Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Brother, please don’t say that. This entire nation is indebted to you. Even if I took on more, it would still not be enough.”

From each shelf of the altar, red wooden statues touched with gold leaf look out at them intensely. The president thinks that his secret conversation with Vu does not go beyond the wooden eyes and ears. The smell of incense slowly rises up, and, for the first time, he understands that he is stepping up to another, a new, realm, entering a new space. He suddenly utters a sigh.

“What is the matter, Elder Brother?”

“Nothing. Tell me so that I clearly understand what’s happening in our country.”

“But…”

“Don’t worry. I can take it.”

“The situation is very bad. Our strength was not enough but they decided on a general offensive. General Han met me and told me that, in the battle at Nam Phai, the entire command staff was wiped out, except for General Han, who escaped because he was in Ha Tinh. The bodies of soldiers clogged the ravines; the streams could not flow through.”

“I had guessed that when they keep urging me to write poetry to inspire the people.”

“The terrible thing was not only that. Han returned to the front for only two days before his family received word of his death.”

“He must have been killed while on the road, for sure in Thanh Hoa province.”

“I suspected that, too.”

“For a long time Thanh Hoa has turned into a bandit haven.”

“Yes, many know this.”

“Pity his whole family.”

“Yes, his young child is not yet ten while his wife has suffered a serious joint ailment for three or four years now.”

“Is there any other reason? Or was it just because he kept in touch with us?”

“For sure. The paper and the radio talk only about victories. Deserting soldiers were stopped at the crossroads on the forest road from Quang Tri to Ha Tinh and were brought to the reeducation camps for deserters. Nobody in the north knows the truth about the battles. But I believe Han was assassinated for another reason.”

“I understand,” he replies, and suddenly feels a frigid wind blowing up and down his spine: “Too many people have been hurt because of their connection with me.”

“You cannot say that.”

“But it’s true. Even me. I have been hurt for being me. It’s the truth.”

“Elder Brother, don’t torture yourself.”

“As you see, I am not blind or deaf, nor losing my mind. I must bear some responsibility before the people.”

Vu looks at him angrily: “There is nothing more you can do for ‘this’ people — the people to which you belong must bear responsibility for themselves.”

“Aren’t they your people, too?”

Vu sighed: “They are also mine, true. But oftentimes I feel so dispirited. Because we can’t change our race like we can change our clothes.”

“But it’s our nation. Even if we want to reject it, we can’t.”

“Because we cannot reject it, we suffer.”

“On this planet, surely there are other peoples that deserve to be as miserable as we are. But many cannot recognize that they must be miserable due to some cause or some condition. As long as they don’t yet realize that something true and real is justly causing their misery, then that sense of misery doesn’t last.”

The President drops this very vague comment, prompting Vu to look inquisitively at him. He seems to be pursuing something in his mind, his eyes aimlessly looking at the temple patio. Vu waits a few seconds then says:

“You said…”

“What I want to say is that every nation has its strengths and its shortcomings. But to accept and to look straight at the core of our shortcomings is an extremely difficult thing to do.”

The two of them remain silent. Vu anxiously looks at him:

“You are too old and have had too much suffering to think about such things. Life runs within set banks; better to let the stream run its course.”

As for the president, he pensively recalls a spring day in the war zone of Viet Bac along the Chinese border. Then, exactly at the lunar New Year, everyone at headquarters competed in cooking traditional dishes. Among all these, the foremost was congealed duck’s blood with pig intestines. Not only the cooks but all the headquarters staff it seemed had jumped in to prepare those important dishes. At noon, his staff brought him the duck’s blood with pig insides on a tray. During wartime, a mere mouthful of meat was considered a banquet, because there were long periods when everyone at headquarters had only cassava instead of rice. The previous year, a soldier in the intelligence company went crazy from eating only cassava for six months in a row. He was from a well-to-do family, and so had no experience in enduring scarcity. Six whole months without a grain of rice or a piece of meat or fish for your stomach, just cassava every day, first eaten boiled, then for a while eaten broiled, and then afterward boiled again but now in a soup of salt and wild leaves; this man from town took sick, his complexion turned green, his stomach extended as if he were pregnant. One morning, when seeing his adopted brother bring up a basket of boiled cassava, he suddenly jumped up crazed in the yard, screamed as if a devilish spirit had entered him, stripped off his clothes, took hold of his head, and ran into the woods.

This incident had obsessed him. Therefore, his mind opened to all those happenings that carry life forward. And so he couldn’t eat those nutritious traditional dishes anymore. He looked at the bowl of duck’s blood on the tray with disinterest — a tureen full of dark red blood, coagulated like Jell-O, with chopped peanuts and herbs spread evenly on its surface. In addition there was a very small bowl of fresh chili peppers. The guard had carried in his tray of food to respectfully place it in front of him and then had waited to see whether he would enjoy the special dish, because for everyone this was so obviously the most elegant meal in the entire year.

“Just leave it for me. Go down and eat with your friends,” he hurriedly said to the soldier so that he could retire at ease.

Left with him was the bowl of blood. He thought of ways to discreetly get rid of it. Since his youth, he had dreaded the smell of blood, even if it was camouflaged under all the various flavors of herbs such as basil, mint, and cilantro, green onion, shallots, roasted peanuts, and minced fresh pepper. Each time his family had drawn pig’s blood, he would slip away into the fields. Nobody could force him to eat that horrible dish, a dish that many had coveted the most whenever a pig was slaughtered, a dish that both male and female elders esteemed as good for having both “yin” and “yang” auspicious properties. They used to make fun of him:

“Smart in his studies but stupid in his eating.”

He never really knew why he was so put off by this traditional dish. Once, when he was a young man living in Paris, he had gone to a movie about the customs of Africa. Watching the local people draw blood from the cow, whose head bobbed in the vat of blood, then drink the still fresh and hot blood, his skin suddenly burst out in goose bumps, sweat dripping wet on his back. His face took turns being hot then icy cold. He imagined that the people around him were looking at him, noting his strange mental state and guessing all the thoughts hidden in his mind. He had sat paralyzed in the theater until the end of the afternoon, waiting for everyone else to leave before he got up. Outside it was freezing cold. The sweat on the back of his shirt was wet and cold, making his body shake uncontrollably. He had turned around and found the restroom, where he picked up a newspaper and used it to pad his chest and back before going home.