Life in Solitude
I met TCS the last time when I came back to visit Vietnam during the remaining days of 1999. Son sat at a small table in the yard of the Association of Artists, Writers and Musicians in Saigon. I still could recognize his kind smile, which now had a touch of melancholy, and his warm, noble and gentle manners with his tortoise-rimmed glasses. In front of me was a tired, illness-strickened TCS in his sixties, whose eyes occasionally got brightened whenever he heard news about friends. Son asked me about friends in France and in the USA. He also mentioned those living in Vietnam, some were still alive while others already passed away. With his body hidden in the oversized loose shirt, Son said: "I now weigh only 39 kilograms." Alcohol had destroyed his liver so badly that there was no cure to save him. Somebody suggested that he go abroad to get liver transplant, but he refused. He said he felt very weak, with frequent bouts of dizziness due to hypotension.
While talking with me, TCS occasionally paused to say Hello to those around him. One musician, author of the well-known song entitled "Echoes," was telling friends about his recent doctor visit, and the medicines he had to take. Tran Tien, another musician, was talking about his successful concert the previous week. Vu Hanh was busy hastening writers to have their articles ready for the special issue (of the Association) to celebrate "the patriotic war against the American aggressors." TCS sat there with a gentle and melancholic smile. I asked him if he would like to go abroad to relax and get treatment at the same time, even though I knew he was spending his last days on earth. When an alcoholic continues to drink, there is no panacea for him, not to mention a liver transplant. TCS did not want to stop drinking, or probably he simply couldn't. He said that he drank much less than he used to. He shared: "I have a little apprehension that if I travel to the West, they might kill me." Then he added: "Actually, in France it should be ok, for there are fewer zealots in the Vietnamese communities. When I was there last time, friends gave me a very warm welcome. The truth is that I feel very weak, and even though I want to travel, I cannot." TCS said in a soft and imperturbable voice as if he were living in another world, and all the hustle bustle of this world no longer bothered him. Upon learning that I was traveling to Japan soon, he mentioned a Japanese female student who had completed her thesis on the language and war in his music. Before I left, TCS gave me his home phone number, and said: "Come to my house, I have something to share with you. My younger brother will probably be very happy to know that you are back in Vietnam." That brother used to be hanging around at Van Cafe. I thought Son wanted to share what he couldn't talk about at such a crowded place as in the yard of the Association. I felt regretful because I couldn't make time to visit him at his house as promised: I had t leave Vietnam the following day. I left Saigon on January 1, 2000. The whole world was about to enter a new millennium. When I called him to say goodbye, he asked," Don't you feel worried about any mishap when traveling on the first day of 2000?" I replied, "Mishaps must avoid me; not the other way round. Why should I be worried?" Those days there was a rumor among the Saigonese about avoiding air travel in the early days of 2000. TCS said in a melancholic voice: "Send my best regards to X,Y, Z...I don't think I will be able to meet friends again."
O the war has taken away all my friends
the cavalier's horse, its hooves getting weak and tired, has collapsed on its homeland's hills
Every time I listen to TCS's songs, I could not but think about the bounderless solitude of the musician who was sitting at the small table in the yard, smiling at this friend or that one, but his mind was actually wandering in another world. TCS was sitting there, all by himself.
I all alone came home to myself.
Multiply the loneliness of a human ten times and you will get the loneliness of an artist. Multiply the loneliness of a human one hundred times and you will get the loneliness of a Vietnamese artist. Multiply the loneliness of a human a thousand times and you will get the loneliness of TCS the musician. It is the loneliness of a human who spent all his life celebrating love, and fellow citizens' brotherhood -- "since time immemorial even gravels and stones need one another," yet he was criticized from all sides. TCS was sitting there, treasuring every single day, even when "life has its bitterness" (Vu Thanh An). TCS was sitting there in solitude among the crowd:
Life in solitude
like a paddy field after the harvest
like deserted woods and mountains
The man came back home gazing at his own reflection
Between the muted white walls
He Had Come Here to Play and Enjoy
TCS passed away on April 1, 2001 at the age of 62. Sixty two years on earth, a human life is like a gust of wind. In France the first of April is "poissons d'Avril" when people fool one another with tricks and make-beliefs: telling the worst writer that s/he has just won Le Prix Goncourt; confessing to your fiancée that you already have a wife and three children... then as it turns out, they are just false stories.
Source:
"Trịnh Công Sơn và những ngày Văn Khoa"
by Trần Công Sung
Đời sao im vắng
I met TCS the last time when I came back to visit Vietnam during the remaining days of 1999. Son sat at a small table in the yard of the Association of Artists, Writers and Musicians in Saigon. I still could recognize his kind smile, which now had a touch of melancholy, and his warm, noble and gentle manners with his tortoise-rimmed glasses. In front of me was a tired, illness-strickened TCS in his sixties, whose eyes occasionally got brightened whenever he heard news about friends. Son asked me about friends in France and in the USA. He also mentioned those living in Vietnam, some were still alive while others already passed away. With his body hidden in the oversized loose shirt, Son said: "I now weigh only 39 kilograms." Alcohol had destroyed his liver so badly that there was no cure to save him. Somebody suggested that he go abroad to get liver transplant, but he refused. He said he felt very weak, with frequent bouts of dizziness due to hypotension.
While talking with me, TCS occasionally paused to say Hello to those around him. One musician, author of the well-known song entitled "Echoes," was telling friends about his recent doctor visit, and the medicines he had to take. Tran Tien, another musician, was talking about his successful concert the previous week. Vu Hanh was busy hastening writers to have their articles ready for the special issue (of the Association) to celebrate "the patriotic war against the American aggressors." TCS sat there with a gentle and melancholic smile. I asked him if he would like to go abroad to relax and get treatment at the same time, even though I knew he was spending his last days on earth. When an alcoholic continues to drink, there is no panacea for him, not to mention a liver transplant. TCS did not want to stop drinking, or probably he simply couldn't. He said that he drank much less than he used to. He shared: "I have a little apprehension that if I travel to the West, they might kill me." Then he added: "Actually, in France it should be ok, for there are fewer zealots in the Vietnamese communities. When I was there last time, friends gave me a very warm welcome. The truth is that I feel very weak, and even though I want to travel, I cannot." TCS said in a soft and imperturbable voice as if he were living in another world, and all the hustle bustle of this world no longer bothered him. Upon learning that I was traveling to Japan soon, he mentioned a Japanese female student who had completed her thesis on the language and war in his music. Before I left, TCS gave me his home phone number, and said: "Come to my house, I have something to share with you. My younger brother will probably be very happy to know that you are back in Vietnam." That brother used to be hanging around at Van Cafe. I thought Son wanted to share what he couldn't talk about at such a crowded place as in the yard of the Association. I felt regretful because I couldn't make time to visit him at his house as promised: I had t leave Vietnam the following day. I left Saigon on January 1, 2000. The whole world was about to enter a new millennium. When I called him to say goodbye, he asked," Don't you feel worried about any mishap when traveling on the first day of 2000?" I replied, "Mishaps must avoid me; not the other way round. Why should I be worried?" Those days there was a rumor among the Saigonese about avoiding air travel in the early days of 2000. TCS said in a melancholic voice: "Send my best regards to X,Y, Z...I don't think I will be able to meet friends again."
O the war has taken away all my friends
the cavalier's horse, its hooves getting weak and tired, has collapsed on its homeland's hills
Every time I listen to TCS's songs, I could not but think about the bounderless solitude of the musician who was sitting at the small table in the yard, smiling at this friend or that one, but his mind was actually wandering in another world. TCS was sitting there, all by himself.
I all alone came home to myself.
Multiply the loneliness of a human ten times and you will get the loneliness of an artist. Multiply the loneliness of a human one hundred times and you will get the loneliness of a Vietnamese artist. Multiply the loneliness of a human a thousand times and you will get the loneliness of TCS the musician. It is the loneliness of a human who spent all his life celebrating love, and fellow citizens' brotherhood -- "since time immemorial even gravels and stones need one another," yet he was criticized from all sides. TCS was sitting there, treasuring every single day, even when "life has its bitterness" (Vu Thanh An). TCS was sitting there in solitude among the crowd:
Life in solitude
like a paddy field after the harvest
like deserted woods and mountains
The man came back home gazing at his own reflection
Between the muted white walls
He Had Come Here to Play and Enjoy
TCS passed away on April 1, 2001 at the age of 62. Sixty two years on earth, a human life is like a gust of wind. In France the first of April is "poissons d'Avril" when people fool one another with tricks and make-beliefs: telling the worst writer that s/he has just won Le Prix Goncourt; confessing to your fiancée that you already have a wife and three children... then as it turns out, they are just false stories.
Was it true that TCS had passed
away, or is this news just another poissons d'Avril story?
Son had "come into this
world, played and enjoyed on earth." It is possible that he is
now "flying up high in this sky." And yet I
wonder if he actually played and enjoyed during his life. How many
Vietnamese truly enjoy life?
Paris March, 2011
"Trịnh Công Sơn và những ngày Văn Khoa"
by Trần Công Sung
Đời sao im vắng
Tôi gặp lại TCS những ngày cuối cùng của năm 1999, khi về thăm
Việt Nam. Sơn ngồi trước một cái bàn nhỏ, trong sân Hội Văn Nghệ Sĩ gì đó ở
Sài Gòn. Vẫn nụ cười hiền lành, nhưng buồn bã, vẫn thái độ từ tốn, phong
nhã,vẫn đôi kính đồi mồi nhưng trước mắt tôi là một TCS lục tuần bịnh hoạn,
mệt mỏi, mặc dầu đôi mắt vẫn sáng lên khi nghe đến tin bè bạn. Sơn hỏi thăm
tin tức về người này ở bên Tây, người kia ở bên Mỹ. Sơn nói về những người ở
lại, kẻ mất, người còn.
Bơi trong cái áo sơ mi rộng thùng thình, Sơn nói: mình chỉ còn
39 kí. Sơn nói rượu đã tàn phá lá gan đến độ không có thuốc gì chữa nổi. Có
người sẵn sàng đưa anh đi ngoại quốc giải phẫu gan nhưng anh từ chối. Sơn nói
anh rất mệt, nhiều khi xây xẩm mặt mày vì bịnh áp huyết thấp (hypotension).
Vừa nói chuyện, Sơn vừa chào hỏi của những người qua lại. Vị nhạc sĩ lão thành, tác giả bài Dư Âm nổi tiéng hồi nào ở Hà Nội (Đêm qua mơ dáng em đang ôm đàn dìu muôn tiếng tơ…) kể chuyện đi thăm bác sĩ, chuyện thuốc men. Nhạc sĩ Trần Tiến nói về đêm ca nhạc thành công tuần trước. Ông Vũ Hạnh chạy qua chạy lại hối bài cho một đặc san kỷ niệm “cuộc chiến chống Mỹ cứu nước”.
Vừa nói chuyện, Sơn vừa chào hỏi của những người qua lại. Vị nhạc sĩ lão thành, tác giả bài Dư Âm nổi tiéng hồi nào ở Hà Nội (Đêm qua mơ dáng em đang ôm đàn dìu muôn tiếng tơ…) kể chuyện đi thăm bác sĩ, chuyện thuốc men. Nhạc sĩ Trần Tiến nói về đêm ca nhạc thành công tuần trước. Ông Vũ Hạnh chạy qua chạy lại hối bài cho một đặc san kỷ niệm “cuộc chiến chống Mỹ cứu nước”.
Sơn ngồi đó, mỉm cười hiền lành, buồn bã. Tôi hỏi Sơn có tính
đi ngoại quốc chơi một chuyến, nhân tiện chữa bệnh, dù tôi biết Sơn đang sống
những ngày tháng cuối cùng. Nếu người nghiện rượu tiếp tục uống, dù có thuốc
thánh, dù có gỉai phẫu gan cũng không thay đổi gì. Sơn không muốn nghỉ rượu,
hay không nghỉ được. Sơn nói mình uống ít hơn trước nhiều. Sơn mỉm cười: mình
sang đó, sợ các ông ấy đập mình. Rồi tiếp: sự thực thì ở bên Pháp không có
vấn đề gì, bên Pháp ít có người quá khích; kỳ trước mình qua Pháp, anh em đãi
ngộ rất tử tế.
Sơn tiếp: nói cho đúng, mình mệt lắm, có muốn cũng không đi
được. Sơn nói, từ tốn, không lộ một chút xúc động. Anh đang ở một cõi khác,
những cái lăng nhăng ở cuộc đời này không liên hệ gì đến anh nữa. Nghe tôi
sắp đi Nhật, Sơn nhắc đến một cô sinh viên Nhật Bản đã làm một luận án về
ngôn ngữ và chiến tranh trong nhạc TCS.
Khi tôi ra về, Sơn đưa cho tôi số điện thoại ở nhà riêng:
“Ráng đến chơi, mình có chuyện muốn nói. Thằng em mình, biết cậu về, chắc nó
mừng lắm”. Em Sơn ngày xưa cũng la cà ở quán Văn.
Tôi nghĩ Sơn muốn nói những gì không thể nói được ở một nơi có
nhiều người qua lại. Tôi ân hận vì không có thì giờ tới nhà Sơn như đã hứa,
vì phải rời Việt Nam ngày hôm sau. Tôi rời Sài Gòn ngày mùng 1 tháng giêng
năm 2000. Thế giới đang bước sang một thế kỷ mới. Tôi gọi điện thoại chào
Sơn. Anh hỏi: Cậu đi ngày đầu năm 2000, không sợ ‘“sự cố” à? Tôi nói sự cố nó
sợ tôi chứ tôi sợ gì nó. Hồi ấy, ở Sài Gòn, người ta kỵ đi máy bay ngày đầu
năm 2000. Sơn nói, giọng buồn: Nếu gặp lại X,Y cho mình gởi lời hỏi thăm;
chắc mình không có dịp gặp lại anh em nữa. Ôi chinh chiến đã mang đi bạn
bè. Ngựa hồng đã mỏi vó chết trên đồi quê hương.
Mỗi lần nghe nhạc TCS, tôi nghĩ đến cái cô đơn cùng tận của
người nhạc sĩ ngồi trước cái bàn nhỏ ngoài sân, mỉm cười với người này người
kia, nhưng đầu óc ở một nơi khác. Sơn ngồi đó, cô độc. Một mình tôi về với
tôi. Đem cái cô đơn của kiếp người nhân lên gấp mười, bạn có cái cô đơn
của người nghệ sĩ, nhân lên trăm lần có cái cô đơn của người nghệ sĩ Việt
Nam, nhân lên ngàn lần có cái cô đơn của TCS. Cái cô đơn của một người suốt
đời ca ngợi tình yêu, tình đồng bào, ngày sau sỏi đá cũng cần có nhau, mà
cuối cùng bị chỉ trích từ mọi phía. Sơn ngồi đó, nâng niu cô đơn từng
ngày…mà đời còn nhiều đắng cay (Vũ Thành An). Sơn ngồi đó, một
mình, giữa nhiều người:
Đời sao im vắng
Như đồng lúa gặt xong
Như rừng núi bỏ hoang
Người về soi bóng mình
Giữa tường trắng lạnh câm
Cái sân chỗ Sơn ngồi đông người qua lại, và ngoài đường xe
hơi, xe gắn máy chạy loạn xà ngầu, nhưng Sơn ngồi đó, giữa tường trắng
lạnh câm.
anh đã đến, đã vui chơi…
Sơn ra đi ngày 1 tháng tư 2001, hưởng thọ 62 tuổi. Sáu mươi
hai tuổi, đời người như gió qua. Ở bên Pháp, ngày 1 tháng tư là ngày “cá
tháng Tư” (poissons d’Avril), ngày người ta đùa nhau bằng những chuyện
hoàn toàn bịa đặt. Báo cho một ông nhà văn hạng bét là ông ta vừa chiếm giải
Goncourt. Thú với cô fiancée là đã có vợ với ba con, rồi sau đó cho
hay đó chỉ là những cá tháng Tư, những chuyện đùa chơi.
TCS ra đi thật hay chỉ thả một con “cá tháng Tư”?
Sơn đã đến, đã vui chơi trong cuộc đời này. Bây giờ có
lẽ anh đang bay cao trong bầu trời này. Nhưng, nhiều lúc, tôi tự hỏi
có quả thật anh đã vui chơi trong cuộc đời này. Có bao nhiêu người Việt nam
đã thực sự vui chơi trong cuộc đời này?
(Paris, tháng 3/2011)
