Duong Huong - The Zenith

One day, Mr. Quang’s younger brother mustered enough courage to ask him:

“How long will Quy be incarcerated after the judgment?”

“Four years and six months.”

“So now Vui sits firmly in his chair.”

“That is up to the authorities, not us.”

“But he is your son and my nephew.”

“Everybody knows that.”

“Why don’t you find a way to reduce his sentence?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I want to say is that, with arms as long as yours, you can keep him in the seat of village chairman.”

“You regret the loss? I am his natural father and look how he harassed me; how would he treat those outside the family?”

The brother dared say no more.

A few days later, he came to Quy’s house and scolded his niece-in-law:

“Your husband is more stupid than a dog. He doesn’t even know when he is lucky. Since you two married, the big house, all of it, was yours thanks to his father. You two had children but all their food and their clothes and shoes came from their grandfather. Even the village chairmanship: How could your husband have got that without him? With him, not only your whole brood but all our relatives benefited from the shadow of a tall tree. Your mother-in-law passed away; whomever he then married was his own business. How was it your business to stir things up? You’re a pig-headed bunch. Now your husband is in prison; you, the wife, are at home. Worrying over two meals a day will use up all your spirit and stretch your neck out like that of a goose. Do you think this is happiness?”

This awakened thoughtfulness as well as a moral conscience. Was it not a lesson reasoned from old teachings? In studying for entrance exams, moral conscience is the slow learner. Always, virtue finishes last.

Chairman Quy was sentenced to four years and six months in prison.

Everyone knew that fact. But in a year he returned for all to see. Those who were not in the fields or who were working at home that morning heard the clanging of horseshoes on the country road by Mr. Quang’s house. It was the clacketing tempo of a purebred with a smooth, velvety, reddish brown coat, with a long mane like one of those horses in an antique Chinese painting. The clanging of his hooves in time with the bells tinkling on his neck brought a familiar music to the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet, reminding them of the busy life in a city. Hearing those sounds, they would always peek through the gate or the fence to admire the horse and greet the owner. That early morning they saw Mr. Quang sitting in front, his face sad and his hands absentmindedly holding the whip. Behind were Quy and his wife, sitting like two rag bags, silent like mounds of dirt facing each other. That strange silence prompted people not to offer normal greetings. They pretended not to see anyone or to hear anything. But on the evening of that day, they whispered with one another, passing on the news from hamlet to hamlet. “The father stretched his arms to take his son out of prison. Well, good luck indeed.”

“This development will surely make the son open his eyes wide on the outside to better understand life and on the inside to better understand himself. From now on maybe he will find the road to redemption.”

“I heard he had to bow down before Mr. Quang right at the prison gate, just as the police read out the order to release him before the end of his term.”

One talks, the other remains silent, or looks up at the sky, or over toward the hedges, the tree line, with eyes half attentive, half absentminded. After a silence deepened with concern, people sighed with relief as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

“Life does not change over thousands of years: blood flows and the heart softens. Even a tiger would not eat its cub.”

Perhaps it really was a solace, a kind of spiritual and protective wall, a defense against all the storminess that might come from a distant and foreign ocean to pulverize their soft hearts.

Quy’s return passed in silence. For one week he stayed at home, not even taking a step beyond the gate. One morning the following week he and his two daughters carried baskets to the cassava field. From being the most powerful person in the village he became an ordinary citizen. This alone was an extraordinary personal challenge, yet he was also a convict rescued by his father’s personal intervention. The neighbors had predicted just as much. Given this, in a kind of virtue that has been handed down for thousands of years in the community, the people of Woodcutters’ Hamlet pretended that nothing had happened, as if Quy had only returned from a trip and no more. All conversations proceeded calmly just as vegetation grows:

“Hello! Today you and the girls also pick cassava.”

“Yes.”

“Cassava here is twice as good as the ones by my home.”

“No; only so-so; thank heaven anyway.”

“Miss Dao and Miss Man work hard in weeding cassava. Next year will see good starch. At New Year we can make plenty of sweets.”

“Yes, my kids love sweets. Their mother is unskilled in many things but she knows a few tricks in that regard.”

“Do you plan on reviving the bee harvest?”

“No plans yet. Just waiting to see.”

“So are we. Last year we had a bad season for pollen, the bees were reduced by half.”

“Farming is gambling. We have to accept setbacks.”

“There’s this saying: ‘A harvest is lost, that must be due to some natural calamity; a bumper crop, now that must be thanks to the Party’s ability.’”

“If you were still chairman, I would not say it even if my teeth were pried open. But now that you are a regular citizen like us, we do not have to be so restrained.”

“Really?”

“Now, everybody is bold-mouthed and speaks frankly to you about life.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Only now do I know. That quip is really good. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

“Kid: Are you serious or joking?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Well, all these years sitting in the chairman’s seat, you only heard orders from the Party and the government. Those silly songs never reach the ears of those who hold the scales and ink.”

“That’s true. But time in prison opened my eyes to the truth of life. In there are so many who are so much more intelligent and bright than those district cadres sitting above me.”

“Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t it be so?”

“I’m just chatting.”

From that day on Quy’s “prison story” suddenly became double-edged. No one felt embarrassment, no one was shy, in touching someone’s pain. With bravado Quy spoke freely about his “cell mates,” taking pride as if meeting them had been a boon and as if they had been the first ever to teach him life’s magnificent lessons. Villagers found Quy to have turned into a totally different person. He didn’t hide it. Not once but many times Quy would loudly say for people to hear:

“Before I thought the graveside statue was large, but now I find the rock by the pond bridge where we clean our feet is a thousand times larger.”

“You speak in riddles, kid; only those with a belly full of words could understand you. Those like us who plow have dull wits.”

“Let me explain. Before, the whole village, the whole hamlet, competed and fought. Adults competed in work, in increasing productivity, in surpassing the goal; children competed in collecting manure, in picking up leftover rice; in school they competed in learning, to be on the honors list, to receive awards — to get a red cloth flower for their chest was the ultimate happiness. So many years living like that — now I realize that was all frivolous. Actually, our lives center around three holes: a mouth high up and two others in the crotch of our pants. If we fill up those three holes, it makes for a full life in this world.”