The president instinctively closes his eyes. A fixation returns him to the image of the oldest son, who is already inside the temple.
“Such a pitiful and weak son adamantly opposing his father; using his position to turn him into a slave? How absurd is life? Someone living under the protection of the family head but who wants to apply his own power over him: Is this a unique madness or a common denominator of all species? Do all children have to kill their fathers and do all grown animals have to eliminate the old ones in search of food? Are humans and wild animals not so far apart?”
Beyond the patio, the bells slowly ring. One set stops as another continues; the vibrations overflow the mountain ridges and penetrate the empty spaces around Lan Vu Temple with waves of magical enchantment. The temple patio is deserted as everybody is inside. Left are scattered yellow leaves in piles. The president looks at the blue sky to find an answer, but none is available. Because he has no direct evidence, because he loved his own father, and because he has no need to fight for power with, or to destroy, the one who gave him life, he does not believe that all of humanity has such a need.
“Perhaps because I left the family too early, and I always missed my father, therefore in my heart there is only longing and sadness. Millions of others live tranquilly with their parents. A drama as in the woodcutter’s family is the first such that I have heard or seen. There are children who are filial and others who rebel and are ungrateful. But if ambition turns you into a warring and blood enemy of your parent, you would be abnormal. If deep father-son affection still exists, then those who so love ignore those who are of different blood and cold hearts.”
At the end he finds that he has returned to his familiar purgatory, to the tribunal where he is both judge and defendant.
From the temple, the noise of the group chanting rises. The wooden gong sounds in regular measure to mark the song of the bells, mixing with the chanting. Those in the temple are living as they wish and in their faith. They believe firmly that heaven and the divine saints understand their pure-hearted wishes; that they are freeing the deceased from all wrongs and all the shortfalls he had endured in silence, erasing his mistakes, and restoring the honor that had been stained. And last, to open the path that leads to Nirvana, which will receive the one that has left the earth. As for him, what faith does he live with now?
A pain runs down his back, turning his thighs freezing cold. The president shuts tight the doors, turns to his room. He lies down. He never lies down at this time of day except when he is ill. Today he is not ill but he wants to lie down. He feels weary — a weariness both physical and mental. He cannot sustain, and does not want to, the bearing and activities of a warrior king. Nor does he even want to be a leader with endless strength, to work like a machine that will never rust.
“All my life I have had to maneuver, to strive to work like a hard steel machine. But a man is not a machine. A man will rust out with time,” he thinks quietly, but before he lies down he glances at the clock on the wall and hesitates a moment because the clock only shows 9:30 in the morning.
“At this moment, what’s the use of exemplary spirit in an old king who is confined? Enough. Accept the reality that my life has limits and my strength is not a stream that will flow forever. I am more than seventy. At this age I should not stick with any illusion. All my life I sacrificed for big dreams, the kind people often call ideals, or lofty goals. All my life I kept myself facing the altar at which people unselfishly offer up their youth as well as their fate. But in the end, I finally find that the ideal is also illusion. It’s like a mysterious castle standing in the fog on the other side of the river, enticing those on this side. People get out of their boats to swim over. But when they reach the far shore, the boats have split into broken timbers and there is no sight of the castle and its treasure. There is merely a deserted beach by the river’s edge; besides the crumbled mounds are a thousand pieces of broken glass that reflect rainbow-colored lights.”
That thought weakens his legs and arms and unmoors his soul like a corpse bobbing in the waves. Immediately, an anger explodes. He raises his voice to blame himself:
“Well, don’t be shaken by such pessimistic thoughts. Don’t walk in the footsteps of those who have no principles. Do you want to follow their example or not? Or rather follow the cult of nudists and live a life with vegetation and animals? Over all this time, the revolution has made a long journey. Accepted or rejected, the truth will appear in front of your eyes like the five fingers of the hand spread before you. To state the facts: we have a free country, we have our own national flag, we have a government, armed forces — the realities of a long-held dream nurtured on the front lines.”
The man with the face green as pale banana leaves turns around, stands leaning against the wall, curls his lips, and says, smiling: “But what’s the government for, the national flag for, when the people live more miserably than before? What good is the state machine if it’s used only to benefit a small number of people who oppress the majority and push them into mass murders, the biggest of which is this very war? Your own comrades dream of a large arch of triumph to glorify themselves. They dream of a war ever more great and glorious. ‘Greatness and glory’ are always whoring, eternally out to trick us all. Even for you — you have been mesmerized by them. Wishing to be the guiding light for the people, to be great, to become a great chief of state, you volunteered to play a saint. In the process you harmed her, a simple-minded woman, who wholeheartedly trusted you. Is all this true or false?”
He dares not answer. He has no courage to answer. His provocateur no longer smiles but contemptuously shrugs his shoulders. After throwing him a condescending look the specter steps over the president’s head to leave through the window.
The president feels his nostrils burn.
“Oh my god, why am I shedding tears so easily? Old age, infirmity, or for other reasons? A man should not cry so easily like this. I have changed. When did I go bad?”
He curses himself fiercely, but tears keep falling, slowly rolling down his temples then soaking his hair. And in his ears, the doctor’s familiar singing is heard:
“My beloved one…”
“Ha, ha, ha…”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha…”
Fits of irreverent laughter break out and immediately he sees the large round face, the drooping cheeks and chin of Chairman Man. He appears in the ashen purple light; his complexion the striped green of a gecko. With a solicitous, cheerful manner, he examines the president as a child might examine a cricket.
The president raises his voice angrily: “Why are you here, Mr. Chairman?”
“You imply that I am an uninvited guest?”
The president is quiet.
Chairman Man smiles: “Why don’t you answer directly? This is no longer a game of eventualities, or playing around with diplomacy. You and I are yin to the other’s yang, but whether we like it or not, neither of us now has any influence on the politics of the two neighbors. Nevertheless, you are now like Napoleon on St. Helena; you have no reason to be circumspect.”
“Mr. Chairman, I don’t know how.”
“Well, you’re very polite, with the politeness of whites. But you and I both come from simple rural people. I am from Hunan and you from Nghe An, the dirt-poor city where the farmers chew on sweet potatoes instead of rice, more miserable than the Hmong hill tribes who make corn cakes and corn soup. Being a rural person, just act according to your roots. Why show off the kind of politeness you learned elsewhere?”