A GHOST STORY

Dedicated to: Jazzie, for her comment
nody, Hnadi, Mtv (long time no see!), Angel of Kuwait
and all my young friends...



My house, where I lived throughout my childhood with my parents, is surrounded on
three sides by rivers, the other side is a range of hills and mountains. The river at the
back of my house is just a branch of the great river in front. It flows, at numerous spots,
between the gardens and deserted lands on the two banks, with thick shrubs and big trees,
and gets very dark at night. My early years were full of ghost stories. My grandma used to
tell us that whenever she passed that section of river on boat by night, she heard a voice
urging from the deep water "Row fast!... Row fast!..", and the boat man hurried to push
his oars. Otherwise, a white hand would raise up from the water and grab the boat-side
and only God knew what would happen.
So we never dared to bath in that river at night.
When I grew up and came to the University, I forgot all those stories. I used to take bath
in that small river by night, and swim along the big river in daytime.
One night, I went to attend a ceremony party at a friend's home in a nearby hamlet. Past
midnight, as I walked back home, I chose a shortcut which led straight to my garden on
the other side of that small dark river.
But there was no bridge at that spot, and I decided to swim across the river. I put out all
my clothes then swim across the river with a hand raising up, holding them over the water.
Reaching to the bank on my garden, I stepped up and began to put on my clothes again.
But when I picked up my shirt and looked up, I saw the girl.
She was standing on the other riverbank, right at the spot I just left some fifteen minutes
before.
The night was lit with a vague moon, which made all the shadows darker. But the girl was
standing right in the moon light, clearly distinguished from the dark background of trees,
looking in my direction. I thought I could see a fixed look on her white face. A white and
pale face.
I had a shudder.
Various ideas came into my mind. The memories and fears from childhood... the curiosity...
the philosophical thinking and conviction of a young student... the desire to know if there
were ghosts or there were not ghosts... etc. So I looked at the girl once more, then putting
on only my shorts, I swam back to the place on the other riverside.
When I reached the bank, the girl disappeared.
I kind of looked around, but she was nowhere. It was just a vision.
I swam back again to my garden after shrugging my shoulders. "Illusion!..." I told myself.
But as I put on my shirt, and looked toward that direction just for a try, I saw the girl again.
She was standing at the same place, fixed her look at me.
And this time, she waved to me. A white hand, waving. Imperceptibly... but I was sure that
she moved something.
Then she waved to me again, this time very clearly. I could see her hand waving and waving...
You can laugh, but I was a little drunk that night, after the party. I swam back again to the
girl, for the second time.
I thought she was probably a ghost, and I would be able to see her, maybe talk with her,
and I would know the truth about that question. There's still no proof to show the existence
of ghosts, but there's also no proof to affirm their non-existence.
Once more, I got to the spot, and once more, the girl disappeared. I was very disappointed,
and a little angered.
I stood there, looking around... then I moved a little around, searching...
Then I understood.
The banana tree, and the moon!
There was a banana tree at the edge of that garden, and it was lightened when the moon
got out of a flowing cloud... then sunk into the shadow when the moon was hidden behind
another cloud. The banana big leaves, reflecting the moon light, gave me the vision of the girl.
And it also gave me a feeling of cold. I don't know if ever I meet a real ghost, I would have
that same feeling...


Dear friends - and Dear jazzie,
Just for you, to have a certain moment of relaxation... if you're not scared.
My ghost stories are not real ghosts, though they might be scary sometimes. But I have been
told of many real  ghost stories from trust-worthy people. I will tell you some, when we have
the opportunity. OK?
Best regards,
  

                                           The Story of K'Te the Lazy


(I told my friends V. and N. that I would tell them a story about a brave Chinese lady.
But as the story was too long, I would have to cut out a large portion, which I hadn't
done yet! So I wrote this in its place.)
                                                            ------


                                 In dedication to V, Nostalgia, c, and JAN.



In the Spring 1995, I had a mission in a mountainous area deep in one of the largest
forests of VN, called the "Three-Frontiers Area". I had two friends going along
with me, a journalist and an ethnologist, both ladies.
After two days staying in the Central Highlands, we moved far deep into the forest
and reach to the ethnic minority of Mah, one of the most noteworthy tribal minority
of VN. The women are mostly silent yet beautiful and all the children have deep
black eyes. And what did strike me the most was their sincerity and hospitality. Once
they believe us, they would never forget us and be so kind that we could hardly betray
them.
These people were informed in advance of our arrival, so went we reached the forest's
edge, in the dim light of sunset, we heard the sound of a merry musical melody, played
by specific instruments called Gongs, like a warm welcome from that far-away hamlet.
After two hours of drinking together with them the famous wine "Ruou Can" in a large
jar, we took leave. Twelve men, among them some old men, ran up to the places they
put their Gongs. Another melody raised up, this time sad and desolate, as the men
clapped their gongs and danced their gracious traditional dance, following the rhythm
of the song to see us off . That sorrowful and poignant melody followed us till the edge
of the forest.
The next evening, the Chief of the district organized a party to greet us. A number of
those ethnic minority people were invited. That's when we met K'Te the Lazy.
He was famous in his tribe because of his laziness. In this land of old fixed traditions,
where the girls ask the boys to marry them at the cost of a number of buffaloes and
Jars plus a span of land to cultivate coffee trees, he has not been asked till this day by
any girl, because he was very lazy, and all the girls might think he would let them die
of hunger and did nothing. So he was sitting there with his drink, silent and morose,
and replied by curt answers to some friends passing by, talking to him.
My friend the ethnologist is an excellent wine drinker. She could beat us all with drinking
wine. The more she drank, the more her face became pale and beautiful. So that night,
M., as she was called, had been drinking a lot and was a little bit drunk.
She saw K'Te The Lazy, and as she got a little naughty, she came up to his place,
"Hey, K'Te!"
"Hey!" K'Te replied, not deigning to look up.
"Why are you sitting alone like that, K'Te?"
"Hmmmm! That's it!"  was all the answer.
Some people laughed.
"Would you drink with me?" M. asked.
"Why?"
"Because I love you!"
"Hmmmm!"
I came up, but M. was getting drunk.
"Would you marry me, K'Te?"
"Why?"
"Because I love you!"
People laughed, but K'Te remained gloomy and irritable.
"What would you request?"
"Uhmm... not much! five hundred holes to plant coffee tree, OK?"
"Hmmmm!... five hundred?"
For such a lazy guy as K'Te, to clear out a good land in the forest and dig 500 holes to
plant coffee tree was rather much!
I pulled my friend away, but she was really drunk.
"Yea! five hundred holes! OK?"
People laughed and laughed. I dragged her away.
"OK" The man replied, as sad and gloomy as always.
Surely, M forgot all of this, when she woke up the next morning. And we were setting
to do our job. But the following day, as she wandered by K'Te's hut, she saw him
digging earth vehemently. And working together with K'Te The Lazy was his brother,
also famous for his own laziness like him. There were about one hundred holes already
dug out in a plot of cleared forest land. K'Te the Lazy was not lazy at all.
M. was taken with fear. Those naive and frank people knew nothing about joking.
She came to me and asked me to leave, before things could become complicated!
I saw that she was really afraid. She is an ethnologist, and she knows about the ethnic
minority people. So I asked the District Chief to lend us three a car to leave early the
next morning.
I didn't know how K'Te knew that we're leaving. Perhaps some of his friends saw M.
prepare her traveling bag. But as the car turned round a hillside, we saw the man.
He ran along with us, leaping and jumping, at times disappeared behind shrubs and
trees, at times appeared on the hillside above us, waving and shouting!... I looked at M.
Her face was as white as a paper. After a certain time, we saw the man no more.

I dropped out that place, and chose another site for my job. It seemed that M. didn't
came back there during a longtime afterwards. I really wish all the people mentioned in
this story got all the best things!

À Toi...

Un soir, je me sentis si fatigué, quand je suis venu voir une de mes amies, que
je me suis endormi presque aussitôt. Quand je m'éveillis, je sentais à ma tête
quelque chose étrange, douce et chatouillante,  et j'ai appercu que mon amie
me caressait les cheveux... Que c'est consolant! Alors je me souvenais de ce
poème de Rimbaud. Je le tape ici comme un tout petit cadeau envoyé à mes deux
amies, Lady Véronica et Lady Orchidée.

Pour leur lecture...
----


LES CHERCHEUSES DE POUX

"Quand le front de l'enfant, pleine de rouges tourmentes.
Implore l'essaim blanc des rêves indistincts,
Il vient près de son lit deux grandes soeurs charmantes
Avec de frêles doigts aux ongles argentins.

Elles assoient l'enfant auprès d'une croisée
Grande ouverte où l'air bleu baigne un foullis de fleurs,
Et dans ses lourds cheveux où tombe la rosée
Promènent leurs doigts fins, terribles et charmeurs.

Il écoute chanter leurs haleines craintives
Qui fleurent de longs miels végétaux et rosés,
Et qu'interrompt parfois un sifflement, salives,
Reprises sur la lèvre ou désirs de baisers.

Il entend leurs cils nois battant sous les silences
Parfumés; et leurs doigts électriques et doux
Font crépiter parmi ses grises indolences
Sous leurs ongles royaux la mort des petits poux.

Voilà que monte en lui le vin de la Paresse.
Soupir d'harmonica qui pourrait délirer;
L'endant se sent, selon la lenteur des caresses,
Sourdre et mourir sans cesse un désir de pleurer.

ARTHUR RIMBAUD