Life — a vagabond — is like the flashing wings of the butterfly…”
He listens to the singing, quietly surprised because this is the first time he has heard such verses, even though he has lived in his own country for so many years now:
“Why only now do I know of these folk songs? Did they just pass by like a wind and I didn’t pay attention all those years? Had the government forbidden the people to sing such sentimental lyrics? But life is both birth and death, melancholy is the living twin of happiness.”
“Mr. President, please let me carry your overcoat.”
A guard steps up to take the overcoat he has just taken off. He gives him the overcoat; then suddenly a throbbing pain runs through his spine. Sweat wets his forehead; he dabs at it with a handkerchief but it won’t subside. As the hour of Sending Off the Soul approached, he had intended to visit the unfortunate family, but he had no right to make them wait. Besides, so many people had to accompany him. To his front, the first squad is walking with the village chief, a tall, lanky woman who looks partly French, having shoulders broad like a cross and so bulging with muscles that any man looking at her would feel intimidated. She wears traditional clothes, a long hanging blouse made of thin blue cloth, trousers of shiny black satin; but then she had put on canvas shoes with white laces, the kind athletes wear. Her face is large with slanted eyebrows and jaws spread wide on both sides, and a neck thick like a column but red. Her strength and her firmness would overwhelm the powers of ten men combined. At his back walks the second squad with the deputy village chief and the village policeman, the two men equally small and short and similar in age and dress, wearing cadre shirts and green khaki pants. But the police chief has a large leather belt to hold his pistol. The two squads form a small detachment of four rows. The path is narrow, but on his left is Vu and the medical doctor and on his right the commander of the guard company, Le. Thirty yards behind them is an armed platoon to fend off kidnapping by aerial assault.
“Mr. President, please take your medicine before attending the funeral.”
It’s the doctor’s turn to make the request. The president stops and swallows a handful of medicine with a cup of ginger water Then they continue walking. This portion of the road is more rugged. On both sides, the bamboo does not bend over but intertwines into a wall. The leaves weave themselves into a bright green roof. It’s high noon, thanks to the roosters crowing from the hamlet to the east to the hamlet on the west, from the higher villages down to the lower ones. The crowing of the roosters, like the melancholy sounds of the singing, doesn’t stop, as if they cannot break the unseen silence that rules over the scene, reinforcing it instead. This silence is uncompromised like clear crystal and more unyielding than steel. A vast silence. It seems as if it hides some forest over the sky’s horizon.
“Soul, oh soul, please look ahead
Let the dust of life settle behind your back.”
The sound of singing now sounds very close, but they still have to cross a turning, curving stretch before they can arrive. A crowd has gathered right at the compound’s entrance, waiting for him. Teenagers in proper uniform line up in two rows of honor, holding flowers and flags, with camouflage umbrellas on their shoulders. Behind them are all the residents of Tieu Phu hamlet, men and women from middle age and older. There are no young men left in the village, for they have been drafted to fight or have enlisted in units of the Fighting Youth in support of the front lines.
“A true wartime scene. When the men are gone, when only women washing clothes on riverbanks and plowing the fields are left. As the ‘Chinh Phu Ngam’ poem described — in isolation, the village is lonely…”
His thought abruptly ends as the crowd recognizes him.
“Long live the president, long live, long live!”
“The president will live forever with the mountains and rivers!”
“Long live the Democratic Republic of Vietnam!”
“Long live the president!”
He realizes that the singing to send off the soul has stopped, because all the musicians with their flutes and zithers have stood up to get a better look at him. Those wearing headbands of mourning with their eyes still swollen also come out to welcome the honored guest:
“They have left the corpse alone in the house. My visit, it turns out, has brought disruption to this family.”
At first the cheering is awkward and reserved but then turns more heartfelt as if everyone forgets that they should be in mourning. This thought makes him feel that his presence is inappropriate. Waiting for the crowd to be less enthusiastic, he gestures with his hand to signal for silence. In an instant, everyone is dead silent. His heart palpitates as he recognizes his ability to persuade and the power of his personal presence. That strength has not been lost with the years.
“Dear kith and kin.”
As he speaks, he observes the eyes of the people. In those eyes there is a foolish adoration, an unconditional submission that he has known all too well. Now, that longstanding perception no longer excites him.
“Why can’t they love me differently? Why can’t they both love and respect everyone equally?” he thinks to himself as he continues to address them:
“Dear kith and kin, please let me thank you sincerely for the heartfelt words of welcome with which you greet me. Don’t forget that we are here to attend a funeral, not a meeting or a conference. I am just an ordinary visitor like everyone here. I suggest that we all be quiet, everyone returning to their places so that the funeral can proceed smoothly.”
Always his words command; commands full of supernatural might or saintly power, even he doesn’t know for sure. The people quietly disperse, so quietly that he can hear his own breath. The family returns and stands around the coffin. The musicians resume the melodramatic singing to lead the departure into eternity:
“.…From dust we return to dust
The turning around comes as it must…”
The guards stand outside. The village chief and Le accompany him to call on the host representing the bereaved family. They have to cross a huge patio, one covered not with tiles but with slabs of green stone each about two feet on a side, placed in perfect alignment and giving the area in front of the house where the funeral is to take place the look more of a temple patio than a country villager’s front yard. The residence compound is built in the form of a “gate”: the main building in the middle, with five very large rooms and antique tiles on the roof, and two houses, one on either side, no less grand, each one also with five rooms facing the large patio. As he quickly looks around, he thinks:
“The doors are high and the rooms are large but when you leave for the last time, you have only your empty hands.” Then, in spite of himself, he sighs deeply.
From behind, Le steps up and gives him an envelope: “Mr. President, this is the money to donate in consolation.”
Mechanically he takes the envelope, not knowing how much money it holds or how much is enough. The memory of generous country customs, the fleeting images of funerals, weddings during his youth, all now faded, have not left a single mark. In his daily life now he never touches money or any other kind of expensive object. In reality he has never had money in his hands though his picture is on every piece of paper currency used throughout the entire nation. But he sees that the eyes of the villagers are discreetly looking at the envelope in his hand, and, for the first time in his life, he is confused about the real value of those flimsy pieces of paper that one can spend.
A suspicion makes him frightened: “How much did they put in it? Will they disappoint these people?”