Duong Huong - The Zenith

As an irony of fate, in his ear he can hear the lyrics of “The Wild Rooster”:

Wild Rooster,

Why are you eating in the company of peacocks?

Why are you deceitful, O Wild Rooster?

Right after the meeting, An returns to the underground bunker, slings himself down on the bed, and goes to sleep. Even at lunchtime he does not wake up. The deputy company commander comes and pulls him up.

“Are you sick? To the point of skipping your meals?”

“No, I am not, but I am extremely sleepy. It looks as if I’m going to catch malaria again.”

“Get up and have lunch. The kitchen says you have skipped breakfast this morning.”

“My tongue tastes bitter.”

“I have with me here some malaria prevention medicine for you. But you cannot take it unless you have a full belly.”

“Well then, I’ll try. Getting sick at this point will inconvenience everybody. Let’s go. Have you eaten?”

“I waited for you. Today the cooks found some wild vegetables. And there is some broth to go with them.”

“Are the guys in our company done eating?” An asks, then buttons up his shirt and walks out of the bunker.

His deputy follows him and answers lackadaisically: “After the meal the guys went back to their quarters to play cards or catch some sleep. They don’t have anything else to watch. Out at the stream, the on-duty guards have collected the material evidence and taken it to division headquarters.”

“Is that so…”

An bursts out laughing at the way his deputy has replied. He then asks another question: “Has the leadership given an explanation as to what happened?”

“Not enough time for them to come up with one. But the guys overheard things and already have a good idea. The information went from the division headquarters down to the battalions, then it went from the battalions down to the companies — just like an arrow.”

“That’s because we’re here in the forest.…What is there to divert them?”

“Yes, they had to wait a couple of years before they could have a night of entertainment. Who would have thought that with it would come a murder?”

“Do you believe in fate?”

“I believe a hundred percent. They dare not say it but everyone believes it to be so. In the battlefield who can say he will sidestep the bullets? It’s the bullet that chooses its victim. If it were not for fate, how could it be that a bullet would hit this one and not another in that same place at the same moment?”

“Fate is something that exists and that doesn’t. For if people truly had a choice, they would never willingly take themselves to the battlefields to face arrows and bullets.”

“Ah, this question, if one were to trust the fortune-tellers, relates to the destiny of a nation, a common fate that belongs to a collective. The destiny of a nation turns on whoever leads it, not on ordinary soldiers or common people like us. In the old days, it depended on the king or emperor. Today, it turns on the president.”

“If you are right, then our president must have a truly rotten horoscope to have led our people into living deep in the jungles and forests like we do now.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that. Please, Comrade, don’t put things in my mouth,” the deputy company commander mumbles, his face turning pallid.

An reassures him: “Don’t be afraid. I am the one who said that, not you. Neither am I intelligent enough to raise such issues. I heard it from a Vietnamese astrologer who has lived many, many years in Laos. I have merely repeated what he told me.”

“Yes,” the deputy replies and then, lowering his voice: “Do you know, I have heard one person say exactly the same thing. But he was not an astrologer, he was a historian.”

“Yes, a historian also must have a brain full of pebbles like an astrologer. We are approaching the dining hall, though. Let’s keep this between you and me.”

“Yes,” his deputy answers, almost in a whisper.

After they are through, the clock shows 1:30 p.m. Only two of them remain in the five huge wood-built dining halls. Outside, the sun is shining full blast everywhere. A gentle breeze runs across the range of trees, which are heavy with scintillating leaves on which dew still hangs in the thick leaf funnels. On the edge of the forest, wildflowers are in gorgeous bloom. The deputy company commander looks at the petals, which are like butterflies displaying their vying colors, vermillion and purple, then sighs:

“How I miss my home! These flowers make me remember the mustard fields along the river. In the spring the mustard flowers bloom yellow, attracting butterflies in the thousands. When young I used to run after my mother to go out and pull up those mustard plants. Then, when we were of marriageable age, we went out to various festivals in the first month, and we could find these yellow mustard flowers all along the foot of the dike.”

“Right, I remember a folk song of the ethnic Vietnamese:

‘The first month is for having fun all month,

The second is devoted to gambling and the third to drinking.’”

“Yes, that’s a folk song from way back. When I was home we would try to get people to work starting with the fifth day of the first lunar month. But even as they worked in the fields, they would find ways to hold spring festivals, for that was the custom.”

“It’s the same way with us in the mountains. We prepare various kinds of cakes, make crispy honeyed rice balls, then play cards all of the first month. Even when we don’t have festivals, there is not much to do since it drizzles all day long. At that time of year, the rice is maturing while the weeding is done in the dry cassava fields.”

“Up there do the festivals last as long as they do in the lowlands?”

“Not as long but enough for people to have fun all around. After the Spring Music Festival is over, we call on one another to go see the Ball Throwing Festival of the Thai, then the Khen Playing Festival of the Meo. Only the strongly built young men in the village, equipped with good steeds, dare go far. As for the women, all year ’round they stay in the village.”

The two fall silent for a long while. Then the deputy asks, “When will the war be over?”

“When?” An echoes.

No one has an answer to that difficult question. A moment of silence follows. All of a sudden, the deputy company commander asks:

“Do you remember Tiny-Eyes Toan?”

“Of course. He’s the buffoon in Company One. Wonder whether his bones have disintegrated by now? It’s been over two and a half years. And there the soil is humid all year ’round with dew settling, intermittent mountain rain, and moss-covered ground all the way from the foot of the cliff down to the gulley below. In that kind of soil no bones can remain intact.”

An does not hear his deputy reply. Turning, he sees the man bite on his lower lip, his face smeared with plentiful tears. His shoulders quiver in waves as if he has malaria. An looks around but luckily there is no one to see them at that moment. After clearing the tables, the kitchen staff had gone back to their chamber to nap. The only souls stirring are probably just the chirping birds in the nearby forest. Raising his hand to console his companion by rubbing his back, An says:

“It’s very good that you can cry like that. Go ahead and get some relief.”

A second voice is heard in his own soul at the same time: “You are lucky to be able to cry with me. As for me, I can only cry by myself. And I will have to do so till the end of my days…”