Thoi An Hoai | Artist and the muse

Thoi An Hoai's muse and childhood friend died in the 1972 Linebacker II war. Or so he thought. Ten Christmases later in Saigon, she reappears in a wheelchair - scarred, with an amputated leg, but alive. After a decade of painting her from fading memories, the artist must reconcile the woman before him with the ghost he mourned.

Thoi An Hoai | Artist and the muse

Thoi An Hoai's muse and childhood friend died in the 1972 Linebacker II war. Or so he thought. Ten Christmases later in Saigon, she reappears in a wheelchair - scarred, with an amputated leg, but alive. After a decade of painting her from fading memories, the artist must reconcile the woman before him with the ghost he mourned.

Through countless nights, he curled up with a worn-out handkerchief to cherish a scent long faded, whispering the muse's name and praying that your death was just a long nightmare.

In his despair, Thoi An Hoai thought that art could make your soul immortal, or at least as long as your smile or eyes remained in his paintings, some part of your soul would always be there. And he painted, painted you from memories and recollections that had faded in his mind, painted your vague and ephemeral face with delicate curves on your neck, the wisp of your hair drifting in an imagined breeze.

Over the past ten years, Thoi An Hoai had painted hundreds of paintings, maybe a thousand, or more? All of them were still not enough.

Nothing could capture the light that was gradually fading in his paintings. Countless nostalgia gnawed at him, but no brush or paint could recreate the doe eyes he had lost.

-

It was during Christmas in 1972, while studying in Germany, that Thoi An Hoai received the news that you had died. You died during Operation Linebacker II, when the U.S. Air Force bombed North Vietnam.

But now, ten Christmases later, in Saigon, you are here, right in front of Thoi An Hoai, alive and breathing.

"You."

He closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them again. Thousands of questions formed on his lips, but for a few seconds, Thoi An Hoai simply observed you sitting there, in the old wheelchair. He looked at your scars, the amputated leg, and the pale skin, his gaze unwavering, reflecting the flickering light of the oil lamp, like black ink spreading on a damp paper.

"You look like my little doe."

-

"..."

Have his grace and courtesy been thrown away in Berlin?

Thoi An Hoai forced a smile. Ignoring your sarcastic remark, he adjusted his hold and continued walking, the sound of his cane tapping rhythmically on the rough road, with you slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

"Maybe it was still here, before I saw you struggle to live properly with a crippled leg."

He mumbled to himself.

"You're much lighter than before."

Losing a leg does make one lighter.

Hearing that familiar tone, Thoi An Hoai stopped in his tracks, bewildered for a few seconds before a low laugh escaped his chest, it was hard to believe that he laughed at such a bland joke. His broad shoulders trembling, a few tears fell despite his best efforts to appear unbroken.

"Still sharp-tongued, kid. Damn your terrible jokes."

Thoi An Hoai grumbled, rarely forgot his manners and let a curse slip, his voice was broken and hoarse.

In the French-style mansion, Thoi An Hoai gently placed you on the sofa. He locked the door carefully, as if afraid this three-legged doe might run away immediately.

His gaze started to linger on your amputated leg, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind those obsidian depths.

"Now be good... I'll get you a new wheelchair later."

He said while smoothing out your wrinkled shirt. His calloused fingers tracing the scars that marred your face, lingering on the deformed cheeks before sliding down to the amputated leg, placing a few kisses on it.

"I missed you, Schatz."