The Zenith Read online

  Oh! How many more such “besides” for him in resuming an analysis of a marriage some three decades old? But he remembers the first time he took her home to surprise his parents, in the style of young men in those days. His parents stood dumbfounded for a while before they were able to return the greeting of the beautiful guest who was such a good match for their son.

  That night, his father called for him and gently told him: “Times have changed. Now nobody would dare marry off a son or daughter without their consent. I find this practice in harmony with what is right. But for one person to live with another is the most difficult thing in this world. Don’t forget that. Once you promise to live with a woman, you have promised to carry half of the responsibility for that person’s entire life. That is why you have to be careful.”

  “Father, are you referring to Van’s family circumstances?” he somewhat passionately queried directly. “But the two of us have the same values. Even Van herself recognizes that her mother lacks proper virtue. Once Van admits this, she must know how to behave correctly.”

  After hesitating for a moment his father replied: “It’s your decision.” Then he suddenly emphasized: “In the old days, people said that when you choose a wife, you look at her family; when you choose a husband, you look at his genes. Son, should you not consider whether or not they had it right?”

  “Yes, I will mull it over,” he replied at once.

  He did think about it. But a young man’s thinking can’t last more than twenty-four hours. The thinking of a young man in love is even shorter. A word from a beautiful person can overcome all barriers of prejudice and suspicion.

  The very next afternoon, Vu hurriedly looked for Van and asked her casually: “Do you think your father and mother’s marriage is a satisfactory one?”

  “No, a thousand times no,” Van replied without hesitation. The reply was direct and straightforward. The whimsical marriage between the teacher Vuong and the fish sauce wholesale dealer Tuyet Bong had been a subject of constant comment for several decades in the community, so, unwillingly, Van had heard every derisive word since she was about five. Looked at from every angle, from physical appearance to character, Van’s parents presented a rare caricature. A very proper teacher with a sparkling and noble countenance, never speaking but politely, with pleasantly open gestures, living with a heavyset woman, avaricious and caustically argumentative. Behind her back people called her “the fat bitch with the filthy mouth.” And they ranked her principally according to the way she used her loud mouth with its thin, haughty lips: “Pay the price” or “No credit: settle in cash”; quarreling with or swearing indiscriminately at the neighbors’ children and grandchildren. She also constantly stuffed her mouth with junk food—a never-ending indulgence. Without taking into account her maliciousness or her way of putting on airs with money and wealth, just considering her mother’s appetite, many times the daughter blushed in front of her friends.

  As if to have her boyfriend know full well her resolution, Van explained: “When my dad’s father was very sick, he called my grandmother and father into his room to ask that he marry my mother, Bong. A week later, before he died, he spoke of this again. So, after the mourning period, grandmother arranged the marriage for them.”

  “Why did your grandfather force your dad that way?”

  “I don’t know. Because my grandmother didn’t know and my dad didn’t know.”

  “Even though your father didn’t love your mother?”

  “Everyone—in the family and in the neighborhood—knew that.”

  “In the family, grandfather was God. One word from him was an order.”

  “Now would your father demand that you marry someone you don’t love, like your grandfather once did?”

  “Never!” Van replied right away, automatically. “I would never accept that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the times have changed. Now modern women wear shorts in public. I’m not that modern but I don’t live in feudal times either.”

  They laughed chokingly, seeing how lucky they were to live in a new age, with freedom to love and to marry each other according to their own desires. He returned home, repeating to his parents their funny exchange, assured that every suspicion had been resolved. Nevertheless, his parents sought every excuse to thwart this marriage. The prospect of an alliance with the teacher Vuong and his wife the wholesale fish sauce dealer brought numerous anxieties to their hearts. His father looked for causes because, according to custom, there had to be some hidden and awful connection if one were to force a child to repay a fearful debt. No one misunderstood this truth: that Mr. Vuong had to live with Tuyet Bong was the same as accepting the harsh conditions of hell or purgatory for the rest of your life, an entire life bartered away in an exchange. And the last point was the important one: every such marriage—strange and unfortunate—often left behind destructive tendencies for future generations.

  Popular speculation had provided many theories to explain all this. Some held that Old Mr. Secretary, father of the teacher Vuong, had once gone with Mr. Licentiate, father of Tuyet Bong, to Laos to dig for gold. Once, when the pit had collapsed, the latter had saved his friend from death. Then, out of gratitude for saving his life, Old Mr. Secretary had promised to marry the only daughter of his savior to his only son.

  But many others instead insisted that the story of panning for gold was too far-fetched: both men grew their fingernails long and couldn’t even hold a knife securely—how could they have found the strength to follow a group of miners to pan for gold?

  Gold always flows in the same veins as blood. In this line of work, if you are not the chief honcho of a pit, having bags filled with cash and a brain filled with devilish schemes, then most likely you take up working in the pit as an ordinary ruffian or rascal, unafraid of quarrels with guns and knives, or you might be at a dead end, without another livelihood, ready to throw your life away as so much straw or grass…In actuality, both “old men” were born gamblers. Year-round they gambled, winning a lot but also not infrequently losing. During one unlucky year, Old Mr. Secretary lost continuously throughout the winter. But the more his pockets emptied, the more he craved filling them again, with a bitter passion, so he pledged his house with its lands and gardens, in town as well as in the countryside. All his wealth, both hidden and visible assets, was placed on the gaming table in the mad hope of getting back the money lost. But destiny abandoned him, leaving only bad luck, the two stuck together like shape and shadow. At last all the wealth was consumed in the fires of gambling. At New Year’s Old Mr. Secretary envisioned the scene of his wife and children being thrown out of their home, to seek refuge in street corners or marketplace nooks. Afraid and tormented over his wrongdoing, Old Mr. Secretary tried to kill himself. At that precise moment, Old Mr. Licentiate settled his friend’s debts large and small, with only the wish that later, after their children had grown up, they would become in-laws.

  All intriguing rumors are always just that, intriguing rumors. Such theories are only theories because those who had lived with the two are no longer alive to certify the truth with any finality. Besides, all history is only a book reporting theories when behind each and every theory is a multitude of mysteries. The history of each family is no different. Secrets always exist to embellish and to cover our lives in mystery. Vu’s parents did not much like such mysteries, but after a year’s hard work of investigation they could not find any truth. Thus they had reluctantly agreed to the proposed marriage. And so the wedding had gone off smoothly, though there had been some awkward moments. Indeed, Vu’s parents were classy people, expertly knowing how to hide the awkward aspects to the utmost extent possible.

  During its beginning years, the young couple’s married life unfolded as one might wish. They lived by themselves, partly because of their work and partly because his parents lived with his oldest brother’s family. A separate house for them was provided before the wedding. However, during their years of passion, his family
was always a warm cradle never out of his mind. His old home was a place to which he often returned. His wife had to accept this. In her heart of hearts, she wanted to monopolize his time as well as his love but knew that this was impossible. Routinely, at the end of every week, they went back to Vu’s family home. Everybody came together around meals of familiar home-cooked dishes that could satisfy more than those in fancy restaurants. Vu’s mother, despite her age, was still an extraordinary cook. She made snail stew with banana stems, frog stir-fried with pepper and bamboo shoots, catfish soup with vegetables, shrimp braised in rice wine, or eel braised in turmeric. Additionally, not only was the food good, the family atmosphere was warm, reflecting genuine affection among people coming from the same root. Only once each year did they visit Van’s home, for Tet, the New Year. That could not be avoided; it was a hallowed tradition. Vu was obliged to go along for a few meals. He could endure that duty, even though he had to see his mother-in-law. He felt as if he were being tormented by sharp thorns every time he witnessed her abrasive manner: when she shouted demands at the servants, her obnoxious way of handling money, or the unattractive, unrefined way by which she expressed her contentment—while still chewing, she tilted her face and laughed, showing all the food mixed up in her big open mouth in a gross display.

  The fish sauce distributor was fully aware of all this. One time, she blurted openly: “I know I don’t appreciate the two of you. But the two of you don’t appreciate me either. It’s best that everyone eats as they like and each sleeps in his own bed. It’s enough that, once a year, you just bring gifts for the altar.”

  “What are you saying? It’s so petty…” The teacher rolled his eyes in anger.

  Mrs. Tuyet Bong closed her eyes and kept her mouth shut. Even though she could be quite vulgar, could pull up her skirt and start a fight with anyone over a penny or let loose a string of toxic curses with any neighbor who dared touch her or her son, she still feared her husband a lot. To him she was like a loyal dog. Her extremely thick lips always shut when he raised his voice. Her tigress eyes flipped into those of a meek rabbit whenever he glared at her. When he gave an order, immediately she had to jump off her high horse, even though just a minute before she had been prancing around on it as if off to do battle. Neighbors said that she was born under the sign of the rat and he under that of the snake, thinking that, while a rat can taunt a cat, in front of a snake it will become completely paralyzed and just wait for death. Others of meaner spirit would say that the zodiac made no difference; a person like her, thanks to a mysteriously predetermined fate, could only sit and daydream…of a guy with torn pants and shirt, barefooted, with infected eyes, whose job was to chase after hogs down country roads.

  And so, for many years they lived by this principle: a daughter-in-law belongs to you; a son-in-law is a guest. Van had never showed annoyance when her husband criticized the bad habits of her beloved younger brother, Tung. But recently, everything had changed. Ever since their own son had grown up to become a second beloved Tung, there was a risk that he would become worse than the original one. The rottenness that grows on the tree of power is a thousand times worse than any mold that sprouts from plain dirt or just pops up or in the middle of the hay.

  “Alas! Children are golden chains, fetters…”

  A plaintive thought suddenly popped up in his mind. Simultaneously, his heart was pierced by two arrows. Two faces appeared all at once: that of his own son and that of another man’s son.

  “I will die…I will die because of this tug of war…for this pain is something I cannot share with anyone…in this dark tunnel there is no escape…”

  He moaned. He suddenly remembered that his wife was in bed and for sure was still awake. He hurriedly gnashed his teeth to put a stop to his moan. Then another face appeared, along with a thought as sharp as a sword’s blade:

  “But no, I have no right to die; at least not now. With my death, those scoundrels will have a free hand. With my death, too many people will be affected. I wouldn’t know what misfortunes will occur. No, I have to live. I don’t have the right to give up…”

  Holding his head in his hands, he groped as if he were injured and found his way to bed.

  4

  The airplane cannot take off due to thick fog.

  The fog hangs like white silk swatches twisting over the airport and the green grass turns dark as it drunkenly absorbs moisture from the low-hanging fog. A young woman brings a tray of tea and politely places it in front of Vu:

  “Sir, please drink some tea. It will be a long while before the plane can take off.”

  “Thank you, miss. How many times this month has the plane been delayed?”

  “Three times already. Today is the fourth.”

  “Usually how long is the wait?”

  “It depends on each day’s weather, but on average until past noon.”

  “You know that proverb, too?”

  “Yes, the elders said: ‘Rain does not last past noon; wind not past three p.m.’…My maternal grandmother taught me that.” Saying this, the girl turns the teacup faceup on the saucer, and pours tea. The fragrance of the jasmine tea rises and makes the room less desolate and empty, as guest houses and railway stations often feel.

  “In one hour the cafeteria will sell beef soup and sesame balls. But if you need them now, I will fetch some for you.”

  “Thank you. I have already had breakfast at home,” he replies, but then changes his mind.

  “If it is not too much trouble, could you bring me some sesame balls? What kind do they sell at the canteen?”

  “We have three kinds: one with savory filling, one with mung bean and cane sugar filling, and one with honey.”

  “Please bring me those with mung bean and cane sugar.”

  “Yes, I will bring them up right away,” the young woman replies and briskly leaves the room.

  His eyes follow her while he ponders: “She must be well connected to get work as an airport employee.”

  All girls from the countryside with muddy feet and hands who are selected to work for the government or in the big city have this enthusiasm and dedication. Their bodies are full of life, their faces are tanned by the sun; their enthusiasm is that of those who have twirled in a tense tempo under the utmost hard work to then fall into a life with a slow pace and many amenities.

  “But in only a short while, they will change. From their appearance to their character…With the years, everything will change slowly…” he melancholically thinks while sipping his tea.

  The young woman returns with a plate full of sesame balls. There are so many, he would need to be thirty-five years younger to be able to consume them all. The airport canteen’s regular patrons are young pilots and mechanics with active stomachs or new soldiers who pour in from the countryside.

  Placing his plate properly on the table, the young woman bows her head once more and leaves.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  Vu smiles and starts to nibble on the sesame balls. With the cup of tea, his appetite unexpectedly returns and he eats two. To his surprise Vu drinks several more cups of tea. That very morning, his wife had served him a bowl of noodles as usual. That bowl of noodles had had the same ingredients and flavors as always, but he couldn’t take more than two spoonfuls. Perhaps because the two of them had had a sleepless night; an empty and cold night that hardens your heart and soul. When a man and a woman share a bed but won’t or can’t make love, or they do not want or have anything meaningful to share, then their hearts turn in different directions and their brains are filled with different thoughts. To be bound together in such torment is frightening.

  That morning, when the alarm clock rang, he got up and immediately went out to the garden, knowing full well that he could catch a cold. Walking aimlessly among the trees for a while, he then had gone in to get dressed. Then he sat down at the dining table in front of the bowl of noodles that his wife had prepared. He suddenly looked at Van’s face, swollen with lack of sleep. It app
eared exactly like that of Mrs. Tuyet Bong.

  He thought, “I am getting old; I can’t see clearly. Nobody ever said that Van looked like her mother. People always commented that she was a carbon copy of Teacher Vuong, just like Tung was a copy of the fish sauce wholesaler.”

  Then he had looked and looked at his woman—the person who had shared his life for more than thirty years, the one he was so familiar with, from the way she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, to the style and color of her favorite clothes, the way she picked up her food or put on her charms. He had then looked at her with some doubt, in the state of someone who cannot rely on his own senses. Because from a certain angle, he did see that his wife did have some of Mrs. Tuyet Bong’s features. It was not the shape of the face, nor the bridge of her nose, nor her walk or smile, but an invisible resemblance that eluded any verbal description.

  “It’s not my imagination, but the weakness of my mind in analyzing…or a simple habit of forgetting. I have seen Van standing with her hands on her waist, arguing with a cadre managing supplies, in a strident and vulgar way just like her mother. That was long ago. Sixteen or seventeen years ago. That time she was extremely ashamed of herself. Now, it happens again and she is no longer ashamed. With the months and years, everything rots away…”

  “Sir, let me pour more water in the teapot.”

  The young woman has come back with a thermos of hot water in her hands. She is about to pour water into the teapot, but she hesitates and asks:

  “Sir, do you need new tea?”

  Vu looks up and answers: “Thank you. The tea is still strong, you can just add more water for me.”

  He fills his cup with the new very hot tea. He brings it up to the level of his chin, where the steam spreads across his face and a whisper repeats itself again and again:

  “With the years, everything slowly rots away…With the years…”

  He does not know what causes this thought to take over his brain, something like those hungry leeches that stick tightly to the thighs of miserable water buffaloes. Vu’s family owned no rice fields, but rural life had been familiar to him since youth thanks to summer vacations. Later, when he committed himself to the revolution, he was forced to become familiar with paddy fields. During that entire period, the image that terrified him most, a fear he could not acknowledge, was the sight of leeches in low-lying fields. Every time he saw a pack of leeches darkening the water’s face and chasing after bait, whether the bait was him or someone else, Vu’s skin grew goose bumps. He despised leeches not because they sucked people’s blood, because mosquitoes as well as other insects did likewise, but because, most frightening to him, their slimy bodies evoked uncertainty, a kind of elastic and free-floating danger, a threat about which one could not predict either its origins or its end.