The mores of domesticated Muscovy ducks are the focus of today’s Translation Tuesday. Tô Hoài documents the lives of these gnarled, delinquent, “sybaritic” birds (translated into English with verve and gusto by Thúy Đinh), seeking in vain a sort of understanding. His focus settles on their eyes and faces, but for all his careful watching, he can find nothing to reveal the inner lives of these particularly unaffectionate, unmaternal animals. It seems they live simply to eat.
The calamity that wiped out the chicken has not affected the Muscovy ducks—strong, stolid beasts, immune to ill winds.
Two large ducks now waddle in the poultry yard. There used to be a brood of ducklings, all gone now. If human lives seem to merge into the sea of time, epic and borderless, rolling on endlessly, for the animals, especially those whose lives are enmeshed with ours, there exist only small injuries and barely noticed deaths. Theirs are insignificant, inchoate lives. Harmless beings, they don’t take much of our space, even though they breathe the same air as us. To us they seem no more visible than earthworms or ants.
Six ducklings there were—six tiny, charming heads, six pairs of round eyes, sparkling and innocent. They clustered and made yip-yip sounds around their mother’s coarse, webbed feet. Their mother is as coarse as her extremities. Obtuse and inscrutable, with a surprised expression etched permanently upon a swaying countenance, the mother duck looks like someone being robbed of her purse money on market day.
A witless bird, she accidentally killed one of her offspring.
One day, Lặc brought corn to the yard to feed the ducks. The she-duck lurched toward the earthen trough filled with corn pellets. The ducklings hurried after her, shoving their tiny bodies into the vessel. Their mother, standing to the side, trying to pick at scattered pellets, her bill entangled in a flurry of feathers. By and by, she clumsily inserted herself into the trough, one webbed foot after another. Raft-like, she stood in the cramped, blurred space. Her foot landed on a duckling. When she finally lifted this appendage to plow into another pile of corn, her child could no longer move. Its back was broken.
Satiated after the meal, the she-duck flapped her wings, then led the rest of her ducklings toward a nearby pond. In the deserted trough, the squished duckling barely squeaked. The mother duck paid him no mind, but continued to sway her head, shake her tail, and quack raucously, as if to express some naïve and mysterious delight.
So that was how the first duckling died. Ten days later, two more followed their sibling into the next world. One moment these two were floating in the pond, nuzzling their heads into the sludgy embankment, the next moment they were suctioned deep into an eel pit. Later, the children went looking for them and found two stiff, upturned tails. One downy head, still caught in the muddy, sensuous pit, had a deep puncture wound.
Three bright-eyed featherbrains remained.
One day the she-duck took her children for a walk in the rice paddy. The weather had turned, steering in a kettle of hawks from the far horizon. With oar-like, widespread wings, these predators circled the paddy, drifting among clouds. Their whistling chirrups filled the open space like cool, clear sounds from a pan flute. But the hawks weren’t swirling as if to build a well in the fathomless sky. They hovered back and forth, at times settling down in a quiet clearing to bathe in a stream, or shrewdly search for prey. That day a hawk dipped dangerously close to earth after catching a glimpse of the she-duck and her children. This hawk extended its massive, iron-like claws to make off with a straggling duckling. It then flew to a secluded spot to peck its victim to death before savoring the poor one’s tender flesh. A moment later, another hawk flew down and snatched away the next duckling. Thin wails dissolved in the air.
The she-duck must have heard her offspring’s call for help, for she lifted her neck and scanned the horizon. But before long she placidly turned her attention back to the grass, her tail swaying in contentment. The last duckling, still terrified, now buried his head deep into his mother’s belly.
A mother hen wouldn’t be that useless, but would certainly puff up into a ball and fight her enemy to the death. Such heroics had never occurred to the she-duck, however. She led her child home, looking as serene as ever.
A festive brood of six ducklings reduced to one. The poultry yard, recently decimated by bird flu, now seemed even more desolate, with its vacant, unlatched cages. Green moss speckled the muddy path, where webbed and pronged footprints, once prolific, barely left a trace.
At night, the two adult ducks slept in the crawl space beneath the henhouse. Their child lay besides them, his bill burrowing deep into one of his wings. These ducks, sloppy and easy-going, must have thought their humble spot a commodious fort.
One night, a banded krait zigzagged over from the nearby pond. The snake was as long as a carrying pole, with yellow and black stripes, as lethal to domestic animals as a tiger to humans. Its common name is rắn cạp nong cạp nia, with patterns thought to resemble the striated borders of a winnowing basket. Somehow the adult ducks managed to totter away unscathed. But their child, sleepy and slow-footed, was struck clean in the back.
The next morning, Lặc found the lifeless duckling not far from a slimy furrow of mud leading from the pond to the dank space below the henhouse. He ran inside to holler the tragic news. The children came out in a jostled bunch, wary lest the snake was still lurking near.
Lặc picked up the dead duckling by its feet:
—What a waste. Its meat should be velly tender. I’ll ask Sir to bling it home …
—You gonna cook it?
—Why not? The other day, I also ate a dead looster. I just had to thow away its clop. Meat velly tasty. Flee meat shouldn’t be wasted.
The children turned pale, certain that Lặc and his wife would die if eating meat contaminated with snake venom. Unfazed, Lặc took his trophy home.
The next day, Lặc showed up to work as usual, his face as ruddy and his stomach as big as ever. All the children clustered around him:
—Did you eat the entire thing?
—I could have eaten sevelal.
—You’re not scared of getting sick?
Lặc whispered:
—I tell you a seclet. When you cook the meat, just add a thee-inch nail into the pot. Metal will suck away the venom. But you must thow away the bloth, then evelything else is good to eat.
The children were speechless, as if convinced of Lặc’s strange wisdom.
***
The last duckling has died, erasing all hopes for an anatine posterity. No one remembers them, not even their mother and father. At the end of summer, Persian lilacs fall.
The grownup ducks now amble together. The male is white, and true to his species, twice as large as his mate. His body is all white, preceded by a broad bill speckled with red blemishes. These are not duck’s acne but cockscomb-like protrusions that also seem to ooze out of his forehead. These monstrous growths mar his otherwise immaculate appearance, undermining his presumed eminence over the humbler kinds of Muscovy ducks, those that are either black all over, or white with black spots, their natural garbs looking as sooty as the patchy skirts worn by peasant women in winter.
Mostly it’s the ducks’ recalcitrant nature that does not endear them to people.
The male is particularly stubborn. He walks unperturbed even if pursued. Not only that, he will occasionally turn his head toward the pursuer as if to challenge them. At times he will even attack. He’s not fearful or cautious like the compact-size dabblers, who will become dazed by the slightest disturbance before fleeing the scene. But he might have been born this way, as opposed to possessing actual malice.
More often than not, a child might pluck two large taro leaves, and after wrestling the ducks to the ground, might cover their eyes with the leaves. Under this green pall, the ducks might seem to forget time, imagining themselves cocooned within a grassy womb. They might lie still for hours, until the leaves on their eyelids curl into brittle swirls, before groggily rising from the ground. Once again, they might resume their ambling, their footfall marking time upon the dirt.
One fine day, the male lumbers his way toward the alley. He walks as if exhausted or inebriated, swaying his body, his large feet, even his very short tail. Suddenly he comes face to face with a child about three or four years old, who has just toddled into his path. The alley is narrow and deep, lined with tall Persian lilac trees—their white trunks and branches full of cascading yellow fruits. The little boy appraises the duck. Naked, but not afraid, he reaches out to pat the animal’s oscillating head. The duck, equally bold, aims for the child’s belly button. Ticklish, the boy pushes the duck away. The duck then targets his opponent’s fluttering member, his bill gripping and pulling the child further into the alley.
The boy flails about helplessly, crying “Mommy! Mommy!” By the time the adults show up he has somehow managed to extricate himself from the duck. No one suspects any scrimmage between this child and the inane-looking duck. The child is not fully verbal, and mostly cries with gusto when hurt. The miscreant duck, unflappable as ever, simply wags his long neck from side to side as if showing concern. People think perhaps a horde of red ants has attacked the child.
***
Behind the house, in a far corner of the garden bordering the pond, lies a lush patch of mustard greens, enclosed by fences to shield it from the ducks’ rapacious exploits. Twice a day, Lặc comes by to water the vegetables through a latched opening.
Four beds of leafy greens are planted in a straight row. Their greenness unfurls vividly against the dark amber ground. Young leaves barely come up to one’s heels. More mature ones are boat-shaped with serrated edges touching the ground. The greens are planted in anticipation of the New Year. Taller, older clumps of greens with yellow flowers will be made into a traditional pickle.
The garden is at its most resplendent when the older plants yield their cheery blossoms. When this happens, an effusion of white butterflies will arrive, swan diving among the leaves but not quite settling, a trail of fluttering, silky wings against a shimmering gold-green sea. Then the rain will fall—filaments of dust drifting in the wind.
This poetic, harmonious tableau is soon to be disrupted by a pair of barbarians. Today Lặc has watered the mustard greens but forgotten to close the latch. After a while, one hears a snorting, congested sound, then the thump-thump of heavy footfall, followed by the arrival of a flat, monstrous bill, before a tubular, furunculous crown with two manic orbs appears. Seeing the open fence, the male makes a strenuous leap into the enclosure. His female companion, close behind, also snorts and wiggles her way into the garden.
How miraculous! How ecstatic! How rare that one comes across such fresh and scrumptious leaves! The big ducks immediately proceed to ravish the patch, tearing and crunching each verdant leaf with abandon. They consume both mature and young plants, sparing none. They lie flat on the ground to thrust their crude bills into the tender leaves, their posteriors quiver with excitement. It doesn’t take long for them to lay waste to rows and rows of luscious greens. Momentarily exhausted, the male flaps his wings, rest for a moment, and resume his bingeing. They gorge as if there is no tomorrow. By and by the lush patch becomes a blighted mess. The butterflies still flutter in the rain. The rain still falls in tendrils of silk dust. But two pairs of coarse feet and two inexorable bills have trampled and swallowed the entire world.
At some point, a child, walking outside, chances upon the carnage. Alarmed, he runs back into the house and reports this catastrophe.
Lặc bolts toward the scene—grim face and thunderous feet—so angry he might have crushed a puppy. “Thieves! Thieves! They’re luining me!”
He peers into the garden. The ducks are still noshing, completely oblivious of their surroundings. Even after acknowledging Lặc’s presence with barely a glance, they resume their sybaritic quest. They have no need for Lặc. They have no need for anything. The fence had been left ajar, so they walked in. There was an immense sea of leaves. So they ate, have eaten, are still eating. Simple as that. If only people were that simple.
Lặc retracts his leg and gives the male a violent kick. The creature shoots up in the air and plunges headlong into a nearby hedge. The female also gets the same treatment. They scramble to their feet, stunned and uncomprehending. Stretching their necks, widening their eyes, they quack in unison. What is that? What is that?
Lặc keeps on kicking. The children keep on shouting. With each rebound, the ducks extend their necks and cackle loudly. They turn their heads to confront their abuser, refusing to flee. More kicking. The ducks are resilient. Lặc wonders if he’s merely hitting air, the endless thud thud mocking his effort. Finally, Lac grabs husband and wife by the neck and shoves them into a cage, fastening its double latch.
The ducks are jailed. But even then, they don’t seem to grasp the full extent of their transgression, for they won’t stop shaking their heads and making a racket. A very brazen sort indeed!
Three days later, the ducks are released. They flap their wings, stretch their legs, and sputter across the yard. Suddenly, the male becomes airborne. His wife also takes wing. Two white ducks are now floating in the air, flitting among white clouds. They fly into the rice paddy. An outstanding feat, truly! The ducks have never flown before. By nature they know how to fly and can fly quite high. But they rarely display this talent. The male must have suffered quite a case of cabin fever, having been cooped up for days. Now that he is free, he takes to the sky with a vengeance.
Lặc runs after the ducks. They eventually land in the middle of the paddy. Once again, Lặc grabs them both by the neck and carries them home.
***
The male receives his death sentence that very day.
A ceramic bowl is procured. A child grabs his wings and hoists them high. Another child grips his legs while Lặc seizes his neck, plucking clean a patch of feathers below the bill. Lặc then pushes the blade against the duck’s neck, making a quick, sharp cut. Red rivulets trickle into the bowl. The duck wheezes, his pupils widening. A thin layer of white begins to form under his eyelids, gradually occluding the eyes. After a few thrashing movements, the duck dies.
The female idles nearby, her gaze inscrutable. What is she thinking, as she swivels her sinuous neck with a calm, casual air? She probably has no inkling why people are clumping about her mate. This breed has poor memory. A thing that has happened is the same as anything that never comes to pass. But the she-duck clearly remembers all the instances where she would rush blindly at the sight of scarlet corn kernels, ocher rice grains, and emerald greens.
She has been granted a brief reprieve. They have clipped her wings to neuter her flight impulse. But her death has been foretold by the family patriarch:
—On the 23rd day before Tết, this duck will accompany the Kitchen God to heaven.
Translated from the Vietnamese by Thúy Đinh
Tô Hoài (born Nguyễn Sen; September 27, 1920 – July 6, 2014) was a Vietnamese writer, playwright, and journalist. His pen name combines Tô Lịch River with Hoài Đức Prefecture (in Hà Đông Province), reflecting two important landmarks of his birthplace. O Chuột (Mouse Stalking), the short story collection from which “Muscovy Ducks” appears, was published in 1943, and has long been considered among Tô Hoài’s most significant works, assigned as required reading for both North and South Vietnamese high school students even after the 1954 partition. Equally beloved is Tô Hoài’s picaresque novel, Dế mèn phiêu lưu ký (A Cricket’s Adventures) (1941), which vividly captures the idyllic vista of his North Vietnamese boyhood. Tô Hoài’s nonfiction works are Truyện Tây Bắc (Stories of the North West Region) (1958), Quê nhà (Hometown) (1970), Ba người khác (The Other Three) (1991). He was awarded the Ho Chi Minh Prize for Literature in 1996, in recognition of his lasting impact on Vietnamese arts and letters. While many of Tô Hoài’s works have been translated into other languages, this translation represents the first instance that “Muscovy Ducks” has been rendered into English.
Thúy Đinh is co-editor of Da Màu and editor-at-large at Asymptote. Her works have appeared in Asymptote, NPR Books, NBCThink, Prairie Schooner, Rain Taxi Review of Books, and Manoa, among others. She tweets @ThuyTBDinh.
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