What Kind of Woman Am I?
She asked. A long, long time ago.
She wasn’t particularly fond of reading, but that didn’t mean she didn’t read at all. She had a small collection of stories she liked, devoured three great Chinese classics—Water Margin, Romance of the Three Kingdoms, and Dream of the Red Chamber—and skimmed through a few short stories by contemporary authors. But she never bothered to reread anything, no matter how compelling the story was.
With such a habit, among all the characters that passed through her memory, only one left a lasting impression—perhaps even admiration. That was Pan Jinlian, the ill-fated woman from Water Margin.
In short, the stories she read were just enough to let her engage in a discussion. Literature—dull at first, then captivating once inside, only to leave one bewildered at the end.
That was enough to let her join in the idle chatter that filled the air over post-work drinks, especially with men. They liked to talk about politics and world affairs.
One evening, just like any other, she found herself among a group of men after work, unwilling to go home. The table was cluttered with leftover food, the air thick with the mingling scents of beer, cigarettes, and greasy dishes—the unmistakable aroma of a street-side drinking joint.
As always, the men talked about the state of the world, about politics, and then, as the alcohol took hold, about their own lives. Then, literature—dull at first, then captivating once inside, only to leave one bewildered at the end.
Someone asked her—the last woman still seated as the night wore on.
“Who’s your favorite character in the books you’ve read?”
It was a man from her workplace. The kind who wore neatly pressed shirts and ties in the morning, loitered in cafés at noon, bragging about fleeting romances, then lurked in smoke-filled bars at night before tumbling into bed with some nameless woman—only to recount it all over coffee the next day.
She despised men like him. The kind who saw women as disposable.
When she first joined the company and heard about him, she had openly scorned him. There were times she wanted to slap him just to put him in his place.
And yet, here she was. Sitting with him. Talking about literature. Because talking about money, bills, and daily struggles was exhausting.
She heard his question and answered: “Pan Jinlian—the wronged woman of Water Margin.”
The men fell silent.
It wasn’t the first time. Many people had reacted with shock when she said she admired that character.
Women looked at her as if she were some rare, lower-order creature—impossible to categorize, yet somehow still lingering in this modern world.
Men smirked at her, as if she were a relic of a bygone era, a ghost of faded beauty still haunting the present.
And then, there were those who eyed her with barely veiled resentment, as if she had grown tired of a peaceful life and was about to recklessly upend it.
She—neither beautiful nor plain. They said she was once a campus beauty. She had married young, just after graduation.
Her husband wasn’t rich but wasn’t poor either—somewhere comfortably in the middle. He had a car, a stable job. In the eyes of a college girl back then, he was an acceptable choice in Saigon.
She married him under the envious yet slightly scornful gazes of others. She figured it was jealousy—jealousy that she had secured a stable future.
Their life was comfortable. He had his job, she had hers. Their income was more than enough.
People envied her. They thought she had it all.
Only she knew—happiness was a simple word, easy to write, yet difficult to define.
Every time her husband fretted over money before even stepping into the market—just like any other stingy man—she felt something crack inside her.
Many times, she sought professional advice. It had nothing to do with having children. Her husband laughed it off, relieved.
A weight lifted from his shoulders.
“There are three great unfilial acts,” his mother reminded her. “The worst is failing to bear a son.”
She sat in silence, her eyes no longer searching for comfort in her husband’s distant gaze.
She thought—having a child wasn’t just her decision to make.
Countless times, desire took hold of him. He lunged at her like a beast, devouring his prey. Then, once sated, he sprawled out—naked, oblivious.
She barely recognized the man who had once whispered sweet words of love, the man who had promised forever, the man she had once called husband.
"If one day we part, I will mourn you for a lifetime."
A love song drifted from a street-side speaker, the kind played by wandering CD vendors.
For a fleeting moment, she wanted to mourn him.
Not forever—just once.
Choking back emotions, she emptied her glass of beer in one swift gulp, under the watchful eyes of those still murmuring about her choice of literary heroine.
The man across from her smirked.
And suddenly, she saw it—a hotel room materializing before her.
He, in his pressed shirt, stepping in, about to enact the next chapter of his midday café tales.
She, bare-skinned after the storm had passed, questioning herself—stay or leave? Continue or stop? Today or tomorrow?
Swallowing hard, she placed a hand on her stomach—no longer flat.
Lifting her glass again, she drained it, her answer lingering in the air:
“I like Pan Jinlian.”
And then, the question returned:
What kind of woman should I be?
Không có nhận xét nào:
Đăng nhận xét