The Zenith (83 page)

“The birthplace of the president with the surname Chi!”

“That’s totally correct,” said the carriage driver, who then started singing:
“‘A poor land gives birth to heroes…’”

“You sing really well,” An praised him, with this thought in his mind: “Yes, indeed he is a hero. But he is also the greatest coward on this earth, a husband who cannot protect a wife; a father unable to protect his children.”

Outside the city, houses became sparse. Looking back, Vinh was now only an undifferentiated mass under a couple of tall chimneys spewing dirty black smoke.

An asked the driver, “Can we get to the border before nighttime?”

“It depends: on the running legs of the horses; on whether it shines or rains. This time of year the weather is unpredictable; it may be sunny with bright blue skies, then suddenly, thundering, stormy rain comes. The meteorologists never predict accurately storms in the central region. But if we are lucky and the horses do not act up along the way, we will be at the border post when the sun is still high at one pole over the top of the mountains.”

“About four p.m. then; is that what you want to say?”

“I do not look at time much. This profession binds us to the road day and night. But I remember when the carriage has reached there, the sun is higher than the mountain on the west by about one pole.”

“The sooner the better. After the border, we still have to walk a long way.”

An looked at the rows of dry hills ahead, which they must cross before reaching the border: they were empty and spacious; one could cast one’s eyes all the way to the foot of the sky. Not a wood, not a mountain, but never-ending naked hills with low-growing thorny plants no taller than an arm is long and other kinds of ferns. If you were being chased here, your death was guaranteed.

An wondered if the That Khe border office had received an order to look for them yet. He can easily imagine what is going on back in Hanoi. First his own division, then that of Nong Tai, would report the disappearance of two from the “minorities.” According to regulations, it would then take twenty-four hours for a search order to be issued, but, in this case, Minister Quoc Tuy would probably make a move sooner. On all the boats going up to Lang Son and Lao Cai, soldiers would be put on the lookout to catch the two “defectors.” They would probably charge them with some crime to justify the order to “hunt down the criminals.” If not a crime of robbing and killing, then it would be spying for foreigners. And that one would be the most convenient crime with which to arouse the hatred and spite of the people:

“They have become dangerous spies plotting to overthrow the government and taking money from foreigners. There is no other explanation.”

An recalled all the times he had stood under the flag to swear loyally to fight for the nation, to destroy every enemy who threatened the socialist principle of the people. Now he has become that very enemy—he and Nong Tai sitting there, looking at the scenery. Life is a terrible fraud indeed that so many million people had become a powerless mass—each and every one of them hooked by the nose like a herd of buffalo.

An’s thoughts continue:

“And the two women, what will they do to them?

“They will do nothing because they are prisoners in that upper room, and they have no way to fight back. But the two guards will be called in and advised to keep quiet.

“Would those two pitiful ones have guts enough to escape?

“No! Even if they have the guts, they will have no chance to do so. After Nong Tai’s escape, they will constantly live under the surveillance of guards. They will swallow bitterness and pretend to be mute and deaf, to be just walking corpses, or else wooden figures standing in long halls without sunlight.

“The sex-addict minister will not soon change the guards. Perhaps in a week, or two, or three? It will depend on his sexual appetite. After he has satiated his bestial desire, the two women and the guards will all perish together. As he himself had done, those two soldiers most definitely had also raised their hands thousands of times under the flag, swearing to destroy the enemies of the people and protect the nation!”

“Why are you laughing? What are you laughing about?” Nong Tai suddenly asked.

An quickly replied: “I remembered a funny story.”

“Then tell me, I am bored.”

“I cannot. It’s very gross.”

Nong Tai was silent and annoyed.

An caught on that he had a tendency to force laughter when pain gnawed at his heart. This strange habit—just formed—had become a skill as if it had been part of him forever.

“The man from Xiu Village is completely dead, I don’t see him anymore,” he thought, and a few moments later a pitiful question arose:

“And the two children? What will these dogs do to them?”

He visualized little Mui’s black eyes; her sweet breath when she whispered in his ears; the gentle swish of her hair brushing his cheeks; the warm and sweet feeling each time the little girl put her tiny hands in his large ones—the hands of a hunter. At the thought, An felt a sharp knife scraping his heart as blood dripped from the wound.

“No! I must not think of these things anymore. Just believe that behind me is a silent and dark grave. There is nobody left. No Xiu Village; not even my uncle and aunt or my parents-in-law. All are removed from this earth. I will be the last one. The last one must live to report on these Vietnamese executioners. I must do that at all cost…”

Suddenly An felt weary. He told Nong Tai, “Let’s lie down. My back really hurts. The bench is long enough for four people, therefore we can
stretch our legs comfortably. Don’t forget that past the border post there will be no horse or buffalo cart, but only a pair of feet. The road is long and steep, it will not be easy.”

“Just rest, Comrades. I will let you know when we arrive,” said the driver.

“I will pay you the balance when we see the border outpost,” An reiterated. “If the horses are well and we are earlier than usual, I will pay you extra to buy corn and honey to feed them.”

“That will do,” the cart owner cheerfully answered. He then started singing an old-style song that An had never heard. His voice was warm and resonated loudly in the deserted hills. He must have been a singer during his youth, just like the artists who had played the flute all night in Xiu Village. He lay down on the bench, listening attentively to the song. The local verses mixed in a coarse manner with poems and proverbs, rather ordinary:

The horses’ footsteps on the road created a sad melody that blended with the driver’s lament. Slowly, sleep came and pulled An into pitch dark waves.

“Wake up! There’s the border defense fort,” the cart owner shouted, waking them.

“Hell, it’s too bright!” Nong Tai cried out, removing the hat covering his face. An immediately closed his eyes because the bright light was like a thousand pins poking them, immediately causing them to water.

After keeping his eyes shut for a while, An covered his face with the hat to get used to the intense light. Then he opened them. The cart owner said:

“I warned you already. People from the north who come here all
complain about the sunlight in Nghe An. Nonetheless, you are lucky because today the Lao wind is not blowing.”

“If it does blow, then what happens?”

“Comrades, you are about to go over there. No need for curiosity, you will soon know.”

“Where’s the border fort?”

“See it yet? The highest red dot; that’s where the defenders put their flag. Before it was the French flag. After the revolution it’s a red one with a yellow star.”

An counted out some money and gave it to the cart owner. “Please take this. There is extra to buy honey and grain for the horses.”

The owner put the money in his pocket then bent over to pull out of the cart packages wrapped in dry banana leaves.

“Comrades, you are too generous. I, too, must know my duty. They say that giving and receiving makes everybody happy. Here are two kilos of very good cane sugar. Comrades, in the jungle you can suck the cane to quench your thirst. If you are lucky enough to make it over the pass at the border outpost, then you can give half to the soldiers. Up there they are bored, so every time strangers pass, for fun they find many reasons to make them sit around and wait.”

“Isn’t there a rule?”

“There is no rule, but there they are bored. Very seldom does a horse cart go up here; mostly military vehicles. Civilian cars don’t come here. If you were locked up in that post all year, you would do just the same.”

The cane sugar smelled wonderful. An said, “We need give them only half. We need to go while there is still light.”

“If you had no cane sugar, you two would probably end up sleeping there overnight; not until morning would you be allowed to go on into Laos. Most of the detachment is from the north. They tend to fuss over all kinds of anecdotes about their native region.”

An was quiet. But Nong Tai looked out for a moment, then turned around to tell him in a terrified way, “Brother Thanh, they stand in line to meet us at the top of the hill!”

He looked up and saw the red flag clearly. Indeed, the soldiers were standing in line to block the road as if an ambush was being set. Instinctively he touched the gun on his hip. So, at the same time, did Nong Tai. The two looked at each other.

An lowered his voice and asked the cart owner, “Why do they stand in line like that?”

“Out of boredom,” he replied tersely, without stopping his whipping of the horses. “Anyone in their shoes would do the same. They come to see the horse cart. Later they will look at you two comrades. Then they will gossip. We only hope that they will quickly let you go on.”

“Ah, like that huh?” An said, already thinking of what to do next to get through this stretch quickly and safely.

“Lucky that we’re crude,” An went on. “We don’t much know how to chat with citified soldiers.”

Thinking a bit, he then said, “You are a good-hearted person. Can you stay for a while and chat with them so that they will let us leave quickly? The jungle road at night is not easy going but spending the night will make us breach our duty. We can give you more money.”

“You don’t have to buy me with money,” the cart owner replied briskly. “I take only my fair share as well as that of the horses. If I’m too greedy, heaven will hit me with one calamity after another. But I promise to help you, Comrades. I will sit and chat with them for half an hour. The sun will still be on the mountaintop for about one and a half rods.”

About ten minutes later, they reached the top of the hill. The soldiers immediately surrounded the horse cart, their faces excited as if they had received a gift.

“Hello, Comrades!” said the cart owner in a loud voice.

“Hello, Uncle. It has been a while since a horse cart has climbed up here,” one of the lonely soldiers replied.

“Yes; a horse coming up here just once takes a month to recuperate. I only use the whip on special occasions. Today, I carry two military comrades for a special mission.”

“Whatever the mission, there must first be a stop here for a good chat.”

An and Nong Tai jumped down, pulling out their orders for presentation. One of the soldiers seized both passes and put them in his pocket, not even caring to glance at them. Then another, wearing the insignia of a captain, said, “Please, Comrades, do come into the fort.”

The soldiers entered first, An and Nong Tai following.

As if he could see the worry on their faces, the cart owner said, “You just go in, rest, and have some tea. I will feed the horses and join you soon. Remember the two packages of cane sugar.”

“I have them here,” An said.

The defensive fort was built above a ravine, three buildings placed in a U shape in the style of Vietnamese living in the plains, with a stone patio in the middle. A small cement blockhouse sat next to the main building, definitely
built under French rule. Next to it stood a wooden watchtower. Behind the building on the left, about fifty meters down the hillside, was a horse pen with about ten horses grazing grass; they were the main means of transport for the soldiers assigned to the fort.

“Tomorrow, these horses will undoubtedly chase us as we try to get away,” An reckoned. “In the worst case, we will have to send at least half a dozen of them to hell before we die.”

They entered the main building, which was quite spacious, with a large Ping-Pong–like table in the middle covered with scattered teapots, newspapers, a radio, cigarette packs, knives, flashlights…Glued up on the walls were photos cut from picture magazines of beautiful girls from performing troupes. The senior captain, obviously in command of the fort, threw out an order:

“Someone go boil water for a new pot of tea.”

A voice from the courtyard immediately said, “I am reporting that we have the fire going.”

“We will die stuck here with them. I must find a way to escape…” An thought, but he said, “Reporting to you, Comrades…”

“That’s fine. You can report after we have a drink. We are all soldiers. You are infantry; I am with the border defense guard. We get up like anyone else when we hear the horn in the morning. We don’t often meet each other. There’s no rush—even if you were to leave now, you wouldn’t have enough time. It may be sunny right now but darkness comes on very quickly. This place has lots of light during the day but at night the mountain fog comes thick like cotton.”

An began to get nervous. This “lovelorn” soldier clearly presented a danger. Luckily, just at that moment, the cart owner returned. He walked slowly into the building while singing a song about flirty girls: