Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Why didn’t you organize it all in one day?”

“If we did, it would be too crowded, the auditorium would not hold everyone. The other problem was that the other day the organizers did not have enough candies. We had therefore to split into two sessions.”

After he finished talking, he smiled broadly, showing off his teeth, uneven and tainted the color of dirt from smoking pipes. Looking at him, the president laughed:

“Fine. I will work a little more. When it’s time you come and get me.”

Then he bent over and continued reading documents, completely calm. He had had no idea that fate was waiting for him underneath the pillars of his plank house.

“ Love, when will we see each other again…”

The familiar song from the doctor again comes into his mind, like the electric prod that jabs at his heart. Pain spreads all over his body. He feels as if not only his heart is being crushed but that every cell in his body is being crushed as well. He suddenly thinks of that picture of Cupid, the blindfolded child with wings. The image brings on goose bumps and shivers: “Who knows who in this world will be your love? Who knows when fate’s hammer will break open your heart?”

On that night long ago when his chief of staff had come to pick him up, he had still tried to finish the report. Neatly putting away the pile of documents, he had walked to the door. But when he put his foot on the stairs, he had turned around to cover the typewriter with a piece of cloth, fearing dust or some insect dropping from the roof might ruin his work machine. There was no rush in his movements, no stirring emotions in his heart. He had executed each movement with the self-awareness and calm necessary to his status — the leader of a country at war.

The chief of staff had waited for him at the foot of the stairs to take him to where all the sections camped in common. The women’s section, the youth section, the National Salvation children, the Democratic Party, the Socialist Party, the Agricultural Society…All were arranged into one assembly. The zone for families was also nearby, the area of spouses and children of high-ranking cadres who participated in the resistance while tending to domestic duties. The camp was away from his house across a valley with a stream. By the time the president and his guide reached the valley, it was pitch dark. The chief of staff had swung back and forth a flashlight wrapped in thick cloth, exposing a pinhead of light only the size of a firefly. The valley lacked cover from tall trees. The trees bordering the trail were conifers or narrow-leaved, not providing enough protection against curious eyes in spy planes above. To compensate, there were many wild fireflies, and patches of phosphorus from decaying wood shone like a guiding light for the mountain god or ceremonial lanterns for forest spirits.

They had to rely on such natural lights to walk. In about thirty minutes, they came to the stream. After crossing it, only a short descent remained until they arrived at the encampment. He asked the chief of staff:

“Last time I told you what you need to do when you cross a stream. Do you still remember?”

“Mr. President, you said…that…that…” He chewed on his words between his teeth. It made the president laugh.

“I reminded you to pee on both feet before you cross. That’s the old way to prevent arthritis which I once learned. Your generation is still young and doesn’t know the laws of heaven. You all take your health for granted. But health is the big asset which we all need to preserve.”

“Mr. President, because my brain is thick, I learn now but forget later.”

“It’s not a question of education: it’s not a lack of intelligence but of taking precautions.”

The chief of staff smiled, then stepped rearward behind him, and put into practice what he had just learned. Hearing a loud sound of splashing urine, the president had a quick thought:

“For sure, he is healthy. Youth really is a time of paradise.”

It took them a while to feel their way across the stream, because the bottom was quite slippery, though the water was not that deep. The rocks were not sharp but the big ones here and there were quite mossy; one needed only a small false step to fall down. Having to go to the clinic was a real bother, especially in the deep mountains and forests, where not all equipment and medicines were available. This very real worry prompted him to always remind himself and others:

“This war is in a very difficult phase. We all must take care of our health. In other words, we have no right to get sick. Clinics and medicines should be reserved for wounded soldiers. Caring for your health to the utmost is discipline; it is the spirit of responsibility to the nation as well as to our own selves.”

In the middle of the stream, the chief of staff suddenly grabbed him:

“This spot is very slippery, let me hold your hand and lead the way.”

“Thank you, but I have passed the most dangerous spots.”

“Do you find the water too cold?”

“Cold or not, we are close to the bank.”

The president smiled and said: “Next time, if you mean well, you should ask to carry me before I put my feet in the water.”

“Oh, oh, oh…”

The young assistant had no way to answer so he cried out like a lamb.

In the darkness, a large group of people straggled forward into view.

“The president…the president has arrived…”

“The president has arrived.”

He raised his voice: “I am here!”

The group cried out and ran down to the stream, where the water was only about a foot deep. Water splashed all over the president’s clothes. Lantern light glistened back and forth on the water, and arms grabbed his shoulders, his back. One touched his shirt, another his shoulder. The president recognized these people by the smell of their sweat and breath.

“Are you tired, Mr. President?”

“Sure, I’m tired. But not so much that I have to ask you to carry me to camp,” he replied and briskly went up the slope. From here on, the forest was dense. Everybody uncovered their flashlights. Between the two sides of the path, rays of light intermingled in front of him. He felt enthusiastic. He thought of the joy waiting for him. Meeting young people was relaxation to him, like recess for elementary students.

Ahead, lodgings were bright with burning lights. The door frames were burnt orange, a vibrant color in the night. The sound came of children singing to the beat of clapping hands. When he stepped forward, they all stood up and sang loudly to the clapping instead of using words of welcome:

“Our mountains and rivers will be grateful to you generation after generation,

We hear your voice resound among the rivers and mountains,

Let’s all go together, advancing down the road to liberation,

Let’s all go together, listening to the sacred soul of the southern land calling out to us…”

All those fresh and youthful faces, those bright eyes, and the bright fires of that night…he remembers them clearly to this day. Was it because they had registered at the same time with one face, a couple of eyes, a smile as red as if it carried lipstick, a flock of shiny black hair? Was it because all this had registered at the same time with the image of her?

Oh, no, no!

Maybe time had dyed everything the color of a magical cloud. The truth is, that after that night, he hadn’t longed for anything else. The exact truth is, that when his sleep came on, he would recall that glorious night with a light and floating joyfulness: people singing, fires, the xoe dance of the mountain folk, and skirts fashioned from scintillating cellophane paper. A boy of about twelve had sung “Song of the Mountain Girl” in a marvelous tenor voice. And finally, a pair of clear brown eyes had looked straight at him across the fire.