Duong Huong - The Zenith

Hearing this, the president roused himself and put on his quilted jacket to intervene:

“Just let the temple pray. I’ve been up a long time.”

“Hail to Buddha! We appreciate your kindness.”

The nun clasped her hands together and bowed her head deeply in thanks. Then she backed away. She took the kerosene lamp she had placed at the foot of the wall and returned to the temple. It was still dark outside and the enveloping fog was like smoke; the panels of her brown robe flapped in the fog, creating a strange distraction. And the lamp swinging in the night reminded him of an image long buried in the past.

No longer wanting to sleep, he lit his lamp to read a book. But no words registered as he kept hearing the prayers and sounds of the wooden gong. Sitting this way for a long time, in a state of complete emptiness, he mechanically turned the pages of the book, listening to the melancholic, monotonous music from the temple, which sounded like a calm river or a gently flowing stream that gurgles between grassy banks. At last, he understood that the image from his past for which he was painfully searching was that of his mother. One frigid and foggy winter night, his mother had also carried an oil lamp across a courtyard, the panels of her dress similarly flapping in a foggy night. She was going down to the water buffalo shed to add more rice husks to the pile of kindling. During such extremely cold nights, if you didn’t keep the fire alive, the buffalo could easily die or get frostbite on their feet to the point where they couldn’t plow. He was then four or five, snuggling in his mother’s arms until she got up; then he would sit and cuddle the blanket, following his mother with his eyes…the dainty profile of a country woman, the panels of a brown dress flowing softly…The warm arms and sweet smell of mother’s milk…The perfume of a far distant past returned. An inexpressible emotion surfaced within him. And with it, an unexplainable sadness.…

“No! It’s absurd!” he cried out. Then, closing the book, he reached for the stack of newspapers. But the news was the same every day, as he had long known. What was the point of eating the same dish, from the same cook, day after day? Disappointment overtook him from his head down to his toes. The image of the woman in the brown dress returned, reminding him again of his distant youth. A five-year-old child in bed looking at his mother brought up an unrequited longing for another child; and in that way he paced back and forth in the hell of his heart.

By nine o’clock, he feels out of breath. Waiting for the chubby bodyguard to take away his morning tea, he says:

“I wish to go to the forest for a stroll. Get ready and in a few minutes we’ll go.”

“Sir, that’s impossible!” the panicked bodyguard blurts out, and seeing the unhappy face of the president, explains in a low voice:

“With respect, Mr. President, today we cannot go to the woods. Please understand…”

“It may be cold but it’s dry,” the president replies, controlling his anger. “It’s enough if I wear my quilted jacket…”

“Mr. President, today is an inauspicious day. Yesterday, the nun told me this. This is the worst day of the year; that’s why the temple prays so early today”

“Is that so! But you’re a young lad, you believe in this kind of thing?

“Yes, sir…”

The bodyguard hems and haws as if something were stuck in his throat, but an instant later he suddenly adds: “I believe…I’m not afraid for myself but I have the duty to protect you. We just can’t go into the woods.”

This is the first time he sees the sweet youth display such unusual decisiveness. He smiles quietly. A silence out of respect. Whether he likes it or not, he has to admit that this young man is a gift from heaven. However, he can’t believe that such fear could ever become real. From the day he arrived at the Lan Vu temple, eighteen months ago, no accident had ever occurred until today, the accident of some father. And the cries of that unknown child bring him back to his own hell: the absence of his son jabs at him like the excruciating pain of a cancer, torturing him without mercy. His heart is like a reddish, unfeathered young bird falling into a thornbush.

Lying in bed, he covers his eyes with his hands and thinks quietly to himself:

“I wonder if the child will cry of pain when I die? Will he cry inconsolably like that boy in the valley?”

A contemptuous voice rises from the depths of his soul like a brutal slap right to his face.

“Forget it! Nobody has ever told him who his father is. How can he possibly find out who he is when his very own father erases every trace that would make it possible to locate him?”

He addresses himself to an imagined, and thus unimpeachable, judge, suddenly feeling like a cowardly weakling before such authority.

“But at the same time…I hope…that with time…”

Turning his back, the judge throws at him a contemptuous silence. In spite of himself, the president moans and feels the color of his face changed by shame. He quickly hides his face in the pillows, fearing that someone might unexpectedly walk in. A fit of repeated contractions squeezes his chest excruciatingly, as if it were being kneaded by iron hands. Then, suddenly, he wants to cry. A kind of longing he has not experienced since his youth comes over him at this moment. A strange kind of desire, urgent, intoxicating, and painful. He wishes he could cry out loud, in broad daylight. He wishes he could cry to his heart’s content, cry inconsolably, cry copiously between the high heavens and the deep earth. Wishes he could cry incessantly like a woman or a child. Wishes he could scream in the midst of the jungle and the mountains like that unfortunate son of the man who had just fallen into the ravine. But instead of calling out “Father!” he would cry “My son!”

“Son, my very own son.”

“Son, my very own blood, the one who will carry on my line, my very own flesh. The fruit of an untimely love between me and her.”

But he can’t cry, because there is a knock at the door and immediately Le, the commander of the bodyguards, enters.

“Mr. President, are you feeling unwell?”

“I have a splitting headache,” he replies without moving from the bed. Le’s even-toned voice drips as if from a faucet and resonates in the room. He feels each word as a stab to his nape.

“Mr. President, the tea is ready. Please drink it while it’s hot.”

“Please just leave it there for me.”

“Mr. President, please allow me to call the doctor.”

“Not necessary. Everyone has headaches from time to time. I can assure you that it’s not my blood pressure.”

“Mr. President, you are still under treatment.”

“I have stopped for two weeks already.”

“Mr. President…”

He is forced to turn over and sit up. Le shows no special emotion. He stands firmly in the middle of the room with the tea tray in his hands. Once a day, either in the morning or in the afternoon, the commander personally attends the president to check on his health or to inspect the guards. An unusual diligence. An icy concentration. His ordinary features, his many large freckles, give a dark brown hue to his complexion so that people might assume he had Indian or Arab ancestry.

“Mr. President, the tea contains Lingzhi fungus jelly and medicine for your heart. The doctor has urged you to drink it while still hot. That’s why we cover the tea with a special cozy.”

“OK. Leave it on the table for me,” he replies, thinking, “Poor me; not a moment without being watched.”

The commander puts the tray on the table and repeats, “Please drink it while it is still hot.”