Duong Huong - The Zenith

Daydreams flit away very quickly. Miss Vui resumed the imperative mission she had come to accomplish: removing herself as a target for the man now sitting in front of her.

“On the coming of spring, I come to present my wishes, to congratulate the new arrival and to bless the new happiness. But I also have something to tell you. I’m not sure whether you will welcome this.”

“Oh, I am not a district or provincial Party secretary, so you don’t have to beat around the bush. We are neighbors, in a village, in the countryside; we can talk about anything.”

“Then I wish to set a time to meet after the five days of the Tet holidays. When you have time, please stop by my house for a visit.”

“That’s fine; I also must go and present my New Year wishes. What goes around, comes around.”

Miss Vui had not finished her tea before guests began noisily pouring onto the patio. She stood up to leave, but, before she left, she stopped by the kitchen to politely say good-bye to Miss Ngan and Mrs. Tu, where those two had retreated into their kingdom. In the kitchen, pots and pans were scattered all about. The aroma of coconut sticky rice mingled with that of honey-glazed fried chicken, making an overwhelmingly sweet fragrance.

That noon Miss Ngan said to her husband, “Hey, you handsome old stud, that big gal who came early this morning has a crush on you. Do you know it or just pretend not to?”

“How could I know it?”

“Right, why should you know everything? West, east, north, south — all four quarters and eight directions — there are plenty of people under heaven,” Mrs. Tu interjected, clearly proud.

Mr. Quang looked at his wife, curious: “Why do you think that she has a crush on me?”

“Oh my god, really?”

She pouted. “The way she looks — as if she is high on the pipe. If it is not from a nightmare, then it comes from having a crush on a guy.”

“Truly? Like what?” Mr. Quang asked again, and then laughed loudly. “Hey, little one, if I hadn’t been destined to meet you, then there would be plenty like you wanting to enter my doors. I do not have to carry a gal as big as a temple guardian back home so that day and night I would have to work out to win a family competition.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Tu, quickly slipping in her opinion.

“For a year now, there have been so many who sent me betel nuts, bean cakes, and even Hai Duong black cakes. Thanks to your charm, I have had no time for a matchmaker because I was full of sticky rice and sweet soups.”

Miss Ngan looked at her husband then at Mrs. Tu, shaking her jade earrings and giving a broad, satisfied smile: “OK, I give in to the two of you, uncle and niece! It’s so clear that you are one pillar, one post.”

Miss Vui walked home troubled, wondering if Mr. Quang was aware she had gone to Khoai Hamlet. Because his laugh had been both open-minded and playful, she could not divine the answer. The same with his look — it showed cheerfulness and forgiveness when he beamed; when it turned darker, reflecting a vague bitterness, she could not detect the cause. Besides, she knew that after the first day of New Year, people had flocked to Mr. Quang’s house, the ideal location to enjoy traditional hospitality. His generosity as well as his classy style were beyond all competition. She visualized the huge patio, the spacious rooms furnished with first-class wooden furniture that he had bought from those brought low by the land-reform campaign; the tea sets displayed on the sideboard; the antique celadon plates and the vases with brass rims that no other village family could afford. She also brought to mind the muscular yet slim body in the silk outfit, the bright smile like pearls in a basket. She suddenly felt like a papier-mâché puppet that had collapsed, ripped apart by that man’s sharp insightfulness.

“Maybe the old man knows everything. Not just maybe, but for sure he knows everything. From yesterday to today, he has had one guest after another. For sure someone has retold everything that happened under my roof.”

She recalled the deep wrinkle on one side of his mouth when he had laughed and asked flippantly, “Am I a district or a provincial Party secretary?”

This last detail convinced her that Mr. Quang knew everything. Now she could only hope to benefit from his generosity.

Arriving home, Miss Vui was very tired; a degree of weariness she had never experienced as an adult. Letting herself down onto a chair, she reflectively looked at her feet, the fair pair of feet in the blue rubber. She wore shoes and socks all year round to preserve her white skin. But today, when it was cold, everyone could see that she was showing off by wearing rubber sandals. Someone as sophisticated as Mr. Quang would not say anything, but would know it full well. Oh, those white feet of hers. They took so much work to maintain but did nothing to change her physique.

“I am still a woman who wears shoe size forty-three. All my life these feet have found leftover shoes. These feet are permanently sentenced to project masculinity. These feet cannot be cut down or repaired. Nothing can hide them.”

Tears welled up in her lashes, and for the first time in her life, she turned toward Mr. Do’s image with resentment, saying, “Father, why did you make me? Giving me a life so that I have to endure so much pain and hardship.”

Tears clouded her eyes, such that she could not see clearly the image of her father. Then, on the altar, Mr. Do also cried.

From about the tenth to the end of the first month, rain fell nonstop. People looked up to the sky and complained:

“How strange, it’s only the first month and we already have this kind of rain.”

“This temple-cleaning rain comes early, it means we won’t even have rice porridge.”

“Pray to heaven; don’t let the people suffer anymore. We just had an epidemic of grasshoppers, then one of worms.”

“You can’t rely on what people can do for themselves but only pray to heaven.”

“People’s capacity has limits; heaven’s rule is limitless. Our ancestors prayed to heaven for thousands of years, so today I, too, pray to heaven.”

“OK, after you’re done praying to heaven, we have to find a way to plant some potatoes. If we lose the rice harvest by bad luck, at least we will have something to feed our stomachs.”

People collared each other to plant off-season potatoes. Afterward, they went together to harvest mushrooms. During this season, mushrooms grow like figs; with luck you could fill a sack with fourteen pounds or more. Fresh mushrooms stir-fried with pork fat alone is quite tasty. Wealthier families would add a few grams of beef marinated in garlic and thorny basil and stir-fry it with vermicelli for a divine dish. For families with small children, the women could chop fresh mushrooms and add pork and scallions to make meatballs to add to rice or wild cress soups. In addition, village families could dry mushrooms and sell them to urban restaurants, from the capital to towns in the lowlands as well as the highlands. That year’s mushroom season marked the first time Miss Ngan went up into the woods with a team of women from Woodcutters’ Hamlet. It was also the first opportunity for this nonlocal bride to participate in a community undertaking. First she went with Mrs. Tu because Mrs. Tu was her guardian angel and the person closest to her after her husband. And when her relationships with neighbors grew warm enough, or appeared to be warm enough, she went with the ladies and girls living next to her house. Each group included from five to ten pickers. They brought along food and antidotes for poisonous snakebites. Each year there was only one official season for harvesting mushrooms, so every girl and woman in Woodcutters’ Hamlet would go into the woods.