“I told you that when you become a painter, I will stop smoking.”
He spent half a minute saying nothing, just studying her face. Her hair was a little shorter, her face had no more bruises. If there was one thing that he always found charming about Violet's appearance, then it must be the eyes. They glitter like the lake surface on a full moon, embracing the whole world inside it. A world of her own.
But even then, anyone can have beautiful eyes. He tried to work out from the moment they met, what about her that got him to care for her more than he should. He just couldn't figure it out. Turner considered himself too dumb to understand the concept of caring for someone, and the concept of love.
So when Violet walked into his life, he was confused.
“What are you looking at?”
“Your hair is shorter.”
Violet subconsciously fixed her bangs; her cheeks turned pink ever so slightly. “You think it's pretty?”
“Pretty.”
They sat in silence for another ten minutes, a silence so awkward even the old jailer felt anxious. She wanted to open her mouth to break the silence many times, but she did not know what to say. Finally, Turner exhaled. “Did you bring the pencil with you?”
“What?” Violet widened her eyes.
“Pencil. You always carry it with you, right?”
He surprised her. Not many people tried to remind her of her pencil every time they meet, or anything related to painting.
She slowly took it out of her bag. As a reflex, she trembled. Not only her hands, but her shoulders, her whole body.
“Can you put your hand on the glass?” He gestured with his index finger.
“Like that?”
“Yeah.”
She pushed it against the glass door, the pencil sticking to it. Her teeth bit into her lips, her eyes drooping. He looked at her with a curious expression. “Deep breaths. “She nodded. He continued. “They are not as shaky as before, are they?”
“I-I don't know. I didn’t notice.”
“V. I've told you this before... When I was a kid, there was a guy in the neighborhood who always bullied me. People call him Bobby the Fatty. Every day, he bullied me. For three years. One time he suffocated me with a pillow and I could not breathe for a minute. I was terrified, until I reached adolescence, that is. I blocked his way home, picked up the bamboo stick and broke his nose.”
“What about that?”
“I just thought there's nothing scary in this world. It's just that whether you're already a big enough person to whack the hell out of it or not.”
She didn't answer, but instead stood up. Time was running out.
“I'm still waiting for your picture,” Turner said.
Violet Pham turned away, clutching the pencil.
That night, Turner could not sleep. He spent many nights sleepless. During the night, he opened his eyes and waited. Waiting for the day he was finally dead. The days in prison were hell — taking a man with no reason to live and force him to keep living was perhaps one of the evilest things one can do to someone else. It wasn't clear to him whether or not Violet was there to laugh at his face. Did she come to spit on him? He had forbidden her to die once, did she feel it was cruel? He wanted to think so. If nobody cared about him, everything would be much simpler.
He should never have agreed to talk to her. He should have refused when the jailer announced that someone wanted to see him. Now, when he saw her treat him nicely, he didn't know what to make of it.
October 29th.2011
T he water was pitch dark. The mighty wind scooped up the ruthless water, shooting faint purple streaks before Violet's eyes. Clinging to the bridge, she shivered. She listened to the sound of the currents; it sounded black. She listened to the sound of the wheezing breeze; it sounded black. The car honking from the distance sounded black, the chirping sparrows on the banyan tree sounded black, the brushing broomstick on the brickyard sounded black. Black. Black. Black.
Too cold. Too dark. Too high. If she jumped down from here, no one would ever find her body.
No one would find her if no one was looking for her.
Her family didn't exist. Her friends didn't exist. She was not important. She was nobody.
She thought about Turner. Really, was there any reason for him to exist? His life was a vicious circle. Fighting, fucking, sleeping. Living like that, do you not feel bored?
Had he ever thought of what he was thinking then?
Suddenly, a hand gripped her wrist. “Why are you here?”
When the voice was rattled and tightened, she realized it was Turner Nguyen. She turned to look at him, her eyes panicked as if trying to hide. “... Why are you here?”
“Climb in. Else I’ll carry you back in.”
“It's not your job.”
He glared at her, and she didn’t know how to act. She flinched, hesitated, and stammered, “D-do you want me in?”
“Yes.”
“Why? There's no reason. Who am I for you to care?”
Turner didn’t answer. She was right. Was there any compelling reason for him to poke his nose into someone else's business? Do not help strangers, do not bless anyone, do not do more than assigned. Until then, Turner had a principle: if it wasn't his business, then he didn't bother. It was the one thing that kept him unattached to all the troubles, while the others had been beaten by robbers and assassins, or were eaten and shredded in the clan clashes.
Maybe that was why he didn't have a friend or a girlfriend. Who could love a person who 'wouldn’t do anything' for the person they love?
His only ex-girlfriend said that. They dated each other for a week.
“A fan,” after what was possibly the longest silence of his life, he replied, biting his lower lip.
“What?”
“One devoted fan who wants to see your drawings. If you jump right now, I won't have the chance to see them.”
“But I cannot…”
“You cannot jump until you become a painter.” His face stiffened as he looked at her with that steadfast gaze of his. Slick black hair, freckled cheeks and the sun in his eyes. That was what Violet had always been missing — determination. Her presence had always been dwindling. She had thought more than a couple of times, thought of how to become rough and scabrous like Turner, but she just couldn't figure out on her own.
Violet didn't understand. Was there a reason for a thug, who almost certainly hadn't even glanced at any paintings in their life, to look forward to what she drew? Was there a reason, was there a reason, was there a reason...
We find a reason for everything. Why did she want to die? Because she was miserable, because she was incompetent... Why would he want to help her? Out of pity, because society said that it was immoral to not save a dying person...
Why must there be a reason? If there was a reason for that, then there must be a reason for her to become an artist? Was there a reason for her to be able to see the colours within sounds?
“I'll try,” she said, again her voice so low that he could barely hear it.
“Why did you suddenly accept that? I thought you would be more stubborn.”
“Because you told me to become an artist. There. That's my reason.”
They both looked at each other, then burst out laughing. They pressed their backs on the railings. The wind blew on her back, and she trembled. This time, it was because of the cold. He lit a cigarette. The ashes flicked on the ground.
“Unlucky you. I need to cross this bridge to reach another province.”
“Turner. I know... my words mean nothing to you... but can you smoke less?”
“Why?”
“My father died of cancer.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “The day you become a painter is the day I quit.”
“So I shall wait until that day.”
It was hard for Violet to return home after Turner had gone. This time when he left, there was no return date. Maybe never. When he was not around, the
horrible feelings invaded her again, swallowing her whole like a gluttonous devil. If Turner was next to her, she could hear him talk, could treat the wounds on his skin, could do anything to keep herself busy.
She could hear the colour of his voice.
He wasn't there. She only saw darkness.
Reason. Reason. Reason.
Every reason for her to take her miserable life.
Reason. Reason. Reason.
She needed a reason to latch on.
Violet bought a notebook. Grabbing the pencil to stop herself from shivering, she traced each word on the first line.
“Day 1: I'm still alive”
November 16th.2013
“T urner Nguyen, you have a visitor.”
The guard tapped his feet on the ground, waiting for the familiar question from him: ‘Is it today?’ Usually, he didn't need to tap more than twice. However, after the tenth tapping sound, he still didn't hear a word. Instead, he caught sight of the death row prisoner crushing the tip of a cigarette onto the ground.
“What are you doing?” The jailer asked.
It seemed that only then, Turner recognized him. He replied, curtly, “Getting rid of them.”
“Why?”
“To no longer smoke.”
The guard felt puzzled. A guy like Turner quitting cigs? Had he been locked up in cells for so long that he started going crazy? Turner didn't talk to anyone. He had no inmates. He had no one visiting ever, apart from that girl. The only one to whom he opened his mouth was her, and sometimes the jailer himself. But he hadn't gone insane all that time, so why now?
That day, Violet Pham laughed more than usual. Turner did not know whether it was unintentional or not, but he thought that if all the previous times they had gathered together put together as one, she would not have laughed that much.
“Do you need more pork rolls? I bought some from the Southern village. You know, the place with a huge temple near the Red river. Took all day to pre-order! And they didn’t even deliver! Ugh. They told the forecast said a storm would crash onto shore. Well I wasn’t scared of the storm!” She puffed her chest and cheeks.
“Hey, I'm in jail. Am I supposed to be fed like a pig?”
“Then you shouldn't have looked so skinny. Hey…” Violet suddenly stuttered. Turner wasn’t the most sensitive person, but even he caught her hands playing with her hair non-stop, her cheeks blushing a little. “If... if…”
“What's wrong?”
“Um... It may sound childish, but…”
“Don't beat around the bush. Do I look like I’m gonna laugh at whatever you say?”
Violet stared at him for a long time, all the while fighting the inner dialogue inside her. He's just a stranger, he won't be interested. He doesn't care, he has no care for anything at all. But what if... he does? What if he actually cares?
As she looked into his eyes again, the eyes of fiery, unwavering determination, she couldn't help but think that they always softened a little bit whenever he looked at her. Only for her.
He cares.
“I have a dream.”
“What is it?”
“That I would have a house on the beach, and a dog, and every morning I take a dog along the seashore, and then we hear the sound of waves. The seaside isn’t that bad when the stormy season’s off, you see. Do you like the Eastern Sea? I do. I mean, the water there isn’t the clearest, but there’s usually no one around to bother us,” she stressed on the word ‘us’. “When night comes, I would hug my hubby to sleep. Then in the morning, I'd kick his ass out of bed before he's late for work, take my dog along the beach again while I wait for him to come back. And he will be back. He will be.”
He laughed, “People dream big. Who would dream about that crap?”
“You said you wouldn't laugh!” She pouted.
“Hey, I'm not laughing at you. I'm just laughing at how cute you looked when you tried to tell me that.”
She froze for a second. Did he just compliment me again? Did he just tell me I'm cute? He said before that I'm pretty. Why do I feel so flustered?
Calming herself, she replied, her voice trembled just slightly, “Yeah right. It's trivial, it's childish, I know. Even that trivial a dream, I haven't yet achieved.”
“If you like a dog that much, go buy one, no?”
“I'm afraid I can't raise it properly. I'm still too irresponsible for that. Having lived for twenty years, I can't even feed myself. I needed a thug to hit me on the head to make me realize how I have wasted my youth. I haven't done anything in my life.”
There was a short pause between the two. Turner was not a person who said things to please other people, so it was difficult for him to play around with words.
“It's not your fault, I know you're sad and tired.”
“Sadness is not an excuse, Turner. I will do something for myself,” Her eyes were blazing with fire. He had never seen such yearning from those irises, the irises that had always hid themselves in layers and layers of insurmountable concealment and hesitancy. He struggled to find words to reply.
“V, I think... you shouldn't come here anymore... I'll make you sad and tired... You want to do something for your life right?”
“Turner…”
“I'm a death row prisoner.” His voice was definite, like hitting a nail onto the pole. He did not expect her to say anything to counter that. The truth was too obvious. He was a bad guy. He had killed. He has brutally beaten countless people. He was the lowest of the lows.
“You're not,” Violet replied.
“Are you a birdbrain?” He showed his bare teeth like that of a wild animal, “Don't you ever watch TV? If people know you've hung with someone like me, what will you do?”
“Turner. When you're with me, you're not a bad guy.”
“What?”
“You did not hit me once, you sat still when I wiped your wounds, you hugged me on the bridge. I don't know who you did wrong to, but I only see what I saw.”
“You're a lunatic!”
Violet leaned her forehead against the glass window. She tilted her head slightly at him, her eyes were as affectionate as a ten-year-old girl looking at her father as he led her to the park.
“If you say you're innocent, I will believe you. No matter what the other people say. The press did not tell me to stop being a whore. The press did not kiss me.”
He looked at her, flabbergasted. He had beaten sense out of a lot of people, but he hadn't seen anyone as stupid and stubborn as this girl.
“I'm manner less. There will be times when I get mad at you, there will be times when I tell you to get lost, there will be times I curse at you for being a crazy bitch. I'm a gangster. I'm not an angel.”
Violet looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her smile radiant, “Okay.”
He snorted, leaning against the glass, where her forehead was placed, “Okay.”
They both laughed, their laughter was dragged out, for so long that it felt like they were trying to prolong it.
“What colour is my voice today?”
“Red. As red as blood.” Her familiar answer. That did not surprise him. But the next sentence came out of her mouth, he never prepared himself for it.
“Hey, the other day I went to see the fortune teller. She told me that the name Violet and Turner matched, but the ages were kinda conflicting.”
“What about it?”
“If I marry, my husband will be in trouble.”
“What about it?”
His grumpy questions did not stop her, she said, eyes glaring at the ceiling, speaking as if speaking to herself, “But she told me, if I give birth to a girl then all is okay, but if it will be a son, I will need to give him an ugly name. What do you think is an ugly name that people won't laugh at for boys?”
“Why ask me?”
“It just came up. What name would you give a baby, if you had one?”
“Why would I ever want a baby?”
“Just answer me. Don’t be cheeky.�
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“Don't know. But if you give birth to a son and have to name him an ugly name, that's kinda unfair to him. I like baby girls more. Personally, I like the name Violet.”
“Then can you call me Violet?”
“Hm?”
“Please. I want to hear you call me Violet.”
“Then you should’ve said it, I don’t know, two years ago,” the corner of Turner’s mouth slightly turned upwards.
“I’m saying it now.”
“Okay, then I’ll call you ‘stubborn Violet’ to distinguish with the ‘baby Violet’ who’s going to be my daughter.”
“Then Violet it is,” she laughed. “You like girls more than boys? Weird.”
“What's so strange? Can't it be a girl?”
“Of course. If you say a girl then a girl it is... Hey. I bought a big canvas, it's huge. And the powder, then the paint, then everything else…”
“Huh? Canvas? Colour powder?” Turner's eyes widened.
“I have not-oh, how should I say this... I'm not ready. I just thought I should start…”
The old guard looked at the clock. Their conversation may have just started, so he really did not want to do it. But there was no helping. Prison is no place for tolerance.
“One hour up,” he declared earnestly. Turner turned around, his eyes was like he wanted to devour someone whole.
“Please, give us five more minutes.”
“The law is the law…”
“Two minutes. Please!”
“Hey you! Know where you are!” the young officer, who already did not like people like Turner, shouted. “You killed our people! A death row prisoner dared to open his mouth? Where do you think this is?”
“I give you two more minutes,” replied the old jailer.
“But…” the young man hastened, but he kept his position.
“Lanny. It's fine. It's just two minutes.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Turner jolted up, his grab on the phone was unnecessarily tight. “What are you talking again?”
Violet grabbed the phone. Her voice trembled.“Can you promise me something?”
The Colour of Your Voice Page 4
