Duong Huong - The Zenith

Every mother’s eyes focused on the pair of spectacles sitting on the bridge of Ton’s nose; he was the most important person: the one who would lead their children in their first, tentative steps toward adulthood. Ton had taught the initial-learning class since he was a young man. War, revolution, resistance war, land reform, then rectification of errors in land reform, division of rice fields, then reassembly of plots, division of rice fields, then reallocation back to one party, confiscation from one party to divide some land into “100 percent family ownership” because of the threat of hunger — all those changes had not touched one hair on the legs of Teacher Ton, which was very strange. Some said he had led a moral life and therefore was protected by a good spirit, but others said that in every generation people want their children to become good and so must respect those who teach the young. So even the stupid, wicked, or the most cunning when they rose high enough during the period of enforced land reform to become this lord or that lady dared not humiliate or maltreat someone like Ton, who was looked upon as the embodiment of the spirit of responsibility and love of youngsters. As school started that day, all glued their eyes on the pair of glasses sitting on the bridge of that nose, with respect and utmost attention. The slender and stern old man waited for everyone to gather; he looked at the four sides to survey for the last time whether anyone was not ready to pay attention. Then he lifted the registration book to his eye level. The calling-out of names began, alphabetically by first name. Given the place of the letter “Q,” Miss Ngan knew her son would be among the last called. But she paid attention to the names of other children because they would be her son’s classmates.

She was startled suddenly when the teacher called the name: “Lai van Chien.”

The frail voice of a woman replied, “Please, my son is here.”

The teacher continued to read: “Lai van Thang.”

Having read this name, the teacher looked up at everyone and explained:

“Student Thang’s name starts with the letter T, but his family requests that he be assigned to the same row of chairs as his full brother, Lai Van Chien. That is a legitimate reason, which is why I skipped the proper order to please the family. Is student Thang here?”

“Yes, he is here,” the woman with the frail voice replied, but no one saw where she was.

Someone spoke out: “Bring him to the front row. Why be so awkward?”

The mother remained silent. Then Miss Ngan realized that the woman with the frail voice was Quy’s wife and the two kids whose names had been called were her sons. A whole set of people emerged from the foggy past. The darkness she thought she had left behind, then returned. Lai Van Chien, Lai Van Thang — branches connected to the root: Lai Van Quang. Those branches were pulling at her beautiful son: Lai Van Que. And later for sure, these little men carrying the family name Lai would run and jump together, tumble down the side of the hill full of grass or frolic in the shadow of the elm tree. That thought was both obvious and strange, making her puzzled for an instant. Then she saw Ton adjust the glasses on his nose, his eyes looking around:

“Will the two brothers Chien and Thang step up to the front row so the teachers can see you clearly? The two of you will sit in the same higher class of kindergarten, right?”

“Please, teacher, let them be in the lower class. The older brother is only one and a half years older. I kept him at home to play with his younger brother so that they could go to school with each other.”

“That is all right, it’s convenient. Now, bring them up here,” the old teacher answered, smiling. Those standing in the front silently stepped back to permit the mother to come forward holding her sons’ hands. Then, Miss Ngan recognized Quy’s wife and immediately a shivering overwhelmed her like an electric shock. Before her was an emaciated woman looking like a bag of rags, with a face shrunken like that of a bird with a pointy beak.

Dark rings under her eyes gave them the appearance of a pair of faded brass death coins. Her eyes resembled those of one inflicted with the white blood disease when the last breath is inhaled. Her complexion was almost that of a cadaver, with wrinkles along each temple in long lines like the folds of a fan. There were dark spots from her forehead to the base of her ears. No one could believe that she was a woman of just over forty. She seemed even older than a woman in her sixties, because over that devastated face was a flock of dry hair with patches of gray.

Miss Ngan must have voiced some startled cry or made some gesture, because everyone turned to look at her. Then they remembered that Miss Ngan had not been witness to the agonizing decline of Quy’s family. The others had seen the decay growing day by day, week by week, month by month. They had seen Quy’s wife and daughters void their strength with childbirth and hunger; had seen their children grow swollen bellies from lack of nutrition. For the villagers, those images were so familiar they had been stamped solid; only Miss Ngan had stood outside this reality.

As she noticed that everyone had turned around to look at Miss Ngan, Quy’s wife was forced to lift up her head and glance at her nemesis. One look met another. Miss Ngan uttered a sound that seemed equally one of shock, fright, or pity. Then tears flowed over her lashes. The young woman bit her lips, trying to control the shock to her emotions, but finally burst out with a rush of crying. At the other end of the yard, Quy’s wife was also shaking like a heron in a storm; she also cried loudly, bending her head down, doubled over in pain and humiliation. All looked squarely at the two of them. The women’s eyes were red. Some girls sniffled and wiped their noses. Ton stopped calling out names. The young children went silent. In that space, suddenly, was only the sound of wind accentuated with the melody of unconcerned birds singing.

Some moments passed in perplexity. Then Ton spoke:

“Now, student Chien, student Thang, come here.”

When the two boys reluctantly come before him, the old teacher took them and walked toward Miss Ngan and her son.

“This is the student Lai Van Que. You all share the same descent. From today on, you will study under the same roof and play in the same grassy yard. Please greet one another.”

The three boys understood what was being asked of them. Confused, the brothers and Que looked at one another. One was tall, with fair complexion, clean, and smelling good from head to toe. The other two were skinny, faces messy and poor. Then Quy’s wife stepped forward and pushed her sons forward:

“Say hello to your uncle. Say, ‘We salute you, Uncle Que.’”

After the first day of school, the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet were excited. The tears from the two formerly hostile women had stirred up a healthy breeze. Aren’t tears the streams that cleanse animosity, like clear fresh water where people can dive in to erase black spots in the mind? Rural people do not like such cute suppositions; they pay more attention to all that happens before their eyes. Realities perceived by the senses are most important. The first reality they saw was that Miss Ngan had paid all the school expenses for Quy’s two sons. Later that day when school was over and Mr. Quang had returned home from work and was at home to welcome neighbors, Chien and Thang were told by their mother, “Go in and greet the young mother. Then if she gives you anything, bring it here.”

The two kids went to Mr. Quang’s kitchen while Quy’s wife stood next to a nearby hedge. Later, the kids returned with curry rice and chicken. The three went home, like a squad of soldiers returning to their barracks with trophies. That first time, they were clumsy and shy; from then on, things proceeded more openly and naturally. Meeting up with villagers and neighbors, Quy’s wife always initiated the conversation: “There’s a banquet up at the kids’ grandfather’s; grandma wants us to have a part.”