Yueqin - Pham Minh Khoi

Hoang turned his back to the window and looked at Nguyen, who was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed. Half of his face seemed to glow faintly in the afternoon light, while the other half, facing the wall, was concealed in darkness. 

Other than his hair, which had turned completely white, Nguyen still looked like the uncle from Hoang’s childhood who owned a small Asian store in the quieter part of town. Eight years had passed since Hoang moved to Boston to pursue his music career. 

It was the last day of September. The dying light of the day was compressed into the western horizon, far behind the row of mansions with terracotta roofs hidden behind two lines of linden trees, dyeing that patch of sky with clouds of burning colours. Some windows already looked lit up.

“Uncle Nguyen…”

For a moment, he thought Nguyen didn't hear him. But the old man, laboriously but decisively, got up from his fitful sleep. Near the couch, there was a drawer made of unpatterned ebony-black wood. From it, Nguyen took out a vermilion wrapping. Inside were four incense sticks scented with agarwood. He planted one of them in a white porcelain burner painted with three clusters of clouds. 

The trail of smoke lingered around them, then ascended to the same spot on the ceiling, where over time it had left a round black mark.

"Please bring me what's in the cabinet."

Hoang opened the wooden door. The surface of the yueqin had worn so much over time that it had become a pale whitish colour.

“I didn’t know you played music.”

"I haven't, since your aunt passed away twenty-six years ago."

“I’m sorry, Uncle.”

“I want you to listen to this.”

Hoang helped Nguyen sit down with his legs crossed on the woven mat. Outside the open window, the heat of the warm and humid day had finally subsided. A strong wind made the canopies of the linden trees sway, making a swishing sound. The tick-tock of a cuckoo clock standing on the other side of the room became clear, as did the sound of a rat running across the ceiling.

A sharp ting sound broke the silence. A thin, papery finger, fitted with a brown pick, made a graceful movement to bend the lower string, then the upper, creating a vibrato.

In the waning sunlight, the shadow of the old man fell across the ground in a long streak. He started singing:

"The rider paused by the roadside,
A small shrine under the twilight sky,
crows calling in the night..."

The shadow of the artist trembled as the small golden sunspot, filtered through the canopies, kept shifting and reforming, while the leaves rustled like jumbled voices calling from afar. 

Hoang turned to close the window. A wave of golden leaves fell like rain, scattered in all directions by the wind. The smoke quickly became unbearable. 

“,,,And the rider met a maiden.
Her eyes were as tranquil as a still lake,
Her hair as black as the night.
She taught him the art of the qin…”

In front of Nguyen, the incense burner was nearly spent. Cold ashes had fallen all around where he sat. 

Hoang’s eyes were covered with a veil of water; the sharp smoke had gotten into them. Through the water, he saw several different black shapes dancing, changing size and warping into different forms.

On the woven mat, Nguyen looked pale as a ghost. His shadow had grown longer as the sun was dying.

"…And together, they played the qin and se,
The music drifted over mountains,
Over rivers,
Shattering into the cold air..."

The crisp metallic sound of a snapping string rang out.

Hoang rushed toward the artist. A thin string had cut into Nguyen’s finger and snapped into two halves. Nguyen’s lips quivered, but he was interrupted by a violent bout of coughing. Hoang carried him to the couch and covered him with a blanket. 

Outside the window, the single streetlight had been turned on. The shadows of the linden trees stood motionless like giant guards. The sun had completely died down.

***

Hoang carried the yueqin back to Boston with him after Nguyen’s death. The snapped string hung loose, dangling gently from one side to the other. The melody of Nguyen’s song echoed in his mind, and he absentmindedly plucked the string. 

Outside the plane window, the sun had fully emerged, pinkish clouds tenderly holding the brick-red sky.