The Zenith

by Duong Thu Huong

  On this subject, he had declared, “It is a habit. At my age, habit is stronger than one thinks.”

  The women relied on that to make their demands: “It might be the jungle, but we’re still women.”

  It was he who had supported them. A handful of annoyed ones commented behind his back:

  “He lived with Westerners for twenty years. He likes to drink French wine and is gallant like the French.”

  During celebrations, he saw that the women discreetly sprayed perfume on the collars of their dresses or on the satin ribbons in their hair. The nice smell and their smiles made the forests less somber.

  Now he thought that of all the women he had seen, not one of them had this twisted walk, and nobody had the name Thu. It was clear that all the beautiful women already belonged to somebody. Left was this “comrade who serves the resistance,” who must be the ugliest one left in the women’s association, from whom even men who were deprived would turn away their face. That fact was undeniable.

  “However, she will still come.”

  He sighed and stood up, rearranging his clothes. At that moment, the guard entered and said, “Mr. President, the female comrade from the women’s association is here.”

  “Thank you. You may retire.”

  The guard walked out in a flash. Detached, the president looked after the young lad then wondered, “What am I going to tell her and still be polite? Because I didn’t choose this woman. If it is a meeting forced by destiny then it is worse than what happened with that Paris seamstress, because it is tied to prior events. That would make him and her most uneasy: a lovemaking without love; not even mutual agreement to release a body’s pent-up physical needs, but simply an act to support the resistance. This is both hypocritical and senseless.”

  The thought depressed him. But he still remembered that he was expected to be the host when a guest was coming. He stood up and walked out under the sloping roof to greet her. The woman, as he guessed, had just put her feet on the first step of the stairs. From on high, he saw the top of her head first: a small head with thin hair parted on both sides, and tied in the back with a shiny aluminum three-prong clip.

  “Her hair is as thin as that of an eighty-year-old lady,” he thought to himself. “How painful. I have never seen such thin hair, to a point where I can see clearly her scalp. And it is not white but brownish.”

  That thought floated on by. He remembered, while in Paris, he had often met old women who had lost almost all their hair, exposing pink scalps. Those women had passed beyond the age of emotion and desire, and had lost all ability to do anything useful; they walked slowly on the sidewalks all day long, or in the parks alone, or around the water fountains to look at the trees or to feed the birds. They always wore cloth or wool hats; only on extremely hot days would they unwrap their protective covers and reveal for all to see their pitiable bare heads: the mark of old age, the undisputable verdict of time!

  “This woman is still young, why did she lose her hair so quickly? Because of the mountain climate, the stream water, or the hard life? But these bad conditions are shared by all. Why do the other women still have the right to ‘display the shiny flock of hair,’ to speak like a third-class poet?

  By this time, the guest had taken the last step; she looked up. Their eyes met; her whole body suddenly shriveled up, from narrow shoulders to peanut-size knees; it all gathered in out of embarrassment. He did not know why but he, too, was embarrassed to witness the unconcealed fear of the woman, and he felt that this encounter was brutality.

  “Mr. President…”

  Her lips quivered for a while before she could utter those words.

  He quickly replied, “Miss, please do come in.”

  “Yes…” the woman answered, breathing heavily. As soon as she was inside the house, she took her bag from her shoulder and hung it on the back of the chair, and then she laid the mat and the blanket she had carried under one arm down on the floor. He glanced at her and right away saw a white pillow within the quilted blanket, both wrapped neatly in the individual mat with several rounds of parachute strings.

  “Those strings will be used to hang the mosquito net after the duty is completed,” he thought quietly to himself. The organization must have briefed her carefully that she must hang this net in the front room of the house, where it would be concealed by the large bamboo curtains hanging from ceiling to floor. There, there is no other pillow, no other blanket, no room for a second person. Thus she has to bring all these things with her. The careful and neat preparation is like a small unit of sappers preparing to attack a large fort. How pitiful!”

  Visualizing the woman crossing the stream and traversing two hills with the mat and blanket, he says to her, “You’ve been walking; please sit down and rest.”

  He went to prepare a new pot of tea. The water had boiled at three in the afternoon and had not retained enough heat to keep the tea leaves settled, so they were floating on top. He had to shake it awhile for the water to turn a light yellow color:

  “Please have some tea. I just received a gift of some cane sugar.”

  He took the jar of Quang Ngai cane sugar and put it on the table:

  “Miss, please…”

  “Mr. President, my name is Thu, Minh Thu. The association has another Thu, Bich Thu.”

  “Yes? So there is another one, named Bich Thu?” he repeated mechanically. He racked his brain trying to remember if he had ever met a female comrade named Thu but came up empty.

  Meanwhile, the woman drank some tea. She seemed to be truly thirsty after walking to his residence, even though it really wasn’t that far. Her wrists were small and skinny like those of a child; her neck displayed long, twisted veins that could not be shielded under her light blue shirt. Sitting in front of him, he could see clearly her thin hair sticking to her scalp, exposing brown spots. Her skin was brown but not the honey-cake color that people thought so highly of.

  He dared not look at her long, knowing she was fluttering like a snipe. His heart was filled with boredom mixed with pity. Pity for whom? Perhaps for both of them—the poor woman and the president. Life is a cruel drama, truly; full of scenes that are impossible to anticipate. Or is it no more than a traffic accident?

  Turning his head toward the window, he looked at the afternoon light, which had taken a slightly purple tint, then said aimlessly, “Does the women’s association grow lots of vegetables?”

  “To report to Mr. President, our garden has all kinds: green cabbage, chrysanthemum leaves, cabbage, and kohlrabi. Eggplants and tomatoes are very good this year.”

  The poor woman had seized the silly question as her way out, replying enthusiastically with a flourish.

  “Really? You gals are pretty good.”

  “Yes. The leading ones are very enterprising. We had to send people down all the way to the border to buy the seeds.”

  “Have you ever been near the border?”

  “Mr. President…”

  She looked up toward him with a terrifying air, and immediately he recognized he had made an unforgivable mistake. Those assigned near the border, or down in the cease-fire area, were those full of energy; besides having strength, they needed to be quick on their feet, intelligent, with attractive physiques. The woman who sat curled up in a chair before him met none of these criteria.

  “Oh, I just asked that. You can go only when the office assigns you.”

  “Yes.”

  “All of us have to do what the revolution orders; the duties of the organization.”

  “Indeed, yes.”

  “Miss Thu…” He almost asked a stupid question: “Miss Thu, how old are you?” Such questions were permanent fixtures in his head to use with the youth groups: “Little Hong, how old are you? Come get the candies and give some to your friends”; or, “Little Thanh, how old are you? Now you get the gifts. Will you save some for your parents?”

  Those questions were still fresh in his brain because just the previous Sunday he had distributed cand
ies to some children. The president cleared his throat as if a cough had stopped his question:

  “Miss Thu…Miss Thu, do you hear from your family regularly?”

  “Well, I have nobody besides an older sister. But she followed her husband to Thailand for business when my parents died. I could not keep in touch with her. For me, family is the revolution.”

  “Good. The revolution is the extended family; it is the communal roof over all of us,” he replied, suddenly realizing that he had turned bland. He no longer used the sharpest words, even in his meetings with the motivation cadres. His words were like wilted vegetables, warmed-up soybean husks, foods reserved for cows or pigs. But the woman seemed satisfied. She looked at him, blinking her eyes, and it was not clear if she was flirting or just showing her happiness.

  “Not only is she homely but she looks really dumb. For sure, there is not a thought in her head, except for whatever was stuffed in by others,” he silently observed

  Suddenly his limbs felt tired:

  “I will have to hold this woman, will I not? In a few minutes I will have to do to her all that sex requires. This is not avoidable. I will have to release my body from all the pressure. I will need to keep my wits sharp because the resistance will go on for a long time. Because of this, nothing will be better than to annihilate all the hopes that any normal man might have; to bury the world of feelings. I represent responsibility. What I do is carry the nation’s weighty load. If in the old days there was someone who, in the name of duty, had to marry Chung Vo Diem, now I have to copy that old hero and perform.”

  Even after all that reasoning was concluded, his spirit was not at all convinced. The will just disappeared.

  “How strange! All of a sudden I have no sexual desire. Totally empty; totally unfeeling.”

  He knows that the man in his body is extremely robust and that his sexual needs exceed normal limits. Many times he had told his buddies, “I am only an old man from my head to my belly button. Below it, I am still young.”

  That statement had spread like a fairy tale.

  And yet…and yet…

  Standing before this woman, the part below his belly button turned into that of an old man, too.

  He panicked: “How pitiful! The hand of the clock points at the number six. It is something nobody predicts. When I lived alone, it was wild like a fighting horse, now it gathers all four legs to surrender. Demonic! Can it be that this woman can destroy the sexuality of anyone who stands before her?” he wonders.

  And the answer comes right away:

  “There is no doubt. If not, she would have married. At the front, there are ten times more men than women. Women choose their lovers; men have no right to pick a wife. It’s clear that this woman’s ability to destroy the urge for love is great. Is that why they chose her for me?”

  All of a sudden, he was angry. Scattered thoughts pounded in his head: “Those people are really bad! What allows them to treat me like this? What power prompted them to arrange this for me?”

  Blood rushed to his face; he felt hot. He quickly poured a cup of tea and took little sips to control his anger, a longtime habit of his. Meanwhile, Miss Minh Thu had drunk many cups. She sat there waiting with an air of acceptance like a dog in his master’s yard. His anger made him forget the presence of the tiny woman, shriveled in her blue blouse. The anger made him walk with long strides around the room, a cup of tea in his hand, his eyes looking straight into enemy space. Then he suddenly realized his rudeness. He quickly returned.

  “Will you forgive me, Miss Thu? I have too many things to think about.”

  “Yes…Mr. President,” she replied sheepishly, her head bowed.

  He put the teacup on the table and pulled a chair close to the woman.

  “I am sorry…Thu, OK?”

  He purposely became intimate. At the same instant, his heart was boiling because of a sudden rage:

  “Why am I acting out this miserable play? Why don’t I tell her directly that my sexual machinery is now incapacitated because it was violated? That it is her who destroys all the desire in the man. That any man would become impotent or incompetent if he had to go to bed with her.”

  While his brain was churning with those insulting thoughts, his face was as calm as that of someone meditating. He lowered his voice and said, “I sincerely apologize to you, Minh Thu. I do not feel well today. Perhaps I have had a fever since yesterday afternoon and have not had time to take medication.”

  “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.