Adapt this interview into a short story, using Visual language, pay attention to: - structure
- story (given circumstances, dramatic action, pace, arc)
- character (status, function, relationships, objectives and obstacles, arc)
- text
- idea, philosophy, atmosphere, central image. The interview: "
Writer Chu Lai: I am very amorous, still am to this day, even a fleeting glimpse of a woman can haunt me. But without that, perhaps the profession of writing wouldn’t exist anymore. My first love was both a gain and a loss. We were in love, but her family did not approve, so I decided to drop out of the Military Medical University and leave the sacred theatrical stage to go to fight. She was forbidden to see me but one moonlit night, she sneaked out to visit me. We were on the rooftop of a house on The Giao Alley, known back then as Street 35 next to a park, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of ylang-ylang flowers, something miraculous happened like something out of a fairy tale, which if the younger generation hears they would laugh and say: “Mr. Chu Lai with a face like that, talking about such a story, as if it’s something nobody knows about.”
This means that before going to battle tomorrow, we spent a sleepless night together, nothing happening between us even though we were both naked at times. There was something very strange about it. The battle was going to be fierce, and we knew that half of those who went might not return. What if I didn't return? I was a hot-tempered person, recklessly thinking of leaving the consequences in her belly, but wouldn’t that burden her for the rest of her life? So many questions arose, and I gritted my teeth to hold back, so that the next morning, I could head to Hang Co station, I picked up my backpack, and she saw me off, watching the train chug away as if watching a knight who had kept her safe last night - a night where anything could have happened.
And the soldier (me), watching her figure shrink at the old station, also thought that with this posture, this face, this sentiment, if I am to live and return, she would still be there for me, because she had once said: “I can’t keep you from going, but when you return, even if you’re crippled, I will take care of you for life”.
Invisibly, the image of that girl became a spiritual anchor for me to traverse the brutal forests that seemed unbearable, striving to be an honourable soldier so that, if I survived and returned, I could look her in the eyes and say: I’ve fulfilled my duty as a soldier and come back to you without shame.”

Writer Chu Lai: For 10 years as a soldier, I was fine, luckily not too fine or I would have become a hero, and heroes can’t write. But the day I returned, I heard she was married. My sibling immediately said: “You stay here, I’ll call her over.” Two hours later, she came, still as beautiful, only now behind her Mifa bike was a wicker chair with a sleeping child. The first thing she did was cry and ask me: “Why didn’t I receive any news from you for 10 years? All the information said that you had fallen, and your family assumed you had died too. You know how many came seeking me while you were away.”
I said, “I know. The elders say leaving behind a beautiful wife or lover is like leaving a Peugeot bike in the middle of Hoan Kiem Lake without locking it. It doesn’t matter, this nation has lost too much, my personal loss means nothing.” At that point, she said: “My love for you remains unchanged. Since liberation, I have waited for you every day and asked about you. Now that you’re back, if needed, I will leave everything behind for you.” I firmly said: “It’s too late, the die is cast. We fought for the happiness of the people, including yours. You are settled now, I accept the loss.” Hearing this, she cried and… left.
On that night, I lay on the rooftop, inhaling the familiar scent of ylang-ylang blossoms. Memories of that night when we were both naked yet there was nothing happened flooded back. And then, I cried. It was the second time I had cried in my life. The first time was when Saigon was liberated. I came out of the forest and lay on a hard bed. Unable to sleep, I swung on a hammock, reminiscing about my comrades who would never return, and my tears flowed. And the second time, despite my stern voice and actions when parting ways with my lover, I realized upon returning that I had lost everything.
It was just a memory, but it also made me reflect on the heart of a woman, and the qualities of love forged by war and harsh circumstances. Yet, deep within them, there still remained something very feminine, something of a woman. For, twenty years after that meeting, a military phone with the prefix 069 rang out in the sweltering midday heat: "Hello, excuse me, are you the writer Chu Lai?" I replied: "Yes, who is this?" The woman said: "Don't you recognize me?" I said: "No, how could I when I get so many calls in a day?" When the girl said her name, I recognized her and asked again: "Why are you calling me? I thought you went abroad." At this point, she said: "No, I'm in Hanoi, just two blocks from your house. Do you have time to come here for a bit?"
Intrigued, I went to her old house and we had a cup of traditional tea. She was still as beautiful as ever, the beauty of a sophisticated middle-aged woman, but slightly haggard. After finishing our tea, she said: "Last night I dreamt of you and this morning I had to call you." In my mind, I thought to myself: "Strange, I spent my entire youth fighting in the war, while at home she married someone else, betrayed me, and then remained silent for 20 years. Living in the lofty status of a PhD, and at the brink of her midlife crisis dreams of me.”." I also said: "I think of you from time to time too, but what's up?" She said: "It's autumn now, and I want you to take me to all the places where we have memories together." I was taken aback and wondered: "Here she goes again, stirring up old memories that were buried deep down when she went off to marry someone else. And now..." I replied: "Okay, I'll make arrangements. I also want to revisit those memories but haven't had the chance yet." I promised to make arrangements, but then I forgot about it.
A year later, while I was walking down the street, I heard someone calling me; turning around, I saw the younger brother of my former lover. The two of us had coffee at the entrance of Bat Dan Street, and I asked: “How is she doing?” He froze: “Oh, you don’t know? She passed away!” I continued: “How did she pass away?” “She died of cancer,” he replied. At that moment, it dawned on me that when she called me wanting to revisit our memories, it was three months before her death. After that, I asked her daughter to take me to her grave in Ha Dong to offer incense. On the way back, overwhelmed with sadness, it struck me that the girl from the war, whom I thought had betrayed me by marrying someone else due to our lost contact, actually always harboured our profound first love deep within her heart."