For this week’s Translation Tuesday, we bring you a short story by Vietnamese writer Nam Cao, translated by Brett Wertz. Detailing the twilight years of an old woman, it lays bare the brutal calculus of a life spent in poverty, where maternal labor is an investment that yields few returns. Betrayed by her aging body, and unable to make a living in a world that has no use for her, she slowly gives into starvation. Nam Cao’s unflinching style, with its refusal to moralize or dole out happy endings, can make for a discomfiting read—but it presents a realistic portrait of the harshness of village life. A year after “A Full Meal” was published, the worst famine in modern Vietnamese history would begin, eventually claiming the lives of up to two million people, including one of the author’s own children.
The old woman cried out for her dead son all through the night. It was always like that—whenever she came to the end of the road, with no more ways to make ends meet, she would cry out for him. She wailed as if it was his fault she should be hungry now. And indeed it was. Her husband had died just as the boy slid from her womb, and so she raised the tiny little toddling thing on her own. It was her hope that she might be able to rely on the boy when she was old and weak. But before she had the chance to ask for even the smallest thing, he up and died. Her labor had been wasted.
The boy’s wife was inhuman. She had no compassion at all for her old mother-in-law! She remarried at once, hardly pausing to mourn her dead husband. Then, she abandoned their five-year-old daughter, leaving her with the old woman to raise, stooped and bent as she was. Thus, at nearly seventy years old, the old woman had no choice but to take her granddaughter in. She’d already given both flesh and bone for her son, and now would give all that was left for her granddaughter. What more could she hope for?
For seven long years she raised the girl, and on her twelfth birthday sent her to go work as a servant in exchange for ten silver coins. Reburying the girl’s father cost eight of those coins. The old woman used the two she had left as capital to get started selling in the market so that she might make a few pennies each day and take care of herself. The hem of her skirt went ragged from all the running between markets near and far. All for a few pennies—some happiness! Then she fell deathly ill. It was as if God couldn’t leave her in peace. What little money she’d had was totally cleaned out. She might as well have died, but was instead just worn down even further. Her hands and feet trembled with palsy and her body was drained and limp. Whenever she’d stand up her vision blurred. And at night when she laid down, her bones ached as if they were being pounded. When she walked her feet hurt. There was no way to sell at the market, not like this. Just thinking of the sun and the wind terrified her.
Even so, the old woman still had to eat. Goodness! How simple life would be if people didn’t have to eat. But food never just jumps into your mouth—you have to work for it. And as weak as she was, the old woman couldn’t manage hard labor, and couldn’t endure being out in the elements. She had to find work indoors, which left only babysitting. Something a girl of eleven or twelve might do. At first there were plenty of people who wanted to hire her. They thought: here’s a careful old woman who probably doesn’t eat very much. Even half meals would be enough to fill her up. And if they weren’t, well, at least old people don’t complain much. They don’t stew in resentment like the young brats who’d take any little story and spread it around the whole village. But after seeing the old woman work, they realized their mistake—hiring a young person made more sense. Peasant kids shaved all their hair. It was nothing to knock them about a few times on the head. No one would call you cruel. But an old woman with gray hair? The blood could be spurting from your nose in anger and still you couldn’t slap her around.
You couldn’t swear at her, either. One foul word would be enough to get you branded heartless. But the old lady was dotty and slow and all muddle-headed. She groped around like a blind beggar. Just lifting a bowl of rice caused her hands to shake, scattering food everywhere. She’d splash dipping sauce onto the table, dribble it onto her own blouse, and even spill it onto the head and clothes of the baby cradled in her arms. When the weather changed her whole body would ache. All night she would sigh and groan and call out to heaven. She’d cry and wail over her son. It was enough to make your skin crawl. Who could stand it? So people found reasons to kick her out. Then she’d have to coax her way into another house. In less than a year she changed masters five or six times, each time at a lower wage. First it was room, board and one silver a month. Then that became one hào a month. Then it was room, board and four silvers for the whole year. Then two silvers for the year. Then nothing. No one could stand her. One day, her final master sent her out to bring up two jugs of water from the well. The master had to hold his temper when she said she could only carry one, but even that didn’t go well. When she tried to bring it up onto the bank, she collapsed and shattered the jug, breaking her arm in the process. The master, hearing her screams, had to run down and help get her back to the house. No one had spare rice to take care of an old widow. So the master gave her a “reward” of five hào and sent her home to retire.
*
For more than three months, the old woman ate bánh đúc without exception. At first, she ate three of the cheap rice cakes each day. Then it was one a day. Then none. Her money was gone. Every morning, she went to the market to beg here and there. A little something from this person, a little something from that person. But who had enough to keep giving something each day? A heart’s pity has its limits. The woman began to go hungry. There was nothing to do but wail and cry out for her son. It was a depressing sight. She wailed all night and cried until she ran out of tears. Near dawn, she didn’t have the strength to cry anymore. She lay on the mat, flat on her belly, thinking aimless thoughts. Some people say that when you’re starving, your mind becomes clear. It might even be true, because the old woman suddenly hit upon an idea. She set out.
*
Every few steps the old woman had to sit and rest. Only after sitting for a very long while did her ears stop ringing and her heart stop pounding. Only then did her vision clear and her head stop spinning—more or less. She rested like that every five or six steps. By midday she came to the house she had sought: it belonged to the deputy village chief’s wife, Madame Thụ, who had taken in her “wretched” girl. The old woman was used to calling her granddaughter that way, ever since she was little. She was after all the daughter of the son that had stolen the old woman’s blood and sweat only to now lie peacefully in the earth. He had left her all alone to bear what remained—he didn’t suffer as she did now.
She gave into jealousy over her son while sitting and resting at the lane that led up to Madame Thụ’s house. The old woman leaned her back against a large fig tree. From where she sat there were two gates between her and the house. Only by calling loudly would anyone inside hear her. But in her condition how could she possibly yell? Her voice was feeble. Even talking a bit louder than usual took her breath away. Besides, the dogs at rich houses like this were always fierce. And Madame Thụ’s house had two of them, well-fed and muscular. When they were castrated, she had sprinkled shards of crushed glass into the wounds which healed unevenly, trapping the bits of glass inside. The animals forever suffered an excruciating, infuriating pain. The pain tortured them, and they were restless, miserable and always bad-tempered. The animals would immediately hurl themselves at whomever they saw, snapping their jaws in search of flesh to tear. My God! Madame Thụ’s dogs were awful beyond belief. The old woman was terrified to death just thinking of them. The time she brought her granddaughter to the house, a servant had to keep them away with a huge stick. Even so, the dogs had run out panting and snorting and surrounded the ragged old woman with their backs arched, snouts up, and razor sharp teeth gleaming. Held back by the servant’s stick, they went into a frenzy. They thrashed and leapt and sank their teeth into the bamboo fenceposts, shaking them with unbelievable violence. The old woman and her little granddaughter shrunk in fear. The girl pressed close to the old woman, while the old woman pressed close to the servant, who kept swinging the stick in all directions while yelling and screaming. Even so, one dog broke through and would have taken a bite of the old woman’s leg had the servant not gotten to it in time—it only managed to brush its snout against her thin leg. What a fright! Sitting there now, how could she dare to call out? The dogs had good hearing and were quick-footed. If they all came running she’d be doomed. So, the old woman had no choice but to sit and wait for something to happen. Maybe her granddaughter would carry a baby out to play, for example. Or maybe someone would need to go somewhere. Or maybe a strong man would come to Madame Thụ’s house and let the old woman follow him in. She imagined every possible stroke of luck that might happen. The only thing she didn’t think of was that it might be the deputy chief’s wife herself that she would meet. And that’s exactly what happened: Madame Thụ returned from the market. Thinking the old woman was a beggar she frowned.
“What are you doing sitting there? If the dogs come out they’ll tear the fat off you. My you’re bold, aren’t you?”
The old woman turned around and smiled a toothless smile. “Ma’am, just back from the market, are you?”
Madame Thụ opened two bloodshot eyes wide and looked a bit more carefully. She recognized it was the grandmother of her servant girl. Immediately her face hardened. This old woman wants to cause some kind of trouble, she thought. She probably wants to ask for money. The old woman groaned, put a hand on her knee, and struggled to her feet.
“What are you doing here?” Madame Thụ asked.
The old woman gave another little groan. She groaned the way that other people would sigh. It had become a habit.
“Ma’am, begging your pardon, I’ve come to see my granddaughter. It’s been a long time that she hasn’t come home and I miss her dearly! I was hoping to play with her a bit.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake! What rubbish! She has to work of course, she’s got no free time to see you, does she? Our house doesn’t have food enough to feed her and let her idle about. If you want to play with her then take her to your house and find something for her to eat. Then you can bring her back after a few months once you’re truly sick of each other. I won’t stop you! You think she’s made me rich, do you?”
The mistress spoke aggressively to cut the old woman off—that way she wouldn’t be able to open her mouth and beg. Indeed, the old woman was speechless at all the cruel words flung in her face. She bowed her head low like a grain thief nabbed by the village patrol. Madame Thụ smacked her lips a few times, tilted her head to the sky and continued.
“Play with your granddaughter. Bah! She looked like a dead worm when you first brought her here, picking gunk out of her filthy nose. I didn’t see anyone play with her then. Under my care she’s grown smooth-feathered and ruddy-cheeked. And look at her, starting to put on airs! As if she’s some kind of great treasure! As if we’re supposed to keep hold of her and never let go! Good grief! We should guard her and keep her in the ancestral tomb, is that it? You want to take her back and send her to work at another house so they can call her kin, fine, go ahead and take her! Who wants her? You’ll just have to give them their money back anyway.”
The old woman was on the verge of tears. Poor soul, she had no ill intent. She began to whimper.
“Ma’am, you wrong me terribly to say such things. Heaven has let me live to this old age, would I dare to trick someone? Truly, with heaven above as my witness, if I had planned to lure my granddaughter away to sell to someone else, then may God strike me down! I only beg you, ma’am, to be allowed to see her, to let an old grandmother have a few moments together with her granddaughter. I don’t have much time left until I die. I suppose I imagined I’d go out and play one last trick on death…”
“She’s not so free that she can just play with you. She’s got no time to do anything at all! In this house we don’t let our girls behave that way. But since you’ve mistakenly come all this way, I’ll give you a meal. Next time don’t be so stupid. My child studies in Hanoi. Do you think I can just go up there today to see him? How about the next day? Once people set out to do something they should know their place. ‘Play’ indeed!”
She clucked her lips again and pursed them together.
The girl, who had just now seen her grandmother, squealed with excitement. She was laughing and crying and didn’t know quite why. But the two beady eyes of the deputy chief’s wife dashed cold water on her joy. She suddenly felt ashamed. She didn’t dare fuss over her grandmother. She lowered her head and asked gently, “Grandma, what are you doing here?”
“I came to ask Madame Thụ for a meal to eat! I’m very hungry.”
It was true enough, but the old lady said it in a joking way. What some people might call a half-truth. She disguised her intentions by blurting them out. The girl, cradling a baby, led her grandmother to an outbuilding so that no one could watch them.
“Your skin looks terrible! Why are you so thin?” she asked.
“It’s just because I’m hungry, that’s it, child. It’s nothing.”
“Who’s house are you working in these days?”
“I’m not in anyone’s house.”
“So you’re selling again?”
“What money do I have to start selling with?” the old woman asked. “Even if I had, I couldn’t manage it. My body is all used up.”
“Well then what are you doing for work?”
“I’m just toughing it out, child. There’s nothing I can do.”
The grandmother and her granddaughter had only enough time to exchange these few words before Madame Thụ’s shrill voice yelled out, “Where’d she take the baby to?”
The girl hurriedly put the baby on the ground and said, “Grandma, help watch her for a minute.”
The girl untied part of her bodice and took out a small drawstring purse. A few coins jingled inside. She counted out two coins and pressed them into her grandmother’s hand.
“Take this grandma, so that you can eat some bánh đúc. Now, go home grandma!”
The sound of Madame Thụ’s voice came insistently.
“Where’d that hussy go? Bring the baby back in here, then sweep the house and get lunch ready.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She grabbed up the baby and ran inside quickly. The old woman, still scared of the dogs, followed timidly along behind. But, seeing this, Madame Thụ became infuriated and spat out a stream of invective: “Don’t hang onto her ass like that! Sit down in one place. Good lord how awful!”
“Yes, ma’aaam!” the old woman said, her words turning into a long groan.
She went inside and curled up on the ground in a corner. Madame Thụ picked up the baby while the girl scurried off down the stairs. A moment later, the clatter of chopsticks and bowls could be heard.
“Old woman, come down here and eat,” Madame Thụ said. She carried the baby out of the room and the old woman followed.
The sound of the looms had stopped. All the weaving girls were either Madame Thụ’s daughters or servants. They were now bustling about the large wooden serving platter that sat on the ground, one scooping rice, one setting out vegetables, one ladling fish sauce. The entire house gathered and sat down, just the one platter among them. The old woman sat next to her granddaughter, hands trembling as she took up her chopsticks. The deputy chief’s wife was so irritated at the sight of her that she wanted to rip the chopsticks from her hands, but she just smacked her lips and glared with her cold eyes. The girl could sense it and so she looked at the ground. She was very angry with her grandmother. She had already told her to go home.
Without another word, Madame Thụ picked up a bowl of rice to eat. She was seething with anger. The group of girls all hurriedly did as she did. If they wasted even a moment, she’d swear at them. There were times when she’d thrown a bowl of rice right in a girl’s face. The old woman looked around once, then picked up her bowl of rice.
“Thank you, ma’am,” she began in a tone of gratitude.
But just as she opened her mouth Madame Thụ cut her off.
“Enough! Just eat! Don’t talk!”
The old woman hurried to eat, but everyone was eating so fast. They were all silent, bent over their bowls, totally focused. As one pair of chopsticks went up, another went down. Just like that, one after another, up and down, up and down. But the old woman’s hands were slow and clumsy. She couldn’t find the right moment to grab the vegetables. Trembling badly, she knocked over a dish, spilling fish sauce.
Madame Thụ, exasperated, yelled, “Get her her own dish and put it beside her!”
One of the girls hurried to do it right away. After that, the old woman managed a bit better. But she had only just started on a second small serving of rice when Madame Thụ flung her chopsticks and bowl to the ground. An instant later everyone else had done the same. They were finished, just like that, with only a single helping of rice. Just as if Madame Thụ had given an order. In actuality, the household rule was that each person could eat only three helpings of rice. They had to eat fast in order to get back to work. But the old woman was poor, and was used to living without such rules. She couldn’t understand that a household with excess grain and money would have to ration food like that. She guessed they were picky eaters. When you’re always full, you don’t need so much; but when you’re always hungry, you’re never satisfied. When starving people finally get a meal, no matter how much it is, it’s not sufficient. But for people who are always full, well, they don’t have to eat much at all. So she went ahead and ate. She would eat until she was full. They already looked down on her, so why should she go hungry? She kept eating. Her granddaughter was so ashamed that she tried to look away, hurrying to swallow the last of her rice like a chicken swallowing a toad. Then she let go of her bowl and chopsticks.
The woman told her granddaughter, “Eat more, child. There’s a pot of rice there. Give me your bowl, I’ll serve you.”
But before the girl could answer Madame Thụ yelled at the old woman.
“Forget her! She’s done eating. You go ahead and eat as much as you want!”
Now the old woman understood. Everyone had already stood up. She was sitting alone with Madame Thụ who scowled in contempt. But the old woman still felt hungry. There was rice, and to waste it would be a pity. Since she was eating at the deputy village chief’s mercy, what dignity did she have left to lose? She ate as if she didn’t care. She was nearly full, but there was still a little rice stuck to the bottom and edges of the pot. It would be a shame to waste it. She took the pot in her lap and said to her granddaughter, “Child, there are still some grains in here. They’ll dry out. I’ll scrape them off for you to eat.”
“Let them go dry! Forget her!” came Madame Thụ’s nasty voice. “If you can eat it all, then eat it. Don’t talk to her. She can’t get anything more down. What’s the use of stuffing yourself until your stomach bursts?”
Well, the old woman went and ate it all! She mixed in the fish sauce and rasped her spoon against the pot as she scraped it clean. She slurped up every last bit. Now she was well and truly full. She suddenly realized that she was too full—oh dear! Her belly felt tight and swollen. She loosened her waistband a bit so it was easier to breathe and leaned back back against the wall as sweat poured off of her. Her insides churned uneasily and fatigue washed over her. She wanted to lie down flat and rest, but she was scared everyone would laugh at her. Good heavens! Being old and weak was miserable. Being hungry was miserable! But so was being full. Before she ate her body had been weak. Yet after she ate she was more tired than before. My God!
Later that evening the old woman finally left. She said she wanted to leave late to avoid the sun. But really it was because her stomach ached and she couldn’t walk. She had also drank too much water. But no matter how much she drank she was still thirsty. She only felt her stomach continue to swell. That night, she laid for a long time and couldn’t sleep. She tried to shift her stomach, rolling it this way and that. She could feel her insides sloshing around like a jug of water. The skin of her belly was stretched tight and she wheezed with each breath. About midnight, she felt a pain in her stomach. The pain became sharper, and slowly grew stronger. The light drained from her vision. A moment later she felt a twisting stab in her guts. She began vomiting just as diarrhea came on. Good lord! All that eating just to puke it up! After the choleric diarrhea passed, symptoms of dysentery appeared. Her stomach was in extreme pain. To eat even a little caused an agony she couldn’t bear. It went on like that for half a month. Then she died. Madame Thụ, hearing the news, said, “She died of being full.”
She used the death to teach her girls a lesson.
“You all look here. You can’t die of hunger, but one full meal can kill you—know better than to stuff yourselves!”
Translated from the Vietnamese by Brett Wertz
Nam Cao (1915—1951), born Trần Hữu Tri, wrote dozens of stories about Vietnam’s rural poor. He wrote not as an observer, but as a small-town intellectual scraping by on a teacher’s salary—someone who was familiar not only with suffering and poverty, but with society’s moral rot at the height of French colonialism and Japanese occupation. His realist portraits of village life are deeply resonant thanks to a restrained prose style that trusts readers to understand the horror of what they’re reading. This work would cost him his life. Nam Cao died at the age of 36 when he was captured by the French and executed on November 11, 1951.
Brett Wertz is a writer and translator who was trained in Vietnamese at Hanoi Polytechnic University and in translation at the Middlebury Institute of International Studies. He has lived in Vietnam since 2009 and focuses primarily on realist literature from the pre-revolutionary period.
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