The three boys understood what was being asked of them. Confused, the brothers and Que looked at one another. One was tall, with fair complexion, clean, and smelling good from head to toe. The other two were skinny, faces messy and poor. Then Quy’s wife stepped forward and pushed her sons forward:
“Say hello to your uncle. Say, ‘We salute you, Uncle Que.’”
After the first day of school, the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet were excited. The tears from the two formerly hostile women had stirred up a healthy breeze. Aren’t tears the streams that cleanse animosity, like clear fresh water where people can dive in to erase black spots in the mind? Rural people do not like such cute suppositions; they pay more attention to all that happens before their eyes. Realities perceived by the senses are most important. The first reality they saw was that Miss Ngan had paid all the school expenses for Quy’s two sons. Later that day when school was over and Mr. Quang had returned home from work and was at home to welcome neighbors, Chien and Thang were told by their mother, “Go in and greet the young mother. Then if she gives you anything, bring it here.”
The two kids went to Mr. Quang’s kitchen while Quy’s wife stood next to a nearby hedge. Later, the kids returned with curry rice and chicken. The three went home, like a squad of soldiers returning to their barracks with trophies. That first time, they were clumsy and shy; from then on, things proceeded more openly and naturally. Meeting up with villagers and neighbors, Quy’s wife always initiated the conversation: “There’s a banquet up at the kids’ grandfather’s; grandma wants us to have a part.”
The villagers were happy for them, but couldn’t help being curious. They wanted to know Quy’s reaction.
Once, on an occasion when everyone was in the forest cutting firewood, one daring mouth asked Miss Mo: “Well, the rice and the chicken and goodies from the grandfather, does Quy eat them?”
“No. Not only will he not eat, but the first time he saw my mother bring that food home, he smashed a teapot.”
“Why so?”
“Because my father is angry. He cursed us: ‘You humiliate me. My wife and children are all miserable, good-for-nothings.’”
“Does he still feel that way now?”
“No. After the second time, he didn’t curse anymore. He lay down in his room. My mother told everybody that we cannot eat in the yard but in the kitchen.”
“Why so?”
“So as not to irritate him.”
“Standing on ceremony!”
“Who can know what is going on inside someone?” Miss Mo concluded, mysteriously. People did not ask any more.
At the end of that winter, Quy got a cold and was temporarily admitted to the district hospital. The two sons-in-law had to carry him there. Certainly his illness was the consequence of so many years of setting his mind on revenge; failure and bitterness had depleted his spiritual and physical strength. Flu is a condition that everyone encounters, except those with steel feet and brass skins; ordinarily, when you have a cold, the cure is to extract the toxic forces through vomiting or a bowel movement or by having your back scraped using ointment or steam, to be followed by watery, hot rice soup and bed rest. A flu that requires hospitalization happens only with people who are exhausted, whose bodies have no ability to fight off the invading infection. Serious cases can cause death; the less-serious ones still require good medicine and nutrition over many days. The afternoon Quy fell ill, he had just come back from working in the fields. He went to the well and poured water on himself but collapsed immediately, his whole body stiff like a stone, his complexion dark purple. As he passed them by on the way to the hospital, villagers lifted the covering blanket and looked, shaking their heads. Quy’s wife ran behind, numb, her mouth crooked, tears falling down her cheeks.
Quy was lucky enough to have an outstanding doctor and he was saved. Unconscious for three days, he opened his eyes on the fourth day and slurped down almost a full bowl of rice soup broth. Quy’s wife returned to the village, having hundreds of things to do while her husband convalesced. That afternoon Mrs. Tu had already taken young Que to their gate and said:
“This is brother Quy’s house. He is the father of Chien and Thang. You just go straight into the house and greet their mother.”
Que crossed the yard to the house, just as Mrs. Tu had told him. There he gave a thick envelope to the mother of his nephews.
“My mother said to give this to you.”
Villagers standing by outside anxiously listened in. At the end, everyone sighed with relief:
“Life has been always this way: blood flows and the heart softens.”
And people look up to the summit of Lan Vu Mountain, as if quietly praying to divine beings to diminish humanity’s conflicts, to resolve the “father-son war,” and to bless their lives with faith and dreams of peaceful goodness as had been vouchsafed since days of old.
ACCUMULATED REGRETS AND NOW AFFECTION FOR HIM
1
The president opens his eyes. It is three in the afternoon.
He has never had an afternoon nap so long and so heavy. The short, frightening dream had merged with images and thoughts that had remained after his learning about the deceased woodcutter, pushing him down an abyss. He feels as if he has just participated in a parachute operation where he was a frightened soldier pushed into the night through the plane door to let his body drop into a black hole full of danger.
It was really horrible.
He steps out onto the veranda. Sunshine covers more than half the patio; a clear kind of light yellow sunshine without a hint of warmth. The cherry tree branches shake in the wind. He looks at them absentmindedly. From the temple on the other side of the patio, sounds of the wooden gong mix with chanting. One could discern the voice of the abbess from the higher pitches of the nuns. He listens to the chanting for a long time to make sure that the dreams are completely gone and that he now lives in the present. The young and chubby soldier sleeps soundly on a hammock hung at the veranda in front of the temple, his face pinkish red. For one so young, his snoring is quite loud. That snoring sound pulls him into reality, out of those dreams that had sunk his soul like a boat stripped of its sails, capsizing, and sinking into a muddy bottom.
“Oh no! I am done…”
The young soldier suddenly stands up and lets out loudly: “I am sorry, I overslept…”
“Don’t worry. I myself also overslept. It’s very cool today.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. Please give me a few minutes. I will make some tea right away.”
The soldier hurriedly folds his hammock and starts boiling water. The administrative office had provided an electric kettle so that now he does not have to boil water over in the temple’s small kitchen. The president looks at him quietly. Daily tasks come and go without variation. Suddenly, he recalls his youth and cannot help reflecting to himself:
“How can he stand to do this boring work all his life? Work that is not remotely appropriate for a lad only twenty. Is it perhaps out of respect that people sacrifice their other passions? Or that they don’t have any passion more inspiring than being in the army for a vocation, drawing a paycheck to carry out boring jobs?”
He swiftly gets rid of this train of thought; he has suddenly and somewhat surprisingly become fond of this young soldier. It is a genuine affection. He does not want to hold any thought that might not be worthy of the lad.
“Mr. President, please come in and have some tea.”