Gone! Fire!

A summer noon poured yellow sunlight over an empty village road. A traveler from far away walked along it, his thin gauze tunic faded with dust. As he went, he fanned himself with his hat to dry the sweat. He was on his way to visit an old friend at the far end of the hamlet, someone he had not seen in a very long time. Bamboo rustled on both sides of the road. Somewhere behind a garden, a rooster crowed lazily in the midday heat. Far ahead, at the end of the hamlet, a small house came into view, with a trellis of green gourd vines shading the path to its gate. The traveler quickened his step, guessing that his old friend's home was close now.

This is a funny tale that Vietnamese grandparents have long told, and it goes like this. One morning, the father of the house had business in the next village. He would leave at first light and not be back until the next day. Before he left, he carefully took up a pen and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. Then he gave his son clear instructions. "I'll be away," he said. "If anyone comes asking, just hand them this paper. I've written down where I've gone and when I'll be back." The boy said yes, folded the paper very carefully and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

No one came by to ask all that day. The boy stayed home alone, and every so often he patted his pocket to check that the paper was still there. Late in the afternoon, as dusk fell, he lit the oil lamp. With nothing to do, he took out the paper and studied it under the lamplight, turning it this way and that. By bad luck he held it too close, and the flame licked at its edge. In a panic he blew and blew, but a large corner of the paper was already scorched away. His father's few lines drifted off with the smoke. Crestfallen, the boy hid the burnt scrap in his pocket, and his stomach stayed in knots.

Right at noon the next day, the traveler from far away knocked at the gate. The boy ran out. The traveler smiled and said, "Child, is your father at home? I'm an old friend of his."

The boy had been fretting about the paper, and at the question he jumped. He thought the visitor was asking about the paper his father had left. "Gone, sir," he blurted out at once. The visitor stood there, stunned. He had asked about the father, and the word gone gave him a jolt. He had an uneasy feeling that something bad had just happened in this house.

Cautiously, he went on. "Gone since when, child?" The boy was still thinking of the moment the paper caught fire last night, so he answered shortly, "Last night, sir." Hearing this, the visitor looked lost for a moment. Inside, his thoughts were in a tangle. He wondered whether this family had really met with sorrow only yesterday.

He hesitated a long time before he could ask one more thing. "And how did that happen, child?" The boy remembered the lamp and the blackened corner of paper. His eyes welled up, and his lips trembled as he answered, "Fire, sir."

At that, the visitor could not keep still. Fire, and last night too. He felt pity and alarm all at once, and he hardly knew what to do with himself. He only wanted to understand what had befallen the boy's family. He was about to ask for the whole story when, right then, a cheerful call rang in from the gate.

The father was back from the next village. His face was beaming, and he strode briskly into the yard. He had been calling out loudly since the end of the lane. "Well now, isn't that my old friend come to visit?" The visitor spun around. He saw his friend of years past striding in, healthy and laughing heartily. He was overjoyed and bewildered at once, and he could no longer make head or tail of anything.

The two old friends clasped hands, beaming. But the visitor had not yet got over the shock. He hurried to explain. "My friend, I just asked the boy if his father was home. He said gone, gone since last night, and by fire, no less. I thought something terrible had happened in this house." The father was taken aback for a moment, then turned to look at his son. The boy pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket, one corner charred black, and spoke in a tiny voice. "Father, I burned the paper by accident. I was so scared that I hid it."

Only then did the two grown-ups understand. All along the boy had been talking about the paper, while the visitor thought he meant the father. The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing together. They laughed until tears ran down their faces. The visitor slapped his thigh again and again, and the father laughed so hard he had to plop down on the doorstep.

When they had laughed their fill, the father stroked his son's head without a single word of scolding. Gently he said, "So it was the paper all along. Oh dear. You forgot to say it clearly, so our friend here thought you meant me. Next time, remember to say it all. Say the paper is gone, the paper burned last night. Then no one will misunderstand." The boy nodded, wiped his tears and murmured the words over to himself. "The paper is gone. The paper burned last night."

That afternoon, the three of them sat together on the veranda. The visitor told stories of his long road, and the father poured a bowl of green tea, still hot. The boy kept clutching his scrap of burnt paper and smiling to himself. Out in the lane the sun had softened. The village road the visitor had walked at noon now lay in the cool shade of bamboo. From then on, whenever anyone asked him something, the boy answered fully and clearly, from start to finish, without leaving out a single word. As for the scrap of paper with its scorched corner, he kept it in his shirt pocket for good. It was like keeping a funny story close, and each time he touched it, he covered his mouth and laughed quietly.