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:
“Who is up there?…Why light the fire so early?”
No answer. The bodyguard whispered in his ear, “Perhaps the woman from the women’s association.”
“Yeah…” He suddenly remembered.
The bodyguard asked, “Do I need to stay to prepare water for your bath?”
“Of course.”
For a long time now that guard had always prepared hot water for him to bathe. The pot was fairly big, made of heavy copper, and the wooden container to hold the water was also very large. Only the strong arms of young men could roll it around. After two days on the road, having a bath, cleaning up, and changing into new clothes were happiness for him; a small happiness but happiness nonetheless.
When they entered the house, Miss Minh Thu was already there by the stove, knitting away: the traditional epitome of a wife waiting for her husband. He felt trapped and uneasy; nevertheless he had to smile in greeting the woman. The guard went directly to the bathroom then turned around:
“Mr. President, there is hot water in there. Now I only need to get your clothes ready, then I am done.”
“Thank you.”
He turned to the woman and asked, “That tub is pretty high, how did you manage it?”
“Yes, I could do it.”
“Thank you…Next time let the guard do it. He is at the young age when he can break buffalo horns.”
“Yes.”
He walked into the bathroom, stripped off his sweaty and dusty clothes, but suddenly sighed. Outside, the young guard had withdrawn, his footsteps heard on the stairs. When he withdrew farther, the only remaining sounds were of the fire—the bubbling of the wood sap and the crackling of the charcoal. In this familiar space of his where he had been the only resident, now there was that strange woman sitting there. From her awkward movements it was clear that she had never handled knitting needles before and that she had been put up to learn this craft by her comrade sisters in the association. They cast, choreographed, and directed actors, especially among the poor. He felt sorry for them both: for Miss Minh Thu and for himself.
“C’est la vie; toujours la même comédie!”
The first bucketful of water he poured carelessly over his head and his eyes smarted. He quickly wiped his eyes with a dry towel, cursing his own inattention. Waiting for the burning to subside, he continued to bathe, while remembering the promise he had made to the woman. The situation did not look any brighter, especially after a long and weary journey.
“It’s terrible. The fates don’t smile on her. In which hour was she born to be so unfortunate?” he thought to himself. And a real fear took hold of him.
“But I cannot twice push her into humiliation. She is a human being nonetheless, a woman. Humiliation can drive a person to seek death…”
When young, he had read quite a few tales of palace life. He remembered deaths by the poison-filled golden cup, by slashed throats, or by a piece of white silk hung over stair rails. From queens to concubines, from ladies-in-waiting to maids…how many women had sought death to end humiliation arising from unrequited love? But the majority had been real beauties. Miss Minh Thu was not a beauty, of course, but had accepted the mission of “serving the revolution.” Her reaction thus would be increased manyfold. No need for a rich imagination to know that after the previous Saturday she would have confessed to her superiors: “To report, I did not accomplish the mission assigned to me.” The older sisters had met, and all week had looked for ways to help her. Luckily for them, he had had to go to prepare for a forthcoming military campaign, giving them time to work on a plan: “The lady will prepare scented water for him to bathe and sit by the fire knitting.”
Pity the fate of humanity!
But even if he complained on his or her behalf, he could not forget that in a little while he would have to “enter the room,” according to the old saying. But what was under his belly button still refused to play its part. This worry over failure mixed with fear of all the consequent humiliation that could set in made him lose his bearings. But at that moment the work of toweling dry brought to him an old but always effective solution. He caressed himself. He brought vividly to mind a memory of the most sensual woman he had ever met in his life, the one with the slanted eyes. He visualized the sight of her straddled on his stomach, her flesh, her breathing, her charcoal black hair spread on her forehead shining under the light.
And his youth returned.
The loud ringing of the telephone startles him and wakes him from his revery. He is about to get up but the guard runs straight into the room and picks up the phone.
“Mr. President, Vice Minister Vu.”
“Thank you, leave it there for me.”
He holds the phone to his ears, hearing the panting breathing on the other side of the receiver.
“What happened to you? Do you have bronchitis?”
“No, I just have a cold from yesterday afternoon.”
“Be careful. You may be much younger than I, but you’re no longer so strong and youthful. Don’t tease the Big Boss.”
“I know. Are you well, Eldest Brother?”
“I am OK. After you left I had someone bring me more money to offer to the woodcutter’s family. They had prepared the envelope too skimpily.”
He hears Vu’s laugh on the other end of the line, then continues:
“We always forget the details. We are always indifferent to the concrete facts.”
“But those very details and all such ordinary calculations are life.”
“Agreed. These days you have the inclination to become a philosopher of dialectical materialism. Do you plan a transfer to the training department?”
“What?”
He hears Vu burst into laughter in his famili
ar playful manner.
“What? Will you spare me!”
He also laughs and quickly changes the subject:
“What is going on in Hanoi?”
“Tomorrow there will be a wind from the northeast. Don’t forget that it will be cold for a long while.”
“I do not forget: in January it’s a drawn-out cold, in February it’s a fortunate cold, and in March it’s Lady Ban’s cold.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m calling you. With the north wind, it will be cold up there first. Don’t take a walk in the woods; a sudden rain will bring the flu.”
“I will remember.”
“I have to go now. They just informed me of a sudden meeting at central administration, followed by dinner…after dinner, for sure we will continue the meeting…Eldest Brother, take care.”
“You, too,” says the president. “Give my best to Sister Van. You are lucky to have her. She is beautiful both in person and in character.”
“Yes, thank you,” Vu replies in a joking manner that the president has not heard before, and repeats on the other end of the line: “Eldest Brother sent me congratulations on the beautiful woman with attractive character.”
Then, right away, the younger brother turns back to the phone to say, “I am going now.”
The president hears a strange noise when Vu hangs up the phone. A suspicion flashes by. But he is unable to guess what.
2
Hanoi becomes cold. The north winter wind returns.
The rows of trees turn deeper green in the freezing cold and the surface of Ho Tay Lake ripples with millions of wavelets. The rows of jacaranda along the lake’s edge are purple, a solitary kind of purple. Pedestrians pick up their pace along the Co Ngu road to shield themselves from the strong, wild wind blowing above the water. Right at that moment, too, a pair of lovers sits at the edge of the lake holding each other, their faces toward the wind.
Vu casts his eyes in their direction and thinks to himself: “How long will those two be able to live out their dream of love? Who knows in what year, in what month, on what day they will have to cry in regret because of their passionate embrace today?”
Pairs of curled-up men and women hold on to each other under their transparent rain gear, shields too delicate to ward off the cold February wind. Leaving the Co Ngu road, Vu finds a tea stall, a folksy hangout, a tiny and deplorable “private enterprise” that has permission to operate in the exclusively government-run economy. The stall is sheltered by deteriorating old panels with used newspapers glued to them. The pot of green tea sits warmly inside a large cozy lined with hay. The cups are chipped, stained with tea residue; they are placed disorderly on a large tray that is no less dirty. But this scene of utmost poverty and frugality befits the society in which he lives. Because it does not invite jealousy. Because it can evoke only pity or disgust. Things considered diseased or cursed in a prosperous society are right for this society. For a long while, these suspicions have been gnawing at him.
“Lean the bicycle on a lamppost and lock it. Caution is the mother of success,” says an obnoxious and disdainful voice. The tea seller had seen the strange guest and raised his voice to guide him:
“Don’t you see that lamppost over there? Put your bike there so I can watch it.”
Vu looks up and around for a while and sees a lamppost on the other side of the street somewhat hidden from sight by a cart drawn by a cow and filled with watercress in long bundles. He walks his bike to the other side of the street and leans it close against the cart and carefully locks it.
The tea stall owner watches his every movement carefully with an inhibited curiosity. Then he waits until Vu walks into the stall and sits on the long bench with his back against the panel holding out the wind then asks, “What do you want to drink? Green tea or black tea? Or if you want to enjoy a glass of rice wine, I have that, too.”
Vu is surprised: “A tea stall also selling wine?”
“Why not?” the old man asks back with an air of daring mixed with playfulness: “You think that people need only tea and not wine? You think that if the government forbids selling something people must go along?”
“I do not think it is that simple. But…”
The old man laughs hoarsely: “But I find you a good person, that’s why I said that. If it were someone else, I would bend my tongue in another direction.”
Vu also laughs along: “Thank you. You find me a good person, really? What does it mean, ‘a good person’?”
“A good person is one who is not sneaky; who is unable to be a lowlife or be disloyal. Not like those who come here begging me, asking me, to sell them wine to drink. After they are done drinking, even before they take time to pee, they go and report to the police.”
“And then?”
“And then?” the old man repeats with a faint smile full of spite. “The police are what they are. Many know how to drink wine. In cold weather like this, a sip of wine is warmer than a swallow of rice gruel, thin like snail water. Therefore, even if they pretend to confiscate my bottle of wine, three days later they have to return it anyway. The only thing is, when they return it, there is only the empty bottle. I continue to call the people in the countryside to bring up more wine and everything is normal again.”
By then, the old man has bent down and pulled out from under the settee a basket covered with a jute bag. Turning over the jute bag, he shows Vu the wine jug in a jade color with a large, open spout.
“Do you see it now? Top-rated sweet rice with yellow blossoms is of superior grade.”
“Such a beautiful jar!” says Vu. “The wine must be good. Please give me a cup to warm up.”
“Ah ha…” The old man starts laughing loudly, making his beard shake hard. “The nice vessel does not guarantee good wine; like good paint does not warranty good wood. But my wine is guaranteed to be good.”
That said, he bends down and opens a wooden box with two brass handles; he takes out a shiny clean porcelain cup, then pours one full cup and gives it to Vu.
“Taste it and you will know what wine is!”
Vu holds the cup, bemused. The porcelain cup is blue with a painting of a phoenix. Its rim is encircled with brass. It is the kind his father had used to drink wine. In the afternoon, after his gardening chores, his father used to put a small brass tray on the sitting platform. On the tray, there would be a drinking set that held one cup, one tiny wine jar, and a small plate of appetizers. He would sit there contemplating the scenery, sipping his wine while waiting for the evening meal with his family.
“Well, take a sip to see if I tell you the truth or only joke!” the old stall owner urges. Vu lifts the cup to his lips; the fragrance of the fermented rice touches his senses before his tongue touches the liquid of the Luu Linh wine. That fragrance invokes the harvest, the warm countryside of the fields of his youth, where golden waves of harvestable rice overflowed and covered the surface of the earth, where one was surrounded by outlines of villages with rows of dark green bamboo, and where the shining and silvery streams by the paddy fields were bathed in the whispering songs of the wind. The wind during the harvest gave off a special scent. He takes a sip and voices his praise:
“Splendid! I never had wine this good.”
The old man is elated. “I knew right away. Nobody has complained about this wine. The people in my own village brew it. But in the whole village only Mr. Khai’s family reaches this superior grade.”
“Really good.”
“So many times production was stopped, swept away. From the guerrillas to the police: they sneak up to confiscate the equipment and throw it in the river. Half of the village loses their work. But the remainder carries on; they live here, they live there, but they still live. As long as there are people who want to drink wine, those who can brew it still exist.”
“Aren’t you afraid, saying that?”
“Like I told you: I find you a good person, therefore I tell the truth. With others I change my tune. Like this kind of wine.”<
br />
At this moment, the old man pulls out another basket to show Vu: inside is a vat made of plastic, washed clean and full of wine.
“My gosh, why are you storing the wine in this plastic vat, isn’t it toxic?”
“To each its own device. With you I offer my superior wine served in the blue phoenix cup. With others I sell this kind of wine from the chipped cup. Our elders say: ‘Of people, there are three grades; of things, three kinds.’”
“But…”
“It was different in the old days. Nowadays it’s different, too. Don’t you see that the situation has turned upside down? I display the good vessel and the pretty cup to let the rotten ones report that I am suspect, one who opposes the revolution.”
“Yes, now I understand…” Vu slowly replies, and a pain penetrates his soul as the wine stirs his nerves: if drinking from the blue phoenix cup makes you a suspect, then his father was among those in opposition who were subject to suspicion. It was fortunate that his father had died before he could have been tripped up by the revolution, which his own beloved son supported.
Vu takes the last sip of wine then hands the cup to the old man, who immediately puts it back in the wooden box, because, just then, a new customer had walked in.
“It’s cold, old man…give me some wine.”
The customer rubs his hands while talking. He stands instead of sitting down. A wide-brimmed hat still on his head, he looks like someone who recruits workers for construction jobs or factories. He not only rubs his hands together wildly but his legs shake uncontrollably. His body rocks back and forth in an odd manner.
Without looking up, the stall owner says, “Yes, really cold,” as if he is repeating the chorus of a song. Then he pulls out the plastic box and pours wine into an old cup taken from among the chipped and stained ones.
The customer takes one gulp, then hands the cup back: “One is not enough, pour me another one.”
“Yeah, the February cold is very, very cold,” the old man replies, pouring a second cup.
Quietly Vu looks at them and pursues his own thoughts:
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