The Zenith

by Duong Thu Huong

“No wonder: I saw them gossip with each other. It looked really cozy.”

  “Oh well! Climb a ladder and ask heaven. People blow hot and cold. These two don’t look each other in the face anymore.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The day I pulled some sacks of charcoal past Miss Vui’s house, I saw Quy coming out, his face dark like a water buffalo’s vagina. I ran across Miss Vui a couple of days later and when I pretended to inquire about Quy, her face ballooned like a cracked vat. She said, ‘I don’t know and I have nothing to do with Quy!’”

  “Oh-oh! Are you in trouble now! How dare you compare the chairman’s face with a water buffalo’s vagina? If I squawk, you’re finished.”

  “I dare you to tell. ‘Dark like a water buffalo’s…’ is merely an old saying. I just use it as it is.”

  “I am just joshing you a little bit. I didn’t expect them to split so fast.”

  “What do you expect? People hook up with people like a latch knot: you undo it, then tie it; tied, you undo it again—like a game. There is nothing permanent in life.”

  “But Quy is the chairman. How dare the committee secretary undercut her boss?”

  “That, only heaven knows. OK, time to sleep. Tomorrow morning I have to weed cassava. If we don’t do it tomorrow, in a few days the tubers will wither and there will be no crop. All the work of planting and tending will go to waste.”

  “Absolutely correct! True that cassava doesn’t bring us money, but it does let us feed pigs and gives us flour for rainy days. We should not let the crop go to waste. Time to go.”

  Thus the villagers encouraged one another into leaving; they had wasted the whole day following this dramatic play. Whatever would happen tomorrow, would certainly happen in any event. For the villagers, the rows of cassava were waiting.

  The flickering lights moved along the winding paths, past the gardens and the lines of hills. The chatting melted away into the spacious envelope of the mysterious night sky.

  At the top of Lan Vu mountain, there was a sudden slash of fire that resembled a shooting star. Someone said, “Oh! A shooting star. Why is there a shooting star in the spring?”

  “It’s not a shooting star; it’s a falling star. When a star falls, someone has just died.”

  “When an owl or hog bird cries, a person has gone on. But a falling star tells us that a saint’s exile on earth has expired and he is returning to paradise.”

  “Is that true? Heaven and earth are hard to explain.”

  The next day, rain cascaded again. So plans to work up in the cassava fields were canceled. People sighed, because the more the rain fell, the thicker the grass grew, its roots plunging into the ground as fast as a wind blowing, in no time flat growing right through the cassava tubers. Cassava that has been invaded by grass either rots or has no taste, or tastes faintly bitter, useful only for feeding pigs, not people. They had to put on raincoats to go weed the fields; if they didn’t do that, they would have to do some other chore. Not here the smooth white shirts of those who have the leisure to just enjoy their time on earth.

  Past noon, the rain completely stopped just as lunch was finished. Sitting around to drink water and pick their teeth, the villagers heard the blowing of a car horn on the rural road. It was a rare noise that was heard only several times a year. At New Year, it had to be the sound of the drama troupe’s vehicle. Once in a blue moon, it might be the sound of a medical team coming to inspect for serious diseases such as malaria, hepatitis, or diphtheria, or to check the gynecological health of women and young girls. For inhabitants of Woodcutters’ Hamlet, the noise of a car was thus synonymous with a happy event. With it came the presence of a fairy with lipstick and blush, with brilliant skirt and shirt under the lights, or doctors in white lab coats. On that afternoon, when the horn was heard, everybody was puzzled and asked one another:

  “How strange, what team is this?”

  “Why didn’t we get any word? Not from the chairman or the vice-chairman, or the women’s secretary or the youth secretary.”

  “It can’t be a birth-control campaign.”

  “That birth-eradication program has been stopped temporarily. I heard the central government is reevaluating it.”

  Villagers came out to see who it might be, just like those gawking city people who usually form a crowd to watch a demented and naked patient escaped from the hospital, showing her breasts and butt on the streets. On the sandy road running through the three sections of the hamlet, a jeep painted the color of harvest gold was inching along slowly like a beetle. The road was narrow and bumpy. The jeep went straight to the upper section, followed by twenty kids, all loudly screaming while running behind it. In the middle of the upper section, the driver stuck his head out and asked those standing along the side of the road, “Will you please tell me where is Chairman Quy’s house?”

  So it was discovered that it was a police vehicle, full of policemen. A quick bolt spread fast among the crowd along the road:

  “The police are coming to Chairman Quy’s house!”

  This is the first time they had seen a police car since the land reform.

  “For sure the car comes to take Miss Ngan to the provincial capital.”

  “Correct! Only the province has the authority to sit in judgment. It’s not land-reform time, when villages could set up courts. Whoever said yesterday that village officials could investigate her is wrong.”

  “The village police chief—who else?”

  “If he said that, then it was a lie. If villages could investigate and sentence, then heads would roll and blood would flow; later on, rectification of errors over and over again.”

  “Why didn’t you speak up yesterday? I saw you in front of the storehouse where they shut in Miss Ngan.”

  “I eat when invited; I speak when asked. Obviously, to speak to the air under heaven is for the demented.”

  “OK, be quiet and watch! They have arrived.”

  The villagers crowded the way to Quy’s house. About twenty minutes later, the team of provincial police returned with Chairman Quy. But the chairman had not one bit of the bearing of someone who holds power. Those standing farther away saw him walk with his head bowed, his face emptied of blood. At the door of the jeep, he climbed up and slid inside, sitting all the way in the corner so that he did not have to see anyone and no one could see or bother him. Those standing close by could see clearly the sweat dripping from his forehead and temples down his long and pointy face all the way to his chin. They also could see clearly his hands shaking madly and his lips quivering white. These strange sights made the crowd hold their breath; their instinct told them that something important was about to happen. When the jeep turned around to approach the storehouse, villagers stepped back to both sides of the road, no one saying a word. When the car then moved forward, they silently followed it, walking as if in a funeral procession rather than as a gaggle of onlookers looking to satisfy their unhealthy curiosity.

  The jeep stopped in front of the storehouse and the team of provincial police jumped down first; then it was Quy’s turn. He stepped up to open the lock, but he struggled and could not. One of the provincial policemen snatched the key and opened it himself. Two others entered the temporary prison and a minute later emerged with Miss Ngan, her face full of red pimples from mosquito bites. The last officer, probably the leader of the team, turned to ask Quy:

  “Have anything else to say?”

  There was no reply.

  The policeman who had opened the storehouse door now pulled handcuffs out of his pocket, opened them, and handed them over to Quy, saying not a word more. Quy, silent like a corpse, put both hands in the cuffs before the shocked bewilderment of all the witnesses, including Miss Ngan.

  The policeman looked at the victim who had just been released:

  “Do you need us to take you home?”

  “What?” Miss Ngan replied mechanically, as if she had not understood what had been said.

  The policeman repeated
in a softer tone: “Can you go back to your family on your own, or do you want us to take you there?”

  “Ah, no…I can…Thank you all.”

  “Then, good-bye to you and we wish you a speedy return to your normal life.”

  He spoke in a calm manner but could not hide the natural attraction that any man would feel when standing before a beautiful woman.

  “OK, I bid you all farewell and thank you all again,” Miss Ngan replied. Her liveliness began to return.

  The police team put Quy in the jeep and took off. The people of Woodcutters’ Hamlet stood dumbfounded, staring at the vehicle as it left their village. They just stood like that until the dust totally settled and the noise of the motor could no longer be heard. Then some woman suddenly said:

  “The poor young miss, her face is covered by mosquito bites just like dry oatmeal covers the bottom of a bowl. From only one night. During the land reform, my sister was imprisoned for several months.”

  “Talk about the land reform: then people turned into monsters and monsters took on human shapes.”

  That very night Mr. Quang returned.

  His closest neighbors heard the young bride screaming like a kid being whipped when she opened the gate: “Holy God! Where did you go to let your son torment me like this? What did I do wrong to endure this, humiliated like a whore? Only because of my love for you, for being your wife, did I have to go through this.”

  No one heard Mr. Quang’s voice, even those with keen hearing. The neighbors listened and waited but there was nothing, so they reluctantly went to bed, their hearts unsettled with anxiety after two turmoil-filled days.

  After midnight, the air was cold and full of fog. From the top of Lan Vu mountain, the dew spread down to the lower peaks and from there down the slopes to the hills and the gardens; taking a leisurely stroll over tea stands, cassava fields, and, last, the rice fields. In the white net of thick dew sleep intensified. The crow of a rooster also sounded reluctant, as if it, too, were sleepy. And night shadows in the heart of the woods often set off strange dreams. Around three in the morning, a lad named Hoa in the middle section threw off his blanket and ran all over his house, shrieking like a slaughtered pig. His parents had to hold down his arms and legs and pour warm ginger water on him to wake him out of his dream. After opening his eyes, Hoa cried and asked that lights be lit from the house to the garden, then he slept sitting in a chair. Each time the lights went off, he opened his eyes wide and screamed. The family had to leave the lights on all night long.

  The young boy slept until noon. When the sun was shining brightly at high noon, he then told of his terrifying dream. In his dream, he saw a gigantic boa that had scales like a fish, claws like a dragon, a slit tail like a centipede, a long tongue like a watchdog, and a crest like a parakeet. The huge thing rose up from a deep hole and sprawled along the crest of Truc Mountain. When it opened its mouth, a male water buffalo could fall inside. The mouth was bright red like blood, while the whole body was black with horizontal cobalt and yellow stripes. Its scales were hard as if made of coal, and shaped like a gecko’s. The giant creature rolled from the crest of Truc to those of the green and yellow Cuom mountains. When it crawled, its tail swished from side to side and flattened forest trees as if they had been blown over by a storm. Across the mountain ranges, the creature dashed to the top of Lan Vu’s peak. Halfway, it suddenly stopped and roared with agony. Its huge belly undulated like waves on the ocean; one could see clearly the thrusts of a small animal kicking and struggling inside. Agonized, the mother creature was writhing on the ground, her eyes bulging as if they would pop out of their sockets, her nostrils blowing out hot breath, her mouth spitting out bursts of loud roaring like that of thunder. After some time, her belly slowly cracked open; from the crack appeared a head identical to that of the mother—same shape, same color—as well as with the fierce look of the bulging eyes and the bright red and huge crest like that of the parakeet. This second head grew fast, similar to a rubber ball being inflated. In an instant it had grown as big as the mother’s head. After growing to a length equal to that of its mother, the head of the second monster let loose a terrifying roar, then struck the head of the mother a determined blow that injured her. From that wound, blood squirted up—like tree sap but purple like plum juice. The mother monster stretched her neck to roar, and the battle began. Young Hoa stood at the foot of Lan Vu Mountain, right where he usually played badminton with his friends. The two monsters tore each other apart at the heads; he was terrified that their huge claws would destroy the mountainside on which he was no bigger than a fox. He wanted to run but couldn’t. Around the mountains suddenly appeared walls woven from sharp thorns and vines. First the bushes were knee high. But in an instant, these thorny plants grew in a rush, close to the height of an adult, branches intertwining, weaving one into another. At the same moment, vines from the corners of the dirt suddenly sprouted into thousands and thousands of hairy tubes, gripping tightly to the thorny walls, making this rampart thick and dense, so that even a cat couldn’t crawl through. Young Hoa looked carefully and he suddenly realized that on all four sides there were plenty of poisonous thorns and leaves; the kind of thorns whose prick will turn skin to pus, the kind of leaves that will make you will break out in hives like smallpox if you touch it. Desperate, he called out for his father and mother. No one heard his cries for help. A more terrifying thing was that his belly had started to undulate, too. He looked down, horrified to see that it was moving up and down, like curling waves, totally like the belly of the monster. He visualized his belly splitting in two and, from there, a head that looked just like his appearing, with the same split chin, same slanted eyes and turned-up nose, and also with the name Hoa. And the second Hoa would turn around and bite his neck just like the monster on the mountain and a battle would eventually commence. He was scared out of his wits, running around frantically, trying to escape. Thus, in that fit of terror, he became a sleepwalker.

  From that night, young Hoa dared not sleep with his siblings, even though he was the oldest at eleven years of age. His parents were compelled to let him sleep with them, in the middle. Moreover, all night, they had to leave a lamp on in the corner of the room. The neighbors were curious about the conjugal arrangement and the two of them acknowledged that on nights when they felt passionate, they would wait for Hoa to fall sound asleep, turn up the light to make the room real bright, then quietly take their blanket to another room to carry out the insurrection.

  Rural people still looked upon dreams as omens from heaven and earth, or as threats from evil spirits. Some dreams foretell good happenings, others bad ones. Often, after bad dreams, heavenly disasters or earthly tragedies do occur. And so those on earth must endure sufferings for long stretches. Whether it was only a coincidence or a divine intervention to teach humans, the dream where parent and child did battle occurred right after Mr. Quang’s family drama. Thus all over the three sections, inhabitants of Woodcutters’ Hamlet were perplexed day and night. Perhaps only just before sleep could one lie down quietly with hands on forehead to ponder life; and from sunrise until dark, villagers discussed and passionately argued over this episode. In the evenings, they would gather by threes and fives, but not on the patio of Mr. Quang’s house, nor now at Miss Vui’s—those considered the main characters in the “current drama.”

  Two days later, the village Party committee met under the leadership of the hamlet secretary. Chairman Quy was sitting in the provincial jail charged with abuse of power and imprisonment of an innocent person.

  It was 100 percent certain that Quy would lose all Party and government positions, and be expelled. Thus the Party section for Woodcutters’ Hamlet had to meet to quickly elect a new chairman and assistant secretary, decisions that would be ratified by the villagers without dissent. In that meeting, the hamlet secretary declared clearly that the committee secretary, Nguyen Thi Vui, had played an outstanding role in preserving the Party’s moral prestige. Thanks to the firm spirit of Comra
de Vui, who had acted quickly when village authorities had abused their powers and intimidated an innocent citizen, the district commissar had been able to thwart what might have been a very regrettable incident. For that, the district commissar highly respected the spirit of responsibility and the management skills of Committee Secretary Vui, a most outstanding Party member.

  With so many words of praise from the most powerful person in the entire district, naturally Miss Vui instantly became village chairman and assistant Party secretary, to the enthusiastic clapping and heartfelt approval of Party members and assembled voters. After her induction into office, there was a fabulous celebration. Hundreds of banquet trays were scattered around the meetinghouse as well as on the patio; the aroma of wine mingled with that of roasted pig and beef, making the atmosphere happy and intoxicating and letting people forget the reason for their celebration. They didn’t even notice the absence of Mr. Quang, Miss Ngan, and Mrs. Tu during the two entire days of meeting and eating. While everybody was enjoying clinking cups with peers, friends, and elders, nobody was foolish enough to broach sensitive subjects that could easily hurt people’s feelings and give them headaches. But no matter how enjoyable, every party must come to an end.

  The people of Woodcutters’ Hamlet had ample reasons to turn their heads and look at Village Chairman Miss Vui with critical eyes after she had received the transfer of power and sat with ease on the chair where Quy had sat before. By that time, those dishes of roast pig, grilled beef in lemon grass and lard, had had time to turn into shit. Therefore, within only some five to seven days, all over the cassava beds, on the tea slopes, people brought up the story of the “Old Maid Dragon” for critical commentary.

  According to the accepted account, Quy had stolen from the home of a cousin on his mother’s side an arrest warrant for a prostitute. This cousin was an assistant investigator with the provincial police. It was an old order left in a stack of documents waiting to be filed away. Such saved materials, if not used in appeals or in subsequent investigations, are to be destroyed after twenty-five years. Not at all suspecting his cousin the village chairman, the assistant investigator let Quy sit in his office while he went out to buy beer and snacks to share with his guest. After stealing the order, Quy used a solvent to erase the name of the old defendant and the old date, and replaced them with Miss Ngan’s name and an appropriate new date. Thus, when he read the order sealed by the provincial police and signed by a cadre in the office of investigation, the head of the village police suspected nothing. Besides, because they were colleagues who had worked with each other for many years, he was ready with enthusiasm to do whatever Quy asked. That is also why an entire squad of militiamen poured into Mr. Quang’s house to “apprehend one who deceives men and undermines wholesome customs, Ngan by name.” On the very afternoon of the arrest, Miss Vui had ridden her bike immediately to go tell Mr. Quang. What followed then fell out openly before everyone’s eyes, leaving no need for background explanations.