Duong Huong - The Zenith

Paris, a far horizon that he misses all the time.

Paris, city of passionate love and bitterness.

How many winters did he spend in that city? Oh, how many times had he stood there to watch snow fall on the uneven roofs, filled with complicated feelings of alienation mixed with intimacy, of sadness with delight? Being short of money, he always had to rent attic rooms, the kind let out to poor students or workers from the provinces, or miserable exiles. In those attics he had to endure bone-chilling cold, but in compensation he felt himself that much closer to the sky; the flying snowflakes whirled and whirled in spectacular fashion before they fell to the earth. At such times, when the city was deserted, Paris became incredibly forlorn, so forlorn as to no longer look like Paris but only a snowbound plain. During chilly sunsets, the snowflakes flying obliquely in the air blurred the weak light of the streetlamps, making the cloudy sky appear mysterious, as if it were a witch-drawn painting. On other occasions, he walked on the snow-packed sidewalks, watching indifferently as the white carpet was sullied by the black boots of pedestrians. During those Paris winters, the rich aroma from the bakeries was the warmest, sweet-smelling thing that he, a man from Asia, had ever encountered. Very often he found himself walking back and forth, dozens of times, in front of a shutterless window that opened right onto the curb, with black vertical bars looking somewhat like the windows of a prison. From these totally unappealing windows came the intoxicating smells of newly baked breads.

Paris!

Oh, why this sudden gnawing memory?

These white plum branches floating in the white mist of the Lan Vu peak brought back memories of a world both far and near. A glorious stage of his life. His youthful days. For far too long he hasn’t revisited that city. Has it changed a lot or is it still the same, he wonders. The old cafés no doubt must have changed their furniture and decor; the houses must have changed owners, the old-fashioned streetlamps must have been replaced by more modern ones. But in the end, how could the Seine change its course? And the trees bordering Ile Saint-Louis still must shed their leaves in great numbers during winter. He misses Paris as if missing an unfulfilled and unforgettable love.

Suddenly, a wind arises and stirs the plum blossom branches. Masses of petals are scattered at each gust, making them look exactly like the snowflakes of yesteryear. The first time he had seen those snowflakes the size of popcorn he found himself exclaiming, “Oh, how pretty they are, these tiny flakes!” Many years later, he still laughs at himself over such naïveté. In his case, these memories of snow have become an eternal sorrow, a sorrow associated with lost youth. After he had become a sophisticated person, on days when snow had fallen, his mind was still entranced by that old song “Snow Falls!” Could it be that the white of the falling snow has become part of his life, an integral part? Could it be that those old lyrics, once they became part of his inner being, have turned into an undying refrain that survives all the ups and downs of fate, the collapsing journey of time?

“…Snow falls

You are not coming this evening

Snow is falling

My heart is dressed in black…”

All his life he has been missing love. All his life this song has echoed in him as an endless refrain. Sadly, he could not fill this gaping hole. He feels pity for all those who, even when white-haired, still remember this song, “Snow Falls,” and whose hearts still twinge with unrequited love.

“Mr. President, please have some hot congee.”

“Oh, have they served it?”

“Yes, sir. The doctor asks that you take this at breakfast so that, if you prefer, lunch can be reduced by half. That would do your health good.”

“I have heard him explain it to me. But I have long been used to two meals a day.”

“Yes, sir…The doctor, though…”

“OK, I’m coming.”

He steps into the outer room. An unusual aroma coming from the patio makes him stop. It reminds him of the Paris bakeries.

Somewhat doubtful, he takes in a deep breath. Seeing him doing so, the guard says right away:

“Mr. President, what you smell is the mung bean paste coming from the temple. This morning, the abbess wants to show that she can make good fried mung bean paste.”

“Is that so? It’s so different.”

“What is it different from, Mr. President?”

“Oh, I mean that it is unlike the aroma of other dishes.”

“The smell of vegetarian food is definitely different from that of ordinary food.”

“Of course, otherwise how would people call it vegetarian?” the president said, laughing.

The guard looks at him inquisitively and asks, “Mr. President, would you want to try the temple food?”

He shakes his head: “Don’t bother them like that. That we live here is already intrusion enough into the territory and freedom of the nuns.”

“Not really, sir. The abbess brought us a big plate. The fried paste is still piping hot. May I bring up some so you can have a taste?”

Before he can reply, the guard runs out like an arrow and disappears in the huge white cloud floating over the patio. A minute later, he comes back with the dish of fried mung bean paste wrapped in a thick cotton cloth.

“Please, sir. Have some while it’s still hot.”

“Thank you.”

He picks up a piece of the fried paste and tastes it in front of the anxious eyes of the young guard.

“It’s truly very delicious. This is the first time I have had this.”

The guard is beaming: “Fried mung bean paste is one of the most delicious vegetarian dishes. But they prepare it only on special occasions, for it’s rather time-consuming.”

“How do they do it?”

“First of all, they have to steam the mung beans as they would any steamed rice dish. After that, they have to pound it in a mortar to make it into a thick paste. You mix this paste with some starch so as to make it somewhat gluey. Then you add a pinch of salt and spices. You then mold it into patties and have them deep fried. Today, the abbess used peanut oil to fry them. But they would taste better if they were deep fried in sesame or sunflower oil.”

“How clever you are. You can become a chef anytime.”

“This morning I helped the abbess with pounding the mung beans, and I was able to hear her explain all sorts of vegetarian dishes.”

“It seems that life in a temple can be quite a rich experience, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I ask only as a joke. Life for a monastic person is truly very simple. The difficulty lies in keeping and adhering to that simplicity.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowing that the young man might not fathom what he had just said, the president pats him on the shoulder.

“Stop. You don’t have to stretch your mind fighting with these intellectual debates. Just trust that their lives are entirely different from ours.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answers happily, as if he has just been able to rid himself of a big burden. He then takes away the food with an elated mien as if he were a general just coming home with a whole convoy of war booty. The president has finished the deep-fried mung bean paste, but did not touch the cook’s bowl of pork congee.

Only a few seconds later, the guard can be heard loudly laughing on the other side of the patio. He cannot see him because of the unceasing movement of the white clouds floating across it, which are like a band of God’s oxen being herded over a fairy meadow. Those white oxen keep walking past his eyes. Suddenly, his solitary situation meshes with those white clouds to send a chill through his heart. The president is taken aback; never has he felt such terrible solitude as he does today. A strange loneliness to the point of crunching chill, of limb paralysis. Lonely as if there were an invisible net dropping on him, tying him up in its cruel mesh. He becomes short of breath. He feels that he cannot endure even one more minute of this crushing loneliness even though all his life he has had solitude as his constant companion. He suddenly shudders with fear.