Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Mr. President, please…”

He opens his eyes and sees that the chubby soldier has returned to his side.

“Sir, I saw you standing still like a statue. Then your face suddenly got red as if you were drunk. I have no idea why.”

“There is nothing to worry about. People’s faces get red either from shame or happiness, right? So what do you think I am: ashamed or happy?”

“Sir, I am afraid…”

“Don’t worry. My heart is beating normally. Well, we will go down now.”

Then he slides off the rock and returns to the beaten path that leads to the Lan Vu temple. The soldier runs wildly behind, holding on to the back of his quilted coat.

The soldier says, “Mr. President, now I cannot hear you. One is more likely to fall when going down than when climbing up.”

“Yeah…” He smiles, letting the soldier hold on to his coat in the way children hold each other’s shirts in the game of dragon tug-of-war.

“I have to brew some tea,” the soldier says. “After your tea, you have to do your exercises before breakfast.”

“No. From now on I will not exercise.”

Surprised by this response, the soldier is quiet for a little while. Then, not able to restrain his curiosity, he clears his throat and asks, “But…you always tell us that exercise is discipline.”

“That is the strictest discipline to be observed to maintain physical health. However, each circumstance requires an appropriate exercise. From now on I will practice the most appropriate one for leaving swiftly in the fall. If I know how to nourish my body like a mechanic maintains an engine, I will be able to shut my living machine as the temple’s caretaker snuffs out the candle at sunrise.”

The path curves around a deep crevasse; the dripping of water blends with the singing of birds. Sunrise in the mountains is always mysterious and pure. Everything is laced with white clouds and drowned in birdsong. The president walks briskly like a young lad and feels as if he is seeing all of this for the first time. Suddenly, as the path opens out of the woods, the Lan Vu temple appears like a painting.

“Wow, that’s fast!”

“Yes, sir…going down the mountain is always ten times faster.”

As they cross the gate to enter the temple patio a large field of white hits his eyes, blinding him. The president realizes it is the cherry blossom garden reflecting the sunrise.

“Well, cherry flowers blossom all over the patio,” he cries out. “When we left I didn’t see them.”

“Sir, when we left there was still some lingering fog. You also were in a hurry and didn’t pay attention. This is the second time they have blossomed. After this, there will only be some late-blooming branches. The abbess told me that.”

“Is that so?” He stops and touches some clusters of flowers. The cold, wet, soft petals are caressing and comforting on his skin. The light from the east reflects off the diamondlike dewdrops on the tips of the leaves. He shuts his eyes to enjoy the gentleness of the petals and listens to the whispering of the early wind. When he opens his eyes, her face has risen on the other side of the garden, opposite him. She is fresh in a dark blue tunic; her gaze is soft and clear, her face pleasing and bright. He knows that it is her: her today, her liberated from hatred and humiliation, her at the age of twenty, with an undying love, waiting for him on the other side of U Tich River, waiting…

He speaks: “Now, I tell you, Love, a gentle and lovely woman, a passionate wife and so naive, my own little bird. Dear lady, I am preparing to leave to meet you.”

The president died exactly on National Day, September 2, the year of the rooster, 1969. His traitorous followers knew that this coincidence carried a curse and would lead to a punishing blow to their position from destiny. Therefore they tricked everybody by reporting that he died on September 3.

From the moment he shut his eyes, it rained for an entire week, a pouring rain as if from a waterfall; white water swept the earth and sky. The Red River billowed with water; there had never been so much water in an autumn. Usually at that time the riverbed would withdraw and the lakes become so still and clear that one could see the weeds at the bottom. But that September, the Red River was foamy red, noisy and wicked as if it were the stormy season. All over Hanoi, the water had no chance to run off. It flooded the sidewalks, overflowed the thresholds of houses, circled around in the intersections. All over the country, people clustered around the foot of lampposts, listening to the speakers describing the funeral. They cried as if a communal assassination had taken place in their nation.

The funeral was held at Ba Dinh Square under a downpour. Soldiers stood in line, in their soaking wet uniforms. People spilled out from the square into the side streets, wearing black pants and brown shirts with mourning ribbons covered in plastic. The official pillars of the state stood on the dais with guards holding umbrellas to protect their heads. The speeches were emotional like the emotions in life. Words of gold and jade were poured out to applaud the accomplishments of the great leader of the nation, the father who had given birth to the revolution, the one who had led countless followers, who had trained a successor generation to carry on with loyalty and dedication!

During the funeral, who knew where the trembling soul of the president stood? If it was smart, it should be under the shade of the trees by the gate to the Ministry of Defense, even though it would have to bear the cold water like a whipping. Wherever it was, surely it could observe in its entirety all the acts of the play. The people wept; of course the little people, but even those who had plotted him harm cried loudly as if their own father had died. They cried miserably with overflowing tears, with their throats obstructed by pain, their noses running. Their speeches were punctuated with noisy nose-blowing, and this unattractive sound was amplified when broadcast over the public airwaves.

The president’s prediction proved correct: they cried for real.

But his explanation proved wrong: they did not cry from a realization that, someday, they would have to face him before the tribunal of all existence; they did not cry from shame or embarrassment over an encounter that would occur on the far side of the U Tich River. Oh no, for none of these romantic reasons.

They cried because they could no longer harm him, because they could no longer search for him and wish for his death, because such is the game of power. The ultimate reason that they cried: they understood truly who they were. To understand oneself is the most difficult learning one can obtain in life. One can discover this self-awareness only in special circumstances and by rubbing elbows with others, because the features of a person can be recognized only in the mirror of others. His death provided that very opportunity. For many years, they had held the country’s power, having at hand an entire hierarchy of lackeys from high ranks to low, from pillars of the dynasty to the guards in all the camps or those who gave out merits and demerits in the countryside. His traitorous subordinates had believed in the efficacy of their structure, that they were the reigning king on the throne and he was the abdicated monarch living in the back palace who had to do whatever they asked of him; that they were the genuine heroes and he only a gilded plaque where heroes who have decomposed into the mud were listed; and that the arch of triumph they were building would stand on this land forever and that his accomplishment was only a prelude like the vestibule one must cross before entering the main hall. At the funeral all those dreams turned to smoke. They understood that his power could only generate resentment on their part but could never be appropriated.