Duong Huong - The Zenith

Right then, it was the son whose mouth was open wide with surprise — like someone being struck by lightning on the ears. And when he realized clearly what his father had said, he squealed like a pig being slaughtered:

“That’s not true; you lie about my mother! I don’t believe you!”

“Your mother and I were in the prime of life. We cut lumber in the woods together all year ’round. Who could stop us? We didn’t have to deprive ourselves of our desire. Why did we have to wait for the right day and month? We were engaged; the two families had an agreement. Sooner or later we would be in bed together.”

Quy had no reply.

“You are tongue-tied and cannot answer because you are used to lying. You and your wife, too, my man, yourself with your wife, didn’t you mix oil and vinegar with each other for a whole year before I managed to make enough money to pay for the wedding? What about the time you furtively took her for a curettage down in the district? You thought I was blind? The money your mother sneakily gave you was taken out of my pocket, why wouldn’t I know? It’s lucky your wife could still have kids. In many cases, a curettage of the first pregnancy leads to permanent infertility.”

Quy’s wife was looking at her father-in-law with her mouth wide open until she burst out crying from shame. The two daughters, both of an age to be married, and the son lowered their heads. All were acting their roles under the baton of the father. At this instant, the cards were turned faceup, the father and the mother were exposed, and the children dared not look up. Mr. Quang lowered his voice:

“Enough: we fought so it was a fight. You were born, but only when you were thirteen did I know what kind of person you were. I tried every which way to turn things around but could not. No one can stand against heaven’s plans. From now on, don’t ever set foot in my house. We are no longer father and son.”

“That is your will.”

“You are wrong; people don’t choose what they want or don’t want. But once we have pushed each other this far, everything must change.” Again Quy could say nothing.

“You don’t dare open your mouth because you still think of wealth. Being a person is quite difficult, Master Quy. Opening your mouth is easy; opening your hand is much more difficult. Filial piety on the lips — everyone has it. If you don’t want to, I MYSELF will continue to perform your mother’s death anniversaries as usual. She was my wife and now she is still my deceased wife. She made no mistake with me. But you are different. From this day on, I MYSELF will not have you.”

The group stood there stupidly. Perhaps what had happened went too quickly and they had no time to understand how it all had ended. Perhaps they believed that whatever they might do, Mr. Quang would never dare push them out the doors of this house, a house they believed their only son would someday own. But Mr. Quang threw the pole back to the corner of the house, looked at them, and said, lowering his voice:

“Go, go! Go away from here!”

He said this softly, almost murmuring, but within this quiet voice, everything was finished; the water had run its course, the boat had slipped its moorings.

Nothing could return to what it had been.

Quy, his wife, and their children took themselves home, the eyes of neighbors watching them from behind windows and doors, trees and stands of bamboo.

People live rather calm lives in the mountains — like the surface of the lake down the valley imprisoned on all four sides by mountain slopes. But if you throw in a stone, circles will spread without stopping. In the same way, some events, big or small — if they upset whatever is most hidden in the human soul — can start a war, a conflict between old-fashioned understandings and modern innovations. Woodcutters’ Hamlet that spring resembled a volcano squirting out lava nonstop because of what was happening in Mr. Quang’s family. Or, speaking more precisely, Woodcutters’ Hamlet that spring was like a roaring, burning stove with the person throwing charcoal briquettes onto the fire being a beautiful girl coming from a strange place, with sensual eyes, and wearing a green silk blouse.

One o’clock came on the first day of Tet; villagers flowed into the streets to go and present their wishes to their loved ones. According to the old custom, the first day of New Year is reserved for visits to close relatives. Visits on the second day are made to more distant relatives, neighbors, and friends. The third day is for hamlet officials to pay calls on one another: the chairman goes to the secretary’s house; the secretary visits the hamlet police commander, then the police commander presents his New Year’s wishes to the secretary of the Youth Committee or the secretary of the Woman’s Federation — the formal structure holding the community together. That year everything seemed to be wrong side up. Right on the evening of the first day, people rushed pell-mell to knock at Miss Vui’s door:

“Happy New Year. We wish you five, ten times more prosperity this year than last.”

“Happy New Year. We wish that you get many new things, from your head down to your toes.”

“Happy New Year. We wish Miss Vui happiness all year long, always to smile with happiness; every day to be as the first day of Tet, every month to be as the first month of the year, and each season to be as the spring.”

From the day she had come into life with a cry, never had Miss Vui enjoyed as many New Year’s good wishes worded so beautifully, like flowers and brocade; never had she enjoyed such respect from the villagers. That year maybe heaven had turned its eyes on her, or maybe her devoted father in heaven had come to her aid. Her fortune seemed to change. While opening wide her doors, Miss Vui invited the guests in, smiling:

“Happy New Year, I wish each of you everything you are waiting for.”

People poured into the house, not waiting for a second invitation. All intuitively felt that Act Two of the Ngan-Quang soap opera would be performed here.

As for Miss Vui, after sleeping straight through for more than nine hours, she was full of strength; her spirits were soaring. She lit incense at her father’s altar, changed the water in the vase of peach blossoms, then sat down and ate two pork rolls and one large sticky rice cake. When the villagers came to her house, she was in a wonderful frame of mind, one of satisfaction and happiness — the most important conditions for generous hospitality. The hostess boiled water to make tea; she put out all kinds of cakes and candies that she had bought down in the town. Meanwhile, more and more guests came in; not only elders but also groups of young men and women from the village committee along with teenagers who liked playing games with tiny firecrackers and fighting cocks, or chess. Thus two rooms of the house were filled to the walls with people as happens only when there are meetings over allocation of work points and distribution of rice. Miss Vui had readily at hand a contingent of soldiers to help serve tea, cakes, and candies to everyone. She sat imposingly at the head table, next to the village mucky-mucks and the heads of the wealthiest families.

“I heard somewhere that it has happened. Thus the husbands who don’t play second fiddle to their wives have won the bet. I ask to open a bottle of Lua Moi whiskey to congratulate them.”

So spoke Miss Vui to open that evening’s gathering. Then she took a bottle of Lua Moi from the altar, along with a packet of fragrant roasted peanuts, half sweet, half savory, which she had bought in town.