A difficult question

I asked the old man selling lottery tickets who was pensively looking at the sparsely populated intersection. The old man did not look at me, his eyes were staring into some unknown space, his hoarse voice was strangely sad:

- Sitting here is more fun than going home, at least there are cars and people to watch.

I opened my mouth to buy some lottery tickets, but the old man waved his hand and said they were long gone. I don't know why I put on my slippers and sat down to watch the night street with him. The wind from the riverbank behind me was cool. He opened his old, tattered basket, took out a small bottle of wine, poured a cap and offered it to me:

- Do quail to warm the stomach.

I hesitated a bit, looking at his dirty hands and the old bottle cap, but then, out of politeness, I took it and drank it all. The smell of alcohol rushed up to my nose, stinging. The old man drank too. He took two caps in a row and then took a big breath, looking refreshed. Alcohol in, words out. Men get to know each other through glasses of wine. Indeed, I felt that he was starting to get closer, to talk more. Thanks to that, I knew that he was staying in a deep alley on the bank of a ditch. I was not unfamiliar with that boarding house because it was close to my house, where poor laborers from all over gathered, all year round immersed in the smell of sewers, most intense during the rainy season. My wife often compared her life with theirs to console herself that at least we had a small house and a stable job, that was enough to be happy. As for me, I don't know why, but I still felt a little bit of regret, pitying those drifting people.

The old man selling lottery tickets has been selling here for years, but this is the first time I've talked to him. I'm not a lucky person, so I buy lottery tickets several times a year. If you feel sorry for him, I'll buy a few tickets for him. Success or failure is up to you, why should you pray to God for luck? Thinking like that, I rarely buy lottery tickets. Lately, because of my osteoarthritis, I've listened to the doctor's advice to exercise a little more, jogging every night to help me sleep. This is the third time I've passed the intersection and seen the old man looking thoughtfully at the street. I was a little curious, and also sympathetic, perhaps he didn't have a home to return to, so I stopped to talk, intending to buy a few tickets to support him.

It turned out I was imagining too much. He had a place to stay, even if it was shabby, it was still a place to return to. After asking around for a while, he remained tight-lipped, only revealing that he lived alone, had no wife or children, and so did not need to return home early. His attitude made me curious, to the point of flirting with him for more than half a bottle of wine. In the end, I got drunk first, and had to give up. The old man laughed, looked at me happily, patted my shoulder and said goodbye:

- Come by tomorrow if you have time. I still have two delicious dried fish at home, saving them to meet my dear friend.

The next evening, I carried the spring rolls (secretly taken from my wife), and a bottle of foreign wine (given by a friend but never had a chance to drink) to the intersection. The old man was still sitting right at the lamppost, still in the same old posture, watching the street. When he saw me, his eyes seemed to light up with joy, and he smiled toothlessly in greeting:

- I thought your brother's promise was empty!

- No way, men promise to do it, uncle.

So on the plastic sheet, we set out the dishes. Spring rolls, foreign wine, rice wine, two fragrant dried squids. This time I brought a glass. We drank and chatted, talking about the West and the East, about family and the city. When the street was empty, only the two of us were still slightly tipsy, then I dared to ask the old man:

- Why don't you get married and live alone?

He looked at me, his eyes were cloudy, as if there was water in them, I didn't know if it was wine or tears:

- You really want to know?

I nodded. Then seeing his pensive expression, I felt sorry for him and quickly waved my hand:

- If it's too hard to say, then forget it, I won't force you.

- Your brother is still young, the road is straight, he doesn't understand the twists and turns of my life. He wouldn't understand if I told him. He understood when he had a Sony. But now he's dead. Dead.

The old man covered his face and cried. Who is Sony? Sony. He cried and told stories. One story after another, more confusing than instant noodles. Luckily, my mind was still a bit clear, and when I put it together, I vaguely understood that Sony was the dog he raised. Yes, right, when I passed the intersection earlier, I also caught a glimpse of him having a very pretty white poodle. Maybe it was her. He loved the dog very much, he fed her anything. He called her his child. His daughter.

- The bastards killed him. Oh, Sony, my poor baby.

The old man howled like a wolf seeing the moon. I felt embarrassed, anyone who saw us at that moment would think I was bullying him. I patted his shoulder to encourage him:

- Well, everything happened, what happened is no longer there, uncle.

- Didn't you see the scene of it lying there, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling, and its children too. Oh! Every night I come home I still see them lying there, they blame me for leaving them alone. They complain that they're hungry, craving sausages huhu...

He covered his face and cried. Once again, I had to piece together his fragmented memories to form an understandable story: Sony was pregnant and gave birth to four cute little boys, so he had to lock them in his rented room. Every day he went to sell and buy food for them, he couldn't take the whole litter with him. Some people in the rented room complained about the smelly peeing of the puppies, and some complained that they barked loudly and caused trouble. He thought that an apology would be enough, but when he came home from selling that day, he opened the door and saw the mother and children tragically dead. It turned out that someone had stuffed grilled meat through the crack in the door for them to eat. They ate it deliciously, not knowing that the grilled meat was soaked in dog poison. So they all died. He had to run around looking for a vacant lot that had not been built yet to bury them.

- When you lose the person you love the most, then you will understand how I feel right now. This is the second time I lost the thing I cherished the most.

When he said that, his eyes suddenly became dry. He didn't scream anymore, just silently stood up, packed his things, and silently walked towards his shabby boarding house. I looked after him, then looked at the two cups rolling on the plastic sheet, my heart suddenly filled with endless sadness without knowing why.

A few days later, I no longer saw him sitting at the intersection. Every afternoon when I drove home, I would still glance over to look for him but he was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had moved to another place to sell. It’s wholesale, sitting in one place for too long, how can you get customers? I almost forgot that evening, forgot the tearful story of him and the Sony if a small incident hadn’t happened. My leg was swollen and painful to the point that I couldn’t go to work. My wife made me go to the doctor. I was only planning to go to make her feel at ease, but when I heard the doctor’s diagnosis, my back was filled with goosebumps. They said I had some kind of arthritis and needed to do some tests to check. Well, tests. Just old age diseases, tests can’t cure it. However, I still obediently listened to the doctor. While waiting, I boredly scrolled through my phone. Suddenly a somewhat familiar voice rang in my ear:

- Please buy me a lottery ticket.

I looked up. It was him. The old man selling lottery tickets at the crossroads, the one who had a drink with me a while ago. I smiled at him:

- It's me, do you recognize me? How are you? Why haven't you been selling at the crossroads lately?

He blinked for a few seconds and seemed to recognize me, but he wasn't as happy as I thought. He looked at my suit and my glasses, cautiously:

- Because there are no customers, I go selling on the street to earn a living.

Seeing his shy attitude, I pulled his hand to the canteen to order coffee. I said warmly:

- Don't be shy, we've all been drinking together, once we've drained our glasses, we're all brothers.

- This is good. I like you.

He slapped his thigh, his eyes sparkling as he looked at me. I was delighted because it had been a long time since someone complimented me on my speaking skills.

After that time (maybe after that kind remark), the old man and I became close friends. Wherever he sold, he would come home at night and still lean against a lamppost at the intersection, watching the street, waiting for me to do a few laps of exercise, calling it a stop to chat. However, we didn't drink alcohol, but instead enjoyed a cup of tea and a few peanut candies. Just small talk. When we became acquainted, the old man confided more, and I learned that the hairpin turns he had mentioned earlier had taken away from him a small, happy family, and the laughter of his only son. The old man used to sell helmets, and every month he took the bus from the countryside to the city to get goods. His wife took care of several acres of vegetables and went to the market. It was enough to eat and wear. The family had only one son, who was pampered like an egg. The son, despite being pampered, was still very obedient, focused on studying, and loved his father and mother. That year, he was in 9th grade, and during summer vacation, he asked to follow the old man to the city, demanding to go get goods with his father. He agreed immediately, also intending to take his son to visit this place and that place to show people. Unexpectedly, that was the last time father and son went together. On the way back, the bus had an accident, the son kept asking to lie on the bed next to the window to enjoy the scenery, so he was hit by the other car and died on the spot. The old man, who was lying in the middle row, was lucky to escape death, only suffering scratches. But that luck was torture for him. For many years, he was tormented by why he let his son lie next to the window, why he was not the one who died. After that accident, his wife became seriously ill and quickly passed away with her son. Left alone, bored with life, he turned to drinking to forget his sadness. In the end, he wandered everywhere selling lottery tickets and drifted back to this small city to live out the rest of his life.

His life story sounded like something out of a movie. It sounded so sad. But when he finished telling it, he smiled with relief, as if he had just lifted a heavy burden from his heart:

- There are things that no one wants but cannot be helped. Maybe that is fate. Your brother?

I nodded in agreement to make him happy. Sometimes he told me about burning incense for Sony and her children. He said he still dreamed about them, but they wagged their tails happily and didn't cry anymore. I asked him why he didn't ask for another child to keep him company, and he shook his head sadly:

- I won't keep them anymore, I'm afraid they'll be like Sony, drugged. Why are there so many evil people? They don't even spare a dog?

I stammered like a chicken with its hair caught in its throat. How could I explain to him? In this life, good and evil are very difficult to distinguish. Sometimes what is good for one person may not be good for another. I had to make excuses to get the matter over with:

- Life, uncle, there are good people and bad people, that's life, uncle.

This time he did not praise me. He looked at me seriously and questioned:

- But good always wins, right?

This time I am completely stumped. Good always triumphs over evil, right? Someone please answer this for me…

Source: https://baobinhthuan.com.vn/mot-cau-hoi-kho-129286.html