Chapter 5 lover(5)

Section five We don't say anything about these things at home, and we first learn to keep silent about the most important thing in our lives-poverty.Also, keep silent about everything else.Those first secrets, the word seems a little exaggerated, were our brother and sister's lovers, our trysts outside the village, first on the streets of Saigon, then on the passenger ship, on the train, and then everywhere. In the evening, especially in the dry season, my mother had a sudden whim, and she asked someone to wash the house thoroughly, she said it was for cleanliness and for coolness.Our house is built on an earth bank, which separates it from the garden, protecting it from poisonous snakes, mosquitoes, red ants, floods from the Mekong River, and floods from the monsoon.Due to the high terrain of the house, it can be rinsed with large buckets of water and large buckets of water during general cleaning, so that it can be completely soaked in water like a garden.The water flowed down the steps, into the courtyard and into the kitchen.The little boys were very happy, and we played with them, splashing water on each other, and then we scrubbed the floor with Marseille soap.Everyone is barefoot, and my mother is also barefoot.Mom laughed.She won't object no matter how we make trouble at this time.The whole house smelled good, it had that sweet smell of wet, rain-washed earth, which once smelled like Marseille soap, and pure, decent smell, like the shirt, mother When the taste of the mother is mixed with the simple and generous taste of the mother, it will produce a refreshing fragrance.The water runs down the trail.The servants' families came, even their guests, and the children of the white neighbors.Seeing that the furniture in the room is in disorder and disorder, my mother is very happy.Sometimes my mother is very happy, when she forgets her troubles, when she cleans the house, that is her happiest moment.Mom went into the living room and played the piano. She could only play the piece she had learned in normal school and could still recite by heart.she sang.Sometimes even playing and singing.She stood up and sang and danced.The house suddenly looked like a pond, a field by the river, a beach, a sandy beach.And we are happy.

It was the two youngest children—the little sister and the little brother—who were the first to experience joy and sorrow, remembering the unpleasant past, so they immediately put away their smiles and walked towards the twilight garden. When I wrote this, I suddenly remembered that when we washed the house with clean water, my eldest brother was not in Vinh Long. At that time, he was staying at the home of our protector in France, a village priest in the Lot-Garonne province. The eldest brother sometimes laughed, but he never laughed as much as we did.I forgot everything, I forgot to talk about this, my little brother and I are laughing children, we often can't breathe from laughing.

War and childhood left me with equally gray memories.I'm confusing wartime with Big Brother's reign at home.This may be because the little brother died at the moment when the war was raging: his heart, as I said above, had stopped beating.I believe that the older brother never saw the younger brother again during the war.For him, there was no need to know about his younger brother's life or death.I feel that this war, like himself, spreads everywhere and penetrates everywhere.Stealing, poisoning, everywhere, everything is mingled and mingled with it, it is in the body, it is in the mind, it is visible in the waking, haunts in the dream, in that beloved territory, it is always Constantly tormented by the desire to occupy the body of children, weaklings, and conquered peoples, all because the evil is there, in every household, to ravage life.

We went back to his single place again.We love each other and are inseparable. Sometimes, instead of going back to boarding school, I would spend the night with him.I don't really want to sleep in his hot bed, I just sleep in the same room and dream in the same bed with him.Sometimes I also skip school.At night, we went to a restaurant in the city for dinner.He bathes me, makes me up, dresses me up, and he likes me.I am the favorite woman in his life.He is always afraid that I will have an affair and worry all day long.And I never cared about such things.And have no fear.He was also worried because he realized that not only was I a white girl, but I was too young for him to go to jail if I leaked the secret.I'm keeping my mouth shut and plan to continue lying to my mother, special purpose and big brother.I laughed at him for being cowardly.I told him our family was so poor that my mother couldn't afford to fight a lawsuit, and besides, she had fought a lot of lawsuits in the past, but they all failed.Whether it was for the land book, or protesting against the administration or the local governor, or even opposing the existing laws, she failed all of them. Crying out loudly is nothing but a waste of time and effort.For our matter, she will be the same, so there is no need to worry about it.

Mary-Claude Carpenter is an American, I seem to recall her from Boston.Her gray-blue eyes were very bright, always sparkling.That was in 1943.Marie-Claude Carpenter was a blond girl who had just faded, and was quite good-looking, and she often had a fleeting smile.I suddenly remembered the low voice she had when she spoke, which didn't quite match her thin, high-pitched voice.She is also forty-five years old.She lives in the sixteenth district, near Almu Bridge.Her apartment was on the top floor of a building on the banks of the Seine.We used to come to her house for dinner; dinner in winter and lunch in summer.Meals were ordered from the best restaurants in Paris.The dishes are always pretty decent but the portions are not huge, just barely enough.We have always only been able to see her at her home, never outside.Sometimes a Malarmé poet came to her house, but often there were one, two, or even three men of letters, but they usually only came once and never appeared again.I have never been able to figure out where she invited this group of people, where she knew them, and why she invited them.I have never heard of this group of literati, nor have I read or heard of their works.The meal time is not long.We talked a lot about the war. It was the Battle of Stalingrad. It was the end of 1942. Marie-Claude Carpenter listened a lot and inquired a lot, but she seldom talked.She was often amazed that there were so many things she didn't know, and she laughed.As soon as the meal was over, she got up to leave, because from what she said, she still had things to do.She never said exactly what she was up to.Whenever we outnumbered me, we continued to stay there for an hour or two after she had gone.She often said to us: You can stay as long as you want.When she is not around, no one talks about her.In fact, I don't think anyone can talk about her.Because no one actually knew her.I said goodbye and went home, feeling like I was having a nightmare during the day, as if I had spent a few hours in a stranger's house, and the same was true of the guests, who didn't know each other, and seemed to be there to pass the time and get by. , without any human or other actions.Getting there is like crossing the border of a third country, like traveling by train, or in a hospital waiting room, in a hotel or in a square.In summer, we have lunch on the wide terrace facing the Seine and drink coffee in the garden that occupies the entire roof.There was also a swimming pool, but no one went in for a swim.Everyone looked up at Paris, the empty streets, the rivers and the alleys.Cartley orchids are in full bloom in those less-traveled streets and alleys.I often look at this Marie-Claude Carpenter, staring at her almost all the time, making her a little embarrassed, but I can't look away.The reason why I stared at her was to see what kind of person this Mary-Claude Carpenter was, and why she was always here instead of going elsewhere?Why did she come here from so far away in Boston?Why is she so rich?Why do people know nothing about her, and don't know any details about her?Why does she always seem to be forced to receive these guests?Why was there some particle of death in those deep eyes of hers?Why does all of Mary Claude Carpenter's dresses seem to lack that inexplicable something that makes them seem not quite her own, as if they would have the same effect on someone else .These skirts are not bright in color, dignified orthodox, very light, even white, as if wearing a snow-white summer dress in the severe winter.

There is also one named Betty Fernandez.Whenever the image of a woman echoes in memory, the image of a man can never squeeze in at this time.Betty Fernandez is also a foreign woman.As soon as her name is mentioned, she seems to be displayed in front of your eyes. You see, she is walking on the streets of Paris. She is nearsighted and always looks at things very close.She often squints her eyes so that she can see better, and when she greets you, she always shakes her hand lightly, hello!How are you?that is it.Now she is long dead.Maybe thirty years.I still remember her elegant demeanor. It is impossible to forget her demeanor now. Nothing can mar her perfect image, under any circumstances, in any age, cold or hungry , neither the defeat of Germany nor the complete exposure of that crime, none of which will ever hurt her.She is forever above history in the streets of Paris, as dire as that history is.Her eyes were sparkling.She was wearing an old rose-colored dress and a dusty sun hat on her head, walking on the road in the sun.She is tall and slender, like a Chinese ink painting, or a carved work of art.Pedestrians on the street couldn't help but stop and watch, all surprised by the beautiful appearance of this Chinese girl who bowed her head.What a beauty.It was never known where she came from.Everyone just guessed that she came from a foreign country, from a foreign country.She is beautiful, her beauty?

Betty Fernandez not only receives guests, but also has her "reception day".Sometimes I also go to appointments.Once, I also met Drieux LaRochelle, who was obviously suffering from arrogance, he was silent, and in order not to appear condescending, he spoke in a false voice and in a language similar to an interpreter, hesitating. , Very unnatural.There may have been Braziac, but I don't remember exactly, and I regret it.Sartre never went to that place.There were still many poets of Montparnasse at that time, but unfortunately I can't remember their names, I can't recall them at all.There were no Germans then.We don't talk politics, only literature.Ramon Fernandez talked about Balzac.We can often listen to him talk all night long.He can't say anything about the real greatness of Balzac, he almost forgets it all, and what he said is actually ninety-five percent false.He did not provide much information about Balzac, but only expressed his own opinions.He talked about Balzac as he talked about his own experience. It is said that he himself once tried to be Balzac.Ramon Fernandez had a sublime humility that pervaded even his learning.When he used his knowledge, he had this inherent candor, never grounded in self-expression.He was a genuine man and it was a real pleasure if you were lucky enough to meet him on the street or in a café.He'll be happy to see you, too, and really, he'd love to greet you.Are you alright?The sentence was spoken in English, without commas, and with a burst of laughter.It should be known that there is a knife hidden in this smile, with malicious intentions.For such a naked war of aggression and the inescapable disasters that follow, "resistance movement", "French-German cooperation", as well as starvation, freezing, persecution and shame, etc., can you just laugh it off? ?

She, Betty Fernandez, she can only talk about people, people she sees on the street or people she knows, how their bodies are doing.Talk about what's left to sell in store shelves, what's going on to increase milk and fish rations, what's going on to alleviate supply shortages, and how people are going to freeze and starve.She has always understood life in detail, and in this respect she has always expressed her friendliness and concern for people, both sincere and tender.The Fernandez family are all "collaborators".Betty Fernandez once looked at the deserted streets under German occupation, at Paris, and at the fragrant Cartley orchids in the square.She was exactly like another woman, Marie-Claude Carpenter.They all have a "reception day".

He drove her back to boarding school in his fancy black car.In order to betray others, he parked the car far away from the school gate.It was already night.As soon as she got out of the car, she ran and didn't even look back.As soon as she walked through the gate, she saw that the vast playground was still brightly lit.When she first appeared in the hallway, she found that she was waiting for her there, and she was already looking very disturbed, standing there straight, without a smile on her face.She asked her: where have you been?She said: "I didn't come back to sleep.She did not explain why, and Hélène Lagonelle did not press further.She took off her rose-colored hat, then let go of her braids and went to bed.You didn't even go to school today, did you?is not going.Elena said they had called our school, so she knew she was skipping school, and told her she had to go to the head superintendent.There were many girls in the dark corners of the playground, all of them dressed in white.There are some oversized light bulbs hanging from the tree.Some classrooms are still brightly lit.Some students are still studying, while others stay in the classroom chatting, playing poker, or singing.The school did not set a bedtime for the students, because it was too hot during the day, so it was free at night, and the students and the young female housekeepers could do whatever they wanted.We were the only white girls in this state boarding school.There are many mixed-race children here, most of whom have been abandoned by their fathers, who are soldiers, sailors, or small employees of customs, villages and towns, and public works departments.Most of them are from public relief.There are also a few "quarter girls" here.According to Hélène Lagorne's conjecture, the French government will train these girls to become hospital nurses, or female guardians of orphanages, leprosy hospitals, and mental institutions.Hélène Lagonelle also believed that some girls would be sent to work in quarantine stations for cholera and plague patients.That's what Hélène Lagonelle believed, so she wept because none of these jobs was for her, and she used to say that she would run away from the boarding school anyway.I went to see the housemaid on duty, who was also a young mixed-race woman.She paid attention to Hélène's and my actions and said: You didn't go to secondary school and you didn't come back to sleep last night, so we had to inform your mother.I told her there was nothing else I could do, but that from today onwards I would try to go back to boarding school and sleep every day, and that there was no need to tell my mother about it.The young matron looked at me and smiled at me.

Then I resumed my old life again.I also greeted my mother in advance. She came to the boarding school to find the female headmistress, and asked her to let me be free at night, not to rigidly set the time for me to return to school, and also asked her not to force me to participate in the boarding students' holiday walk.She said: My child is used to being free. If she is not given freedom, she will run away. Even I, a mother, have nothing to do with her.I have to set her free. The headmistress allowed me to live in her boarding school like a hotel. Soon, I had an engagement diamond ring on my finger.The housekeepers stopped giving me advice.It had been thought that I had never been engaged at all, but the diamond was so expensive that no one doubted its inauthenticity, and it was this precious diamond ring given to the young girl that left no one speechless.