One Hundred Flower Wine
by Nguyen Nhuan Hong Phuong (Vietnam)
(Translated into English by Khanh Phuong)
I did not understand why since the day I came here, I came to this small coffee shop to satisfy my coffee addiction and leave my soul finding the inspiration? It seemed that it was born for those who are wandering, fragile and always like to live in the clouds and the wind like me. I cannot explain, but surely the first reason must be from the first sight, as if a love story begining at the first sight?
That's right!
That was a few days ago, when I and some artists went to the reality finding the inspiration. When the touring car crawled uphill and then turned around the corner. Suddenly, a valley filled with clouds, full of sunshine and wind appeared infront of our eyes. Like a giant picture with dotted strokes created by creation and human hands together. Looming in the middle of the mountains, thousands of clouds, old and new houses, with their own gothic, high and low, laid sloppy, drying in the sun, sometimes in the clouds, shadowed in the middle of the greenery, running along the long, winding road.
Some of the companions were indifferent, because they had come here many times. As for me, this was the first time. I lowered the windshield, poked my head out looking at the sky, the earth, inhaling the fresh, cold air that slowly penetrated into my skin.
The car rolled up a bend that was both steep, fast, and narrow. I suddenly saw her. No, that was not really. It seemed that at that time, you and she saw each other. (Perhaps that should be said for a meeting by chance).
She was wearing a red t-shirt, hands relied on a handrail. Her house had two floors, thatched with palm leaves, small and pretty, lying close to the foot of the mountain, next to it was a rig of wild convolvulus, hanging freely cool green lines and a bunch of purple flowers spreading their five petals as if waiting for something. I looked at her as if to ask, her eyes seemed to say that she would wait for…
That very afternoon when I arrived, from the coffee shopsinging a pre-war voice. Seeing me, she turned off the phone and went to the door to meet me: "What music do you want to listen to?". I deliberately teased: "Bethoven's music, 5th symphony entitled Destiny". Without answering, she turned to the counter, a minute later, the music was loud and clear.
0-1. The score was in herside, my poet's heart was overpowered. I picked up a cup of coffee and sipped it to cure my embarrassment. The gentle bitter taste melted quickly in the mouth, caressing on the tongue like reminding that a coffee lacked a companion. I turned around intending to ask the staff at the counter to bring me a pack of cigarettes, when I saw she had already brought out the pack of cigarettes that I wanted.
I was a bit surprised but didn't say anything. She sat down in the opposite chair, plucked the box with her fingernails, took a cigarette: "please smoke". "How do you know I like to smoke this kind of cigarettes?" I asked. She smiled and looked at the ashtray. The filterless I put in for a while ago, lying on the bottom, told her. I immediately understood and accepted.
The score was 0-2.
"Are you the owner of this coffee shop?" After asking, I realized that my question was meaningless. You asked again: "Yes, what's wrong?". – “No” – I replied, but then for some reason I continued to ask an even more meaningless question: “Is that girl standing in the counter your employee?”. "At this rate, I'm sure you'll question my husband and children!"
She glanced at me, smiled, and continued – “Is it necessary to ask such questions? In my opinion, you should only know the people in Mountainour Street, born to serve tourists from all over the world to come here, to find the wild taste of this ancient region. As for me, just know that you are the hundredth..." "Why the hundredth?" - I interrupted her. “There, ask again! Don't you remember the adage: Don't ask questions so you won't be listened the liar? If you want to know, it takes time.”
0-3. I lost again, the score went up. But the crazy heart of the poet persisted: “Time? I will still here until the end of the Cup. Will that be enough time?" . "That's okay!"- she said- "But have you ever bet on football?". - "Not yet. But if you want, I will." - "Okay, let you take a team, and mine is any!" – “What do you mean?”- “It means you only get to choose one team, and all of them are mine”- “Why are you so smart?”- “Don't you dare give in to a woman?”- She said, eyebrows arched like two tildes.
My pride rose: “Dare! But how to count to win or lose?"- "You win, I'll do whatever you want. As for me, there's one condition." She tilted her face and waited: "What condition?" “If I win, I will answer!” "What if..."- I hesitated because I suddenly remembered that the poet's emptywallet...She could read my mind: "It's not related to money, don’t worry!" - Maybe it's just a convolvulus flower...” –“If it's a flower, I'm willing to pick a flower forest and bring and put at your feet" - I let out a winged sentence. "That's it!, tomorrow when you come here to drink coffee, you have to choose your champion candidate". After saying that, she stood up because a guest came in.
I left, gathered some knowledgeable and passionate writers and poets to a meeting. After a while of arguing, all decided to vote for the Brazilian team to win the championship, with many words on how to flirt and overpower the "coffee shop owner".
The next day, I brought a book of poems with the betting team to her shop. She pushed me a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes, said "You chose the team that the whole world is on their side, I will surely lose!".
In response, I gave her a book of poems and tried to form a meaningful sentence: "To you, with all sincerity...". Holding the book of poems, sheseemed confused. "So you're a poet?" Looking into her eyes, knowing that she didn't believe me, I answered her with a nod of confirmation. Thoughts that she was easy to blame when knowing that I hid my identity from her. But no, she got up, went to the wine cabinet, brought a coffee pot, splashed with a soft blue liquid, and two glasses on the table. “One Hundred FlowerWine! - she introduced - Raise a glass to congratulate the beauty meeting the poet! Congratulations world cup, best wishes to the Brazilian team with the hope for your victory!"
I wrinkled the forehead, furrowed the brows, tried the brain to check in the dictionary of the wines I've drunk, known, seen, if any of them named One Hundred Flower Wine? Then the beauty tilted the pouring bottle. I was as if hypnotized, the wrist of the beauty was white, smooth, every time she rotated very well, skillfully manipulated, not even a drop fell out, two cups of wine poured into the glass were the same.
The beauty moved her fingers skillfully to raise the glass: "One hundred percent! Dear you" - The sentence from the mouth of the beauty that exuded as thin as mist from a distant ravine. I embarrassedly picked up the glass and stood up, the beauty shook her head: "Raise the glass in my style, dear you!" I obeyed that sweet command: spreading my fingers, clamping the glass and raised to the face: "Please!" The beauty shook her neck again, coddled that she did not agree: "Switch hands and then drink!" Then, the beauty actively wrapped her arm around my arm and pulled it closer. The two sides of the glasses touched, the beauty's head and my head were touched each other, with a pair of golden, curly hair hanging down to the side of the glass.
I looked up and saw her curved eyelasheswinking; in the core eyes, a soft ash color, its glittering as the night jewel, the fan-shaped beam of glittering. I was dull, confused as if the Tripitaka was captivated by the powerful magic of the White Bone Monster...
I tilted the glass intending to drink, the beauty whispered again: "Sip with small sips, dear you!" Flowing with the sound, the beauty's breath wafted a strange scent. I tried to hold my breath because afraid that the sizzling, suffocating smell of a smoker would take away that sweet scent, and suddenly I imitated the beauty taking small sips...
I am completely subdued by her tact. She offered me a special sky, special favor. The small table in the corner of the house, even though I have not come or been crowded, still no one sitting. As appointed, when I appeared, the Destiny symphony sounded. At night, I weighed that her favor towards me was a bit excessive. I became stupid when weighed, measured, and counted her emotions.
I laughed at my deluding. For a poet, there was nothing to worry about! A cup of coffee 7 thousand, a pack of cigarettes 15 thousand, the price was a little higher than in other regions, but it wasreasonable for the mountainous street that nearly two thousand meters higher than the sea level. After the drinking, I paid in full, she was equally fair, because the change she decided to return, then she took me home with a earnestly look and a thank sentence lighter than the mountain mist. If comparedto the ultimate, I felt that I was more winner if calculated more details.
Since the glass of wine celebrated the beauty meeting the poet, along with the thrill of football matches, she and I were closer. "My" Brazilian team passed the outer round one by one, although it was quite difficult, made me anxious to suffocate at times. But then it was over, on the screen "my" beloved team began to enter the semi-finals, and I was sipping the moments closer to victory. I was not afraid to pick flowers to put at her feet, but was afraid if lost, I would not get anything.
The reward she declared "you win, I will do whatever you want" stimulated my eagerness. And I believed I would win, just like the other “alien football” team believed they would become a world champion. Then… while they raised the championship cup, here, at the foot of Mountainous Street, in a lovely house, next to the beauty, I would have the right to choose my reward… Although I would not know what ask for me but just these thoughts, inspired, made the love of poetry in me overflowing with the desire to form a quartet, a sentence.
Mountainous Street in the afternoon, the purple sunset gradually covered the valley, flying romantic clouds, thousands of whispered pine trees... Nature was really romantic, naturally I found my soul relaxe, poetic mountains and forests, sitting next to the beauty, my heart suddenly fluttered, the poem gradually became more and more rhythmic... I appeared in the original form as the poet. With a sorrowful heart, overflowing inspiration, pressing, anxious hope that the love poetry was shined and uttered the jeweled words.
Not lying either, as the poet, it was my duty to turn the love of life into alive in poetry. And, in addition to writing poetry for her, I would also bring back to the artists in the group to enjoy. I imagined the innocent faces as if they wanted to swallow every word, every text, every idea, every sentence. Some people were silent after listening, praised, then comparing my poetry with Han Mac Tu's; they would rank my love poem on par with the famous love poems of the formal poet Xuan Dieu…
Thus, she was not only a beautiful and gentle coffee shop owner, but also a fairy who brought a light source to shine my poem soul so that I could freely swim…
But all hope was shattered, when the "alien" team broke up, leading to my disillusionment. On the day of the defeat, on time as I always came, at the end of the afternoon, limited customers, Duy Khanh's sad voice was down, replaced by a gentle, holyDestiny song. I sat down on the chair in the empty corner. She still welcomed me as always, even though she knew she was the winner.
Yes, I came to await for the final judgment of the winner.
I glanced at my "opponent": She was still as calm as a callous person in the betting industry. She opened the bottle of wine, and put in it a convolvulus purple flower.She handed over the glass: "Sincere condolences to the poet".
I trembled to handle the tilted glass, a few drops of wine spilled onto the table. I put down the glass, quietly used a rag to gently absorb the fallen drops of wine. When finished, she raised her glass and lightly touched the side of mine: "Drink it." In me was a gentle yeast, but the taste of alcohol on my tongue was no longer existed.
What's the taste of being a loser? On the TV screen, the voice of the MC was represented the scene of the Brazilian Samba dancing with broken wings, the drums keeping the beat muted, the stained tears on the sad faces...
As for me, I was sure at that time my face was as wrinkled as the rag in the hand of the beauty that had just been thrown."You lost!" – She finished drinking and then put the glass upside down on the table. I nodded: “I accept all your terms” – “You want it now?” "It's up to you, you're the winner!" –"No? not that easy? “Before execution, I want my sinner to have one last feast.” “Like a medieval execution?” "Then you'll know!" By this time, tomorrow you please come"
Well, the poet became a "sinner"
That day, at a party for "sinner", she took me upstairs, where there was a 29-inch screen. My seat was a multi-purpose wooden chair; Nest to the side, not too far and not too close, was a pale yellow rattan chair. When she dropped down, the curves of the chair bounced around to support her soft, provocative body. Did not know intentionally or not, she wore a red round neck shirt, which reminded me of the first time she and I met.
She was the thoughtful woman, the luxury party with wild meat in the highlands, flowers wine with light green color. If it weren't for that bet, and I wasn't a loser, I'd believe this was a beautician's party for the winning guest to return.
"Drink, dear you" she said, "My sinner". The criminal looked at her "I'm a bad drinker, can you tell a condition?" - She whispered "Don't rush me".
She poured the wine for me to drink more. The drunken yeast spreading, made me swaying like a boat lost between two streams. I forgot that I was defeated, returned to the blood of the poet. I looked at her passionately, she responded to me with her earthly basics. I was intoxicated, my soul was high… in the drunkenness I felt the love yeast – The final judgment of the winner, mixing the flesh. I understood that I was closer to her brink of all temptations… I accepted the “punishment with her” with “the butcher of love”.
It seemed that Flowers Wine yeast was not only stimulated the poet's inspiration to utter the words, but also stimulated the duty of yearning to return with wild, primitive instincts. My basic wanted to demand something from her that did not make sense. In my head, poetic rhyme flowing freely, but my body was extremely mundane, a hallucination gave me poetic inspirations, the reality compelled me to dig for sublime pleasures. I was free for my soul wandering, the desire were aroused earnestly.
I looked at her, she looked at me, in the narrow space, the fragile distance appeared an invisible magical power, my soul sublimated, my body on fire… The red shirt became thin meaningless, like a barrier that need to be removed for freedom… Like a wall of poverty that need to be broken down for flooded air..
I was ready to be the "sinner". With the same thought, my arms waved, my heart sobbed, my mouth mumbled begging. An unconscious plea but filled with a dream for release. If not, I'd probably go mad bycrampedness … My eyes were dull and hopeless, my gaze burning, filled with supplication. The complex struggle between man and beast. The light of wisdom was the human part, the fierce storm was the animal part. Each half demanded for itself a satisfying craving…
I was wavering in an endless confusion when she got up. The shirt loomed, gracefully, sometimes near, sometimes far, hovering, clinging. I struggled, she held out her hands for me to put my hand on it.Who lead whom, who lead whom did not mean anything now. Both of us entwined with each other, tried to reach the source of the thirsty, where the wild wind soothed the heat.
Fiery and ecstatic, I obediently was anephemera plunging into the shadow of the lanterns in the terrifying night. Lust turned into rage, sticking out his tongue to lick, his fangs, getting excited, bursted out for the final demand...
Suddenly there was a sound of plates falling. She panted: "Let it be!" After the careless sentence, she rubbed on me, rolled on the floor, the decorative patterns under the carpet twisted and dragged along with two crazy bodies...
The darkness outside was fallen, the narrow space, the dawn of love flashed. Hastily, I reached out my hand to open the last door…
"Stop you! That's enough!" – Her voice accompanied by the act of refusing to push me out of the body. "Wake up" she continued.
I hesitantly stood up. Her attitude frustrated me. Everything in my body was tense suddenly became mushy, as soft as the strings of an instrument slipping off the keyboard.
"What's wrong with you?" I asked, regretfully.She didn't answer, went to open the closet, took out the overcoat and put it on. "Go with me".I was about to ask but then held back. Let it be! I thought to myself, whereverit go!
Mountain Street, the night was deep and quiet, the lights on the roof of the valley were hidden in the thick fog, made me feel like thousands of stars lying at my feet. I looked up, the sky was black, the midsummer moon was floating like a leaf falling into the vast space.
At the top of the slope, she led me to the path. The narrow path could not walkparallel, the weak moonlight penetrating the thin leaves on the road surface. She used to the way, so walking pretty fast. I trailed behind. To a coniferous forest. The wind blew in waves, the forest waswaving, the sound choking, intermittently, like the sound of a lonely soul in the distance, near and far, echoing with the wind.
While walking, I wondered: “Where does she take me to and what does she intend to do? What kind of ghost, vampire... specializing to invite people who like to go into the deep forest and sucking their blood? Probably not- I thought to myself. If it was the ghost, how can it be so realistic? Haven't I been with her so fiercely, so madly? Or does she want to lead me to a quiet lawn, in the middle of a wonderful nature, where there is complete silence to satisfy the passion of sex?”
Suddenly, a lot of light and dark theories appeared in my head. Meanwhile, her shadow was like a ghost, sometimes hidden, sometimes visiblein the woods ahead.
At a slope, she stopped. Infront of my eyes, beside the empty stone, a graveyard appeared. Under the moonlight, the graves were cold, lonely, high and low, sloppy, scattered along the mountainside, each wild wind blowing from the deep valley.
I shivered and asked, “Why we are here?” – “This is my world!”
Oh my God! The cold words that came out of her mouth made the hairs on the back of my neck raising up. Although I used to be a warrior, even though I had been close to death many times in battles, I have never encountered this scene.
“This is a graveyard for people with AIDS” – She said as she dragged me into a narrow passage of the graves “Do you know when I first learned I had that disease, what I thought?"
I did not know how to respond, she continued: “Bored and desperate. After many sleepless nights, I swore to revenge, venting my anger on a hundred men. And… and tonight you're the last. When I put theflower in the bottle of wine, you were the hundredth, the end of a hatred…”
My whole body was so cold! Luckily I didn't have time…
"But why?..." - The question I choked on.
"Please don't think I'm holy. It's just because of the poems you gave me". I was surprised: "Because of my poetry?" - "Right! – I confirmed, in my whole life of prostitute, this is the first time I have been given poetry by someone without giving the money.” – “I don't understand?”…- “Do you know? All night I read your poems. I don't think there is such a stupid, dull person in this world right now. The love for the motherland and the love of the couple in the poems you wrote made me emotional.You gave me back the past innocent baby when I went to school, you leadme back to the village girl who first dated a village boy by the riverside... It's been a long, long time since then, you brought me again the feeling of desire to dedicate completely. Oh, if you wereonly a wretched man like many other damned men, throwing money and smearing my body with what their needs. As for me, joy and the feeling is the triumph of revenge."
She stopped talking, her hand holding mine was so hot, maybe she was too angry. Suddenly she took off my hand, turned her face to me: "I was originally a country girl. When I was sixteen years old, I followed my family up here to reclaim land. At that time, Mountain Street only had a few roofs, several dozen households living together. Not crowded, noisy, but peaceful and quiet…”
Her voice was suddenly so soft, light, the sound of moaning disappearing into the dark areas… Suddenly I saw a blur in the color of death, under the summer moon, in the abyss in front of me, a floating cloud, thin, the shape of a scarf waving in the wind...
“…You look, look…” – Her voice became choked, anxiously: “The people lying here are mostly playgirls. When they lived, they were beautiful, dignified, and modest young women. They wanted to have beautiful lives, but because of circumstances and irony fate did not allow them to live the way they wanted. Just like me!... Just like me!...
The bib-shape cloud melted, her words choked, she was on the verge of falling, I hurriedly stepped forward, stretched out my hands to support her slender back, a warm feeling spreading from her body, dispelling the shivered cold from me….
Brief biography
Writer NGUYEN NHUAN HONG PHUONG, Member of the Vietnam Writers' Association. Currently he lives in Vinh Phuc province.
The road to his literature is a tiredless journey with unlimited passion and constant efforts. He has published a large number of novels such as "Contradictory Echoes" (Award of the Vietnam Union of Literature and Arts Associations in 2006); “Bankruptcy”, “Fortunate”, “Out of God’s arms”, “Township”, “Foundation”…
