“Only one blow; never use a second one to take someone’s life. Even if the victim stands one meter and sixty tall and is equal in weight.”
That had been the modus operandi of One Stroke Tam, the special aide of Quoc Tuy, minister of internal affairs. Nobody had ever told him that it was Tam who assassinated her, not even Vu. But he learned the truth in his dreams. Through his dreams, he knows for sure that she was strangled. Through his dreams, he knows they assassinated her the same way they eliminated members of the rival People’s Nationalist Party in the old days. Ever since then, One Stroke Tam had been notorious. He had never met this thug face-to-face, but more than once during the resistance years, when the Party had fought with rival nationalist leaderships, Sau had bluntly described this hooligan, recounting and not concealing his pride. Later on, after the resistance had won, Sau rarely mentioned this person’s name, but he knew that One Stroke Tam had been made head of a senior police unit and that mysterious deaths of Party enemies and those who contradicted Sau happened as regularly as lunch. All in silence. Nobody dared bring up the topic, except Vu. Was it because of this openness that Sau had pushed Vu aside? So many people had talked about this in whispers. Sau’s relationship with Vu still remains a secret. Everybody knows Sau’s personality. The recent death of his youngest brother, Le Dinh, is still hot news in palace circles.
Sau is the oldest son of a wealthy family. After him came two younger brothers. Both were tall and stocky like Sau, keen for food, women, and power. But of the two, the older one was more accommodating, even though before joining the resistance, he had killed someone in a gambling match. He had therefore fled the village to follow his older brother into the resistance to avoid arrest. Under the protective arms of his older brother, he first escaped imprisonment while the resistance was still covert, and then, when the day of victory arrived, he enjoyed every privileged advantage suitable for his cheating mind. Therefore, he idolized his older brother. The youngest brother, rather unconventionally straightforward and having no criminal past, was not bound to take orders from his elder. The tradition of the eldest brother’s power replacing a father’s authority did not enter his head. Many times, he publicly announced:
“You eat your own rice; you do your own work; you are responsible for what you do.”
At one anniversary of their father’s death, the three brothers gathered. They discussed many topics, including national affairs, because all three were highly placed palace retainers. The least senior, Le Dinh, was minister of industry. At the anniversary, there would be good wine, fatty pork, and all the delicacies of the ocean, even though the country was at war and the people had to tighten their belts. When wine goes in, words come out. So, at some point, inner thoughts come to light. The youngest brother pointed at his brother’s face and shouted:
“Brother, don’t be too cruel. If not, later on people will dig up Father’s grave. And Father belongs to all of us. He did not sire you alone, he sired me, too.”
“Shut up,” Sau growled in a hushed voice. He did not want those around them to hear their argument, even though the three brothers were eating separately in a private room, but there was still a risk that their conversation could be heard outside it. Besides, servants went in and out to pour more wine, refill water glasses, or bring in new dishes.
“I order you to shut up.”
“I won’t shut up.”
The youngest brother shouted even louder:
“I don’t want my father to have his grave desecrated and his body exposed because of your wrongdoings. You enjoy great power and senior rank; you enjoy seafood delicacies; our old man lying in the ground never had a taste.”
At this point the middle brother intervened. Two sisters came from another room to plead with Le Dinh to lower his voice. Sau did not utter another word. More than a month later, Le Dinh took two followers hunting in Thanh Hoa. It was a pastime of which he never tired. Many times he had left cabinet meetings if hunting was still possible. He was a first-class hunter. Perhaps heaven had created him in the first place to be the boss of the wild animals. In his trophy collection were five tigers, more than twenty bears, not to mention wild boars, deer, and various other creatures.
During that particular hunting trip, Le Dinh had died right in the car, on the stretch of road between the cities of Ninh Binh and Thanh Hoa. It was officially reported afterward that his hand had itched to take out a gun to clean it, when, unfortunately, it had gone off.
The bodyguard crosses the temple patio carrying a tea tray. His round face is hot and red; sweat drips from his forehead. After climbing several steps, he kicks the door wide open and respectfully places the tea tray in front of him:
“Mr. President, please drink your tea. It took me longer because the electric kettle is broken. I had to boil the water in the temple kitchen.”
“That is all right. Leave it there for me.”
“Sir, these are fresh bean cakes. The Hai Duong provincial commissar just sent them over as a gift.”
“Thank you.”
The guard steps away, the back of his shirt soaked with sweat. He must be very miserable to have to use the temple’s tiny kitchen. Because of his size, anytime this guard is close to fire, he drips sweat. He remembers last summer when the guard had to accompany him on a walk around the mountain surrounding the temple while waiting on Le and the “mosquito spraying” specialist, sweat not only soaked his back, but also the back of his pants over his round and curvy buttocks, which resembled those of a woman. Sweat dripped continuously on his forehead and face. He had a large towel on his shoulder to wipe it off. Then, he had said:
“Lucky for you that I am the president of Vietnam. If I had been born in Africa certainly you would not survive the heat.”
“Of course I would. To protect you, Mr. President, I would go anywhere!” he replied instantly.
After that, they did not talk until they had returned to the temple.
But he brings up this little memory. His life does not lack such appealing recollections, just as he never is without those who admire his resolute faith. But he doesn’t understand why he always recalls such trivial memories of this particular plump soldier. Is it because among isolated mountains, one needs a familiar presence? Or is it because he is too old, and, with old age, it is easy to slip again into emotional immaturity? Or is it because after so many vicissitudes, so much uncertainty, he needs to cling to a certainty of human goodness to make his final years less excruciatingly painful? He has no idea. He no longer needs to analyze everything clearly. By instinct, he knows that this person has good karma, and so is worthy of his trust. By instinct, he feels personal warmth having this awkward and large lad by his side. It seems as if the space around him is heated by an invisible light; the light of innate goodness, innate loyalty, and innate affection.
“Did you taste the bean cake yet?”
“This is for you, Mr. President. We will get our share at the last meal of the week.”
“Waiting until the end of the week is too long. Go and taste half of the bean cakes today. Our elders always said: ‘Don’t put off today’s work until tomorrow.’ Eating is the same.”
“Not so, sir. I don’t dare…”
“This is my command. You must take half of the responsibility. If I eat all the cakes on this plate, I will skip my evening meal or have to take a laxative.”