Duong Huong - The Zenith

The villagers were happy for them, but couldn’t help being curious. They wanted to know Quy’s reaction.

Once, on an occasion when everyone was in the forest cutting firewood, one daring mouth asked Miss Mo: “Well, the rice and the chicken and goodies from the grandfather, does Quy eat them?”

“No. Not only will he not eat, but the first time he saw my mother bring that food home, he smashed a teapot.”

“Why so?”

“Because my father is angry. He cursed us: ‘You humiliate me. My wife and children are all miserable, good-for-nothings.’”

“Does he still feel that way now?”

“No. After the second time, he didn’t curse anymore. He lay down in his room. My mother told everybody that we cannot eat in the yard but in the kitchen.”

“Why so?”

“So as not to irritate him.”

“Standing on ceremony!”

“Who can know what is going on inside someone?” Miss Mo concluded, mysteriously. People did not ask any more.

At the end of that winter, Quy got a cold and was temporarily admitted to the district hospital. The two sons-in-law had to carry him there. Certainly his illness was the consequence of so many years of setting his mind on revenge; failure and bitterness had depleted his spiritual and physical strength. Flu is a condition that everyone encounters, except those with steel feet and brass skins; ordinarily, when you have a cold, the cure is to extract the toxic forces through vomiting or a bowel movement or by having your back scraped using ointment or steam, to be followed by watery, hot rice soup and bed rest. A flu that requires hospitalization happens only with people who are exhausted, whose bodies have no ability to fight off the invading infection. Serious cases can cause death; the less-serious ones still require good medicine and nutrition over many days. The afternoon Quy fell ill, he had just come back from working in the fields. He went to the well and poured water on himself but collapsed immediately, his whole body stiff like a stone, his complexion dark purple. As he passed them by on the way to the hospital, villagers lifted the covering blanket and looked, shaking their heads. Quy’s wife ran behind, numb, her mouth crooked, tears falling down her cheeks.

Quy was lucky enough to have an outstanding doctor and he was saved. Unconscious for three days, he opened his eyes on the fourth day and slurped down almost a full bowl of rice soup broth. Quy’s wife returned to the village, having hundreds of things to do while her husband convalesced. That afternoon Mrs. Tu had already taken young Que to their gate and said:

“This is brother Quy’s house. He is the father of Chien and Thang. You just go straight into the house and greet their mother.”

Que crossed the yard to the house, just as Mrs. Tu had told him. There he gave a thick envelope to the mother of his nephews.

“My mother said to give this to you.”

Villagers standing by outside anxiously listened in. At the end, everyone sighed with relief:

“Life has been always this way: blood flows and the heart softens.”

And people look up to the summit of Lan Vu Mountain, as if quietly praying to divine beings to diminish humanity’s conflicts, to resolve the “father-son war,” and to bless their lives with faith and dreams of peaceful goodness as had been vouchsafed since days of old.

The president opens his eyes. It is three in the afternoon.

He has never had an afternoon nap so long and so heavy. The short, frightening dream had merged with images and thoughts that had remained after his learning about the deceased woodcutter, pushing him down an abyss. He feels as if he has just participated in a parachute operation where he was a frightened soldier pushed into the night through the plane door to let his body drop into a black hole full of danger.

It was really horrible.

He steps out onto the veranda. Sunshine covers more than half the patio; a clear kind of light yellow sunshine without a hint of warmth. The cherry tree branches shake in the wind. He looks at them absentmindedly. From the temple on the other side of the patio, sounds of the wooden gong mix with chanting. One could discern the voice of the abbess from the higher pitches of the nuns. He listens to the chanting for a long time to make sure that the dreams are completely gone and that he now lives in the present. The young and chubby soldier sleeps soundly on a hammock hung at the veranda in front of the temple, his face pinkish red. For one so young, his snoring is quite loud. That snoring sound pulls him into reality, out of those dreams that had sunk his soul like a boat stripped of its sails, capsizing, and sinking into a muddy bottom.

“Oh no! I am done…”

The young soldier suddenly stands up and lets out loudly: “I am sorry, I overslept…”

“Don’t worry. I myself also overslept. It’s very cool today.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Please give me a few minutes. I will make some tea right away.”

The soldier hurriedly folds his hammock and starts boiling water. The administrative office had provided an electric kettle so that now he does not have to boil water over in the temple’s small kitchen. The president looks at him quietly. Daily tasks come and go without variation. Suddenly, he recalls his youth and cannot help reflecting to himself:

“How can he stand to do this boring work all his life? Work that is not remotely appropriate for a lad only twenty. Is it perhaps out of respect that people sacrifice their other passions? Or that they don’t have any passion more inspiring than being in the army for a vocation, drawing a paycheck to carry out boring jobs?”

He swiftly gets rid of this train of thought; he has suddenly and somewhat surprisingly become fond of this young soldier. It is a genuine affection. He does not want to hold any thought that might not be worthy of the lad.

“Mr. President, please come in and have some tea.”

“Thank you. What kind of tea did you make?”

“Jasmine; just like the other day.”

“Good, I will come in.”

He turns to the room; the air is filled with jasmine fragrance. Steam comes out of the pot of newly brewed tea. From the full cup, he slowly takes small sips. During the time when he was still in the Viet Bac maquis, he had a jasmine bush planted right by his house. That bush grew faster than weeds, in only one year it spread itself out to the size of a sleeping mat. During both the muggy summer afternoons and nights of trickling rain, the intoxicating jasmine fragrance enveloped the house. How can such tiny flowers exude such a strong scent? Many a night, he had stood by the window, looking out to the pitch-dark forests, filling his lungs with forest smells mixed with jasmine scent. Then when he had her around, he saw jasmine flowers more often because she liked to tuck jasmine flowers and magnolia blossoms in her hair.

“I had her in my arms in 1953. She was over twenty. The afternoon I met her sharing figs with her friend in the tree, I had to wait two more years; two years of longing, excruciating longing. I did not love a minor. By law, I committed no crime. That old woodcutter guy married a girl younger than she, only eighteen.”

The cup of tea is empty, only a dry jasmine petal is left at the bottom. He stares at the dry petal and suddenly feels jealous for the time past. Jealousy, how very strange, a weakness that is hard to acknowledge.

He re-created in his mind the incongruous setting of that night: the smell of Craven A cigarettes mixed with that of the Gauloises he lit continuously, one after another in a desultory fashion, smoking like a machine, without any appreciation of taste. He remembered the ashtray filled with butts and the stack of files that he had turned page after page without being able to absorb one single line. The first night they made love. The first night her smooth white body appeared before his eyes, uncovered by any bra or blouse, just pure flesh, the pure beauty created by nature. Old folks say: “Clear like jade, white like ivory.” He had heard that saying before but not until that night had he thoroughly understood each word, each phrase. Her beauty was indeed as of a precious jewel. He recalled her laugh, in the soft light of the lamp in the corner of the room, her teeth shining like jade. That was an instant that both the past and the present could sustain, when space became dreamlike and the barriers between two living beings just collapsed. She was inside him, melted into his own flesh, kneaded into his soul. Forever, forever…