“Maybe…” Nha answers.
One peal of thunder follows another in the west. A few lightning flashes cut the coal-black night sky. The deputy division commander looks all around and says:
“At any rate, we have to wait until morning before we can know what happened. It’s really strange. For if it were so important, he should have warned me, at least.”
He takes a watch from his shirt pocket then continues: “It’s three a.m. already. Let’s go back underground. Tomorrow morning, at nine thirty, let’s get together. The soldiers can go on sleeping.”
Turning toward An, he says: “Thanks, Comrade. Sleep well.”
The group splits up, going in different directions as they return to their quarters. Battalion Commander Nha goes with An in one direction. On the ink-black path, Nha suddenly lets out a long sigh:
“Don’t know why I suddenly feel extremely dreary tonight. It spoils the whole party.”
“It’s true,” An agrees.
Another peal of thunder suddenly explodes. A chilly wind blowing vigorously through the clearing makes their faces feel frozen.
“Let’s run. The wind has changed,” says Nha.
“Yes.”
Both start running fast. Their flashlights throw erratic beams into the night darkness. Ten minutes and they are already in the underground quarters. Just at that moment the night bursts with more lightning and the wind begins to gust as a heavy rain whips down in lashes. The trees twist back and forth in all directions. An and Nha stop at the entrance to the underground bunker. For just a second, they look at the sky.
“Wow. It’s just as they say, ‘thunder in the west means rain pouring and winds gusting.’” Nha remarks with assurance.
“Yes,” An replies, nodding.
“Now we can sleep in all tranquility,” says Nha. “At least for one night — tonight.”
“Yes,” An rejoins, “it’s war. Each day we get to live is a good day.”
Then both of them go below.
Once in his mosquito net, An listens to the pouring rain, which makes a sound like a waterfall cascading. He tells himself:
“Tomorrow, there won’t be any trace left on the bank of the stream. A hundred microscopes will not discover the murderer’s fingerprints. Oh, Division Commander: don’t hold a grudge against me — I am to be pitied. You had power in this infernal apparatus, so the higher you rose, the greater the danger to you. The more glory you have, the more shame you must endure. This has been the story forever. Please rest well in the Nine Springs together with my loved ones down there…”
He sighs deeply, then immediately falls into a deep sleep.
2
His sleep that night brings neither nightmares nor beautiful dreams; not a trace of the past, nor a premonition of the future.
His sleep is black like a winter night, thick from December fog, and ponderous like a cart carrying thick logs. It is like a skiff floating on an immense body of water that is neither river nor lake, neither pond nor troubled sea. An oversleeps the next morning, until ten. The leaders meet, and Nha has to send someone to wake him up, as he is late for the meeting. An jumps up and goes off to meet the other officers.
In the underground command chamber, everyone has assembled, with some standing and others sitting, gathered into small groups. Seeing An finally arrive, Nha goes out and welcomes him:
“Did you oversleep? I had breakfast and started out right away, I did not go back to the bunker. I had thought that you would remember and get up in time.”
“Chief, you know me, I love oversleeping. When I woke up it was still the dark of night, so I lay myself down to sleep some more. It’s always dangerous to go back to sleep. How’s things? Do you have news of our division commander yet?”
“No, we haven’t found anything…but…”
“But what?”
“The soldiers have found their pants, together with their weapons and other belongings on the bank of the spring. Division is of two minds right now: either to report it upstairs and wait for the verdict or to find the real reason to explain this. The deputy commander and all of us are hoping that you will have a suggestion. You are the only one to have known the Meo platoon leader, the supposed agent.”
“I thank you for your trust. But my knowledge here is very limited. Ma Ly is a Meo. He lives in an earth home and grows poppies — their main occupation. I am a Tay tribesman. We Tay live in houses on stilts, breed cattle and chickens and pigs, grow dry field rice, and eat long rice as well as sticky rice. Our environments and our customs differ. Besides, we haven’t seen each other in fifteen years.”
“At any rate, both of you were comrades-in-arms. Besides, both of you are mountain people.”
An laughs out loud. “Now, every one of us here is a mountain person, for we are living in the Vietnamese Cordillera. If you lump all mountain people together, it means you have no idea about who we are really.”
“Sincerely speaking…”
Nha seems embarrassed, trying to formulate a plan of action. He takes off his glasses to clean them, a regular habit of his when in a situation like this. Just at that moment the deputy division commander notices An and quickly steps toward him, along with the leading cadres of the various battalions. After the greetings, everyone has gathered around An in expectation. But An turns to Nha and says:
“First, I would like to know what they have found on the bank of the spring. For I don’t believe that Ma Ly would invite our division commander to take a bath, especially when it’s pitch dark and the water has gone chilly. In all frankness, the Meo don’t like to bathe. They are in the habit of ‘fire bathing,’ especially those who have acquired the long habit of opium smoking. Do you know, at one time opium was considered like white rice in the Meo kingdom?”
“In truth, that’s the first time I’ve heard this. My native village is on the bank of the Red River. Ever since I joined the army, my contacts have been with ethnic Vietnamese. You are the first tribesman that I have known.”
“Meo territory is right in the middle of the Golden Triangle, where they grow poppies and produce opium for half of Asia. The Meo king, Hoang Su Phi, used to lead a very efficient army charged with protecting the opium caravans crossing the border. They are capable of fighting any national army or forest bandits. The Meo people therefore had to grow poppies for him in exchange for rice, salt, dried fish, and oil. After many generations of such culture, they have grown addicted to opium the way we are used to white rice. I am not too sure why but opium addicts have a great fear of water. Very rarely do they bathe themselves in a spring or boil water to take a bath inside their houses. Instead they take off their clothes and sit next to a fire so that they sweat all over, thus opening all the pores of their skin. Then they use their fingers to roll the dirt into tiny balls, which they throw away.”
“God, is that true?” a battalion commander bursts out in surprise.
An turns toward him: “Do you, Comrade, think that I am just fabricating that? Or that I am prejudiced and trying to slander the Meo?”
“That was simply an expression of surprise,” the deputy division commander interjects. “Don’t misunderstand. Even me, I have never known that.”
An realizes that talking about Meo bathing habits has made them all very curious, but that they dare not ask for more. One only has to see them exchanging looks to know.