Duong Huong - The Zenith

“But there is…”

“There is nothing more. If there were, we would only be dupes. There are a lot of delusions. Let me explain to you all: we’re all impotent. Men have had their tubes tied or use condoms to avoid pregnancy. Women have IUDs inserted — from the one like a worm to the round one like a top. Their complexion goes green like a frog’s behind, their faces get so pale it’s as if they had caught a toxic breeze, but they still wear the coil to carry out the family planning policy and get recognition badges from the district and province. Meanwhile, do those who order us to become impotent practice what they preach? In prison I learned the truth. In prison, too, I learned that while most people eat only cassava and sweet potatoes, others have a monthly meat ration from seven to sixteen ounces. The mighty official who has a Ton Dan ration book can stuff whatever he likes into his mouth. Saturday, Sunday, the masses labor for the socialist regime while wives and children of the cadres dance or beckon for male prostitutes to come to their rooms and serve them. Every New Year, the government asks the people to be frugal while its officials have plenty of expensive herbs and cinnamon and their kitchens are full of the most rare and delicious dishes. If this is not being swindled, then what is?”

“Well…for sure, we do not know.”

“That is why I understand that that gang standing on our heads and stepping on our necks only cares about filling their three holes. Why don’t we get smart and flush our own holes?”

The neighbors all fell dead silent at this, partly because of embarrassment, partly because what Quy had just said was so new to them they had no idea how to react. Some said he was irreverent to draw attention to his “lessons from prison” while forgetting all the low things he had done. Some thought that Quy intentionally exaggerated the truth to show that he no longer cared about living, that he had not an inch of conscience, that his time in jail had been only a lark and a frolic.

It turned out that the neighbors were wrong. Several weeks later, crying, Quy’s wife ran to the village committee to ask that Miss Vui sign an order to remove her IUD, for the reason that the husband wanted lots of kids, because, after a thousand years, people still thought that a family with many children has “lots of good fortune.” She said that if she resisted his wish, Quy could chase her out the door immediately and bring home a city girl, young and pretty — a thousand times better than “that whore Ngan.” The new chairwoman understood that she was dealing with a real jerk, that “even a king gives way to the insane,” so she took up her pen and signed off on the order as requested. The next week, Quy’s wife went to the hamlet clinic to have her IUD removed. That same afternoon, Quy sat drinking in the middle of his patio, wobbling like an old man of seventy. Halfway through the carafe, he raised his voice to curse:

“The old maid knows her fate, bows her head to sign the order. If not, I would show her the martial arts of a ‘hero from the jail.’”

Then Quy ordered his wife to bring him more alcohol. Half drunk and half sober, he told his two daughters and son, “Now, me — I have no Party membership nor committee responsibilities; nothing ties me down. I and your mother have the freedom to make babies, until we no longer have eggs. Now it is your turn, too; paternal and maternal grandchildren, they are all gifts. From antiquity, the elders have taught us: “to have bodies is to have wealth.” If our family is large, we can fart all together and blow their house down.”

“Their” here referred to Mr. Quang, his wife, and their recently born son — Que. While Quy was in prison, Miss Ngan became pregnant. Most pregnant mothers are sick for several months, but she threw up not even once, even though she ate such unsettling things as green guava, fresh limes and chili peppers, and bitter eggplant. Mr. Quang’s wife grew even more beautiful during this time; like spring flowers her complexion and skin were smooth and her cheeks pinkish red. When her tummy grew to the size of a drum she still ran around briskly, still went out to the burrows and fields, laughing merrily like popping New Year firecrackers and with not a hint of weariness. Mrs. Tu took her down to the district to give birth, and boasted that the baby boy was born with rings of flowers around his neck. As soon as the rings were removed, he started crying so loudly as to be heard throughout several rooms. Even though he was a first child, he weighed nine pounds and was over twenty-three inches long; with those numbers, he was indeed the largest newborn in the region, not only in Woodcutters’ Hamlet but in the whole district.

Mr. Quang waited for his wife in the halls of the clinic. When all was done, he stepped in and placed around her neck a necklace with a stone carving of the Guan Yin Boddhisattva. All women giving birth in that region would envy such a gift. When the child reached one month, Mrs. Tu prepared a thirty-tray banquet and invited relatives from near and far. The father instead of the mother held the child when greeting arriving relatives, something he had never done with the children by his first wife.

The relatives from both sides — paternal and maternal, close and distant — almost had to admit that they had never seen a child as beautiful as Que; that he deserved the pride felt by the entire family; and that, if, in this life, an old and lonely father like Mr. Quang could have such a child, then millions of people could dream about such happiness for themselves.

All that happened under his father’s roof reached Quy’s ears, giving pain to his vengeful heart. His words — half sober, half inebriated — could not hide his toxic bitterness. People understood that imprisonment had not brought an awakening to the son, but, on the contrary, had exacerbated bitterness toward the father.

The nightmare of the “father-son war” lingered; it haunted the people continually. In the dark night, the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet would look up to the dark cloud-covered skies, and worriedly sigh.

That next New Year, Quy gave away in marriage both his daughters at one time. The wedding ceremony took place just when Quy’s wife was packing her clothes to go to the district to have a baby. Her small belly was in the eighth month. And their fourth child came just as the “presentation” ceremony of the daughters ended. It was a boy and they named him Chien, or “Fighter”—a word that embodied the father’s wish as well as his determination. Chien was just nine months when Quy’s wife again became pregnant. The following year she gave birth to another son, named Thang, or “Victorious,” also a name full of implication. That same year, the two daughters gave life to two little girls, the older sister one month, the younger sister the next. The two granddaughters were just weaned and barely a year old when the girls again became pregnant, their faces as green as leaves. The babies drank bad milk, constantly coming down with diarrhea. So this family became a reproductive assembly line, ignoring all neighbors’ opinions. With two weak-willed sons-in-law, even though the father had lost his position, he was still intimidating, so Quy’s dream that “our family is big, we can fart all together and collapse the roof of their house” became a reality.

Nevertheless — because reality always kicks in with the word “nevertheless”—nevertheless, while working to put his crazy dream into action, Quy did not plan the logistics necessary for such a large army. The sons-in-laws’ families were poor, classified among those that regularly received assistance from the village. Very poor, yet they had the carefree habits of those who might live or who might not, as the elders said in the old days: “If my meat is raw, I’ll eat it raw; if it’s well cooked, I’ll eat it, too.”