“I love my people so much. Why don’t they love me? Why can’t they give me just a tiny bit of happiness, the same as in other, ordinary lives?”
“Oh, the people: it’s an abstract concept, a formless crowd, a cacophony of the sea breathing, the pounding knocks of the waves of time. Those who have prevented you from living as a true human should are your very close comrades, but most of all it was my own fault because I took up the role of a saint.”
“But my nation is small and weak. To have stimulated their trust and courage, could I have acted differently?”
“You chose the easier path, one most appropriate for your people’s intellectual capacity. That is why you have had to pay a price. The game of playing the saint is not a new one in human history. What altar has not been decorated with fake flowers, even though, in the past, it was made from silver or brass or, today, of pliable plastic and synthetic diamonds? Every game has its price. In this life, nothing is given free.”
The one in dialogue with him has the last word, with a teasing smile on his lips. Then he disappears with the wind; a warm and wet wind that leaves him cold, making him shiver. He casts his eyes as if he could follow the unfortunate fellow, as if he had come from the left side of the temple, crossing the yard and the cherry blossom garden. Then he had disappeared in the same direction. That fellow looked exactly like him, but with a complexion greenish like a banana leaf and a look full of contempt.
“Mr. President, please come in, you are cold.”
The chubby guard is already behind his back; the sudden voice quite startles him.
“All right, I will come in,” he replies with a little anger that he does not want to show. Whether he likes it or not, he is under surveillance from all sides. Not a minute of freedom. His life belongs to the people. His health belongs to the people; his time belongs to the people. Is there nothing left for him? The game is really wicked!
Dong, dong, dong…The temple bells suddenly ring repeatedly, briskly, one after another. Dong, dong, dong…
He turns around and asks the guard, “Why is the temple bell pealing like that?”
“I forgot to tell you that the abbess herself is presiding over the cleansing ceremony for Mr. Quang. The temple bells will ring and there will be more chanting than usual. Please be sympathetic, Mr. President.”
“Here we are staying on temple land. They may do what they please.”
“Yes, but nonetheless…”
“What kind of ceremony? I did not hear clearly.”
“The cleansing away of bad fate and the dust of life for the deceased.…The woodcutter from the hamlet has been dead for forty-nine days now.”
“Already forty-nine days? So fast.”
“Yes. Yesterday the hamlet chief came all the way up to ask that Brother Le permit Mr. Quang’s family to come up here for the ceremony. When they come up, the company will increase security.”
“Here, really it is their business. Increase security for what? To make sure that I don’t fall down before the woodcutter’s widow? Otherwise, why would the country people want to harm a president?”
That hidden thought runs through his mind, like a joke and a question.
“Please have some tea while it’s hot.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you place the rocking chair near the door for me…There, I can read the paper with the natural light.”
While drinking his tea the president thinks that in a little while he will see clearly the woodcutter’s whole family, first the oldest son. This story has become an ongoing obsession since he first learned of it. An uncontrollable curiosity gives him this need to look at the personalities revolving directly in the tale of this mismatched couple. “So, you thirst to see the faces of these people as a mirror reflecting back your own life. A perfect reflection but from an opposing vantage point. For the woodcutter was no saint. He lived out only an ordinary destiny. He conquered all the misfortunes that he had a chance to encounter, while you were vanquished under the awning of power and glory. A silent, wretched, defeat.”
“Mr. President, is it OK like this?”
“Back up a little bit. Better if they don’t see my face. That would be distracting to both sides.”
“Yes.”
“Is that Le’s voice?”
“Mr. President, precisely. Brother Le brings reinforcements. The woodcutter’s family will arrive after these soldiers.”
“Tell Le that I am reading documents. Have him put the men outside; no need to come in to greet me.”
“Yes.”
The chubby guard glances at the chair to see whether it is properly placed then goes out to greet the augmented force. Carrying the stack of documents to the rocking chair, the president takes the best position from which to observe the mourners who will pass before him as they proceed to the principal hall of the temple.
The air fills with the smell of incense. The sound of a wooden gong rises loudly after the bells stop ringing. He hears soldiers’ footsteps. They line up in a row right in front of the hall. All are solemn like wooden statues, facing the far side, their backs turned toward his room, where the door is half closed, half open to hide the person sitting inside. Perhaps Le has guessed his wish, because he stands in some out-of-the-way corner. His absence makes it more comfortable for the president.
The sound of bells arises again to announce that the mourners are approaching the temple. The abbess steps out onto the patio, her two hands in lotus position to greet the guests. The first person he sees is not a member of the family but a monk definitely older than fifty. Behind him are two more monks, then comes Mr. Quang’s oldest son, Quy. The president recognizes him at first glance and is somewhat disappointed. His appearance creates no impression. A small man with uneven shoulders, his face is pointed. It exhibits no feature of the father nor the slightest evidence of masculine charm. He wears an old winter uniform, which is usual for village cadres. He does not have a beard, nor a sharply defined jaw. Even his gait is strange, exactly like that of women who must accept the fate of singers or actors; it is both twisted like a slithery snake and on tiptoe like a sparrow. Even though he displays such a sad and weak physique, the oldest son emanates a dangerous power that is hard to describe or explain. “Here is a model of the pseudo warrior,” the president thinks. “His movements look like dancing steps but they are aimed at where his opponent is most vulnerable. When making his move, he can finish an opponent most unexpectedly. In other words, this kind of warrior never enters the ring; this kind of swordsman does not appear by day but, in the dark, puts his enemy down with a stab from behind. This type of person will never retreat from any obstacle blocking his ambition, giving no heed to conscience or the contempt of others. But Quy’s guardian angel lacks the clout to help him succeed, so the struggle of one without a father only spawns malnourished and neglected offspring.”
So he quietly thinks as he watches the family come forward, all dressed in white mourning clothes and lined up according to lineage rank. Behind the family comes a group of old men and women. They must be close relatives of the deceased. At the end is the young wife and her child with a good-looking young man that he guesses to be the student Quynh. This group leaves no special impression.