tran Quang Khai street had been arrested and taken to court for not
complying with the law, that part of town became as quiet as a cemetery. Once again, passersby
could hear quite clearly the crackling noise of dry tamarind pods tapping against each other in the
slightest breeze. At such moments, as yellow leaves were flying in the wind, one could feel the past
resurrected. The female sweeper would move her broom hesitantly across the surface of the street.
And once in a while the wind would change direction and Skitter dead leaves towards an empty
coffee shop.

The owner of the shop, a woman as beautiful as Thuy Kieu, cast a glance at the empty swimming
pool which was now used as a dump for trash and dead leaves. The furniture inside the shop wasn't
the kind that one would normally find in a real coffee-shop: the two dark burgundy sofas with worn-
out upholstery had probably been removed from some abandoned house, and a teakwood china
cabinet containing some made-in-Japan dishes replaced the usual counter bar.

Near the front of the shop, off to one side and close to a cluster of La Nga bamboo, sat two
customers. One, a man wearing dark glasses, hardly moved or spoke, and even when he did, his
voice was so soft that from afar one would have the impression that the man with salt-and-pepper
hair sitting across from him was speaking to a statue. This statue-like person was sitting with both
of his legs on the chair, his arms hugging his knees, his face turned towards a bicycle that had been
transformed into some sort of carrier and was now leaning against the bamboo hedge. In front of
them their two cups of coffee gradually ceased to steam.

When the woman who owned the shop shifted her gaze from the pool, the man with salt-and-
pepper hair was still talking:

"No, I was wounded in Operation Lam Son 719."

".?"

"Seven nineteen? I think you folks called it the battle of Route 9, South

Laos."

"

"I was still in Cong Hoa Hospital on April 30th; I'd been read mitted because my amputation had
become infected again. I wasn't used to walking with a wooden leg— I was in agony. Any time I put
my left foot on the ground it was so painful that tears would trickle from my eyes."

?"

"Right here. Oh, sorry, I forgot you can't see at all. Just below the knee.

That's why I can still ride a bicycle."

"An antipersonnel mine, probably one made in Communist China. You'd know it better than I do. I
was told it was just this big!"

"Bigger than that? No wonder I lost consciousness right after the explosion.

I was really lucky the helicopter could land and evacuate me to the hospital. As soon as I came to, I
asked to see my severed leg. And they showed it to me."

..?"

"Nothing special. I felt a slight tingling running up my spine. Mostly horror.

Or more accurately, a kind of empathy. It was a strange feeling. Even though it had been a part of my
body, it looked like a stranger's limb, severed like that. I suppose that an imaginative writer of fiction
would say that what you do then is to take it in your hands and burst into tears. But the feeling was
more like my memories of my wedding day. Again, a writer would say all kinds of nice things about
that day, something about the bride and groom stealing glances at one another or holding hands
and walking on the scattered skins of firecrackers, or thrilling at their shared vision of eternal
happiness. All lies. I remember I had to take care of every single trivial thing, only to be criticized by
my aunts and uncles for minor details. I was dead tired. Anyone who goes through a wedding day
once is scared off weddings for the rest of his life he'll never want to repeat it again."

"Too cynical? Well, maybe I am. Right now I'm upset about losing money-just before I came upon
you I found myself four hundred and fifty dong poorer."

"No. There's enough thieves swarming in Saigon nowadays, but even a thief still has a heart—no
one would deprive a cripple of his meal. I've got a friend who's also disabled, a blind man who earns
his living selling lottery tickets.

Anyone could fool him. All you need is a crumbled, soiled piece of paper to pass as a fifty dong bill.
Yet he never lost a cent! No...I lost my money because of an accident."

"

'...?"

"Just before I met you. On the other side of Thi Nghe bridge."

...!"

"You mean I haven't told you how I earn a living yet? How stupid of me I was speaking as if you could
see my bicycle. You'd know what I do if you saw it—I carry goods for hire."

..?"

"That's it, just like the carriers we used to see when we were going to school in Bong Son. But this
one is modified to handle a much heavier road. You remember how, in the past, those carriers were
made for tourists or young female vendors who'd sit on a bar between the driver and the handlebar
and place their wares in the back on an iron rack? Remember all the stories we used to hear about
those drivers? Some of them would take advantage of their position to embrace the girls, or to steal
a kiss on their hair or on their sweaty white necks, calling them flowers damp with morning dew. In
that situation, you don't mind even if you have to break your back pedaling uphill! But nowadays, all
we carry are goods. It's boring."

...?"

"Take a guess."

"No, not at all. They're as bulky as they are fragile."

"I specialize in carrying earthen jars. Those big ones people use to hold rice or water—-that's why I
said they're as bulky as they are fragile. I broke eight of them this morning."

....?"

"Yes, eight. Each one costs fifty dong, eight makes four hundred. My fare is five a piece, from Bien
Hoa to Saigon. The total...

....?"

"When your stomach is flat enough you can figure anything out. The trickiest part is tying all eight of
them to the carrier. A really skillful driver can do it all.

But I had to hire someone to do the tying since I'm new at this trade. I paid him ten dong for his skill.
It all amounted to four hundred and fifty dong."

"No, it wasn't a blowout or a broken handle bar. I'm only sorry you can't see the carrier I have parked
over at the bamboo hedge. No, you don't need a license to drive it. I salvaged the rear wheel from an
old motorcycle, its spokes taken from an old cyclo. Then I cannibalized the handlebar from a
French-made Alcyon bike imported during colonial times. The pedals are made of steel tubes
seventeen inches in diameter, welded to the sprocket wheel. I use a hard wooden bar with one end
cut into a U-shaped groove to support the frame when I park, and the kind of pump people use to
inflate automobile tires."

The man in the dark glasses finally raised his voice:

"With your particular handicap, why did you choose this trade?" The skinny man with salt-and-
pepper hair lowered his voice:

"Show me an easier way. I have a wife and four kids to feed. Times have changed—there's no easy
way for an honest man to earn his living."

"You're just being cynical again. Why don't you pick a trade where you don't need to use your legs?"

"Like what?"

"Sewing, weaving. Even singing at the bus stations, like many of your soldier friends are doing."
The man with salt-and-pepper hair smiled obliquely:

"What song should I sing that will move people enough to put money into my palm: 'Forward March
to Saigon' or 'Ha Noi, My Hope and Love?? Do you know what would happen to me if I sang the kind
of songs you hear at the bus stations? Don't forget I was a detainee, released from a reeducation
camp."

"It was just a thought. Anyway there have to be plenty of trades you can take up. You're still luckier
than I am— you have your sight. You could do sewing, weaving, sculpting anything!"

The man with the salt-and-pepper hair became pensive for a moment. Then he said, slowly:

"There are many ways, it's true. But I wanted to prove I'm not worthless as a man. Believe me, you
have to be in good shape to push a carrier up the hills on both sides of the bridge. I may be skinny
and one-legged, but I'm capable of doing the work. The most difficult task in this trade is to be able
to handle ten Jarge earthen jars. I was able to handle eight."

"But you failed! You broke all eight of them."

"Sure. But this is the first time in six months at the trade that I ever broke my load. It was all because
of an automobile with a green license plate that screeched to a halt in front of me while I was
pedaling uphill with my wooden leg. I was so upset that I dragged myself to the curb and just left the
whole thing, bicycle and broken jars and all, scattered all over the street. What happened was that
the driver suddenly braked when a woman who wanted to buy gas signalled to him. I'm a victim, not
a perpetrator. I'm still useful, not useless like they thought when they threw me out of the hospital
on April 30th." The man with the dark glasses hesitated for a moment.

"Look, we couldn't help it. We were so busy with everything we had to do that we didn't have any
time for compassion. And besides, we couldn't just leave our own wounded in the hallways of the
hospital."

"T'd already lost one leg—I didn't take up that much space."

"At least you were lucky enough to be airlifted to the rear by helicopter so all you lost was one leg,
from the knee down. I wish I'd been as lucky.."

The man with the dark glasses couldn't continue. His friend said nothing, but tilted up his face. The
two sat in silence for a while. Finally, the man with the salt-and-pepper hair timorously inquired,
"You mean your sight could have been saved?"

"Yes, if...."

"Were you too far away from the hospital? Or did you have a mediocre corpsman?"

"Both."

"Did your wife know?"

"I didn't want her to."

"Look, I couldn't even tell her if I wanted. It took about a year, under normal circumstances, to get a
message to anyone. You have to understand that communication wasn't easy. Also, information
regarding the status of soldiers had to be kept secret so as not to demoralize the rear."

The voice of the man with the dark glasses suddenly became strident, as if he were reciting a
lesson.

"Compared to the sacrifices of the revolutionary soldiers who lost their lives in the war, my suffering
is nothing."

The bike rider looked at his friend with pity. He pushed the cup of coffee forward.

"Your cup is still full. Enjoy the coffee before it gets too cold." Embarrassed, the blind man replied:

"Sure. Thanks."

He slowly moved his hand over the table. Since the cup had been shifted, he almost knocked it
over. The bike rider waited for his friend to find the cup handle, then changed the subject:

"So your family has moved to the South."

"That was our original plan. But..."

"But what?"

"Have you been back to Bong Song lately?"

"No."

"I didn't feel at ease, returning to our village after liberation. I wouldn't have minded if I'd become
somebody, but as you see, I'm just a cripple. I knew I would never again be able to see the coconut
groves on my mother's land, but I was just as happy to hear the sound of the water conveyors
splashing into the River Lai or just to dip my feet into the cool waters of the river of our youth. I'd
been wanting to return to the village for so long. I couldn't afford the fare for my entire family, so I
just took my youngest with me."

"Why didn't you bring your wife?'

"I would have loved to, but as I said, I couldn't afford it. My youngest child is only seven, so I could
get a free fare for her because of my disability. Anyway, it was good that my wife didn't come."

"My relatives had all been displaced. I couldn't find a single one. I was told they'd moved away, first
to Quy Nhon in 1972, then for some other place that I didn't know. I was told that all the tops of the
cocoanut trees had been sheared off. I spent the night at the bus station, then left for Thanh Hoa
the next morning.

I didn't even have time to ask about our school mates at Nguyen Hue. Do you have any information
about them?"
"Who do you want to know about?"

"Oh, that whole bunch of old classmates. Let me jog my memory for a moment. How about the guy
who sat at the end of the first table in grade seven?

That kid who had a habit of blowing his nose all the time."

"Quang. He became a village chief after the Geneva agreement."

"That important, huh! Did he incur a lot of 'blood debt?"}

"I don't know. All I know is that after 1965 his whole family was massacred by a hand grenade
tossed into his house while the family was having dinner." The two friends remained silent for a
while. When the blind man continued

the conversation, his voice had become soft again.

"What about Luan? The one who took such great pride in his Kaolo fountain pen with its crystal nib."

"He became rich and owned several restaurants in Phu Cat. When the American troops moved into
the area, he turned into a real wheeler-dealer in smuggled goods. He practically got rich overnight."

"Ah, a capitalist! Hey, what about that bum who peed on little Ly when he jumped into that trench
during an air raid?»

"That was Duc. We used to call him Duc Cong."

"Right. I remember how angry he'd get when we called him that. What became of him?"

"He joined the guerrillas in the early years. Back when we began to outlaw the communists."

"With decree 10/59. How well did he perform?"

"You'd know that better than I would."

"How about yourself?"

"Nothing exciting. I moved to Nha Trang with my uncle after 1955. Went to high school and
graduated with a diploma. Then I went to college, but I flunked math two times in a row and got
drafted. I was assigned to an artillery unit. I was wounded four times during my ten years of
service— lost a leg before Ilost everything else. I wasn't as lucky as you."

The blind man turned his face to the other man.

"What do you mean 'lucky as me'? You have to be kidding." The bike rider stopped and thought for a
moment.

"I remember when we were going to school in Bong Song—you had the reputation of being able to
memorize everything by heart. I always thought, as long as someone has something to
remember...."

The blind man remained motionless and quiet. The statue-like man was still squatting with his arms
hugging his knees. His face showed signs of sadness.
His friend spoke softly:

"You don't feel well, do you? Do you want to leave?"

"I think we have to. I have some errands to run."

The bike rider stirred his coffee with his spoon. The shop owner approached them.

"Would you like some tea now?"

The bike rider waved his hand.

"No need. How much do I owe you?" The blind man quickly dropped his feet.

"It's my treat. How much is it?"

"Fourteen dong. Coffee is getting expensive nowadays."

"That much! I was told it would cost a dong a cup."

"Pure coffee is always expensive," the shop keeper explained patiently.

"Though back when we were allowed to play music it was only ten dong a cup."

The blind man groped in his pocket.

"Here, let me get that," the bike rider said quietly.

The owner had run out of small change and had to give him four cigarettes instead. He handed
them all to his friend. The blind man groped for his aluminum cane.

"Let me give you a ride-I'll take you wherever you want to go," the bike rider offered.

"Thanks, but I wouldn't want to sit on your bike when your legs are like that. I can walk."

"Up to you, friend. See you later."

They parted. The blind man groped his way out of the shop with his aluminum cane. The bike rider
limped over to the bamboo hedge to retrieve his bike. Neither of them remembered to get the
other's address.