“Chief, the office says that the plane will take off at four p.m. sharp,” the soldier announces, reappearing.
Vu replies in a very curt manner: “Tell the office I will be down there at four; a five p.m. takeoff is not too late.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president waits until the soldier leaves and says to Vu: “Why are you tense with them? Functionaries are functionaries.”
“Sometimes we have to slap their face so that they remember who we are. Not everybody becomes their servant.”
“That is not the fault of the little people.”
“You forget that every golden lord was toppled by his closest guards; they may be little people but they have big dreams. You forget Quoc Tuy? He started out as a professional pickpocket in the Sat market. He was whipped close to death because he did not give up his share to the boss. One night he sneaked in and stabbed his boss, who was in bed at a brothel. He then left his hometown and wandered south to become a plantation worker. There, he got class consciousness and chose to follow the revolution. He became Sau’s follower when the two shared a bunk in the Son La prison.”
“I thought he was much younger than Sau.”
“Exactly so. They are at least a dozen years apart. In prison, Sau turned himself into Quoc Tuy’s protective mentor. That’s how they treated each other. Quoc Tuy cleaned his pot, washed his clothes, and even scratched Sau’s back. That’s why Sau later appointed him minister of the interior. That was the most important ministry, with the most power; everybody knows that. At that time, many comrades saw the danger and protested, but Sau repressed them without mercy. His power was in knowing just how to use those whom you call little people. Then the time comes for the little people to use the littler people. The credentials most in demand are: uneducated, with a criminal record. Secondary credentials are being truly poor and stupid, of which the husband and children of that broad Tu of the fish market make perfect examples. Those two kinds of people become Sau’s main pillars of firm support. They will do anything he wishes. Have you forgotten Brother Le Liem’s report?”
“Everything is too late.”
“Yes, too late!”
He hears his younger friend swallow, as if he is swallowing the rage in his throat. He wants to say something to Vu to comfort him but can’t find the words for it. What could he do for Vu and what could Vu do for him now, under the circumstances? No alternative is satisfactory. At least while they sit next to each other they gain some unspoken comfort to soothe the heartaches. On the patio, the wind blows and the trees look naked. The singing of wild birds on the far side of the ravine mixes with the high-pitched chirping of nightingales on the patio, creating a soft, natural mountain harmony. Why are the mountains and rivers so beautiful but the people’s hearts so sad? When had he turned criminal toward himself and toward those others bound up with him? Oh, this question has not ceased to torture his aging heart, and it will torture him until he dies.
Another gust blows by from the sky. The yellow leaves that it catches are spinning around the patio. It seems the air has turned colder; or is it the misty clouds surrounding the temple that make him shiver? The sunlight has muted into a weak yellow. It is very possible that a spring rain will pour down in a few minutes.
“You’d better get down the mountain, I am afraid it will rain.”
“Yes, I must go, as a lot of work awaits. Besides, the plane is only booked for today.”
He then looks straight at the president. “Elder Brother, please take it easy and rest. Everything is as usual. Although he lives in a distant place, the little one is an excellent student. He just won the Marie Curie math award in the all-city high school competition.”
“Thank you, brother.”
“There is another thing I need to tell you truthfully.”
“I am listening.”
“Trung is reaching the age of thinking for himself. To spare him pain, I told him that he is my own son, out of wedlock.”
“What you did was correct. A child out of wedlock is a thousand times happier than a child without a mother and a father.”
They both stand. One looks down at the old tiles of the temple floor, and the other looks out at the layers of clouds forming a white wall.
8
That night the president goes to bed really early.
When the doctor arrives to take his pulse, he finds the door closed and the lights off. The two guards who are on watch all night stand in front of the veranda. The watch lights illuminate half the temple patio and the trees at the garden’s edge. Not daring to sing and disturb his sleep, the doctor returns to his office, gets some cards, and asks the guards to play.
“Remember not to laugh loudly or shout. If you get too happy, keep your lips tight and cover your mouth if you want to laugh. The loser will have a mustache drawn on his face with soot, but must absolutely remain silent, OK?”
“Absolutely, Doc, whatever you say; we are under your command.”
In the room, the president hears the whispering, the shuffling of furniture, and the doctor’s footsteps crossing the patio to the kitchen area of the temple. Most likely he is fetching a pot to use its soot for drawing the mustache on the loser. When all has been arranged, the group sits down, pleased with their harmless game of luck, and the cards are dealt. From that point on, he hears no sound other than the screaming of his own souclass="underline"
“My child; oh, my own child! My own son!”
Tears on both of his temples are wet and cold. He presses the pillow down on his face to suppress the sobbing:
“Why am I crying like an ordinary woman from a most ordinary family? When did this ridiculous thing start to happen? It must be old age, which brings changes to a person, making one act in this silly way.”
He scolds himself, but a few seconds later, his heart starts crying out again:
“Oh, my child, my own son!”
Simultaneously a burning longing to see the little boy’s face tortures his abdomen:
“Is he taller than the son of the woodcutter, or the same size? And what does his face look like now? I only remember him when he was three months old. Nobody thought that would be the last encounter.”
He remembers the loft in an old street. One had to walk a long corridor to reach the entrance, where there were always three guards dressed as civilians. The corridor was narrow and very dark alongside a thick wall, and served as a divider with another house, that of a shopkeeper. The shopkeeper had a storefront on the street level, and lived upstairs with an older sister. A huge spiral staircase with a wooden balustrade rose from the dark corridor to the upper floor, to a high and aerated room painted in light blue. For a short time that room was to have been his warm love nest; a nest, however, that had had no time to warm up before it was destroyed by a windy vortex…Like the transit of a shooting star, happiness had passed him by. He hadn’t even had a good look, and it was gone. Happiness: only sand grains in the palm of his hand. Before he could grab them, they had slipped through his fingers.…
Even with all that, it had been happiness.…
He thought he had forgotten, but it returned. The vision of an ancient spring day. For an instant, the brightness brought forth the scene of a past paradise — the old room; the old bed. The little one kicking wildly in the white diapers. The baby had smiled at him. Its red lips curled up, trying to say something. And her! She sat at the end of the bed, her fingers rolling up red yarn. All around were small skeins in many colors. What did she do with all that yarn?