It is true that life asks us only for hard, practical value. But only far too late do we ever understand just what such value is and where it lies.
“Always after the fact,” he thinks in French.
Another silent sigh resonates within his heart.
“Please, Mr. President, approach the altar.”
The female village chief guides him, going up first with him following; this tall woman with the broad shoulders of a very practiced martial arts adept could be a professional bodyguard.
“Why hasn’t the Ministry of the Interior recruited her for a bodyguard? That is a waste of talent,” he thinks as he steps up before the altar. It is a large standing chest, the upper part for an altar and the lower part for storage, made from four special kinds of wood, elaborately carved with dragons, unicorns, tortoises, and phoenixes with mother-of-pearl inlays, more a work of art than something for household use. The cabinet is placed against the middle of the wall opposite the main door. A large bronze incense burner is smoking. Two vases are filled with amaranths and peonies and varieties of wildflowers. He places the envelope on a large porcelain plate with a deep-jade-colored glaze, filled with other envelopes handmade from all kinds of paper scraps.
“I, your humble servant, am very grateful, Mr. President.”
“I, your humble servant, thank you.”
A woman and a young boy come up before him, formally bowing down on their knees to him. He feels disturbed because people kneel down like that only before sainted spirits or the altar for their ancestors.
“Don’t; no need. Please have the family stand.”
He lifts the child up, realizing that what he had suspected yesterday was correct: the child is about twelve or thirteen. The loosely fitting mourning shift hiding his body makes him look smaller. The mourning headband has slipped down to his nose, but when the boy looks up, he sees a lovely face with long, finely drawn eyebrows and the eyes of a man.
“The child is good-looking; he will be very handsome when he grows up.”
Yesterday, on hearing the child cry out for his father, he could not imagine the boy’s face. To him the boy had been only some child without a name calling out to him but one nevertheless associated with some other child. Now, the boy’s fine face forces his heart to race. That face recalls another face from long ago. A face that has disappeared. His throat suddenly becomes dry. He turns from the child, planning to say something, but he can’t find the right words. Maybe he cries a bit then; Vu comes up and gives him a handkerchief.
“All of us, your humble servants, are grateful to you, sir.”
The voice of a young woman in his ear startles him and he looks up.
The widow had come up right in front of him to thank him. He sees her face drowned in tears under a mourning headband made from plain cloth. She looks young with an attractive face. She appears to be about thirty and no more. Her sudden loss has not diminished the beauty or the vitality of a woman in her springtime. Her complexion is blush white, without a freckle or a brown spot as most country people have, those who spend all day in the rain and the sun on the mountainsides or in the fields. The widow’s peaches-and-cream complexion seems to belong to someone with overflowing good fortune. A face that is extremely difficult to find in a war-torn country. Her eyes are black and full of spunk, graced by long eyebrows that touch her temples — for sure an asset that she had passed down to her son. Those eyes, too, are not frequently found in countrywomen, because they do not reflect any hint of the endurance that marks the character often found in the women of Vietnam. Those eyes look directly at him, without any hesitation or fear.
“With such eyes, she can do anything she wishes,” he thinks and scrambles to find some appropriate words in response:
“We offer our condolences to your family, hoping you and your son will quickly pass through this difficult time. Make sure your boy completes all his studies.”
“Yes, we will carry out your instruction,” the widow replies right away, as if her answer had been prepared in advance.
Then the village chief asks him to retrace his steps and visit the deceased. He follows mechanically, not knowing the customs and proceedings of an ordinary funeral. This is the first time in his life he has been to the funeral of a common person. After an instant and very suddenly, wailing breaks out behind him:
“Father, oh, Father, why are you leaving us?”
At that moment he notices some twenty more people also in mourning dress; some are in their thirties and forties but there are also younger ones. They push their way forward, cuddled close to one another to form a gang that could overwhelm the widow and her son. They form up as a choir, voicing their laments as a song accompanied by instruments. This group stands to the left of the coffin, the young mother and child to the right.
“Two forces, two children; this point seems uncontested,” he reasons, and his eyes wander, looking for a picture of the deceased. He immediately sees a chair with an intricately carved back close to the coffin; on it is a large framed picture bordered by a black cloth.
“Ah, here he is! It’s not a father still in his thirties or close to forty like I guessed yesterday…”
The commander of the two watchful companies to the right and the left of the coffin is in his fifties, or older. Only his face does not reflect the weariness, or the equanimity, poise, patience of the faces of other men his age. His face is square, with trace lines of adventures, and reflects both pride and vitality. His eyes stare straight out with a confrontational and provocative look mixed with a touch of malice. The bridge of his nose is large and straight like a bamboo stick. A beautiful mouth, with regular lips, is seated in a long and bushy beard, curly like that of a Caucasian, and jet black.
“This face testifies to what has happened to this unfortunate one, even right in this house.”
He is shocked: all his guessing, his thoughts, his emotions, are put in play like boats bouncing on the water. An old understanding about oppression also immediately pours out like waterfalls wildly rushing down to sink those boats. A burning liquid enters into his nostrils. Smoke floats in front of him, with gray colors of storm clouds and the hazy purple of poppies.
“Eldest brother, we should leave!” Vu says behind him.
Feeling a hand gently touching his, he suddenly understands that he must awake. Turning to the group in plain white gowns and with white headbands to the left of the coffin, he says:
“I offer my condolences to the family. I hope we will all overcome this very painful and sad circumstance and quickly regain normal lives.”
It’s the turn of this family to acknowledge his consoling words with all the adamant and resentful feelings they have stored in their hearts. Patiently, he waits for the wailing to subside before he takes his leave. But it seems that his comforting comments only give an excuse for those strong, repressed feelings to reveal themselves after the loss. The cries, the whining, of some twenty people only become more intense.
“Oh, Father, Father, how could you leave us in the middle of a terrible situation? Father, you left, but all the problems were not explained, all the resentments were not revealed.”
“Father, oh, Father, please come back and listen carefully…your children, your grandchildren, all your own flesh and blood are here…”
At this moment it is the village chief who swiftly helps him escape this complicated situation: “Stop. Every pain must have its limits. Besides, the president needs to preserve his health to serve national priorities. I propose that the family disperse so that we can take the president back to rest.”
After speaking, she pushes out her muscular arms to back the mourners away on both sides, with all the strength and precision of the edge of a bulldozer’s blade. Before he realizes what is happening, he finds himself crossing the stone-tiled patio to the compound gate. A few bodyguards gather close around him. The four musicians stand and play the national anthem to bid him on his way.