The president smiled and said: “Next time, if you mean well, you should ask to carry me before I put my feet in the water.”
“Oh, oh, oh…”
The young assistant had no way to answer so he cried out like a lamb.
In the darkness, a large group of people straggled forward into view.
“The president…the president has arrived…”
“The president has arrived.”
He raised his voice: “I am here!”
The group cried out and ran down to the stream, where the water was only about a foot deep. Water splashed all over the president’s clothes. Lantern light glistened back and forth on the water, and arms grabbed his shoulders, his back. One touched his shirt, another his shoulder. The president recognized these people by the smell of their sweat and breath.
“Are you tired, Mr. President?”
“Sure, I’m tired. But not so much that I have to ask you to carry me to camp,” he replied and briskly went up the slope. From here on, the forest was dense. Everybody uncovered their flashlights. Between the two sides of the path, rays of light intermingled in front of him. He felt enthusiastic. He thought of the joy waiting for him. Meeting young people was relaxation to him, like recess for elementary students.
Ahead, lodgings were bright with burning lights. The door frames were burnt orange, a vibrant color in the night. The sound came of children singing to the beat of clapping hands. When he stepped forward, they all stood up and sang loudly to the clapping instead of using words of welcome:
“Our mountains and rivers will be grateful to you generation after generation,
We hear your voice resound among the rivers and mountains,
Let’s all go together, advancing down the road to liberation,
Let’s all go together, listening to the sacred soul of the southern land calling out to us…”
All those fresh and youthful faces, those bright eyes, and the bright fires of that night…he remembers them clearly to this day. Was it because they had registered at the same time with one face, a couple of eyes, a smile as red as if it carried lipstick, a flock of shiny black hair? Was it because all this had registered at the same time with the image of her?
Oh, no, no!
Maybe time had dyed everything the color of a magical cloud. The truth is, that after that night, he hadn’t longed for anything else. The exact truth is, that when his sleep came on, he would recall that glorious night with a light and floating joyfulness: people singing, fires, the xoe dance of the mountain folk, and skirts fashioned from scintillating cellophane paper. A boy of about twelve had sung “Song of the Mountain Girl” in a marvelous tenor voice. And finally, a pair of clear brown eyes had looked straight at him across the fire.
Oh, those doe eyes, doe eyes!
His heart sang a high note of admiration:
“How could there be such beautiful eyes? I never saw any other such eyes. A rare gift from the Creator! Are not heaven and earth extraordinary?”
It is so true.
Exactly so true.
After that, he could not remember anything, as work had pressed down on his shoulders. A campaign; then another campaign. A battle front collapsed on the east but expanded to the west. A vitally essential operation was put in motion. An opposing operation brought problems. A network of enemy agents was discovered with half of its members caught and held in jail and the other half reduced to inactivity, widely dispersed or hiding in the shade. The internal situation gave rise to problems that needed redress. The country had a dire lack of culturally able cadres who could handle proselytizing missions and foreign affairs.
He really did not remember anything else.
The months and years passed.
And so passed the vicissitudes of a life. Each life is like an uncharted river, with no one able to foresee its twists and turns, its corroded passages or filled embankments, where its waters will run calm and where they will become rough. Are we not each trapped in fate’s long, wide net? Are not the twirlings and turnings inside each of us nothing more than a clown’s performance?
If only he could have guessed his fate, he would have turned in another direction…If only he could have foreseen his future, he would have avoided heaven’s net.
But every “if only” is just a long sigh coming at the end. Every “if only” is like the sound of falling rocks. One hears the loud noise and the breaking only when the rocks are about to hit bottom. Who can raise hand or foot to stop rocks when they fall from mountaintops into deep ravines? Who?
This question might be a bit lame, and he does not want to believe he has a soft heart. The brave resolve of a revolutionary coupled with pride in dialectical materialism stops him from believing in fate. However, his continually nagging mind still awaits an answer. And the answer is buried in the fog along the horizon before him. Thus, whether he likes it or not, he still has to remember one occurrence, one point in time, when, suddenly, his aging heart was pierced.
That had been a fateful summer day.
That noon, General Long had invited him to review plans for an upcoming military campaign: the 1951 fall-winter offensive against French bases. He had been satisfied, from the beginning of the resistance up until that very moment, and felt he could now breathe lightly with relief as he thought to himself:
“The wheels start to turn. We have passed through the wobbling phase of the war, a phase with a thousand difficulties. This summer opens up a new phase.”
That summer was in the year of Tan Mao.
He had been born in a Tan Mao year. Summer had come late but was not too muggy. He had planned to wear a set of maroon civvies, but after a few minutes of pondering, he changed into a military uniform. He knew that in uniform he looked younger and more handsome. His slight carriage fit well with either civilian or military clothes. In uniform, though, he could easily assert his charm and power of attraction. In uniform, his features seemed fresher and softer, and in his mind all the songs of his youth rushed back. Those verses lingered on, hidden away within him and bringing him an elation that only he knew. After changing into uniform, he had told his bodyguard that he would go to General Long’s cave all by himself, a very short and familiar walk. He had wanted to reclaim for an instant the freedom that had been confiscated. A forest road, the sounds of birds, monkeys, leaves…but most of all, to walk alone, to think by himself, to admire the scenery by himself…such was truly happiness when one’s life was so tightly tied up with a group.
Completely happy, he walked briskly without paying any attention to his surroundings. About halfway along, suddenly someone cried out in panic:
“Stop! Please, Mr. President, stop!”
“Don’t take another step. Please, Mr. President, don’t!”
Looking up, he saw two girls dangling from a large branch of a fallen tree. They were frantically looking for a way down, their faces very red, their mouths spattered with fig grains. He knew they had been up there sharing the figs, so busy with eating them that they did not see the pedestrian inadvertently invading their world and breaking up their rare opportunity to snack well. When they had suddenly recognized him, they had no time to get down, therefore they had frantically called out to stop him. Then the pair desperately sought a way to escape.
“Be careful! Be careful or you will fall.”
It was his turn to cry out in fear when he saw the two of them hugging the tree, sliding down at one scoop like little monkeys.
“Careful!” He cried out and could not help smiling.
“Why don’t you come down slowly? Sliding like that, you might fall easily and tear your clothes.”