His power had been a compass created by the hand of a saint or a devil; the evocative impact of a saint in the imagination of many; the unusually innovative ability of an unusually seductive charm. A champion’s strength in belief, in emotion, in hallucination—all mixed, intertwined, and set over time and forever lodged in the soul. Full of magic containing simultaneously every contradiction—the culmination and the sediment of a great game.
Thus, at destiny’s call, they understood that they were nothing before this old man—even though they had invested so much effort to promote themselves as “stars brighter than a thousand candles” that appear in the skies over the nation.
Like a storm or a flood or a fire, this communal emotion spread during the funeral. They understood that he still lived even thought his heart beat no more; that they had to continue to use his shadow to cover their heads; that their arch of triumph would never be erected if they could not rely on the name of their Elder Brother. Because, in the end, even if they suffered from wounded pride, from their hatred of their own inability, or from the unfairness of the Creator, they were only foxes jumping around looking for food under the tiger’s tail. They needed him, even after he had eluded them with his death.
The old tiger was dead. But his continued presence was an essential requisite to ensure their power as well as their glory in the eyes of their subordinates, so at all costs they must have a corpse filled with straw. That is why, almost immediately, the Ba Dinh tomb for him went into construction.
Thus, they continued to betray him, because the president had officially written in his last testament that, upon his death, his body must be cremated, its ashes spread evenly over the rivers, and afterward his name should be carved on a small rock on the modest hill in Vinh Phu province. But betrayal, just like wickedness, never stops once it starts.
However, since the second day of September, the year of the rooster, 1969, a sword has hung dangling in the Hanoi sky; a huge and visible sword. One can clearly see it on fall days when the skies are a cloudless, crystal blue after a stormy rain. That sword blade aims straight at the flagpole in Hanoi, waiting for destiny to fall at any time and cut down the red flag with the yellow star, to end the fraudulent and brutal regime, to destroy those monsters who sucked blood from the necks of the very people who had nurtured them.
In this way, the president’s wish had a witness. The divine and immortal souls of all the brave heroes and the great kings who had built and preserved the nation presided over the seven levels of cloud covering every region of the land, mountains and forests, rivers and ponds; as well as the divine Buddha traveling in the western sky, understanding and approving this passionate wish.
What is left is only anxious waiting for the final moment—when the Vietnamese will know the full truth and understand his last wish.
Paris, January 2, 2007
The Zenith Page 67