The Zenith (47 page)

The “father-son blood fight” had mysterious elements that could not be explained. The village police chief himself, after being questioned for “acting in a sloppy, mechanical manner, not clear minded and after careful investigation,” recounted that when he came to Mr. Quang’s house to read the order and ask that Miss Ngan demonstrate the legality of her relationship with Mr. Quang, the young wife had spoken loudly:

“We are legally married. I will show you the marriage license.”

Her voice had been decisive. Then she had hurriedly gone into an inner room and unlocked the imposing, three-compartment cabinet made from heavy wood to look for the paper. Her confidence had disturbed the police chief, because if her marriage was indeed legitimate then the order to arrest Miss Ngan as a prostitute would be false. In such a situation, he would be charged with the crime of being accessory to a fraud and harassment of a citizen. His heart had started to pound. But the more Miss Ngan searched, the more desperate she became. In the end the frightened woman cried out:

“Who has stolen my marriage license? I swear with you all that we had registered
properly in Khoai Hamlet; my own uncle, the village chairman, did the paperwork.” But then all her screaming and crying were useless because the police chief and his militiamen posse believed that their order to act was indeed legitimate, and, if it was a legitimate order, they had to punish an “immoral woman who undermined society’s wholesome moral values.”

The strange thing was that once the district reported to the provincial police, the latter had immediately dispatched agents to release Miss Ngan from detention. At that same moment Mr. Quang had brought their marriage license back to his young wife. It was he himself who had taken it and not some unknown burglar. No one dared ask about these unusual developments but it was the subject of universal gossip. Some advised that Mr. Quang had guessed events beforehand and lured his son into a trap. Others believed that Mr. Quang had taken the marriage license from fear that his son would steal it and destroy it. The imposing cabinet was an heirloom from prior generations, and as the firstborn son Quy had the right to keep a key. The father’s carefulness had unintentionally coincided with the bitter son’s effort to humiliate his stepmother, who was the same age as his own daughter. Some people thought that what had happened had been crafted by some devil or divine spirit, as no right-minded child would have behaved as Quy had. Furthermore, because no ordinary father would have harmed his own son. That this had occurred is what people in the past would have called a “witches’ brew” and this family must have had connections with the world of spirits, for that was how such unusual things happened. The mother had been captured by a hungry ghost; now the son had been blinded by a devil. All acted insanely as if they were manipulated by a wicked witch, or an invisible demon. They were moving corpses, or wooden puppets under strings manipulated by a world of ghosts.

There was no lack of theories or shortage of analysis. The war of chattering mouths dragged on for days, for months. But everyone shared one sentiment: fear of a devastating reality, a reality that shook the hearts of all parents. They tried to find the truth.

One day, Mr. Quang’s younger brother mustered enough courage to ask him:

“How long will Quy be incarcerated after the judgment?”

“Four years and six months.”

“So now Vui sits firmly in his chair.”

“That is up to the authorities, not us.”

“But he is your son and my nephew.”

“Everybody knows that.”

“Why don’t you find a way to reduce his sentence?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I want to say is that, with arms as long as yours, you can keep him in the seat of village chairman.”

“You regret the loss? I am his natural father and look how he harassed me; how would he treat those outside the family?”

The brother dared say no more.

A few days later, he came to Quy’s house and scolded his niece-in-law:

“Your husband is more stupid than a dog. He doesn’t even know when he is lucky. Since you two married, the big house, all of it, was yours thanks to his father. You two had children but all their food and their clothes and shoes came from their grandfather. Even the village chairmanship: How could your husband have got that without him? With him, not only your whole brood but all our relatives benefited from the shadow of a tall tree. Your mother-in-law passed away; whomever he then married was his own business. How was it your business to stir things up? You’re a pig-headed bunch. Now your husband is in prison; you, the wife, are at home. Worrying over two meals a day will use up all your spirit and stretch your neck out like that of a goose. Do you think this is happiness?”

This awakened thoughtfulness as well as a moral conscience. Was it not a lesson reasoned from old teachings? In studying for entrance exams, moral conscience is the slow learner. Always, virtue finishes last.

Chairman Quy was sentenced to four years and six months in prison.

Everyone knew that fact. But in a year he returned for all to see. Those who were not in the fields or who were working at home that morning heard the clanging of horseshoes on the country road by Mr. Quang’s house. It was the clacketing tempo of a purebred with a smooth, velvety, reddish brown coat, with a long mane like one of those horses in an antique Chinese painting. The clanging of his hooves in time with the bells tinkling on his neck brought a familiar music to the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet, reminding them of the busy life in a city. Hearing those sounds, they would always peek through the gate or the fence to admire the horse and greet the owner. That early morning they saw Mr. Quang sitting in front, his face sad and his hands absentmindedly holding the whip. Behind were Quy and his wife, sitting like two rag bags, silent like mounds of dirt facing each other. That strange silence prompted people not to offer normal greetings. They pretended not to see anyone or to hear anything. But on the evening of that day, they whispered with one another, passing on the news from hamlet to hamlet. “The
father stretched his arms to take his son out of prison. Well, good luck indeed.”

“This development will surely make the son open his eyes wide on the outside to better understand life and on the inside to better understand himself. From now on maybe he will find the road to redemption.”

“I heard he had to bow down before Mr. Quang right at the prison gate, just as the police read out the order to release him before the end of his term.”

One talks, the other remains silent, or looks up at the sky, or over toward the hedges, the tree line, with eyes half attentive, half absentminded. After a silence deepened with concern, people sighed with relief as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

“Life does not change over thousands of years: blood flows and the heart softens. Even a tiger would not eat its cub.”

Perhaps it really was a solace, a kind of spiritual and protective wall, a defense against all the storminess that might come from a distant and foreign ocean to pulverize their soft hearts.

Quy’s return passed in silence. For one week he stayed at home, not even taking a step beyond the gate. One morning the following week he and his two daughters carried baskets to the cassava field. From being the most powerful person in the village he became an ordinary citizen. This alone was an extraordinary personal challenge, yet he was also a convict rescued by his father’s personal intervention. The neighbors had predicted just as much. Given this, in a kind of virtue that has been handed down for thousands of years in the community, the people of Woodcutters’ Hamlet pretended that nothing had happened, as if Quy had only returned from a trip and no more. All conversations proceeded calmly just as vegetation grows:

“Hello! Today you and the girls also pick cassava.”

“Yes.”

“Cassava here is twice as good as the ones by my home.”

“No; only so-so; thank heaven anyway.”

“Miss Dao and Miss Man work hard in weeding cassava. Next year will see good starch. At New Year we can make plenty of sweets.”

“Yes, my kids love sweets. Their mother is unskilled in many things but she knows a few tricks in that regard.”

“Do you plan on reviving the bee harvest?”

“No plans yet. Just waiting to see.”

“So are we. Last year we had a bad season for pollen, the bees were reduced by half.”

“Farming is gambling. We have to accept setbacks.”

“There’s this saying: ‘A harvest is lost, that must be due to some natural calamity; a bumper crop, now that must be thanks to the Party’s ability.’”

“If you were still chairman, I would not say it even if my teeth were pried open. But now that you are a regular citizen like us, we do not have to be so restrained.”

“Really?”

“Now, everybody is bold-mouthed and speaks frankly to you about life.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Only now do I know. That quip is really good. Whoever thought of it is a genius.”

“Kid: Are you serious or joking?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Well, all these years sitting in the chairman’s seat, you only heard orders from the Party and the government. Those silly songs never reach the ears of those who hold the scales and ink.”

“That’s true. But time in prison opened my eyes to the truth of life. In there are so many who are so much more intelligent and bright than those district cadres sitting above me.”

“Is that so?”

“Why shouldn’t it be so?”

“I’m just chatting.”

From that day on Quy’s “prison story” suddenly became double-edged. No one felt embarrassment, no one was shy, in touching someone’s pain. With bravado Quy spoke freely about his “cell mates,” taking pride as if meeting them had been a boon and as if they had been the first ever to teach him life’s magnificent lessons. Villagers found Quy to have turned into a totally different person. He didn’t hide it. Not once but many times Quy would loudly say for people to hear:

“Before I thought the graveside statue was large, but now I find the rock by the pond bridge where we clean our feet is a thousand times larger.”

“You speak in riddles, kid; only those with a belly full of words could understand you. Those like us who plow have dull wits.”

“Let me explain. Before, the whole village, the whole hamlet, competed and
fought. Adults competed in work, in increasing productivity, in surpassing the goal; children competed in collecting manure, in picking up leftover rice; in school they competed in learning, to be on the honors list, to receive awards—to get a red cloth flower for their chest was the ultimate happiness. So many years living like that—now I realize that was all frivolous. Actually, our lives center around three holes: a mouth high up and two others in the crotch of our pants. If we fill up those three holes, it makes for a full life in this world.”

“But there is…”

“There is nothing more. If there were, we would only be dupes. There are a lot of delusions. Let me explain to you all: we’re all impotent. Men have had their tubes tied or use condoms to avoid pregnancy. Women have IUDs inserted—from the one like a worm to the round one like a top. Their complexion goes green like a frog’s behind, their faces get so pale it’s as if they had caught a toxic breeze, but they still wear the coil to carry out the family planning policy and get recognition badges from the district and province. Meanwhile, do those who order us to become impotent practice what they preach? In prison I learned the truth. In prison, too, I learned that while most people eat only cassava and sweet potatoes, others have a monthly meat ration from seven to sixteen ounces. The mighty official who has a Ton Dan ration book can stuff whatever he likes into his mouth. Saturday, Sunday, the masses labor for the socialist regime while wives and children of the cadres dance or beckon for male prostitutes to come to their rooms and serve them. Every New Year, the government asks the people to be frugal while its officials have plenty of expensive herbs and cinnamon and their kitchens are full of the most rare and delicious dishes. If this is not being swindled, then what is?”

“Well…for sure, we do not know.”