“Welclass="underline" so you wanted to avoid bloodshed. It is still flowing. On this planet has there ever been a cease-fire? The current war is the most atrocious in our people’s history; a war that makes the demons cry from sadness, because the dead will be more than all those sacrificed in the struggles against the northern invaders from the Mongols and the Ming dynasty to the end of World War Two. Am I not correct?”
“You know I did everything to prevent it. But…”
“But — you fell off your horse in the middle of the front line. Let’s consider this scenario: after your young wife was murdered, you had organized a counterattack but instead of putting your opposing subordinates in a make-believe prison, you had imprisoned them in a real one. Who knows but that you could have avoided this catastrophic war and preserved so much blood of a good people?”
The president sighs quietly, while the man shrugs him off and continues:
“Never mind; let’s not consider ‘ifs.’ That word is candy for three-year-olds. Let’s return to your family drama. And this time I am not using ‘what if’ but confirming that General Long kept silent then because he wanted to take advantage of the game in which you played the role of a living saint. By keeping under the shadow of the saint, how many got their allotment of pressed sweet sticky rice? And the one who got the most was he himself. Your name was connected to his in the Dien Bien Phu battle. Thus, this general also wished to confine you forever in a temple. Well, playing a saint is the nastiest game of alclass="underline" a one-way street that can go up but provides no way back down. One who assumes sainthood is a cadaver standing on his own pedestal; dead in the cold and stormy wind; encased in absolute and permanent loneliness; lifeless forever in the form of a statue, not able to be buried like others. It is a very fatiguing death; a death that does not allow for lying down, which is a tiredness that extends over many generations. A fantastic punishment of the creator. Am I not right?”
He starts laughing, mockingly. The president’s face is hot but his whole body turns to ice.
“You were completely paralyzed, because you had no clear idea how to direct an action at that time. You wished to fight back against your enemies but dared not mobilize your close friends. You had forgotten the decisive principle of self-protection leaders had used for a thousand years:
Those who touch my left and right cut my feet and hands;
Those who touch my blood kin reach to the pupils of my eyes.
“You should have pointed out the danger to General Long and his faction — that, if he were silent before Sau’s abuse of power, then, after this exploratory blow, he would be the first big tree that would have to be cut down next; that someone who steals an egg today will steal a rabbit tomorrow, and a cow the day after that; that power walks only down its own path and never looks back to reflect or to regret. If you had been wise enough to realize all this, I am sure all your followers would have immediately lent you their hands, without any hesitation or uncertainty. At all times, people act swiftly when they feel their fate being threatened. Selfishness is an old instinct and humanity’s strongest motivation. But instead of acting with all the force of reason, you were silent, waiting for some repressed understanding from your followers. That silence did not necessarily mean that you were entirely stupid, but that you were caught between clarity and obscurity. That blurred state of mind paralyzed you. There were two ways of looking at it: on the one hand, you were embarrassed and so you did not protect your beloved, because she was too young and too beautiful, a delectable taste in an old king’s mouth; and that was why, even when your heart was churning with love, you were shy and dared not openly defend that love. In this instance you were infected with unfortunate emotions. If not this, then there is only one other explanation: you were ecstatic playing the inspiring role of a living saint, that game satisfying your pride, therefore you had to give up a normal man’s enjoyments; you had to sacrifice her, the woman you loved most. In this instance, you were…”
The man goes on, but by now the president’s ears are ringing and all he can sense is the sound of rain falling somewhere, noisily, on a corrugated roof, perhaps the roof of the port prison. Fits of angry rain. Above the roof is the sky; sometimes light blue, other times dark with storm, then thick with smoke and fog. Heaven: only those imprisoned can understand completely changes in the sky’s appearance. So many days, he had looked at the skies over the port to remember those of his hometown. Then suddenly she appears on the corrugated roof, looking at him with a young and innocent smile; exactly like the nineteen-year-old girl she had once been, sitting on a branch eating fruit, in the woods of the north, two rows of teeth white and shiny like pearls and lips stained with the juice.
He calls out to her but his mouth is glued shut by some kind of sticky sap, and his tongue can’t move.
“Is it possible that I have died and they sealed my mouth with this sap?” he thinks, but then he hears the sound of cards being turned outside his room. When he opens his eyes, he sees clearly the blue night-light.
“No, I am here…I am on top of Lan Vu. Opposite this building is the temple complex, where the Abbess with shiny black teeth lives with her disciples. Clearly I just went to visit there and they treated me to ginger tea and rice porridge, the kind that is soft like ripe bananas.”
He composes himself, and looks around the room one more time. The elegant guy in the ivory suit has disappeared. Where he had leaned his back against the wall is now the black-and-white photo that he likes a lot: cherry blossoms. That picture had been a gift from her when they had their daughter. There is not a day when he does not look at it. It is all that is left of her; all that remains of her in this vast and isolating world. Cherry blossoms. Messengers of spring. Cherry blossoms. An undying reminder of a love short lived.…
He tastes a saltiness. Are they his tears or lost seawater returning?
“Oh!..my youth…the old song…”
He begins to remember that song, then another one returns, churning within him down to painful longing:
Even though separated, my heart does not stop remembering…
The singing resonates inside him, digging down into his every cell; it makes his body and soul dissipate like grains of sand. He feels the waves whip him as his flesh and bones are ground down and mixed with the troubled air of the storm. He knows he is no longer himself, because he sees himself bobbing on the tips of the waves; a cluster of sea foam longingly clinging to the moving seaweed of hatred and desperation.
There is a loud knocking on the door, which then opens. The electric light outside is bright. He hears the doctor’s voice:
“Mr. President, please allow me to see you. The guard heard you, so he called me over. Please stay in bed.”
He is silent. The doctor listens to his lungs and heart. He shivers when the stethoscope touches his skin. But the doctor’s fingers are very soft and warm. The touch of this man provokes secret thoughts:
“Warmth is the best substance for life. Warmth both shapes and sets borders to the fire of passion. My life’s most passionate desire was to ignite the flame of revolution. But that revolution did not bring happiness to people. A smaller fire of passion burned in my heart for her. In the end she was destroyed by the fire of that hell. Oh, how sad to see a useless waste of human striving. My life erupted like a savage fire, a misplaced fire, an insane use of energy. I am inferior to any normal person, like this doctor, for example. He can use his energy to warm up patients, to warm a woman’s body or to sing love songs.”