The ice cream vendor's cry…

(Baonghean) - As a child, every midday, while dozing off, hearing the plastic horn of the ice cream vendor's horn playing "bim bip... bim bip... bim" filled my heart with excitement and anticipation. I would secretly get up, grab my broken plastic sandals or my father's plastic bag containing a few beer cans, and quickly run to the end of the alley to trade for ice cream...

My house was near the end of the alley, far from the old banyan tree where the ice cream vendor used to wait for the neighborhood kids. So whenever I rushed there, I'd find the other kids swarming around his rickety bicycle like a flock of chicks fighting over a tiny grasshopper. The ice cream vendor was a man about my father's age, dark-skinned, wearing a patched straw hat. We didn't know his name. But because of his thick, dark beard, we all called him by the affectionate nickname "Uncle Beard," and it became a habit. "Uncle Beard, can I have a mung bean ice cream?" "I'll have a milk ice cream, please!" "Is it almost my turn for the pineapple ice cream?" We all clamored to speak, and Uncle Beard was constantly handing out ice cream to each of us, but he still couldn't keep up. He chuckled softly, "Don't worry, kids. There's still plenty left!" Usually, all you need is a pair of old sandals, a few beer cans, a couple of plastic bottles, or a small bag of dried duck feathers to make a few tempting, colorful ice cream cones: mung bean ice cream, white milk ice cream, yellow pineapple ice cream—each kind is irresistibly fragrant, refreshing, and sweetly soft.

Illustration: Hong Toai

We sat under the cool shade of the banyan tree, eating ice cream and watching Uncle Râu's figure slowly disappear behind the pumpkin patch in front of us, the sound of his horn "bim... bip... bim... bip..." gradually fading away. Occasionally, one of us would ask for a bite from another's to taste a different flavor. Immediately, the other would demand a bite in return to be fair. For us, popsicles were the most delicious and precious treat. Therefore, none of us dared to take a big bite of the ice cream, which was about the size of three fingers held together; we only slowly sucked it little by little until only a tiny bamboo stick remained.

One afternoon, hearing the lively sound of Uncle Râu's trumpet mingling with the boisterous shouts of my neighborhood friends in the sweltering heat, I habitually woke up and rummaged through the house to see if I could trade anything for ice cream, but I couldn't find anything. Suddenly remembering the old, peeling green canteen hanging on the wall, unused for a long time, I boldly climbed onto a plastic chair to take it down. At the bottom of the canteen was engraved the name "Trầm"—my father's name—followed by a hyphen connecting to someone's name beginning with the letter "K," the rest of the lettering having come loose due to the peeling paint. Without bothering about it, I quickly ran out to chase my friends to the banyan tree at the end of the lane to trade for ice cream. Thanks to that rusty canteen, I managed to trade for two refreshing mung bean ice cream cones that day.

That evening, I received a severe beating. The canteen was a memento from a close comrade, a gift to my father on the day of the country's liberation. My father sat awake all night by the oil lamp, occasionally sighing. Just for two popsicles, I had committed a grave offense. It was late at night, and I couldn't sleep. I told myself that tomorrow at noon, at the time Uncle Râu usually came to the alley, I would run out and ask him for my father's canteen back.

The following afternoon, I was punished by being made to lie still in bed, not allowed to run and jump as I had on previous afternoons. As I anxiously peered out the window, waiting for Uncle Râu, I ​​was startled to see him park his bicycle outside the gate, next to the bougainvillea fence. He walked in with a chipped canteen in his hand. Hearing the dog barking, Dad opened the door. Then I saw Dad stand still. Uncle Râu also stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot, for a long time on the brick courtyard. Before I could understand what was happening, I saw Dad rush out to invite Uncle Râu into the house, his voice full of emotion: "Is that Kiên?"

It turned out that the close friend who gave my father that water bottle was Uncle Râu. His real name was Kiên. After the liberation, my father returned to the North, while Uncle Râu stayed in the South to start a business. After several moves due to floods, the two lost contact. Uncle Kiên was exposed to Agent Orange, and both of his children were born with birth defects and died. Because of this, his wife left him to be with a wealthy businessman in the Mekong Delta. Uncle Râu ended up here alone, selling ice cream to find solace and forget all his bitterness and resentment...

It turns out that each popsicle I ate every summer afternoon had more than just aroma and sweetness...

Phan Duc Loc