Duong Huong - The Zenith

“Yes…well,” the woman confusedly answered, her head bowed lower. Suddenly, tears dropped slowly along the bridge of her nose. Miss Thu wiped them with the sleeves of her shirt. He quickly stood up with the intent to find her a clean cloth. Unfortunately, he was using the only dry one. The others were soaking in a basin of soapy water. He just stood there silently, looking at the pitiful woman who sobbed in humiliation. Because she hadn’t brought a handkerchief, she bent down and took an undershirt, probably meant for sleeping, out of her bag to wipe her nose.

“I have never met a woman with so little charm,” he thought to himself while looking at the tears rolling along the sides of Miss Thu’s nose, a small nose, turned up and crooked at the tip. A predestined imperfection. According to Asian physiognomy, the shape of one’s nose reveals both one’s career and the character of one’s mate in marriage. A man with a crooked nose will most unavoidably marry an unintelligent, ugly woman; but if she were to be attractive, then she would be a chanteuse, actress, or whore. A woman with a crooked nose will not find a husband; but if she should marry, it would not be to a gentleman.

“Definitely I cannot be Miss Minh Thu’s gentleman. No nice gentleman could look at his wife as if he were looking at a head of cabbage displayed in a produce bin, as I am doing now. Still life paintings would move me many times more.”

In the past, whenever he had stepped into the Louvre, he had felt an extraordinary stirring before a painting, even though he was no artist.

“But this woman…bad fortune indeed — both for her and for anyone who beds her. Others can be vulgar or rough; antagonistic and stubborn; submissive or gentle. But they all exude the scent of a woman who can arouse a man’s enthusiasm. Maybe not burning feelings but at least some warmth of feeling. That hat seamstress, though not refined, still possessed traits that made her a full woman.”

He reflected.

The sleeping-cap seamstress had hair thick as a horse’s mane, the golden color of hay. When she let her hair down, her back was showered with a golden waterfall. He had often caressed that hair, curiously examining each curly strand, thinner than worm silk. One time, after lovemaking, he had gone back to his room and inadvertently found a few strands of her hair; curious, her took one and tied it to his watch. He shook it back and forth like a yoyo, totally amazed that the thin hair could hold an object a thousand times heavier.

Then he saw another face; this one proud with eyebrows slanted at the sides. His heart blurted out a silent greeting: “Hello, dear; an old friend…”

“Oh, it is her, the soul mate.”

The woman looked at him full of threat, then suddenly burst into laughter. He smiled, too, because this gesture, if truly hers, was from the one who had made his heart crazy, even though that madness had been just a fleeting fever.

“Hello, my dearest; my dearest comrade!”

Because she was a comrade, according to the real meaning of the word, referring to those who share the same steps on a road, pursue the same goal. The look on her square face was both determined and daring, her words were incendiary, her resolution close to that of a dictator — all those striking traits of her personality made her the model representative of the revolution. The revolution roared on this planet because of people like her, beings with both brilliance and blindness, as all their enthusiasms and their passions were led by the prospect of victory, a crucial motivation of ancient warriors when they engaged in battle. This passion for victory was a ghostly force guiding them along the whole journey forward, carrying them to all corners of the struggle. Believing that their action was for the common good, in reality they were just looking for a way to subdue the hot, untempered blood of youth, to satisfy their thirst for power, though they nevertheless borrowed the cause of all to justify their actions.

“Enough: no more discussion. I think it’s time for a decision.”

“Enough: no more extended excuses. The revolution is waiting for us. Now we have to go!”

He recalled her choppy speech, often having the last words at the end of a meeting because the men did not want to antagonize her when her cheeks were very red and her eyes shone with anger.

In their short affair, she had often interrupted him when she was annoyed, in that same bossy manner. He remembered the way she threw her arms up to show her superior authority; the way she had leaped up to kiss him instead of using words of apology when she had realized that she had been wrong. And the way she had enjoyed sex. She always went first; she often cheerfully rode him like a professional comfortable atop a devoted horse.

“Yes, even with that one, I find traits that are worth liking. When she was angry and pouted, her dimples deepened and turned her strong words childish and you could not disagree. After voicing those extreme words or presenting those extreme programs, she knew how to withdraw awkward ideas by bursting into laughter. That genuine laugh both made fun of herself and was an apology offered to others, which swept away all difficulties.”

While he was drowning in memories, Miss Minh Thu had suppressed her sobs. She straightened herself up, lips tightening. Her face, no longer startled or afraid, showed stubbornness. Her hands still gripped her undershirt, which had been crumpled into a ball and perhaps soaked with tears. She looked, not at him but straight at the opposite wooden wall.

Then darkness overtook the day. The president suddenly recovered himself to say, “Are you calm now, Miss Minh Thu?”

“Mr. President, I am.”

“Very good. Let me turn on the light. That will make us more at ease.”

“Yes.”

He was a little surprised, as her tone seemed to have changed. It seemed strong, distinct, as if she were careless. He lit up two lamps at once and put them on the table:

“Miss Minh Thu, do you want to go to bed?”

“Mr. President, my bedtime is eight thirty.”

“Very good. I might find something to serve my guest. At least tonight is Saturday evening.”

He looked for something to serve his guest, but in his cupboard were only some cigarettes and a can of Bird brand milk.

While he opened the can, Miss Minh Thu went to the veranda to fetch some kindling for the stove. Seeing the woman return clutching a bunch of branches, a slight feeling of compassion engaged him. A feeling complex and vague took over his soul. It might have been pity, nostalgia for all the seeds of happiness that had no sooner sprouted than they had quickly died during an uncertain life, full of changes and hardships. Perhaps it was a deep understanding of humanity, empathy for another wandering being, one like himself also indicted for life, though for different reasons.

Or, because the evening dew was starting to spread in the evening cool, perhaps feeling the fogginess of the earth had awakened all that was foggy in his soul.

He no longer knew, but when the woman bent her back to put the wood in the stove and stretched her skinny neck to blow on the fire and sparks from the wood flew everywhere, he suddenly felt sorry for her as one would for any life spent in misery. He gave the glass of milk to Miss Thu, saying:

“Please drink the milk, then I will hold the light to hook up the mosquito net. Hopefully next time, my fever will be gone and the situation will be better.”

Next time was the following Saturday. He had returned after a long trip to inspect a war zone. His clothes were stained from dust on the roads. Sweat had dried on his skin, causing it to itch. This time he again forgot that it was a Saturday. Then, when he had set his foot on the stairs and saw light flickering from a fire, he raised his voice and asked: