“Oh! The light of a fire…Why is it like firelight?”
His heart breaks with a savage cry. The candle flames in the pagoda remind him of another flame, years back in the deep forests of the north…the distant flame of the maquis…flames that danced, that popped and exploded like so many eggplant and mustard flowers. A huge house, with strings of multicolored paper flowers cut by the clumsy hands of kids who hung them on the pillars. Spaced among the flowers were sheets of glistening gold paper. He knew well that in order to have those glistening sheets, for an entire year the young man in charge of the youths had had to collect and save the wrapping paper from his cigarette packs, the sole luxury he allowed himself.
He remembers as if all the youthful faces illuminated that night by the flames were shining bright with happiness.
But, what year was it really? It couldn’t be the year Binh Tuat (1946), because that year the resistance movement had taken shape, material requirements were mostly in place, even the printing plant for making Blue Buffalo notes was up and running. It must have been Dinh Hoi (1947). Yes indeed, the year Dinh Hoi.
One afternoon, at approximately three thirty or close to four, judging by the slant of the sun’s rays through the leaves, he had had his head bent down in reading a document when he suddenly heard continuous chattering. When he looked up, he saw the chief office administrator smiling broadly:
“Mr. President, in a little while please join our celebration.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Don’t you remember that we are still celebrating the Children’s Festival?”
He was briefly surprised and said: “I thought I had done this and had distributed candies to the children.”
“Mr. President, you did celebrate and distribute gifts to children from two to ten years old. But today it’s the turn of older children, those over ten, especially the young cadets from fifteen to seventeen who study together to prepare for travel to friendly countries.”
“Ah, is that so?” he replied, then thought of the two thick piles of documents waiting for him on the shelves.
“I still have so much work.”
“May I report that those youth are eagerly waiting for you. They have practiced their songs and dances for a month to welcome this day of celebration. Should you not come, I am afraid…”
“Why didn’t you organize it all in one day?”
“If we did, it would be too crowded, the auditorium would not hold everyone. The other problem was that the other day the organizers did not have enough candies. We had therefore to split into two sessions.”
After he finished talking, he smiled broadly, showing off his teeth, uneven and tainted the color of dirt from smoking pipes. Looking at him, the president laughed:
“Fine. I will work a little more. When it’s time you come and get me.”
Then he bent over and continued reading documents, completely calm. He had had no idea that fate was waiting for him underneath the pillars of his plank house.
“Love, when will we see each other again…”
The familiar song from the doctor again comes into his mind, like the electric prod that jabs at his heart. Pain spreads all over his body. He feels as if not only his heart is being crushed but that every cell in his body is being crushed as well. He suddenly thinks of that picture of Cupid, the blindfolded child with wings. The image brings on goose bumps and shivers: “Who knows who in this world will be your love? Who knows when fate’s hammer will break open your heart?”
On that night long ago when his chief of staff had come to pick him up, he had still tried to finish the report. Neatly putting away the pile of documents, he had walked to the door. But when he put his foot on the stairs, he had turned around to cover the typewriter with a piece of cloth, fearing dust or some insect dropping from the roof might ruin his work machine. There was no rush in his movements, no stirring emotions in his heart. He had executed each movement with the self-awareness and calm necessary to his status — the leader of a country at war.
The chief of staff had waited for him at the foot of the stairs to take him to where all the sections camped in common. The women’s section, the youth section, the National Salvation children, the Democratic Party, the Socialist Party, the Agricultural Society…All were arranged into one assembly. The zone for families was also nearby, the area of spouses and children of high-ranking cadres who participated in the resistance while tending to domestic duties. The camp was away from his house across a valley with a stream. By the time the president and his guide reached the valley, it was pitch dark. The chief of staff had swung back and forth a flashlight wrapped in thick cloth, exposing a pinhead of light only the size of a firefly. The valley lacked cover from tall trees. The trees bordering the trail were conifers or narrow-leaved, not providing enough protection against curious eyes in spy planes above. To compensate, there were many wild fireflies, and patches of phosphorus from decaying wood shone like a guiding light for the mountain god or ceremonial lanterns for forest spirits.
They had to rely on such natural lights to walk. In about thirty minutes, they came to the stream. After crossing it, only a short descent remained until they arrived at the encampment. He asked the chief of staff:
“Last time I told you what you need to do when you cross a stream. Do you still remember?”
“Mr. President, you said…that…that…” He chewed on his words between his teeth. It made the president laugh.
“I reminded you to pee on both feet before you cross. That’s the old way to prevent arthritis which I once learned. Your generation is still young and doesn’t know the laws of heaven. You all take your health for granted. But health is the big asset which we all need to preserve.”
“Mr. President, because my brain is thick, I learn now but forget later.”
“It’s not a question of education: it’s not a lack of intelligence but of taking precautions.”
The chief of staff smiled, then stepped rearward behind him, and put into practice what he had just learned. Hearing a loud sound of splashing urine, the president had a quick thought:
“For sure, he is healthy. Youth really is a time of paradise.”
It took them a while to feel their way across the stream, because the bottom was quite slippery, though the water was not that deep. The rocks were not sharp but the big ones here and there were quite mossy; one needed only a small false step to fall down. Having to go to the clinic was a real bother, especially in the deep mountains and forests, where not all equipment and medicines were available. This very real worry prompted him to always remind himself and others:
“This war is in a very difficult phase. We all must take care of our health. In other words, we have no right to get sick. Clinics and medicines should be reserved for wounded soldiers. Caring for your health to the utmost is discipline; it is the spirit of responsibility to the nation as well as to our own selves.”
In the middle of the stream, the chief of staff suddenly grabbed him:
“This spot is very slippery, let me hold your hand and lead the way.”
“Thank you, but I have passed the most dangerous spots.”
“Do you find the water too cold?”
“Cold or not, we are close to the bank.”