For a long while, plagued by doubt, he questioned himself many times. But never did a true answer arrive; not until the Ninth Party Conference. At that landmark conference, all the cards were turned faceup. The majority of the delegates sided with Ba Danh and Sau. They wanted a victory more worthy than that won in the resistance war against the French. They wanted this new war. It was an addiction; an addiction beyond their control. A fateful romanticism that seduced an entire people in a mad rush. The passion to be a hero is fiercer than any sexual fixation. In the burning fires of sexual desire, no logic survives. When Sau decided to move the resolution for the war, Elder Brother walked out into the corridor to smoke alone. He returned to the room, looking out through the window, smoking nonstop. His heart pounded hard in his chest. An invisible fear weighed on his mind. An unnamable concern churned his stomach. A dreamy sadness like gray clouds filled the four corners of the sky. Vu had wanted to go stand behind Elder Brother but didn’t dare. Even Elder Brother himself could not explain his cowardly action, although those around him all looked at him as if he were the last hero of the epoch.
“Is it human nature to cling to a group and otherwise to lose one’s balance and feel insecure when standing all alone? Is that why I stayed in the meeting room with all the rest?
“No! I stayed there because I could not and did not want to do any little thing that would console Elder Brother in front of them all. That display of formality or that naked complicity was the most debased act in both our lives.”
Exactly so!
Perhaps, so.
No, exactly so!
He had confirmed it but for years he had tortured himself:
“I should have stood behind the Old Man. I should not have let Elder Brother stand all alone in the hallway at the moment when he saw so clearly his betrayal by those cretins. A betrayal in broad daylight.”
He recalls that he had glued his eyes on the window frame, where part of the president’s back could be seen inside circles of cigarette smoke, while his own brain and soul were paralyzed. He understands that, from then on, history’s path had turned sharply; that the image of the other was an irreversible stigma of loneliness, of a hero fallen from his horse, that from that day forward the fates of everyone, including his own, would change with this lonely man’s falling off a horse.
Another convoy of trucks comes.
This time it’s an artillery unit.
But the barrels are lowered, covered with parachute fabric and braided leaves. Red road dust coats the tires as well as the soldiers’ faces. He waits for the artillery unit to go then turns into the Quang Ba road. He has not walked on this street for ages, partly because he has been busy but also partly because he wanted to forget a place of misfortune. But today, he had walked all the way here, and he could no longer reverse direction:
“Why am I setting foot on this ill-fated road?
“Because of the ill fate, must I look at it up close yet one more time?
“Did arguing with Van bring back memories of the past or has the spirit of the deceased coaxed me to come back for a chat?”
He doesn’t know anymore. His steps take him along a narrow road with a row of guava trees on each side. When did they plant these trees? Nobody remembers, but they have grown abundantly like a forest. They reach out one to another, spreading over the lips of the field of flowers and the pond of watercress below. The trees touch; so do the branches, forming a full and thick tunnel that the sunlight can’t penetrate. This is a haven for gangs to rob and hide their loot; a place where rascals come to settle their blood debts; where unrestrained lovers come to make out; an ideal spot for prostitutes chased away by the police. These rows of guava trees are famous across the city for hair-raising stories, dramatic or comical episodes of forbidden love or wild jealousy.
Was it this notoriety that incited the young and hot-blooded Quoc Tuy to choose this road as the place to murder Ms. Xuan?
Or was it the disgraceful reputation of the place that prompted him first to shame the woman he killed?
Or had he been scorned by the beautiful woman turning him down, so that he needed to revenge his wounded pride in addition to killing her at Sau’s wish?
Vu looks at the rows of guava trees running in straight lines along the road back to the northwest edge of the city. Covered with dust, the trees seem to look back at him, a white-haired traveler, with leaves as their eyes.
Then a gust of wind brings cold and humid air even though the sun still shines brightly all around. He shivers:
“Is that wind or the soul of the pretty one?”
“Dear Xuan, I will never forget this…As long as I live I will protect your child with Elder Brother…Do rest in peace in heaven. If you are able, please protect us.”
Someone sobs nearby.
He quickly closes his eyes. Teardrops fall and roll down his cheeks. His face is now wet and cold. He hears the singing of birds in the guava trees, rising and growing chirpier. The birds sing at the border between a populous city and rural fields with too few workers. Birds singing. Why do they sing so much during such painful moments in one’s life?
He remembers such chirping during a long-ago winter morning, when he hurriedly ran across the yard in front of the house out to the road.
That terrifying morning, not yet even 5:30 a.m., the phone rang. Barely awake, he got out of bed to take the phone. A muffled and hoarse voice cried:
“Oh, Vu, Ms. Xuan is dead!..On the Quang Ba road.”
Before he could ask a question, the person had hung up. He heard clearly the panting breathing, the shaking and distorted tone of voice as if someone intentionally covered the nose seeking disguise. Instantly he was wide awake and understood what he had to do. He hurriedly called for a car, dressed, and ran to the gate when he heard the motor starting in front of the garage. At that instant, the sounds of birds made him stop. He did not understand the reason why, during such an extremely tense moment, a moment when hundreds of things took over his mind, he paid attention to the sound of the birds. Stopping by the two railings of the wide-open gate, he looked up at the leaves of the lychee and jackfruit trees in the garden. He did not find any birds among them. In front of him there was only a melody from a sixteen-string zither, and from it came the joyous music of the birds, like notes infused into the melody of life. It brought out a flavor totally opposite from the appalling event he would have to deal with.
11
Smack!
A blow on his nape makes him dizzy. The pain brings flying fireflies in his eyes. Unexpectedly, the president wakes up, walks to the outer room, and sees the chubby soldier sitting in front of a shattered crystal lamp:
“Little one, you broke the lamp.”
He suppresses a sigh and says to the young man, “Never mind, it broke. Tell the office to replace it with another one!”
Seeing the soldier’s beet-red face full of shame, he smiles:
“Tell them I broke it. I am old and I am entitled to have my foot and hands shake. How can I have quick hands and eyes like young people?”
The soldier bravely looks at him:
“Forgive me, Mr. President.”
“This is not a mistake but a happenstance. I already told you. You must know how to use the noun properly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Too many insects, right?”
“Yes, I can’t sweep them all.”
“Spring insects for you. Clean them up then bring me some tea.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looks at the young man carefully picking up the broken glass, reflexively bringing his hand up to rub the back of his head. How many times had he felt that he had been hit from behind right in the middle of his skull just above the neck, where one blow can kill a man or a woman. This time again at that same point and only at that point: