Duong Huong - The Zenith

The new in-laws had not even a penny to their name. From the betrothal to the “new age banquet,” there were only cookies, candies, and tea, and still they had to borrow from neighbors, and after the day of “presentation,” Quy’s wife had to slip envelopes to her daughters so that they could cover the debts. After each “presentation” ceremony, the young couples returned to stay with the in-laws because they could not afford their own private room. On the wedding night, the parents-in-law had to relinquish their only bed to the newlyweds, taking a bamboo settee out to the veranda to sleep. Thus Miss Mo’s and Miss Man’s families shared the five-room house of their parents. Each family had two rooms, while the fifth was for storage of all their farm products as well as farming equipment. With such an outstanding record of procreation, Quy’s family suddenly fell straight down, from the kind that lives on wealth to the kind that struggles to move forward while mired in the mud of poverty. The money saved vanished like dry leaves blown away in a winter’s tornado. Quy’s stamina was not that robust; nor was his business acumen. For the previous three years Quy tried only to stabilize his family’s economic situation. Under his dominion, the two sons-in-law were docile; they listened to him. But the head of this family had no experience in production and the sons-in-law, born and raised in indigent families, were hopeless. Many people lived in the “big” house. One would think that the circumstance could have brought warmth, vitality, ample rice paddies, and much cash flowing in as well. But fate did not smile on Quy; the genie of good fortune was grinding its teeth and throwing cold water in his face.

For several years in a row, even though the cassava was planted separately for family appropriation and the earned labor points were sufficient, whatever might have brought Quy some cash totally failed. During the mushroom season, only the three men went up into the woods to scavenge, as the women in the family were either expecting or had just had a baby. With one child on the hip and another on the back, caring for the children exhausted them. That no women were available to dry and bag the mushrooms left Quy and his two sons-in-law in charge, and a significant part of the harvest was ruined. The endeavor that should have brought in the most money — beekeeping — was also a disaster. First, Quy’s bees had diarrhea. Then they had green fungi growing on their backs, and in only one day the infection had spread all the way to the base of the wings, causing them to fall off. The hive died out.

Many people whispered behind his back about his family’s mysterious misfortune; others were too afraid to talk about it. If you passed by Quy’s gate, you would see the three families sitting on a mat — no table — having dinner on the patio, entirely like a very poor rural family in days far past, looking puzzled, with a powerless gaze, without even the capacity to feel ashamed. During that time, Quy’s family became the very first family in Woodcutters’ Hamlet to eat rice mixed with cassava. Meanwhile the storm lamp still shone brightly over part of Mr. Quang’s large patio, a setting where neighbors were generously treated to chicken and rice as well as many other goodies. Nobody dared raise a concern. Their anxiety looking at such contrast twisted their hearts into knots so words froze at the tips of their tongues. Quy’s plan of “many children making grandchildren; plenty of good fortune” hit the wall of dire poverty.

Dire poverty is a bad-tempered acquaintance, an opponent well deserving caution, giving its victims blows that can never be healed. Forever in the past, one relied on the reassurance that “paternal concern will prevail.” So it was expected that, sooner or later, Mr. Quang would reconcile with Quy so that there would be someone to hold the bamboo cane and wear the gauze mourning headband and mourning coat when he came to lie down for the last time. Quy never imagined that someday the man he called “Father” would look at him as no more than a passerby crossing the street.

One morning, Quy and his two sons-in-law went up to the forest to cut firewood. In the early new dew, the air of the mountains was still rising thru the cracks, giving everyone goose bumps. The three men shivered in clothes that gave no warmth; they kept stepping on one another’s feet as they rushed forward. It was a steep climb and there were many large stones made slick by the dew that caused the path to be very treacherous, especially for those wearing rubber sandals. It was bad luck that Quy had left his old canvas shoes at home that day to wear light, six-strap rubber sandals. He slipped and began to roll down the ravine; midway down the stony slope, an old thornbush full of dry branches stopped his fall, saving him from death, but he broke four ribs. While he was held by the thornbush, waiting for his sons-in-law to rescue him, he suddenly looked up at the top of the slope. Mr. Quang was standing there, looking down into the ravine. For an instant, their eyes met. For the first time, the son understood that all was over — forever. He caught in the eyes of his father a terrifying coldness — the type of frigid cold brought by the north wind in December. He shivered and quickly closed his eyes.

Quy was hospitalized for more than two months. During that time, he learned pointedly what it is to be dirt poor: how humiliating it is when you don’t have enough money for hospital expenses; how excruciating it is to have just a bowl of rice with plain watercress soup while others enjoy soup bowls full of chicken meat and drink milk; how injurious it is to one’s pride when you cannot afford a pack of cigarettes to tip the orderlies, or candies to give to the three-year-old son of the nurse who gives you injections or changes your dressings. His four ribs healed slowly due to his poor nutrition. When his wife and the family walked into the hospital room, he had the opportunity to look at them objectively — his own blood and flesh, the large army for which he had such vivid hopes. The army named Chien and Thang was not even a gang: they were disheveled, skinny, with privation showing on their faces. When they came and went among the bamboo hedges of Woodcutters’ Hamlet, their poverty was not that obvious. But it was a different matter at the clinic.

When he got back from the hospital, Quy assembled his family and ordered a cease-fire:

“Now it is more difficult to feed people than before; you should stop temporarily. When our family regains its prosperity, we can have babies again.”

“Whatever you teach, Father, we will put into action,” the two sons-in-law responded obediently.

The order from the head of the family came a bit late. Quy and his wife already had three sons: Phu, Chien, and Thang. Because of the saying “three sons, no wealth; four daughters, no poverty,” they therefore sought a fourth child. This time it was indeed a girl, but she died twenty days after birth from untreatable pneumonia. The daughters Mo and Man each had little ones on their backs and four-month-old babies in their wombs. They gave birth to these babies almost at the same time, but neither child ate adequately. Both mothers and babies were pale like green leaves. Quy’s wife was only seventy pounds, with skin folds on her neck. The two daughters were not much older than twenty but their cheeks were full of lines that looked like cat’s whiskers. For this large army, worrying about food was gut-wrenching. There was neither time nor money left to worry about pants, shirts, and blouses. Therefore, villagers chatted with disdain every time they saw the family:

“Look there, the girls Mo and Man are now older than Miss Ngan by ten years.”