Duong Huong - The Zenith

To chase away these obsessions, he reaches out to turn on the light at the head of the bed to read but suddenly remembers that doing so would interrupt the game of the young men, who would then fret over why he wasn’t sleeping. He lies back down, pulls the blanket to his chin, and stares at the dark ceiling. At the base of one wall, there is a tiny night-light the size of a firefly. In his childhood, he and his friends had caught fireflies and put them in eggshells; at night, the eggshells would light up. That summer of fireflies had been the most magical summer of his life.

“Nowadays, I wonder, does the boy make firefly lights?” the president asks his imagination. “He now lives in the countryside with his classmates and around them are gardens, grass, and a village cemetery full of vegetation like when I was still in Nghe An.”

But his son will never know where that ancestral hometown was, and nowadays no child would play with fireflies. The nation is at war; instead of the twinkling lights of stars, bullets blaze the night sky red, making a light that spreads terror and death.

“War, war, war…A history thick with one war after another, thus leaders become obsessed with victory, seeking one more with this war. A war without end — both in mobilized efforts as well as in all the blood and bones. What a stupid war. A war carried out as the punishment of a people, a colossal meat grinder for a bloodbath of brothers, a thousand times more terrifying than the ancient two-hundred-year conflict between the Trinh and Nguyen clans!

“What can I do now that the game is lost? When I must become a hand-carved wooden puppet for these murderers? All my traitorous brothers: Why did they purposely turn their backs on conscience — because competition for power gives more pleasure than does ensuring the happy fate of a people? Oh, ambition and glory…the kind of people with whom I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t be close — but they have frightening power to destroy, not just individuals or factions, but an entire race.

“But for what reason do I still passionately care for and still suffer for this nation? The nation that needs my life as if it needs an animal to sacrifice to its gods. The nation that smiles aimlessly but with satisfaction; that cheers for me as it would a great king; that admires me as officers admire a fabulous marshal who has never lost a battle, and does not understand at all the nagging suffering of my heart, and does not have enough goodness to bestow upon me even a tiny bit of happiness? For what reason do I tear myself apart for this selfish and uncaring nation, though mine it is?

“Damn: always the masses are no more than a gust of wind, a wave, a tornado, a hurricane, a fire. The mass is nameless, senseless, and takes no responsibility for what it does. So I have no grounds to complain. Whether wanted or not, this people remains my people.

“It is the meaning of my life. My heart’s most painful suffering is because of it: a people doomed.

“Because we are born in this land, a muddy, unhappy acre of dirt. Because the thin, resonating cord of the nation’s soul vibrates in mine as a thousand years of humiliation penetrate all my cells — from my skin, my blood, and my bones to the way I want to live. This is where I am permanently condemned to suffer. From here I must repay the mountains and rivers, which have lasted a thousand generations!”

Therefore all paths lead him back to the hell that is himself. There is no escape…

The president moans but immediately stifles it for fear that the two guards will hear. His heart begins to thump; he can feel each laborious contraction.

“Would that instead of having a human heart, a person could use a pump for the blood, a tool to maintain circulation but cause no pain. What if I had such a different heart, and a totally different mind: Would I live in tranquility?

“Why do I bring on myself such endless turmoil and nagging regrets?

“Why can’t I just put it out of my mind? Does not the dredging up of memories just bring me before the most supreme court to hear its verdict?” Hearing a soft laugh by his ears, he opens his eyes. The man with the banana-colored skin is again standing with his back against the wall, looking dapper in a suit of his favorite ivory color. He still remembers his excitement the first time he had had enough money to have a suit like that made for him in Paris. His first stylishly impressive suit, and now this guy is wearing one, too; turning the collar of the shirt as he had and tying in the same old-fashioned way as he had the same tie of navy blue with white polka dots. But this is not a young man, rather someone in his fifties, appearing as a carbon copy of what he would have looked like at that age. Once again, he recognizes his double, the man he could have become.

Leaning against the wall, slow and mannered, hands in the trouser pockets, eyes looking straight at him attentively, the double says, “Aren’t you crying?”

“Excuse me?” replies the president. “I don’t like your question.”

“If you feel like it, just cry a bit to lighten your soul. I am rather tolerant of weak people.”

“I am not as weak as you think.”

“We’ll see.”

“That comment is meant for someone young. I am more than seventy. What you say has no meaning for one like me.”

“Even if you return to your ancestors tomorrow, that comment is still germane today.”

The president remains silent because the guy is right. But he cannot acknowledge his failure; it’s best to keep quiet. He looks up at the dark ceiling.

The guy smiles and continues: “At your age you are still trying to answer existential questions. That is to be commended.”

“People can be tormented by such questions until they go to their graves,” says the president. “That’s why searching for answers is so natural.”

“There are thousands of questions to which humanity never finds the answer, because the heart of life is a guessing game and a challenge. This determines where humans are in the natural order and their relationships both with other groups of people and with other individuals, one on one. Look to your past: you will see many empty spaces, weaknesses, splinterings, and defeats. These things happen when people lose the ability to control what drives life itself.”

“I will offer some evidence for your deduction.”

“Don’t try. Just turn your head and look at things more objectively. The evidence lies all spread out over the road behind you.”

“I always try to analyze things objectively. That is the most important demand to be made of those in power.”

“That most important criterion usually is what is lacking among those who make decisions. The collapse of regimes, the disappearance of dynasties, all occur because of the lack of objectivity. I have come back to show you the greatest shortcomings of your soul. Thus, I can help you attain liberation. I will pull you out of this hell.”

The president is quiet; it is true that he was genuinely waiting for help from this other man, and that fact is humiliating. Finally, he musters the courage to ask, “Yes, I am waiting to hear what you have to say.”

His double smiles with the debauched seductiveness of an Yves Montand. Looking deep into the president’s eyes, he says, “I will start with that never-ending torment of yours: the death of a beloved woman. When Miss Xuan was murdered, what did you do?”

The president is quiet because he does not know quite how to answer. That day, he had phoned General Long, but when the general came, they had only discussed international relations. He had waited for General Long to raise the killing of Xuan, but though their meeting had lasted for longer than four hours, he did not bring that subject up. And he himself had not dared to open his mouth. He had understood that, at the time, only General Long held enough power to put a stop to Quoc Tuy’s intolerable abuses. All the generals and the Defense Ministry were at his beck and call. But like the others in the Politburo, General Long, too, had wanted the president to be just an old father of the people, with no hint of a personal life becoming public. This acting as a living saint fostered indifference throughout the entire machine of power, since no one ever declines a tasty morsel that comes with having power and prestige.