The Zenith (5 page)

“Now I have to do tai chi if I want to fall asleep.”

Vu returns home precisely at noon.

He just wants to dunk his head in a bucket of water to cool off and then go to sleep. The weather is cold but his rage is boiling; his face feels so hot it might have been fried in oil. Even though he has drunk two pots of tea, on top of one morning cup of coffee, he does not feel hungry at all. He keeps thinking of the bed in the corner of the room, behind the curtain with a pale blue flower design. In just a few minutes, he will roll onto it, in the silence closing his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see anyone, and give those extremely tense threads in the mind an opportunity to unwind. At this instant he realizes how much he is attached to his room with its old-fashioned bed and its old flowered curtain. Many times his wife had wanted to replace the faded cloth curtain with a fancy lace one, but he had firmly objected. Perhaps because we are human, we all have our personal preferences, sometimes strange, weird, or utterly illogical. In his spacious house everything had been changed. From the color of the walls to the furniture, to clothing and food, to pots for plants, paintings, the clothes rack, the box of medals…Only the old curtain remained, surviving as if lost in its new surroundings. It is made of plain cloth, the inexpensive kind, of which the long days and months have whittled down its threads to their core and have faded its color to the point that the tiny wild grass flowers now float like blue dots crowding in upon one another. But Vu likes this curtain. Its presence offers him some consolation. Its blue color brings him a feeling of peace. He cannot explain this to his wife, except to sum it up as follows:

“This curtain is really unattractive, but it was hung on the occasion of our third wedding anniversary. Don’t you remember that the liaison courier who brought this curtain up to the maquis later died that winter on his way back to Hanoi to get more news?”

“Yes, I remember. But all things only last for a time. There is a saying: ‘One life of ours is much longer than the lives of a million things.’”

“If anything brings ease to those who use it, then it should endure. We aren’t forced to follow the crowd. Don’t put too much emphasis on stuff. You are educated; you’re not like that low-class Tu.”

“You dare compare me with that broad Tu, the fishmonger?” his wife cried out in anger.

He waited until he could have the last word: “I don’t compare you with those kinds of people. But don’t forget that only those people care a lot about things. They don’t know what to do other than boast about their wealth.”

His wife went quiet, her face turning red. From that day on, she let him be. Perhaps more out of pride than from a real understanding of the meaning of things. Whatever the reason, he won that round and the curtain remained. For him it was more than a simple souvenir; it was a life-saving talisman. It brought him calm during times of danger. It brought him necessary clarity in times of confusion. It soothed his soul. Whenever he was sad, in pain, he locked the door to his room, lay on the bed, and pulled the curtain all the way over to the far wall to hide everything, leaving in view only the blue that calms. It was a faded color, but it was the color of his youth. It echoed the years and months of the past, but those sounds carried a vitality that could revive his tired soul. That was the vestige of a season that had closed. A trace only, but one strong enough to re-create thousands of worn footpaths in the old forest. As that, it allowed him to find again the vision of himself, regaining the strength he used to have, the courage and the victories he used to be so proud of, the happiness mingled with danger he had enjoyed.

Many years ago, Vu found a tight bond between the blue curtain and his favorite song from his high school days, “Come Back to Sorrento.”

This Italian song was first imported by the French schools, then it spread to the local schools until it intoxicated all the boys and all the girls in their flowing white school uniforms. The song inspired a vague conviction that everybody should put down anchor at some shore, someplace where they could heal their wounds, where new skin could grow over an open gash, and you could wait for the scar tissue to harden. A place where they could find again a source of life. A place where they could be reborn. A place called the old home…

For him such an old home was now just a few yards of faded cloth. He had nothing else besides that.

He thinks: “In a few minutes, I will crawl onto the bed, into the familiar corner. The blue curtain will protect me and I will find an escape…”

The sudden braking sound of the Volga startles him:

“Chief, we’re home.”

“Thank you.”

“Tomorrow, what time is convenient for me to pick you up, Chief?”

“I must leave earlier than usual. Perhaps six fifteen would be ideal.”

“Chief, will you eat breakfast at home?”

“Correct; I’ll eat at home to make it simple.”

He gets out of the car; walks as if running into the house; hurriedly climbs the stairs; hurriedly strips off his outer clothing to change into pajamas; falls crumpled onto the bed with a sick person’s collapse such as one who has been overcome by a seizure and would just drop anywhere on the sidewalk or in the bushes. Familiar feelings and the soft blue color help him regain regular breathing. He closes his eyes, waiting for calm composure to return to his soul just like a farmer listening to the raindrops during the dry season. Downstairs, there are the sounds of china being broken, of chairs being pushed, then the screaming of Van, his wife:

“What’s going on?”

…

“I ask: Who broke my plate of boiled meat?”

“Trung did.”

“Throwing away food? Then in three days you will eat nothing but salt.…Who allows you to create havoc in this house?”

…

“I ask: Who gives you the right to pillage under my roof?”

Van’s voice shries like a knife scraping slate. He has never heard his own woman’s voice so terrifying as just now: “Why is her voice suddenly changed so oddly?”

“Trung, answer my question!”

He hears the loud sobbing of the child. And this sobbing is suppressed into the sound of sniffling. Leaning on his arm, he gets up. Downstairs, his wife continues to scream:

“Did you hear what I said? Answer me, Trung!”

At this, the child bursts into tears. It is no longer a sniffling sound but the low crying of a teenage boy whose voice is changing. Vu opens the door and goes downstairs. In the dining room, his wife has her hands on her hips, a position that he despises most in a woman; a position that he considers most unattractive, from the point of view of both beauty and morality. In that position, even a beauty queen could not inspire positive reactions from a
man, especially from those who have been well educated. For a long time, his wife had not dared to so stand, a stance he often condescendingly called “the manners of that fishmonger, Tu.” For a long time, too, his wife had understood that his disposition was quiet and humble, but that once he became angered or enraged, it would be a tragedy for the family, as a breakup would become unavoidable. For a long time, she had also known by heart those areas into which she should not trespass, which he had formally established, knowing it would be like a deadly minefield if she ever stepped into them…

Thus, today, what insane spirit had crossed their threshold or what defect of memory had prematurely arrived to make her forget so completely?

He stands right next to his wife and asks, “What is going on?”

Van is startled and turns. She points to the corner:

“Look over there, Trung is fed up with meat and he threw the whole plate on the floor. And Vinh did not have any…From today until next week, I will let them eat rice with salt.”

“That’s OK,” he says softly, then slows each word, as with students who are just starting to learn spelling. “In the next three years, I will not touch any meat with chopsticks. That way nobody will be missing anything…Are you satisfied now?”

“Ah…” His wife drops her arms, looks at the smile on his lips. Her red face turns purple then white.

Having lived with him over thirty years, she knows very well that insipid smile is reserved for his enemies. She backs off, opens her mouth to say something but can’t. Suddenly, she turns away in an unusual provoking and rude manner. Leaving the dining room, she goes straight out to the courtyard, where the jade plant is waiting to be groomed.

Vu stops and asks Vinh : “What happened between the two of you?”

“Nothing…nothing happened,” Vinh replies awkwardly. Then he dashes out of the dining room into the courtyard

Without even glancing up, he knows that Vinh is looking for his mother. That is his only refuge in this house, the place where he can hide from all his sins. Waiting until Vinh disappears, he bends over and asks Trung:

“What did he do to you?”

The adopted son bursts out sobbing. He obviously had repressed his cries, but now the water overflows the dike, and he cries profusely and uncontrollably like a three-year-old, but with the low tone of a teenager. Vu waits for his cries to end, and pulls him to his bosom:

“You and Vinh are the same age but you are ten months older. There is an old
saying: ‘Older by one day only, you are still the older brother.’ You ought to behave like one, right?”

“Yes. I remember your words. But today Vinh insulted me.”

“How did he insult you?”

“He told me that I am a bastard, and a moocher.”

“Suddenly he said that?”

“We sat down to eat dinner because Mother said you wouldn’t be home for quite a while. At first, nothing happened. But when I was about to pick up some meat, he blocked my chopsticks and screamed: ‘You’re a moocher, a bastard. Your kind only deserves to eat vegetables and peanuts; you have no permission to eat meat or fish. Letting you sit and eat with us is honor enough.’”

Vu is mute. His face is sweating and his heart grows cold. He feels as if it stops beating for a few seconds. A thought runs across his mind, burning it as if someone is guiding a hot iron across his flesh: “Vinh couldn’t have thought of those things all by himself. He is a rude boy but not too smart. Those cruel words must have come from his mother. From my wife? How could she be so low class?”

After a while, he calms down and says:

“You should not bother with Vinh. He is greedy and he lies. You are actually my own son. Your mother’s name is not Van, but the blood that runs in your veins is mine. The skin covering your body is surely my own as well. If Mother Van and younger brother Vinh do not accept you, we will leave them and live separately. Just you and me. Do you understand?”

“A…”

The boy opens his mouth; his eyes open wide. In the boy’s state of utmost astonishment, Vu detects suspicion and fear mingled in opposition to a sense of great good fortune. He knows that what he has said has surpassed all the boy’s expectations, and is his dream of all dreams.

“You are my own child. Do you understand this?” Vu says again.

Trung still stands dumbfounded, his face pale and his lips turning white. Vu sees clearly all the waves of emotion that surface in Trung’s beautiful eyes.

A bitterness fills Vu’s heart: “My gosh!…How he longs for a father! Having a father is really an ordinary fact for millions of other children, but for him it is the ultimate dream, or maybe just an illusion. Pity this poor orphan prince.”

He looks deep into Trung’s clear brown eyes, a doe’s eyes. Gloriously beautiful, yes, but a bit effeminate. Is it merely because of this stunning
beauty that he must endure a hard fate? This fleeting thought arises as a light wind. Vu holds tight the hands of the adopted son and repeats each word: “You are my child. For a long time I didn’t want to disclose this for fear of many issues. But now, Son, I have to tell you the truth. Because you have reached an age of mature understanding.”

“Father!”

The boy rushes into his arms, the sudden happiness making him burst into sobs. He leans his head against Vu’s chest, tears pouring down his face, soaking wet like a stream. Vu quietly squeezes the child. Together, both tenderness and bitterness invade him and his throat chokes.

The clock on the wall leisurely rings twelve times. Vu continues reading, as if nothing has happened. His wife comes up behind him and tries to close the book.

“You should go to bed, it’s getting late.”

Vu turns back to the page and says, “You go to bed first.…I need to read.”

“I apologize…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.…To be truthful, the mistake is the forced union between us…I regret…”

“What do you mean…” Van says, raising her face, which is warming at his calm but painful words. She wants to debate, to persuade, to show her goodwill. But Vu turns around, raises his hand, and points at the four surrounding walls. Van knows that they cannot talk in here, where recording bugs are placed everywhere, from inside the house to the big trees in the yard. She finds a piece of white paper and writes:

“We will talk about this tomorrow.”

He writes his reply right underneath: “Tomorrow, I have to leave at 6 a.m.”