Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Why does she behave so cruelly?…A woman that I held over thirty years.…It is so strange that it is only now that I come to really know the person with whom I shared a bed with for so long.…Life is like an endless performance; not until the curtain falls do we know what is black and what is white.…Oh, it’s no coincidence that for thousands of years people read and reread the Lieu Trai story, because there has been no shortage of those who lived in passionate love until they awoke one day to find out that for so many years they had taken pleasure with a skeleton.…My wife! When did she become an enemy? That guy with sunglasses is none other than Sau’s henchman! They play the game of ill treating the boy; it is a sign that they are mobilizing me for some demand on the real father. The survival of this person becomes the stick that directs others.…This blow is nothing new, but the surprising thing is that she accepts the agreement. Is it she who leads the enemy on? Why is it she?”

Black waves suddenly appear before his eyes, rising up and then crashing down, leaving him with the impression that his whole body is breaking into foam. The moaning of the receding tide is terrifying and mysterious; it feels as if it is no longer the noise of the moving sea but the roaring of gigantic beasts from the Jurassic period. All of a sudden, the edge of the low tide disappears and in its place is a horde of dragons running wildly over a vast field of vegetation. Chasing after them are giant tongues of flowing fire, climbing one on top of the other. Wherever the wind blows, the vegetation turns into a roaring fire pit. The firestorms encircle, entrap, and consume the animals. He feels that fire burning him and making his own eyes shoot out sparks of fire.

“Why am I turning into a Jurassic beast? Is this real or a dream, very strange…”

He hears clearly the fire being fanned by the wind blowing around him. Then the fire slaps his face, making him want to scream: “Water…Give me water…Call the fire truck…”

But he is unable to open his mouth. He falls down at the giant feet of one of the dragons and sees before him what will become a pile of crumbling bones once the fire is finished with it.

Then he hears vaguely, calling from somewhere: “Doctor…Call the doctor…”

“Where are the emergency aides? Bring the oxygen here.”

A dreamy thought comes to his mind: “Well, they are bringing the oxygen for the officer with the wheezing breath, with lips dark like the Lang Son plums. Strange, though: this guy is dead but still he needs lots of oxygen from the hospital?”

Suddenly he hears a fish twisting in his ears. It makes the same sound as the fish jumping in the container where his mother had kept them. The fish had noisily fought all night. Above that container was the tile roof. And above the roof was the sky, a high, open space filled with sunlight, a light blue…

Military Field Hospital 306 sits at the jungle’s edge, not too far from a stream, in a fine setting for a multispecialty facility. The buildings are clustered together up high under the shade of bushy trees that are so dense, even during bright summer days sunlight cannot break through. In that permanent shadow, clusters of wild orchids and crow’s-nest plants dangle. Behind the hospital is a large stone cave into which as many as thirty seriously injured soldiers can quickly be moved when bombs fall. The kitchen, the communal dining room, and a storeroom are shoved into an area close to the cave’s mouth.

It is the spring of 1969 and the hospital is full of injured soldiers. The number of those waiting for surgery is three times more than normal, forcing the doctors and staff to work around the clock. The screaming and moaning, along with the angry fighting of the crowd of injured soldiers, has turned the hospital into chaos.

Among the injured soldiers appears an alluring prince, a delectable prey for the twelve girls who work at the hospital and stand shakily on the divide between their last moment of youth and the time of loss. It is Lieutenant Hoang An. Hoang An is considered a manly ideal not only for his looks but also because of his unusual courage. He did not utter a sound during an entire surgery performed without anesthetic. A piece of shrapnel had cut Hoang An’s left arm; on arriving at the hospital, the wound — tourniqueted too long on the road — had become infected, and they had to remove the arm from the shoulder down to save him. Oddly, Hoang An healed very quickly, almost magically. The injured soldiers around him, even though some were half his age, looked at him with admiration and envy. Even before new skin had grown to cover his stump, he was strolling all over the area, setting up traps to catch porcupine and fox for the kitchen to prepare for meals. After he had fully recovered, he volunteered to help the girls carry stream water up to the camp; With only one arm, this lieutenant could carry more than many men with two arms. He had the legs of a hunter and he climbed the slopes like a gazelle. The girls of the hospital looked at him with adoring eyes. But Hoang An shared his goodness with everyone, thus there was no fighting among the girls waiting for life’s chances. So when he was completely rehabilitated, the head of the hospital kept him there instead of transferring him to another post. Eventually, Hoang An became a member of the hospital staff without specific duties. He seemed extremely pleased with his new role. Nobody said anything, but people understood that soon he would be sent to the rear because he could no longer fight. Until then, it was best to dedicate himself to helping others.

One frigid morning, with fog covering the mountains, the loud horn of a vehicle is heard. From the truck comes a shout: “Medical supplies from the regional command have arrived…”

Everyone in the hospital rushes out, surprised.

“The telegram said two more days before the ambulance would arrive…”

“Who knows? Perhaps there was no bombing so the road was open…”

The staff, including Hoang An, go down to pick up the medicines and medical equipment. It is indeed true that the American bombers have taken the weekend off, which has left the road safe to travel. Everybody is happy because, besides medicines, there are also food and loose-leaf tobacco. When all the packages have been unloaded and lined up neatly along the sides of the road, the driver starts the engine and immediately takes off for headquarters. As the truck rolls a few meters, he suddenly cries out, “I forgot!”

Bending down under the seat, he takes out a tattered and dirty backpack.

“Does this hospital have anyone by the name of Hoang An?”

“That is I.”

“Headquarters sent along this backpack, which belonged to a martyr. Was he truly a relative of yours or not?”

“If not my relative, then why would they send it to me?” Hoang An replies, with doubt in his mind. He wonders whose pack it could be — perhaps that damned Meo tribesman Ma Ly.

The soldier looks at Hoang An and explains: “Not that I am nosy, but the address is very vague. Moreover, in this military region there are six named Hoang An. The administrative office was skeptical of sending it to you because your birthplace is Lang Son but this martyr was a Tay from Thai Nguyen.”

“Ah,” An says, smiling. It is beginning to make sense to him now.

The driver turns over the backpack and squeezes his hand. “I wish you good health.”

“Thank you. I also wish you safe travels.”

Hoang An looks down on the dirty, smelly backpack; it is like a beggar’s bag. He guesses it had been thrown in a stone cave for a while, at least a year or two. That would explain the moldy, dried bloodstains and the many holes made by roaches eating the canvas. Attached to the pack is a faded piece of white paper on which someone had written not too long ago.