The Zenith Read online

  THE ZENITH

  ALSO BY DUONG THU HUONG

  No Man’s Land

  Memories of a Pure Spring

  Novel Without a Name

  Paradise of the Blind

  Translated by

  Stephen B. Young and Hoa Pham Young

  with the editorial assistance of Nguyen Ngoc Bich

  THE ZENITH

  DUONG THU HUONG

  VIKING

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2012 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Duong Thu Huong, 2009

  Translation copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2012

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction based on real events.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Duong, Thu Huong.

  [Ðinh cao chói loi. English]

  The zenith / Duong Thu Huong ; translated by Stephen B. Young and Hoa Pham Young.

  p. cm.

  In English; translated from Vietnamese.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58382-1

  I. Young, Stephen B. (Stephen Bonsal) II. Young, Hoa Pham. III. Title.

  PL4378.9.D759D5613 2012

  895.9’22334—dc23 2011046011

  Printed in the United States of America

  Designed by Carla Bolte • Set in Monotype Perpetua with Linotype Aperto display

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  FOR LUU QUANG VU

  AND ALL THE INNOCENTS WHO HAVE DIED IN THE BLACK SILENCE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It is beyond me to write only from my imagination. Everything I have ever written has built upon true events. Even so, one needs to remember the hard fact that fiction is still fiction. A novel is neither the divulgence of self-referential musings nor the stringing together of episodes from an author’s life.

  Like all my published books, The Zenith is truthful to this rule. But, to avoid all unfortunate misunderstandings that might occur, I must emphasize this once again with respect to the character Tran Vu and those related to him. The inspiration leading to the construction of Tran Vu’s character came from the real story of Mr. Vu Ki, the former curator of the Ho Chi Minh Museum. On the other hand, the character of To Van is not at all related to Mr. Vu Ki’s actual wife or her family. The fictional juxtaposition of such a man and such a woman is not far from the realities of high-ranking Vietnamese during those years. Such juxtaposition is only a timeworn novelist’s invention. There should be no special inferences arising in this case.

  In reality, I did not have the honor of knowing Mr. Vu Ki for I had no intention of ever inserting myself in to the ranks of the Communist dynasty. Though I had a serious prejudice against all the frivolous maneuverings and red tape of that environment, curiosity mixed with admiration in my unsettled mind and made it hard for me to control the urge to meet him. Only when I heard that he had become frail did I mingle with a group of underlings to have a look at him from afar. That was the first and also the last time. The following year he passed.

  For me, Vu Ki was one of a tiny group of people who could preserve some sense of chivalry and loyalty among teachers and friends—those extremely beautiful Vietnamese virtues which the Communist regime successfully destroyed during fifty years of rule.

  Vu Ki’s wife and her family have every right to feel proud to have had such a husband, a father, and a man.

  Table of Contents

  Duo

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  The Story of Woodcutters’ Hamlet

  Accumulated Regrets and Now Affection for him

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  The Unknown Brother-in-Law

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Final Supplications

  1

  2

  3

  4

  The Bright Light

  DUO

  1

  “Oh, Father, Father, Father…”

  The scream of a child wakes him up, and instantly it seems as if a blow from the back of the head knocks him emotionally off kilter.

  “Oh, Father, Father…”

  The scream rises up from the valley, the sound reverberating between the rocks, shaking the top of the trees, creating an invisible wave that agitates a large, still space.

  After composing himself, he understands the screams belong to a different child.

  “It’s not him, it’s not the little one…” he tells himself.

  The painful feeling at the back of his head subsides and so does his anguish. The president stands up, steps out, and asks the security guard,“What happened?”

  “Sir…it could be an accident in the valley. Someone has fallen from a tree or a rock, or the cliff.”

  Just then, the strident sound of a siren rises from the security unit camp below. In the calm wind he can clearly hear the bustle of a soldiers’ posse gathering for the rescue…

  “Oh, Father, Father, Father…”

  “Oh, Father…will anybody save my father?…Hey, folks…Anyone, please save my father…”

  This time he hears the desperate call of the child. The call of a boy entering his teenage years. That cry oscillates between the innocent feeling of youth and a turning to the ways of adulthood. In the cry, he can hear many different heartstrings vibrating all at once—moving with the accumulated love of months and years, reciprocating love and so many other invisible obligations, the pain of the unplanned separation, the terror of an uncertain future…All these feelings converging at once, like many different rays of light meeting at one spot. That rendezvous, he understands clearly, provides our fundamental link in the chain of our life, a hook that can tie us to the highest sublimation as well as to the last stage of depravity, a relationship that can spill much ink in the history of mankind. Such is the binding quality of the love between father and son, the oldest melody in the symphony performed by all living creatures. A kind of antique music that the tides of time have tried in vain to destroy.

  “He must now be about the same age as this boy—same age but less fortunate.”

  He wonders, and visualizes the face of the kid now. The son that he tries to forget but can’t put out of his mind. The son to whom, for a decade, he has refrained from coming close and yet who returns t
o rule over his heart, the most secure place for a child but not secure for himself. There, the image of the child is embroidered by his imagination as well as by his melancholy yearning. In this same place, his presence ignites a hellish fire that burns him daily.

  “Who does he look like, I wonder? She or me? Does he look intelligent?” he has asked himself so many times. Many times, the silence alone answered.

  He remembers clearly that from birth to six months the boy resembled the president’s eldest sister, from the bridge of the nose to the lips, especially in the thick hair falling and covering the temples and forehead. But then from the seventh month to one year, strangely, all the features changed and the child came to resemble its mother. This change surprised everybody, himself first, then the mother; and after that the mother’s older sister.

  “Wow…He’s already at puberty…the years fly by like arrows…”

  Instinctively, he sighs, not noticing the bodyguard behind him.

  “Mr. President, do you have any instructions?”

  “Instructions?”

  As he replies, he realizes how distracted he is.

  “You see the men down there already gathering to go help?…Just you and I are standing here…We are the useless ones.”

  “Sir, Mr. President…”

  The soldier is uneasy, his neck turns red. Then his face and both hands slowly become red, too. He backs up, looking at the president with wandering and puzzled eyes. The president suddenly realizes his careless oversight.

  “Oh…I mean to say at this moment, you and I are not useful because we can’t run down to the valley to help the victim. But otherwise, we are all useful people, with each carrying his own duty…”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The soldier sighs in relief. The fat face shines sweaty and red.

  The president pats his shoulder. “I am just joking, don’t take it seriously.”

  Then he smiles and points to the temple, which, since early morning, has been emitting incessant sounds of praying and a mallet knocking on a wooden gong.

  “There is nothing to do right now. Why don’t you go to the temple and relax?”

  Then he returns to the inner room and throws himself on the pillows. In the outer room, the plump soldier quietly closes the door and leaves. Feet heard stamping on the steps and temple yard fade into the knocking on the wooden gong. The rhythmic knocking resonating in the air makes him remember the sound of dripping water in a cave filled with stalactites. That is the sound of time passing, an eternal tune. This morning when it was still dark and he was lying in bed, he heard the nuns and the two bodyguards whispering by the door:

  “Today, the temple must begin the prayers early because of an important occasion. Just wondering if it will annoy the president or not?”

  “Oh, no! You cannot pray so early. We must let him sleep peacefully,” said the bodyguard.

  “Please bear with us. In a year of 365 days, the temple dares disturb the president with unusual praying this morning only.…”

  Hearing this, the president roused himself and put on his quilted jacket to intervene:

  “Just let the temple pray. I’ve been up a long time.”

  “Hail to Buddha! We appreciate your kindness.”

  The nun clasped her hands together and bowed her head deeply in thanks. Then she backed away. She took the kerosene lamp she had placed at the foot of the wall and returned to the temple. It was still dark outside and the enveloping fog was like smoke; the panels of her brown robe flapped in the fog, creating a strange distraction. And the lamp swinging in the night reminded him of an image long buried in the past.

  No longer wanting to sleep, he lit his lamp to read a book. But no words registered as he kept hearing the prayers and sounds of the wooden gong. Sitting this way for a long time, in a state of complete emptiness, he mechanically turned the pages of the book, listening to the melancholic, monotonous music from the temple, which sounded like a calm river or a gently flowing stream that gurgles between grassy banks. At last, he understood that the image from his past for which he was painfully searching was that of his mother. One frigid and foggy winter night, his mother had also carried an oil lamp across a courtyard, the panels of her dress similarly flapping in a foggy night. She was going down to the water buffalo shed to add more rice husks to the pile of kindling. During such extremely cold nights, if you didn’t keep the fire alive, the buffalo could easily die or get frostbite on their feet to the point where they couldn’t plow. He was then four or five, snuggling in his mother’s arms until she got up; then he would sit and cuddle the blanket, following his mother with his eyes…the dainty profile of a country woman, the panels of a brown dress flowing softly…The warm arms and sweet smell of mother’s milk…The perfume of a far distant past returned. An inexpressible emotion surfaced within him. And with it, an unexplainable sadness.…

  “No! It’s absurd!” he cried out. Then, closing the book, he reached for the stack of newspapers. But the news was the same every day, as he had long known. What was the point of eating the same dish, from the same cook, day after day? Disappointment overtook him from his head down to his toes. The image of the woman in the brown dress returned, reminding him again of his distant youth. A five-year-old child in bed looking at his mother brought up an unrequited longing for another child; and in that way he paced back and forth in the hell of his heart.

  By nine o’clock, he feels out of breath. Waiting for the chubby bodyguard to take away his morning tea, he says:

  “I wish to go to the forest for a stroll. Get ready and in a few minutes we’ll go.”

  “Sir, that’s impossible!” the panicked bodyguard blurts out, and seeing the unhappy face of the president, explains in a low voice:

  “With respect, Mr. President, today we cannot go to the woods. Please understand…”

  “It may be cold but it’s dry,” the president replies, controlling his anger. “It’s enough if I wear my quilted jacket…”

  “Mr. President, today is an inauspicious day. Yesterday, the nun told me this. This is the worst day of the year; that’s why the temple prays so early today”

  “Is that so! But you’re a young lad, you believe in this kind of thing?

  “Yes, sir…”

  The bodyguard hems and haws as if something were stuck in his throat, but an instant later he suddenly adds: “I believe…I’m not afraid for myself but I have the duty to protect you. We just can’t go into the woods.”

  This is the first time he sees the sweet youth display such unusual decisiveness. He smiles quietly. A silence out of respect. Whether he likes it or not, he has to admit that this young man is a gift from heaven. However, he can’t believe that such fear could ever become real. From the day he arrived at the Lan Vu temple, eighteen months ago, no accident had ever occurred until today, the accident of some father. And the cries of that unknown child bring him back to his own hell: the absence of his son jabs at him like the excruciating pain of a cancer, torturing him without mercy. His heart is like a reddish, unfeathered young bird falling into a thornbush.

  Lying in bed, he covers his eyes with his hands and thinks quietly to himself:

  “I wonder if the child will cry of pain when I die? Will he cry inconsolably like that boy in the valley?”

  A contemptuous voice rises from the depths of his soul like a brutal slap right to his face.

  “Forget it! Nobody has ever told him who his father is. How can he possibly find out who he is when his very own father erases every trace that would make it possible to locate him?”

  He addresses himself to an imagined, and thus unimpeachable, judge, suddenly feeling like a cowardly weakling before such authority.

  “But at the same time…I hope…that with time…”

  Turning his back, the judge throws at him a contemptuous silence. In spite of himself, the president moans and feels the color of his face changed by shame. He quickly hides his face in the pillows, fearing that someone might unexpe
ctedly walk in. A fit of repeated contractions squeezes his chest excruciatingly, as if it were being kneaded by iron hands. Then, suddenly, he wants to cry. A kind of longing he has not experienced since his youth comes over him at this moment. A strange kind of desire, urgent, intoxicating, and painful. He wishes he could cry out loud, in broad daylight. He wishes he could cry to his heart’s content, cry inconsolably, cry copiously between the high heavens and the deep earth. Wishes he could cry incessantly like a woman or a child. Wishes he could scream in the midst of the jungle and the mountains like that unfortunate son of the man who had just fallen into the ravine. But instead of calling out “Father!” he would cry “My son!”

  “Son, my very own son.”

  “Son, my very own blood, the one who will carry on my line, my very own flesh. The fruit of an untimely love between me and her.”

  But he can’t cry, because there is a knock at the door and immediately Le, the commander of the bodyguards, enters.

  “Mr. President, are you feeling unwell?”

  “I have a splitting headache,” he replies without moving from the bed. Le’s even-toned voice drips as if from a faucet and resonates in the room. He feels each word as a stab to his nape.

  “Mr. President, the tea is ready. Please drink it while it’s hot.”

  “Please just leave it there for me.”

  “Mr. President, please allow me to call the doctor.”

  “Not necessary. Everyone has headaches from time to time. I can assure you that it’s not my blood pressure.”

  “Mr. President, you are still under treatment.”

  “I have stopped for two weeks already.”

  “Mr. President…”

  He is forced to turn over and sit up. Le shows no special emotion. He stands firmly in the middle of the room with the tea tray in his hands. Once a day, either in the morning or in the afternoon, the commander personally attends the president to check on his health or to inspect the guards. An unusual diligence. An icy concentration. His ordinary features, his many large freckles, give a dark brown hue to his complexion so that people might assume he had Indian or Arab ancestry.