“They say, first comes the look, second the air, third the voice, fourth the appearance. You outshine me on the last item but I am better than you on the third one. That’s why I am a division commander while you only command a battalion.”
It’s true that when it comes to voice, no one can best him. And not just in the division. In the whole front, where four divisions are in place, no one can mistake his voice. If he were a tenor, his voice could break many layers of glass. His voice is stentorian, the kind of voice that has been trained through many generations of yelling over the waves. You have only to listen to him speak to know right away that he is the kind “who can stand firm and even melt stone.” That is why the battalion commander replies without hesitation:
“Oh, you are old but you belong to the type that is both old and tough. You are not an empty crab shell like me.”
The division commander has to give up: “I raise my arms and surrender.”
The battalion commander continues to tease him: “You being tough, you should stay and compete in singing with the young ones. Please pardon such brittle-boned and flabby guys like the two of us.”
So saying, Nha drags An away. But whereas Nha goes back to the underground compound to grab some more sleep, An quietly goes to the stream for a bath. This immense stream is even better-looking than the one in his home village. They call it a stream but it is no less broad and long than a true river and it flows into the largest river in the region. The stream water is crystal-clear and it does not display any moss or bronze color as in the case of more poisonous mountain runs. The rocks on its bank are clean and shining, well fitted for one to lie on or for drying one’s clothes on sunny afternoons when the sun beats down on them. The banks of the stream are gently sloped and filled with white shining pebbles. If one hikes up less than one hundred meters one runs into Elephant Thundering Falls, which, with its ten-meter drop, makes the stream below churn like boiling water. Oftentimes playful soldiers break off dry branches and throw them in the cascade. The branches are immediately carried away, turning in the process into arrows sharp enough to pierce anyone trying to wade across. Each time he comes here, An’s reminiscences arise inside him. He shakes off his clothes and begins to wade into the stream. But when he is about up to his knees in the bubble-filled water he suddenly feels a chill. He returns to the bank and puts on his clothes. Is there a ghost who happens to be around and forces him out of the water? Or is it a premonition of things to come? He doesn’t know. No one can understand everything we do during all our time on earth. But this time, he feels absolutely confident that an invisible power has pushed him to action.
“Is that you, darling, truly you? Or is it the Little One? There is no mistaking that one of the two girls has stretched out her arm to impede my going forward.” So he softly wondered.
But there is only the wind in the leaves, and the singing carried from the other side of the tree line. The eerie music seems to blow a vague chilly breath onto his back.
An folds his arms above his knees and listens to the waterfall rumbling upstream. As usual, that fall recalls the sound of another fall, a smaller, gentler one of no more than three meters that did not threaten anyone, nor was it an omen predicting injury or death. That fall was called Nightingale, for nightingales nested in the forest on its two sides, and their songs made an interminable music that resonated in the quiet environment of those faraway woods. From Nightingale Falls, one crosses a forest clearing and a valley and then reaches Ban Xiu, An’s native village. The place where he left his heart while his two feet have taken him ever farther, and it is impossible to know when he will return.
“But who would I see if I did return, if ever that day should come?” he thinks to himself. “The two persons closest to me are already under the black earth. My uncle and aunt are, by now, likely to have passed away, and my little cousin Mai must have gotten married and moved away. There remains only an old one but soon he will have to follow the tracks of the ancestors.”
When An left his village, his father-in-law had been sixty-nine. Twelve years have now gone by. Even if he were still alive, it is doubtful that he could take a bundle of firewood from under the house on stilts up to its kitchen.
“I wonder who will still be there once he is gone?”
Oftentimes that is what he keeps repeating to himself. But a birthplace remains one’s birthplace, a never-ending echo that follows us throughout life. We think that we have forgotten it but suddenly it comes back to haunt us unexpectedly. A tree branch breaking off in front of one, a pebble falling near the bank of a spring, the song of nightingales in a cliff…they are all insignificant pretexts summoning the echo back and causing one’s heart to be in pain. On occasion when he woke in a dark underground tunnel, An would imagine sun-bathed mountain flanks, where the indigo silhouette of his loved one would appear. Sometimes she would be by herself, at others she would be accompanied by her sister, who was nine years her junior. Though they were sisters they almost looked like mother and child, for she had had to raise her sister from birth. When the young sister had been born was also the day their mother left this world. As for the two sisters, because one was born in the winter, she was named Dong (Winter), and because the other was born in the spring she was named Xuan (Spring). In An’s mind they always manifested themselves in the bright yellow sunlight bathing the mountainside, always walking toward him in the magnificent beauty that they had inherited from their mother. An could see their shiny black eyelids closing as they laughed, and the crystal-pure bright sun reflecting from their doe eyes. He could see their vermilion lips—the color of wild banana flowers. And the silver bracelets that rang against one another on their milk-white wrists. In the little village called Xiu (Tiny), heaven had blessed these two girls with extraordinary beauty, so that they had to pay for it with equally extraordinary misfortunes—on a scale to match their beauty.
“What did they ever do wrong?”
“They never harmed even a small bird, let alone another human being!”
“Why was it, heaven, that they had to meet with such calamity?”
His soul does not stop yelling out these questions. An does not believe in heaven, but he invokes it as a habit, just as anyone would when in trouble; clearly, though, he has fixed in his mind the faces of flesh-and-blood murderers.
“Maybe they are too powerful while I am all by myself. In other words, I will have to stomach this offense and hold it until the grave. If so, I shall pursue this injustice into the next life. And if one life is not enough I shall ask heaven for another incarnation. I will go to the very end of hell to find those who killed her and her little sister.”
Beyond the trees, one can hear the hubbub of a combat unit arriving. As the forest opening is narrow and the newly arriving troops are rushing pell-mell to get in, the noise they make echoes from all directions, reverberating from the mountainsides and woods. Realizing that Battalion 209 has arrived from Panda Mountain and that it’s time for the evening’s performance to begin, An gets up and returns to the stage area. Sunlight has long since disappeared and the grass public area is now flickering with lamps like some kind of enchanted land, as large headlights illuminate the whole stage. The new arrivals assemble in the assigned corner, each drenched in perspiration but happy like a kid receiving candy. The performers have gathered behind the sides of the stage. The soldiers have split from their provincial groups and rejoined their units. Whistles and catcalls come from everywhere.
Nha, the battalion commander, apparently restored after his nap, is now back in charge of his troops. An gazes at the whole spectacle somewhat puzzled, for he is still haunted by his memories of loss. He somehow feels left out of the party. Leaning on the base of a tree, he looks toward the stage as the soldiers from Battalion 209 keep surging forward from behind him to occupy the patch of ground reserved for them.
“Chi Van Thanh! Chi Van Thanh!”
A sudden call explodes right beside him, making An jump up. He unconsciousl
y turns back. When he realizes that it was a mistake to do so, a guy has already come close, face-to-face with him:
“Brother Chi Van Thanh.”
“!…”
“Thanh, don’t you recognize me?”
A smiling face in the dark. An leans back against the tree, his whole body shaking like he is being electrocuted: “Comrade, you must be making a mistake. I am Hoang An.”
“Brother Chi Van Thanh, I am Ma Ly. Don’t you remember me?”
“But I am Hoang An.”
“Oh…”
The new arrival turns the flashlight toward himself so as to throw light on his face, which is drenched in sweat and sort of plump, like those of some women. The eyebrows are short and slanted and the eye slits really deep as they twist into a smile. The man has a short nose with open nostrils, and two rows of small teeth. An shudders, for there is no denying it. This man is indeed a former companion-in-arms—Ma Ly, of Meo origin, deputy squad leader in a company that An used to command. It was An who had suggested that he be promoted to that post. An takes Ma Ly’s arm and squeezes it, pulling him near.
“My name has been changed to Hoang An. I forbid you to use my old name. Understand?”
The other guy nods his head repeatedly in agreement.
An then says, “Go on watching the show. We will talk later on.”
Ma Ly agrees. “Don’t forget, will you? It’s quite a while since we have seen each other.”
An nods and says, “How long are you going to be here?”
“Only God knows,” Ma Ly replies. “Our battalion commander says we will have to be stationed here for quite a while to practice and wait for the order to integrate into an understrength division on the western front. It might be a few months.”
“In that case we still have time to run into each other. We often go that way.”
“Good. We must see each other. I’m going now.”
Ma Ly runs after his comrades. In a minute, everything becomes an indistinct crowd mingled with the trees in the woods, an undifferentiated black block. An suddenly remembers something. He springs up and runs after Ma Ly.
“Ma Ly, Ma Ly! Wait for me, Ma Ly!”
He brushes aside soldiers from Battalion 209 as he runs after his old comrade-in-arms.
“Ma Ly!”
“Here I am.”
An looks in the direction where the voice is coming from, and notices someone standing beside Ma Ly, so he hides himself behind a tree, waiting. In the dark he hears Ma Ly say:
“We are old comrades-in-arms…You go ahead, I will look for you later. We will assemble with our units after the performance.”
“Agreed.”
“Let me borrow your flashlight; mine is about to go out.”
“Be careful using it. We still have a long way to go.”
“OK.”
The other guy disappears in a flash. An stays in the dark for a couple of seconds before he walks out and faces Ma Ly.
“Let’s see the show together. I have many questions for you.”
“Agreed.”
They both join Battalion 209 to get closer to the stage, for, as guests, the 209 guys have been given half of the left side facing the stage, making the other soldiers green with envy. An and Ma Ly sit down together.
An looks at his watch then says, “I can only watch until nine fifteen. After that I have to stand guard.”
“You have to do it yourself?”
“My company is in charge. As its commander I do not have the right to sit here and watch while the younger soldiers have to leave and go on patrol.”
“You’re always the model soldier. I haven’t forgotten that. Ever since…we have known each other.”
“It’s not just me. In every division the cadres must act that way.”
After a moment of silence, Ma Ly asks, “Is this a dangerous place? I have heard that this is our rear area, like the ‘safe zones’ before.”
An laughs. “True, we are far from the battlefield. But there is no lack of enemy recon probes. That’s why we had to wait three years before we could have tonight’s entertainment. The soldiers, though, still have to go on patrol.”
“The enemy dares to venture even this far?”
“Are you joking? This is not like the Ha Tay boot camp twelve years ago. We are at war now. Do you think they are all just flabby pots of flesh or only wooden puppets?”
Ma Ly is quiet for a moment then asks: “You have given that many years and have only made it to company commander?”
“Do you forget that I was pursued so that I had to change my name? How about you?”
“I, too, am a company commander. I am told by higher-ups that should things develop well, next quarter I may be upgraded. A Meo who is especially loyal to the revolution and really courageous in battle.”
“Congratulations…”
“Oh-oh, the girls are coming out…” Ma Ly says, pointing to the stage.
They watch as the red curtains rise and a girl walks to the mike to give a very graceful bow as the master of ceremonies. She is dressed in a green four-piece tunic with one shoulder piece in red and another in purple over a chicken-fat-colored pair of pants, and the soldiers began to clap as if they have lost their regular minds. Then the music arises in all its splendor and excitement. The whole division has been waiting for this moment of happiness! But An no longer hears anything, no longer sees anything except the sweat-drenched face of his old comrade-in-arms. Ma Ly is giving all his attention to the MC.
“How will he behave?” An wonders to himself. “Perhaps he will stay mum because he is a friend, because I was the first one to help him understand the most elementary things about people living downstream. I also recommended him for a rise in rank, then helped him with some money so he could go home and take care of his father’s funeral. Or will he accuse me so as to show loyalty to his superiors and get a very special promotion? How can one predict all the tricky ways people behave?”
Twelve years have gone by but this fellow seems hardly changed. Still it is impossible to read those small and deep-set eyes. Hoang An quietly watches Ma Ly. The Meo must be in agony because he is in heat, yearning for a woman. His eyes are wet with longing. His breath is heavy and he constantly licks his lips. Randy people, whether men or women, can never resist this gesture. An recalls the time in the old unit when Ma Ly had been desperate, looking for a woman. And even though he was a full-blooded Meo, freshly come to the lowlands, he had been clever enough to find a half-nutty gal in the village who could take care of his pressing need. Now he is open-mouthed, looking at the fairies all dressed so gorgeously on the stage, dancing the Lamp Dance.
“How do you like it? Is it better or not as good as the Conical Hat Dance of the Thai people?” An asks.
“Better, much better,” Ma Ly answers without taking his eyes off the stage.
“Do you like the khen dance of the Meo people?”
“No,” Ma Ly responds emphatically, which surprises An. The Meo explains: “The Meo people don’t have a very sophisticated dance. The best dancers are the people in the central highlands, whether they are Rhade, Bahnar, or any other group.”
With that, he suddenly exclaims: “Oops, it’s over.”
Smacking his lips and shaking his head in regret, Hoang An laughs. “I didn’t know that you were so in love with these performances.”
“Are you thinking to denigrate us by suggesting that we Meo do not know how to appreciate art and literature?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. This kind of appreciation is a personal matter, it doesn’t have anything to do with an ethnic group. In my village we are all Tay but some of us love the flute so much that we can stay up the whole night playing it, while others know only how to drink wine until they collapse into slumber.”
“I am passionate about these things,” Ma Ly responds, then after a minute of hesitation, adds, “But I only care for dances with the women. I don’t like to watch men dance and sing.”
As he says
that, the curtain again rises. An keeps quiet, as he does not want to disturb this Meo. It looks as if his entire mind is turning around and around under the stage lights. And that is how things go until 9:15. An raises his wrist to note the time, then says:
“Time to change the guard. I’m going.”
“Yes. We’ll see each other.”
“Agreed. After the performance, please try to wait for me.”
“Rest assured. I’ll wait for you.”
Hoang An retires toward the back. After gaining some distance from the crowd, he goes deeper into the forest and finds a good observation spot where he can entirely wrap himself in the darkness. Before him is a black immensity; where Ma Ly once had been is lost to him entirely. Ma Ly is of small stature like the majority of Meo men, normally about the height of their wives’ shoulders. It is said that when a Meo couple embrace, they look just like a big frog hanging on to a cucumber. The curtains keep rising and falling as one performance follows another. The watch shows twenty to ten. An feels his breathing starting to come more easily.
“Maybe he is not wicked enough to report me. Maybe he hasn’t forgotten the good memories of the past.”
But just as a sense of optimism returns, he notices the small silhouette of a man standing up and distancing himself from the crowded spectators in the dark. The silhouette finds its way between the ranks of soldiers and continues walking toward the stage where the division command officers are sitting in the front rows next to the commanding officers of Battalion 209.
“So, what I suspected is now inevitable,” An thinks as he watches the man. He feels a little bitter, a little sad, but at the same time his heart resumes its normal beat. The doubt he felt and the thin expectation he had are now burned to ashes. A mood of frozen chilliness invades his soul, and his brain is now vacant and transparent.
The Zenith Page 51