The Zenith

by Duong Thu Huong

  My Beloved, when will we see each other?

  He realizes he has returned to the monument, where her face is opposite his and between them is a crystal net woven from a thousand teardrops. He calls her but she does not reply. Why did she remain silent for so long? Why didn’t she complain or curse him, even once? That way, his heart would be lighter. Her silence is like an oil vat that, in hell, feeds the flames forever burning his soul.

  “Her silence sentences me to life. Before her pure soul, her naive trust and her true and passionate love, I am a criminal for a thousand generations.”

  But not him alone. Those who killed her will also have to pay the price. Only a year after she died, Ba Danh and Sau had a special prison built on the island of Tuan Chau with the intention of keeping General Long there forever. But after some discussion, they feared international protests, so they forced him to go work at the planned parenthood office, with the responsibility of putting IUDs in women. Was not all this dirty comical game the Creator’s revenge? Because her heart had been so pure, because her beauty was God’s gift, her goodness was recognized by both saints and devils. Therefore, those who looked the other way when she died now endure misfortune, mishap, and humiliation. When for any reason whatsoever, cruelty takes a step through the temple door, it will continue straight on into the hall and no sword or dagger will stop it.

  In the morning, Vu telephones and says just one sentence: “Elder Brother: the great task has turned rotten.”

  Shocked, he wants to ask more, but on the other end Vu has already put the phone down. Le had told him that Vu had entered the hospital three weeks earlier, having fainted unexpectedly, but he had received no further medical report about his friend’s condition. Thanks to the phone call this morning, he understands why Vu’s health had taken such a turn for the worse. And he knows that the doctors could do nothing to cure him. That’s how life goes.

  “Heaven, the great task has turned rotten!”

  The last shroud of hope has fallen away and the truth is exposed. The exquisitely beautiful fairy of the imagination is nothing more than a disgusting fox in real life. After hearing Vu’s thick and hoarse voice, he understands that this is the end.

  “I have no further reason to sustain this corrupt and brutal regime, a regime that I created but which has betrayed me after it betrayed the people. I cannot continue to coexist with it. It’s become a monster that came to term inside the country’s well-meaning heart, but, right after its birth, bit the neck and sucked the blood of the mother who had carried it and painfully given birth to it. My heaven, how horrific that bloody and painful birth. Horrific to my people and horrific especially to me.”

  The darkness before him suddenly turns into pitch-black ink, the Chinese kind that calligraphers use to write on red paper. His mind brightens with an old image, how each spring Confucian scholars would sit grinding the ink they would then use to write poems about their dreams and hopes for the future. Those sacred characters materializing on bright red paper while outside the rain would be falling gently on the garden of cherry blossoms, and farther away white herons would be gliding over the bright green fields. How beautiful were these odes from the spring; the Chinese characters undulating like curving dragons, like curling clouds; the black, so very black; the red, so bright red. Life is always the intertwining of extremes, it seems. Why not then employ the dynamic of this competition? The thought comes abruptly, surprising him:

  “Why can’t I use my death like the old scholars used the black ink to glorify the vibrant red, to symbolize a glorious future for the people? Why didn’t I think of this stratagem before? It is perfect for my next move on the chess board of circumstance. This is the most effective way to choke the monsters to death, to compensate the people for my mistakes. It is also the quickest way for me to find my love.”

  Immediately, his heart seems lighter, like that of someone who for a long time has felt his way through the darkness to finally discover the light.

  “How splendid! This death will bring both escape and rescue. Why do I think of it just now? Well, my useless brain, you are really to be blamed…”

  He pushes the blanket aside and sits right up. For a long while he has known his horoscope as well as the palm of his hand; he knows that the day to return to dust is the Mui day of the Hoi month in the Tan Hoi year (1969). He turns on the light and removes from the cupboard his old torn horoscope, the one that he’s had for more than sixty years. Opening the chart, he reflects on the unfavorable alignment of the stars on that day when Death will come to shear off his life with a sickle. There is nothing out of place; his memory is totally accurate.

  “Well, why live another two years in this imprisoned and absolutely hopeless life? Why go on playing the role of a wooden puppet inciting innocent children to join a miserable and stupid war, only to be sentenced later by history as an old king who was a coward and had no conscience? Departing in such a way will offer the best chance to be redeemed; it will give me calm when facing the soul’s highest court of judgment.”

  He folds the chart, puts it back in the cupboard, and then goes to the desk, looking in the drawer for the last testament he had partially drafted the year before. He will finish it tonight because he has decided to die on the coming September 2. According to the old customs, anyone who dies on the anniversary of the founding of a dynasty, religion, or sect of martial artists demonstrates a fated rendezvous with death that cannot be denied by its followers.

  The next morning, the chubby soldier comes to begin the new shift at 7:30 as usual.

  The president says, “Let’s go up the mountain and then have tea when we return.”

  “But…Mr. President…”

  “I want to climb the mountain to stretch my legs. I am not hungry yet.”

  “Mr. President, I have to get the doctor’s approval…I dare not…”

  “Don’t worry. I take full responsibility. The doctor is still sleeping.”

  Then, without waiting for a reply, he steps forward. All the chubby soldier can do is quickly follow him and take his arm.

  “Mr. Chairman, let me lead you. At this hour the road is very slippery and dangerous.”

  “No.” He turns around and says, smiling, “The old man in Woodcutter’s Hamlet fell on a dry day, with the sun just past noon, right? Then, there was not a drop of dew on the grass.”

  “Yes, that is correct, but…”

  “Don’t be so cautious. Just walk behind me. The mountain road is so narrow, if we cling to each other it will be more difficult.”

  The soldier is obliged to follow him. The president takes off so quickly that all the soldier can do is hold the hem of his shirt. The farther he walks, the deeper he begins to pant because of his heavy body and the brisk pace. The flaps of the president’s quilted coat slap hard on his legs and the tail of his striped scarf flies behind him like a kite being blown by the wind. He walks straight to the top of Lan Vu, to the highest point, where he has never before set foot. There, he stands on a big rock and looks out. Floating clouds glide around the top of the mountain, then swim down to the lower peaks. Farther beyond are hills and fields stretching out to the horizon.

  Well! His mountains and rivers…there is only one reality: it is his land; it is tied to him, and he to it, forever. Everything he had had, everything he had lost, all that he had ever done, and all that remains as a debt…all this had started from, and would end because of, this land. A suffering homeland, a people enslaved. A history without the sound of flutes—only the rattles of daggers and swords.

  “Well! This is my last battle. And this is my last prayer for my people!”

  He tells the chubby soldier, “I want to stand here a little while. I have never before set foot on the top of this sacred mountain. And that is sad.”

  “Yes. We, too, have never climbed up here either. I heard that kings in the past came up here every three years to pray and make offerings.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Pe
ople in Woodcutters’ Hamlet.”

  “That’s true. The top of Lan Vu is a place where the cosmic energies of rivers and mountains unite. The ancients openly recorded this fact in the histories. Trouble yourself a bit to read them and learn.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go down there and wait for me where the pine trees grow in the crack between those two rocks. I will call you when it is time to return.”

  “But, Mr. President…”

  “Go down there and wait for me. No need to worry.”

  His voice is firm and somewhat cold, and the chubby soldier has no choice but to go where he had been directed.

  Left alone, the president turns his back to the Eastern Sea and faces west. Standing as still as a statue for a few moments, he then closes his eyes, opening his entire mind to hear the voice of his heart loudly, to let the most secret sounds of his chest spread wide and resonate up to all the deities:

  “Hail to all the sacred saints of the nation; to all the great spirits of brave heroes and kings who have explored and protected these mountains and rivers. Though your bodies may have decayed, if your spirits still walk abroad and permanently watch over the nation, please come here to assist me.

  “Hail to the Buddha: I have not followed your way but I am lucky to know your devoted disciples here and I understand your strong influence over humanity. If your spirit always watches over the western skies, please add your strength to that of my country’s deities to help me achieve my last wish:

  “I, who gave birth to Communist Vietnam in the fall of the year At Dau, 1945, on the second of September in the Christian calendar, request to leave this earth on that day of that month this year, the autumn of Ky Dau. My passing will announce the end of a cruel and traitorous regime and provide its death certificate.

  “My death will be my last gift to my people.

  “My death will be the last victory, to compensate for all the failures and mistakes I made during my whole life.

  “My death will be my most sincere apology before the highest judiciary of all existence as well as of conscience itself.

  “Thus, I passionately beg all of you: help me attain my wish!”

  Ah…ah…ah…

  Ah…ah…ah…

  Ah…ah…ah…ah…

  He hears thousands of dreamy sounds, like a choir from the Eastern Sea that resonates, overflows, and rolls with the waves. Then it sounds like the whispered chattering of thousands of years being restored. He sees shadows of people clear like water in crevices, delicate like foam on the waves, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, from the Ly to the Tran dynasties, from the founder of the Truc Lam Buddhist meditation sect to General Dinh Bo Linh to General Quang Trung; also there is the Le king along with his general Tran Nguyen Han; General Nguyen Xao in the shape of a ghost without a hand; and Nguyen Trai as a headless ghostly shadow. It is a gathering of those who loved Vietnam the most; among them so many had been friends but then became enemies as time passed.

  Behind this group of people, at the bright yellow horizon to the west, there is a tall person with a calm face and a perpetual relaxed smile. He knows it is the reverend Buddha.

  Thus his prayer has been witnessed.

  He stands there for a long time, feeling a happiness he has never experienced; one that is totally different from that obtained by a victory or cigar smoke; a happiness beyond words.

  “Mr. President, please…”

  He opens his eyes and sees that the chubby soldier has returned to his side.

  “Sir, I saw you standing still like a statue. Then your face suddenly got red as if you were drunk. I have no idea why.”

  “There is nothing to worry about. People’s faces get red either from shame or happiness, right? So what do you think I am: ashamed or happy?”

  “Sir, I am afraid…”

  “Don’t worry. My heart is beating normally. Well, we will go down now.”

  Then he slides off the rock and returns to the beaten path that leads to the Lan Vu temple. The soldier runs wildly behind, holding on to the back of his quilted coat.

  The soldier says, “Mr. President, now I cannot hear you. One is more likely to fall when going down than when climbing up.”

  “Yeah…” He smiles, letting the soldier hold on to his coat in the way children hold each other’s shirts in the game of dragon tug-of-war.

  “I have to brew some tea,” the soldier says. “After your tea, you have to do your exercises before breakfast.”

  “No. From now on I will not exercise.”

  Surprised by this response, the soldier is quiet for a little while. Then, not able to restrain his curiosity, he clears his throat and asks, “But…you always tell us that exercise is discipline.”

  “That is the strictest discipline to be observed to maintain physical health. However, each circumstance requires an appropriate exercise. From now on I will practice the most appropriate one for leaving swiftly in the fall. If I know how to nourish my body like a mechanic maintains an engine, I will be able to shut my living machine as the temple’s caretaker snuffs out the candle at sunrise.”

  The path curves around a deep crevasse; the dripping of water blends with the singing of birds. Sunrise in the mountains is always mysterious and pure. Everything is laced with white clouds and drowned in birdsong. The president walks briskly like a young lad and feels as if he is seeing all of this for the first time. Suddenly, as the path opens out of the woods, the Lan Vu temple appears like a painting.

  “Wow, that’s fast!”

  “Yes, sir…going down the mountain is always ten times faster.”

  As they cross the gate to enter the temple patio a large field of white hits his eyes, blinding him. The president realizes it is the cherry blossom garden reflecting the sunrise.

  “Well, cherry flowers blossom all over the patio,” he cries out. “When we left I didn’t see them.”

  “Sir, when we left there was still some lingering fog. You also were in a hurry and didn’t pay attention. This is the second time they have blossomed. After this, there will only be some late-blooming branches. The abbess told me that.”

  “Is that so?” He stops and touches some clusters of flowers. The cold, wet, soft petals are caressing and comforting on his skin. The light from the east reflects off the diamondlike dewdrops on the tips of the leaves. He shuts his eyes to enjoy the gentleness of the petals and listens to the whispering of the early wind. When he opens his eyes, her face has risen on the other side of the garden, opposite him. She is fresh in a dark blue tunic; her gaze is soft and clear, her face pleasing and bright. He knows that it is her: her today, her liberated from hatred and humiliation, her at the age of twenty, with an undying love, waiting for him on the other side of U Tich River, waiting…

  He speaks: “Now, I tell you, Love, a gentle and lovely woman, a passionate wife and so naive, my own little bird. Dear lady, I am preparing to leave to meet you.”

  THE BRIGHT LIGHT

  The president died exactly on National Day, September 2, the year of the rooster, 1969. His traitorous followers knew that this coincidence carried a curse and would lead to a punishing blow to their position from destiny. Therefore they tricked everybody by reporting that he died on September 3.

  From the moment he shut his eyes, it rained for an entire week, a pouring rain as if from a waterfall; white water swept the earth and sky. The Red River billowed with water; there had never been so much water in an autumn. Usually at that time the riverbed would withdraw and the lakes become so still and clear that one could see the weeds at the bottom. But that September, the Red River was foamy red, noisy and wicked as if it were the stormy season. All over Hanoi, the water had no chance to run off. It flooded the sidewalks, overflowed the thresholds of houses, circled around in the intersections. All over the country, people clustered around the foot of lampposts, listening to the speakers describing the funeral. They cried as if a communal assassination had taken place in their nation.

  The funeral w
as held at Ba Dinh Square under a downpour. Soldiers stood in line, in their soaking wet uniforms. People spilled out from the square into the side streets, wearing black pants and brown shirts with mourning ribbons covered in plastic. The official pillars of the state stood on the dais with guards holding umbrellas to protect their heads. The speeches were emotional like the emotions in life. Words of gold and jade were poured out to applaud the accomplishments of the great leader of the nation, the father who had given birth to the revolution, the one who had led countless followers, who had trained a successor generation to carry on with loyalty and dedication!

  During the funeral, who knew where the trembling soul of the president stood? If it was smart, it should be under the shade of the trees by the gate to the Ministry of Defense, even though it would have to bear the cold water like a whipping. Wherever it was, surely it could observe in its entirety all the acts of the play. The people wept; of course the little people, but even those who had plotted him harm cried loudly as if their own father had died. They cried miserably with overflowing tears, with their throats obstructed by pain, their noses running. Their speeches were punctuated with noisy nose-blowing, and this unattractive sound was amplified when broadcast over the public airwaves.

  The president’s prediction proved correct: they cried for real.

  But his explanation proved wrong: they did not cry from a realization that, someday, they would have to face him before the tribunal of all existence; they did not cry from shame or embarrassment over an encounter that would occur on the far side of the U Tich River. Oh no, for none of these romantic reasons.

  They cried because they could no longer harm him, because they could no longer search for him and wish for his death, because such is the game of power. The ultimate reason that they cried: they understood truly who they were. To understand oneself is the most difficult learning one can obtain in life. One can discover this self-awareness only in special circumstances and by rubbing elbows with others, because the features of a person can be recognized only in the mirror of others. His death provided that very opportunity. For many years, they had held the country’s power, having at hand an entire hierarchy of lackeys from high ranks to low, from pillars of the dynasty to the guards in all the camps or those who gave out merits and demerits in the countryside. His traitorous subordinates had believed in the efficacy of their structure, that they were the reigning king on the throne and he was the abdicated monarch living in the back palace who had to do whatever they asked of him; that they were the genuine heroes and he only a gilded plaque where heroes who have decomposed into the mud were listed; and that the arch of triumph they were building would stand on this land forever and that his accomplishment was only a prelude like the vestibule one must cross before entering the main hall. At the funeral all those dreams turned to smoke. They understood that his power could only generate resentment on their part but could never be appropriated.