Duong Huong - The Zenith

The bodyguard crosses the temple patio carrying a tea tray. His round face is hot and red; sweat drips from his forehead. After climbing several steps, he kicks the door wide open and respectfully places the tea tray in front of him:

“Mr. President, please drink your tea. It took me longer because the electric kettle is broken. I had to boil the water in the temple kitchen.”

“That is all right. Leave it there for me.”

“Sir, these are fresh bean cakes. The Hai Duong provincial commissar just sent them over as a gift.”

“Thank you.”

The guard steps away, the back of his shirt soaked with sweat. He must be very miserable to have to use the temple’s tiny kitchen. Because of his size, anytime this guard is close to fire, he drips sweat. He remembers last summer when the guard had to accompany him on a walk around the mountain surrounding the temple while waiting on Le and the “mosquito spraying” specialist, sweat not only soaked his back, but also the back of his pants over his round and curvy buttocks, which resembled those of a woman. Sweat dripped continuously on his forehead and face. He had a large towel on his shoulder to wipe it off. Then, he had said:

“Lucky for you that I am the president of Vietnam. If I had been born in Africa certainly you would not survive the heat.”

“Of course I would. To protect you, Mr. President, I would go anywhere!” he replied instantly.

After that, they did not talk until they had returned to the temple.

But he brings up this little memory. His life does not lack such appealing recollections, just as he never is without those who admire his resolute faith. But he doesn’t understand why he always recalls such trivial memories of this particular plump soldier. Is it because among isolated mountains, one needs a familiar presence? Or is it because he is too old, and, with old age, it is easy to slip again into emotional immaturity? Or is it because after so many vicissitudes, so much uncertainty, he needs to cling to a certainty of human goodness to make his final years less excruciatingly painful? He has no idea. He no longer needs to analyze everything clearly. By instinct, he knows that this person has good karma, and so is worthy of his trust. By instinct, he feels personal warmth having this awkward and large lad by his side. It seems as if the space around him is heated by an invisible light; the light of innate goodness, innate loyalty, and innate affection.

“Did you taste the bean cake yet?”

“This is for you, Mr. President. We will get our share at the last meal of the week.”

“Waiting until the end of the week is too long. Go and taste half of the bean cakes today. Our elders always said: ‘Don’t put off today’s work until tomorrow.’ Eating is the same.”

“Not so, sir. I don’t dare…”

“This is my command. You must take half of the responsibility. If I eat all the cakes on this plate, I will skip my evening meal or have to take a laxative.”

He gives half of the cakes to the guard and watches him go to the other side of the patio. The night watch requires two people but during the day one is enough. He chose him for the day watch, because once in a while he needs to leave the room, to escape, by walking aimlessly on the trodden paths surrounding the temple that lead into the woods behind it or to the mountains on the other side.

“I am like a prisoner. I don’t eat stale rice, but my compulsory labor is many times more arduous than the work given to other unfortunate inmates.”

During those aimless walks with the chubby guard at his side, he feels his sadness somewhat alleviated. All that he is reluctant to share with others, he is able to share with the guard easily and without calculation. Yesterday just that very guard had gone down to the village of woodcutters to visit the family of the deceased and then returned to tell him everything. Right at the start, he had recommended to Le exactly how much money should be put in the envelope when the president would go to pay his respects. That fellow’s awkwardness told him what he predicted was on target. The envelope was large but the amount of money was quite meager. He asked Le to arrange for an additional amount and gave it to the heavyset guard to take down to the village.

The guard having left, he realizes his own misstep: people could question his special concern for the unfortunate family of that woodcutter, when every day thousands of people die in the war, of bad luck, of diseases. He, the president of a country, should have as his primary concern the interests of the entire people and the fate of the country; for what reason should he be so concerned about one individual? This is wrong and a failing in the quality of his responsibility, or a weakness in his ability to think and to decide. An excessive curiosity comes only from an idle, lazy life or from a brain in malfunction. An excessive curiosity is a flaw that should be overcome by all ordinary men, and even more so with him, the supreme leader of a nation.

All of a sudden anger oppresses him, visible on the pale face of a traveler. An elderly man, both stranger and friend, looks at him with frowning brows and says:

“What meaning to all this? All this subtle questioning and necessary caution fit for an old king in a dark cave? What meaning to concealing a wounded heart and an imprisoned mind?”

And he suddenly realizes that this stranger in front of him is none other than himself smiling a sad and teasing smile. Without looking at him, he replies:

“You are right! I indulge this curiosity because I want to, because the position of national president no longer preoccupies my soul, because the sufferings of a father force me to look straight at my sins, because all the regrets of a husband compel me to consider that woodcutter as a mirror reflecting my own conscience. I have the right to regret; I have a right of redemption; a right to love whom I want to love; and therefore, the call of my conscience is justified.”

His eyes follow the soldier, who appears smaller and smaller on the road down the mountains until he totally disappears behind rugged stones and mountain tea bushes. And the streaks of white clouds, gossamer like butterfly wings, gently weave around the mountaintops, haphazardly concealing the spring sun.

“My beloved! I know that everything fell apart; that the boat was shattered beyond repair with its planks bobbing on the waves; that the felled trees can never grow anew; that those in the ground can never find their way back. But I still want to probe my own mistakes to their depths, facing your ghost and never forgetting the lives of the two children. I will not and need not stand before any earthly tribunal, but I have to face you before a tribunal in the next world. I know that you will be waiting for me there.”

The other man turns around, stands directly before him, and looks at him with condescending eyes. His pride bruised, the president’s temples burn hot. He looks straight back at the one who taunts him. This time he realizes he looks just like him, like twins; worse, like two drops of water — from the body frame, the skin tone and hair color, the gestures, the clothes, to the eyes. The only thing is that the other’s face is indifferent, the “I don’t care” kind of indifference of a samurai who is ready to toss away his sword under the moon to satisfy some dream and then perish.

“Why do you still demur in belated regret, in hopeless repentance?”

“Because I am a person like millions of others. I cannot escape from the need of a father, of a husband, to love and to be loved. It’s a legitimate entitlement.”

“But you did choose to deny those ordinary feelings. It’s you who accepted emasculating a normal man’s life to please your comrades, those who gave you the great role of Father of the Nation but who assassinated your wife and destroyed your children’s chances in life, and also with that acceptance you gained access to all the conveniences that came with your grand role as the nation’s great, respected elder.”