Duong Huong - The Zenith

Le Phuong stops talking. He pulls from one shirt pocket a large pipe and from the other a packet of dark loose tobacco. He slowly packs the tobacco into the bowl of the pipe. Vu finds this writer’s style of conversation akin to that of a Chinese novel: he makes you wait for the clincher. Ugly as he is, he nonetheless must have seduced quite a few women with his innate charm.

“You trigger my curiosity,” Vu says, smiling.

“I’ll go on,” Le Phuong replies, but he takes his time lighting the pipe, inhaling the smoke, then leisurely exhaling. Vu can clearly hear the bees flying in the garden outside, buzzing over the green tamarind trees.

“Not only for men but women, too, because the two halves — yin and yang — are always equal before the devil in their ability to sin. Why am I aware of this at my age? Everything comes too late.”

That thought brings Vu back to the image of his woman: to Van! For the first time since he opened his eyes from the coma, that name returns.

“No…No…No…”

He reacts strongly because he feels that the storm is about to break over him, leaving him in danger of being thrown into that strong wind.

Turning his head around, Vu forces himself to concentrate on the dialogue with the writer:

“Then what happens? I am waiting to hear more.”

Smiling, Le Phuong says, “Why would a respectable person like you, Older Brother, ever listen to the silly theories of your younger friends, us studs who love to play around with life?”

“Why do you make that distinction?”

“Because you, Older Brother, you belong to those who work on great national tasks. Us, we like to live only as we want to live. We fear our careless words won’t be accepted by our big brothers.”

“Oh, I have heard all the comical stories that Phu told in the jungle years before. No reason to hold back.”

“Yes. But more than twenty years have passed and time does make a difference.”

“So true.”

Instinctively, Vu lets out a sigh and slowly continues: “Time sorts out people, not just individuals but all of humanity. However, we still have valuable things in common; for example, goodness, or friendship, or family bonds. Those feelings cannot disappear in the comings and goings of time and space.”

“Yes.”

“During the hardest times of my life, I always asked for help from Eldest Brother. He could understand me when I was silent. He was ready to shoulder the family, to let me roam freely.”

“Yes.”

Vu stops because he realizes that he is opening up his heart before these two men; one forgotten for more than twenty years and the other known for just half an hour. He has never done this before. He takes several small sips of tea to conceal his confusion. And then he asks of Le Phuong:

“And you, you are here to treat what illness?”

“Me?” the writer replies. “I have no illness whatsoever. If I had, I don’t meet the conditions to be admitted here.”

“What do you say? You were in the revolution since ’45, the same year as Tran Phu.”

“Yes, but I don’t meet the criteria for joining the Party. If you are not a Party member then, for sure, for the rest of your life, you will never get a decent position. Not only that, I am guilty of always loving young and pretty ladies. For me, the Party is noble in theory, while young and pretty ladies are perfection in the practical side of life. I do not like ‘setting bait only to catch a shadow.’ I chose what has value in life, and Party greatness I leave for others to enjoy.”

At this point, the two pals laugh loudly. Vu is forced to laugh along, suspicious, not knowing if these two playful guys are telling the truth or joking. As if they understand his concern, Tran Phu chimes in with his friend:

“Le Phuong is right. He doesn’t meet the criteria of being at least Assistant Grade Five to get treatment in this hospital. But he comes every day to visit me. His highest duty to fulfill is to ‘raise a comrade’s morale.’ Each of your Party cells has three members. Ours has only two, established in 1945 and until now unusually strong — no dagger in anyone’s back yet.”

“That’s exactly right…” Le Phuong confirms. “Our comradeship does not rely on the grand theory of a ‘united world proletariat.’ Our cell relies on a foundation of ordinary and small-scale relationships, of pusillanimous concerns, in fact. For example, when I was in the jungle in the north, whenever the family sent provisions, whether a lot or a little, from money to clothing to medicine, it was always divided in two. When we were sick, one carried the other on his back. When at peace, we relied on one another to ‘attack.’”

“Attack?”

Seeing Vu’s puzzled look, the two men crack smiles at each other. Then, Le Phuong turns and tells Tran Phu, “Older Brother has no concept about the language used by those who ‘play around in midlife.’ Enough; thus it is an opportunity for us to entertain the older person at the time when he is in need of rest. I will unravel all the small secrets of our insignificant lives. Is that OK with you?”

“OK. The cell adopts the motion,” Tran Phu replies with his everlasting happy face, which has turned red out of excitement.

Le Phuong pulls his pipe from his mouth, and carefully resting it on a lacquer ashtray, says, “We were not as lucky as you, or all the men like you, who have a beautiful fairy for a wife and who are satisfied till the last moment of their lives. Our wives — or to be more accurate, ‘those deserving old ladies who bore our children’—always have a firm conviction that we are their prisoners for life, for life under their management, just like the heavy settee or the heirloom cupboard that sits for years in our house. Because they take us for granted, whenever it suits them they can display us from one day to the next as if we were their property, with the calmness of a judge before the conviction.”

“You have to say it clearly. Brother Vu does not understand what you mean by that word ‘property,’” interjects Tran Phu.

The writer nods, winking. “Property means accessories that are now old and torn. I am sure Older Brother has seen houses with peeling walls and leaky roofs, sinking or broken columns. Try to visualize people as if they were a house being hit by bombs, or storms, or by destructive time. Please, Older Brother, disregard the vulgar comparison. But it is hard to find more exact words to describe the thing. But the ‘property’ of these ladies is sagging breasts, soft, fleshy, and saggy thighs that spill over into the crotch of their pants, and pairs of eyes that no longer exhibit any brightness but only crust and pus. Not to mention ladies who sport outrageous or dirty clothes.”

Le Phuong then clears his throat like a singer about to go onstage and empties his coffee cup. Vu cracks a smile, knowing that Le Phuong is now ready for the main story, a chapter pretentiously titled “Little Secrets of Little Lives.” But the writer puts his dragon-decorated cup on the table, turns to his friend, and says, “Tell them to brew new filtered coffee. This coffee is worse than sock laundry water. Our traditional foods have been destroyed by all these state enterprise products.”

“You’re right. It is disgusting,” Tran Phu replies, then turns to tell the girl attendant: “Brew me a double-filtered coffee and charge me double. Just like yesterday morning.”

“Right away, Chief.”

Le Phuong turns back around to Vu with a twinkle in his eyes: “Definitely the things I am about to say are forbidden in your circle, Older Brother, and definitely after these confessions, we will seem to you to be immoral as compared with people of rectitude.”

“Oh, don’t beat around the bush. Each of us lives as we see fit. Don’t compare one to another.”