Một tiểu thuyết tiếng Anh vừa ra mắt, lấy món Phở và phong trào văn nghệ Nhân Văn - Giai Phẩm làm nền để kể về một giai đoạn khốc liệt trong lịch sử Việt Nam.

Camilla Gibb, nhà văn sống ở Toronto, Canada, có cảm hứng để viết cuốn tiểu thuyết thứ tư của bà sau khi trải qua một tháng ở Việt Nam ba năm trước đây.

The Beauty of Humanity Movement (tạm dịch: Vẻ đẹp của Phong trào Nhân Văn) là câu chuyện về ông Hung, một người nấu phở nổi tiếng ở Hà Nội và chứng kiến bao thăng trầm của đất nước.

Tác phẩm c̣n sâu chuỗi cuộc đời của Maggie, người Việt lớn lên ở Mỹ, nay buôn mỹ thuật ở Khách sạn Sofitel Metropole ở Hà Nội. Cô quay lại Việt Nam để t́m kiếm dấu vết của người cha, đă chết khi lính Bắc Việt tiến vào Sài G̣n năm 1975.

Cô làm quen với Tú, một hướng dẫn viên du lịch chuyên đưa cựu binh Mỹ đi tham quan. Hai người sau đó bị thu hút bởi những câu chuyện của ông Hung và gánh phở của ông.

Trong thập niên 1950, những khách đến ăn phở của ông Hung có cả những văn nghệ sĩ tham gia phong trào Nhân Văn - Giai Phẩm đ̣i tự do cho văn nghệ.

Sau khi nó bị dẹp tan, người bán phở trở thành người lưu giữ kư ức về một truyền thống cởi mở đă bị đàn áp.

Camilla Gibb, 42 tuổi, thăm Hà Nội năm 2007. Tại đó, bà gặp một hướng dẫn viên du lịch có ước mong mở một quán phở.

Bà kể lại rằng người này làm bà nhớ lại chính ḿnh của 10 năm trước, khi bà cũng không vừa ḷng với công việc và mơ có cơ hội viết văn, cho dù bà đă hoàn tất luận án tiến sĩ về nhân học xă hội ở Đại học Oxford.

Khi đó, một người hào phóng - mà đến giờ bà chưa biết tên - tặng bà 6000 đôla để theo đuổi giấc mơ.

Bà quyết định tặng lại 6000 đôla cho người bạn mới quen để anh ta có thể mở tiệm phở.

Bà nói bà biết ơn người này v́ đă cho bà cảm hứng viết cuốn Beauty, khi anh ta kể về một cụ già bán phở "chui", thường xuyên bị công an rượt đuổi.

Tiểu thuyết gần đây nhất của bà, Sweetness in the Belly (2005), được giải Trillium của tỉnh Ontario, Canada.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/vietnamese/cult...uty_book.shtml

Product Description
Set in contemporary Vietnam, this is the story of a country undergoing momentous change and the story of how family is defined — not always by bloodlines but by the heart.

Tu' is a young tour guide working in Hanoi for a company called New Dawn. While he leads tourists through the city, including American vets on "war tours," he starts to wonder what it is they are seeing of Vietnam —and what they miss entirely. Maggie, who is Vietnamese by birth but has lived most her life in the U.S., has returned to her country of origin in search of clues to her dissident father's disappearance during the war. Holding the story together is Old Man Hung, who has lived through decades of political upheaval and has still found a way to feed hope to his community of pondside dwellers.

This is a keenly observed and skillfully wrought novel about the reverberation of conflict through generations, the enduring legacy of art, and the redemption and renewal of long-lost love.

About the Author
CAMILLA GIBB was born in London, England, and grew up in Toronto. She has a Ph.D. in social anthropology from Oxford University. Sweetness in the Belly was a national bestseller, a Scotiabank Giller Prize finalist, and winner of the Trillium Award. Her novels have been translated into fourteen languages and published to rave reviews around the world. Camilla Gibb lives in Toronto.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

A Note of Grace
Old Man Hung makes the best phở in the city and has done so for decades. Where he once had a shop, though, he no longer does, because the rents are exorbitant, both the hard rents and the soft—the bribes a proprietor must pay to the police in this new era of freedom.

Still, Hung has a mission, if not a licence. He pushes the firewood, braziers and giant pots balanced on his wooden cart through the streets of Hanoi’s Old Quarter in the middle of the night and sets up his stall in a sliver of alleyway, on an oily patch of factory ground, at the frayed edge of a park or in the hollow carcass of a building under construction. He’s a resourceful, roving man who, until very recently, could challenge those less than half his age to keep up.

When he is forced to move on, word will travel from the herb seller, or the noodle maker, or the man delivering newspapers, to the shopkeepers along Hàng Bông Road who make sure to pass the information on to his customers, particularly to B́nh, the one who is like a son to him, out buying a newspaper or a couple of cigarettes in the earliest of morning hours, returning home to rouse his own son, Tu, slapping their bowls, spoons and chopsticks into his satchel, jerking the motorbike out of his kitchen and into the alleyway, and joining the riders of three million other motorbikes en route to breakfast, at least forty of them destined for Hung.

His customers, largely men known to him for a number of years, are loyal, some might say dependent. He is loyal and most certainly dependent. This is his livelihood, his being, his way in the world, and has been ever since he first came to apprentice in his Uncle Chien’s phở shop at eleven years of age.

It was 1933 when his father sent him from the rice fields to the city, getting Hung well out of the way of a mother who cherished him least of all her ten children. She’d kept him at a distance ever since a fortune teller had confirmed her suspicions that the large black mole stretching from the outer corner of Hung’s left eye to the middle of his cheekbone was an inauspicious sign. Tattooed with the promise of future darkness, the fortune teller had decreed.

Hung had come to his Uncle Chien with no name other than “nine,” denoting his place in the birth order, becoming Hung only in Hanoi, under the guardianship of his uncle, a man who neither subscribed to village superstitions nor could afford to turn help away.

This morning, Hung has set up shop in the empty kidney of a future swimming pool attached to a hotel under construction near the Ngũ Xá Temple. It has taken several attempts to get his fire started in the damp air, but as the dark grey of night yields to the lighter grey of clouded morning, the flames burn an orange as pure and vibrant as a monk’s robe.

Some of his customers have already begun to slip over the lip of the pool, running down its incline with their bowls, spoons and chopsticks, racing to be head of the queue.

Hung works like the expert he is, using his right hand to lay noodles into each bowl presented to him, covering these with slices of rare beef, their edges curling immediately with the heat of the broth he is simultaneously ladling into each bowl with his left.

“There you go, Nguyễn. There you go, Phúc, little Min,” and off his first customers shuffle with their bowls to squat on the concrete incline, using their spoons and chopsticks to greet the dawn of a new day.

Ah, and here is B́nh, greeting him quietly as always, bowl in hands, never particularly animated until he’s had a few sips of broth. Although he is well into his fifties, B́nh is a man still so like the boy who used to accompany his father, Đạo, to Hung’s phở shop back in the revolutionary days of the early 1950s. The world has changed much since then, but B́nh remains the same mindful, meditative soul who used to pad about after Hung, helping him carry the empty bowls out to the dishwasher in the alleyway behind the shop.

“There you go, B́nh,” Hung says, as he does every morning, dropping a handful of chopped green herbs into his bowl from shoulder height with exacting flourish.

“Hung, what happened to your glasses?” B́nh asks of the crack that bisects the left lens.

Hung, loath to admit he inadvertently sat upon them last night, shrugs as if it is a mystery to him too.

“Come”—B́nh gestures—“let me fix them for you.”

Hung dutifully unhooks his glasses from his ears and hands them to B́nh’s son, Tu, who is waiting beside his father with his empty bowl. Tu tucks them into his father’s shirt pocket, and B́nh shuffles left, making way for his son.

Tu, just twenty-two years old but so full of confidence, greets Hung with more words than B́nh ever does and waves his chopsticks left and right as he tries to calculate the size of the pool. This is very much like him—Tu loves numbers in a way that seems to pain him. He used to teach math at a high school, but he has abandoned that recently in favour of entertaining tourists. Hung is not sure all that foreign interaction is good for the boy, but he trusts B́nh is monitoring the situation.

Hung indulges Tu with a challenge this morning: “I’d like to see you calculate the pool’s volume in terms of the number of bowls of phở that would be required to fill it.”

Tu grins as he manoeuvres his way carefully across the pool, holding his bowl right under his nose, the steam rising like incense smouldering in a temple to bathe his face.

Hung has taught Tu, B́nh and B́nh’s father, Đạo, before him that you can tell a good broth by its aroma, the way it begs the body through the nose. And phở bắc—the phở of Hanoi—is the greatest seducer, because of the subtle dance of seasonings that animates the broth. It is not just the seasonings that make phở bắc distinct, it is provenance, a lesson Hung would happily deliver to anyone interested in listening.

The history of Vietnam lies in this bowl, for it is in Hanoi, the Vietnamese heart, that phở was born, a combination of the rice noodles that predominated after a thousand years of Chinese occupation and the taste for beef the Vietnamese acquired under the French, who turned their cows away from ploughs and into bifteck and pot-au-feu. The name of their national soup is pronounced like this French word for fire, as Hung’s Uncle Chien explained to him long ago.

“We’re a clever people,” his uncle had said. “We took the best the occupiers had to offer and made it our own. Fish sauce is the key—in matters of soup and well beyond. Even romance, some people say.”

It was only with the painful partitioning of the country in 1954 that phở went south; the million who fled communism held the taste of home in their mouths, the recipe in their hearts, but their eyes grew big in the markets of Saigon and they began to adulterate the recipe with imported herbs and vegetables. The phởs of Saigon had flourished brash with freedom and abundance while the North ate a poor man’s broth, plain and watered down, with chicken in place of beef as the Party ordered the closure of independent businesses like Hung’s and a string of government-owned cafeterias opened in their place.

Terrible stuff it was, grey as stagnant rainwater in a gutter. Those who are old enough to remember it thank Hung for getting rid of the mouldy taste in their mouths. Kids of Tu’s generation probably can’t even imagine it. Tu was born just before the government’s desperately needed economic reforms of 1986, when the market was liberalized in order to alleviate starvation and independent ownership once again became a possibility. Only then could the true potential of phở be realized.

The challenge for Hung now has less to do with the availability of ingredients than with the need for restraint. Hung sees himself as a guardian of purity, eschewing bean sprouts and excessive green garnish in accordance with northern tradition. They may well have opened their doors to the world, but that does not mean they must pollute their bowls. Ăn bắc; mặc nam, they say—eating as in the North; clothing as in the South—something so fundamental must be respected through deference to tradition.

Hung is a man governed by such principles rather than any laws, particularly those ones keenly enforced by the police that are of greatest inconvenience to him and those he serves. When the officers come to ticket him for trespassing or operating without a licence after he has had the peace of setting up shop in the same location for a few consecutive days, his customers will be forced to run off clutching their bowls, sloshing broth against their freshly pressed shirts, losing noodles to the pavement, jumping aboard their motorbikes and lurching into the day.

Hung’s crime is the same every day, but sometimes the police are in more of a mood to arrest a man than fine him. “Where did you relieve yourself this morning?” an officer in such a mood had asked him a few months ago.

Hung had shaken his head. The question made no sense. “Where did you pee, old man?” The officer raised his voice, threatening to arrest Hung for resisting a police officer if he didn’t answer the question.

Hung reluctantly pointed toward a patch of grass and asked, “Has peeing now been declared a crime?”

No...

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