Duong Huong - The Zenith

The hallway is deserted, with only dim lights along the wall shining on the green benches. The quiet temporarily alleviates his mood. With his back against the bench, Vu looks at the opposite wall and sits thus for a long while, without thinking of anything in particular. A moment later he can hear birds chirping; dawn was breaking.

“What charm makes me pay attention to these birds singing in the early morning?” Vu asks himself, for during the years he had spent in the Viet Bac woods he never paid much attention to them. Not finding the answer, Vu closes his eyes and continues to listen to the chirping. For some reason, all these bird songs bring him an extraordinary joy in living which nothing else at the moment can.

Just at that moment, the rolling gurney approaches carrying the dead man, who is covered in white. The person pushing it is the morgue attendant, a big man with a swollen face and expressionless eyes. His facial complexion has the yellow tone of a corpse. Following him are a few administrative personnel and nurses. The doctor on duty stands by herself at the end of the hallway, leaning out the window to look at the trees in the garden. Perhaps like him, she is listening to the birdsong. Now Vu understands why he is paying so much attention to the birds singing at dawn; it was like that on the morning he first heard of Xuan’s murder. He recalled how he had suddenly stood like a statue to listen to the birdsong even though the driver had started the engine in the driveway. It had been a mere instant but a fateful one. The little birds did not know that they brought him strength; they were actually the buoy that saved him at the very moment he was about to sink.

And this is the second time.

This time, however, it is the death of an unknown person but it comes just when he feels threatened. For he is in shock both bodily and spiritually. His situation makes him feel like a sinking boat being battered by the waves and nearly capsizing. It is a call to find a purpose for his life.

“I am seeking this song like a drowning person grabbing at a raft that a savior has just flung down. The song of birds, the immortal beauty of nature. Are you, then, our companions, companions who never betray us, the very support of mankind, a support that never collapses?”

The doctor steps toward him. A night of hard work has left wrinkles on her forehead. For the first time he takes note of her: an average face revealing deeply engraved traits from the countryside. When she comes face-to-face with him, she stops and says with a smile:

“Good morning, did our work keep you from sleeping?”

“I have plenty of time to make it up. Don’t worry.”

“Will you have visitors today from your office or your family?”

“Oh yes, like usual. Thank you, Doctor.”

Having just been transferred from a military hospital, she hasn’t had enough time to learn that, when he had been hospitalized, the doctor in chief there had requested that Van not be permitted to visit him. For it was precisely arguing with her that had caused his spiritual shock, which had led to his sudden arterial tension and his passing out. They were forced to conclude that she was the pathological agent; therefore, contact between the two of them has to wait for the doctor’s recommendation. Vu feels quite at ease. He’s free. Initially he wasn’t the least bit interested in his family, and had forgotten her name; her image was gone for good.

But today, as the gurney takes the dead man away, he is suddenly assaulted by a concern: “If I go unexpectedly, what will happen to Van and the boy?”

As soon as the question occurs to him, he smiles to himself.

“I am still reminded of her. Is it out of love or just from my sense of responsibility? Or perhaps I miss her as a slave misses his master, as a masochist misses his sadistic torturer, as one condemned to death thinks about his executioner. A pathological memory. This proves that, at heart, any person is just an animal enslaved to habit.”

Vu jumps up and walks along the hallway, afraid that if he keeps on sitting there his own contempt for himself will crush him. As he walks, he still looks down at the hospital courtyard. The gurney carrying the dead man is crossing the main courtyard heading toward the morgue, a tall white concrete building lying behind the funeral parlor. On the stone benches laid out around the flower urns, people are already sitting here and there. They may be recuperating patients out to enjoy the fresh air and get away from the stuffiness of the hospital rooms. They could also be families of patients. He has been in the hospital for two weeks now, and is used to the rhythm of his new life. After coming out of his induced coma, he recovered very fast, but at the same time, he could hardly stand a patient’s life. The various smells of injections and medications, of diseased and debilitated bodies, of disinfected bathrooms and toilets; the faces of patients, which for the most part remind him of wax masks or starched shrouds. Eyes half dead as if they have lost their life shine, at times abject and pleading and at times showing curiosity or despair, lust or envy…In brief, a psychological world so terrible as to make him shrink in horror. But gradually, because he had no choice, he has found loopholes through which he can breathe, can help himself to brush off all sad thoughts. He ironically compares himself with those living underground or in tunnels, gluing their noses to ventilation hoses to get some oxygen and smell the sky. His biggest life jacket is the central garden in the hospital. He is in the habit of loitering in it whenever he has free time. Even when it drizzles, he still walks slowly around the flower beds, looking up at the vaultlike bowers of the trees to spot birds and listen to their querulous songs. In his pocket he always has ready a couple of napkins, for he is often the victim of the birds, believing in the peasants’ credo “seeing shit means that wealth is coming your way.” He only wants to be close to an animated, inspirational world such as that of the birds. The songs of these little ones are angelic, a gift from his guardian god, a raft mysteriously thrown down by the creator in an invisible great flood.

His wanderings have brought him in contact with a number of patients who more or less share his mood. They, too, cling to the garden as if holding on to a remaining corner of paradise. They run into one another, bow slightly in a friendly and silent manner, then go on their way. When tired, Vu will go to the canteen and sit at a corner table near the window overlooking the back garden of the hospital. There, for a couple of hours, he will sample the contents of a teapot with a madeleine, listening to the humming bees behind him, to the salesgirls chatting away or the hospital guards. This is the quietest moment, allowing him to talk to himself about life, ideals, his job, his family, the roads that he has traveled and those that remain ahead.

“Has the Great Task turned rotten?”

That question turns around and around in his brain like the dharma wheel. That soft, almost teasing question from the guy with thick lenses — the thickness of a bowl’s foot — works like a death sentence: Has the love boat smashed its hull and his dream gone up in smoke? Has the revolution to which the entire people committed themselves ended up as no more than the stirring of thick mud at the bottom of a well so as to expose the dead carcasses of marine animals or ill-smelling seaweeds and mosses? How can he swallow such bitterness? How many people have fallen? How many young men’s lives have been cut down like spring grass mown by the scythe of Death? Oh, how many, how many?

With time, what had started as a suspicion is in danger of becoming a certitude.