[Trans] Midnight restaurants (Quán khuya)

Original: Nguyễn Ngọc Tư, Mấy cụm khói rời, Đong tấm lòng, 2015, HCMC: Tre Publisher.
Copy right belong to author. This translation only my hobbies and respect to her works.

Sudden light brighten between two broken sleeps, those kiosks places at sides of the country road, selling food at midnight til breaking dawn; usually they make my mind flows, as if there are people, haunting or waiting. It takes some times, and rub my eyes several times to realize that light is not dreaming. Sleeping in the coach is a vaguely mixing of dreams and real life. Coughing sounds of the elderly seating next by just perfectly matched with the face of grandma who pass away long time ago.The sad melody turned on by the young driver trying to light up this boredom, now becomes the background of a shadow gliding on the river. Everything just be confirmed not dreaminess when the coach stops, and people sleepily get off.

Midnight restaurants.

Neon lights fully dusted glows a kind of  pale light. These young waiters make dreaming wry face, hanging their mosquito-net, and getting ready for a short rest. The dishes are salty and cold. Several street vendors, and lottery seller becoming jaded. Nam Om, Tam Ri, Ben Cu, Ngan Nga...the midnight restaurants all looks exhausted, and drained. That table was cleaned half half, the coach coming and those waiters immediately stay awake, and drowsy again when people leaving. The voice of waitress not as clangorous as morning.

There's uncountable number of midnight kiosks alongside the country road. Once, grandpa Tran counted number of bridges from Saigon to Rau Dua town, since the bridges stand still. Those kiosks are wild mushrooms alike, grow and wither quietly. Those kiosks would stay if they can make good relationship with coach drivers, and if the business going well, they open the second, the third restaurants; all equipped with the incandescent lights like a small town. Like teenagers of the whole village all gather there to be waiter, all of them are at the age of fourteen or fifteen. Girls bringing bowl of pho with cellphone in their shirts' pocket, playing melancholy Khmer songs. When the sun rises, girls and boys still wanna teasing others, somehow the flames of youth also cold down in this deep black hole. However, those become couples, maybe since these sleepless night, and realize how beautiful he or she is under the spell of asleep. 

A gourmet truck drivers always have their favourite restaurants, beside that good taste of food, somewhere there's dashing love. My classmate used to told how many tears her mother dropped during the wrong marriage with a driver, "you never know how many children he makes along the road." There are several small restaurants without any link of business, with just right enough of light, half nonchalant half waiting desperately. Once, I took a drive with friends, and stop by a deserted restaurant, own by an old couple, they said both of them became insomniac since their son's death at Laos, and didn't know what to do during the long night, hence, they started this small restaurant for doing some fudge. That night, we ate instant noodles and very thin slices of dried meat, but nobody feel annoyed. 

The coach never stop at small restaurants, somehow every time pass by, I think their lives like oil lamps, flickering and waiting for someone stop by to turn the fire on. Happiness and sorrow swinging when the old lady slicing cucumber and put them on the ribs rice dish, or reheating the soup to prepare beef noodles, or turning side the frying egg.

That night, we were heading to Chau Giang, the coach stoped for supper at Thuy Nga restaurant, one selling lottery old man was puzzled under the table, said his eyes just dropped out somewhere. Heading his wrinkled and abysmal orbit to me, he ask if with bright eyes can I help him find it, adding "was injured by cannon in war time". My mates poked and called me to attention if he's crazy, and I act like really looking for it. Finally found the blue marble placed in the corner, he relieved and placed the marble into the orbit, asking "Is there any eye that can see through people mind?" The marble was dancing under the bubble light, a pale and bizarre blue.

The co-driver urged us get on the coach, I didn't have a chance to answer. However, thinking about it seriously, there is no answer for question of the old man, how it is possible that such an eye exist. When coming back, we stopped at the same restaurant, looking around but no sign of that old man. After listening to my description, the young waiter concluded that grandpa Ut Mot poked me. I asked where is he now. He pointed to the reedy field and said "there's his grave." I force a smile "you're kidding me."

The kid gave swear and oath, that there's an old man wandering around this area finding his marble eye, and hope to see through people mind. "This vast land was belong to him, long time ago" he waved his arm half of the clockwise, open a vastness. "so rich, still he had to selling lottery, earning pennies". He told the old man was on newspaper, people here all knows about the story. That the young beloved wife doesn't touch her nails on anything, one day burned her husband, sold out all the heritage lands and giving money to her play-actor lover.

On the coach to the West in far far away midnight, sometime you can't make it perfectly clear, between real or dreams, ghosts or men.