The Zenith (31 page)

“Please, let me thank you, sir. If it hadn’t been for you, I would not have escaped that guy.”

“It was nothing. I am a man; if I meet with injustice, I can’t ignore it. Others coming across such an immoral thing as that would certainly do as I did.”

“Life is not like that. You just speak humbly,” she said with determination, leaving him without a comeback. Then he saw the two bottles of wine that she put on the table.

“You brought wine for me?”

“Yes, exactly right. Why are you surprised?”

He smiled: “Who fermented this wine?”

“I did.”

“So, you’re an alcoholic?”

“No! Not an alcoholic, but I know how to drink.”

“Really?”

“First, nobody thinks women should drink. But we are a bunch of painters. We stretch our arms all day long. At night when we go to bed, we feel pain from our shoulders down to our hips. My aunt steeps a mixture of herbs in wine made from good sticky rice. Drinking one cup at night before bed takes away the pain. I follow her instructions, and indeed there is no pain and I sleep very soundly.”

His thoughts quietly wandered. For the first time in all his life someone had given him wine, and it was a girl! In more than forty long years living with his wife and children, she’d never thought of buying him a gift, nor had his children. In this family, it seemed as if he had had to take care of everybody, worrying about everyone else’s life, with never a reciprocating concern. Always it had been: “Tell your father, he will decide.” “Whatever you want, tell your father. He’ll make it work.”

To Mr. Quang this had seemed only natural, because he had been the father, the husband, the pillar of the family. All the inconveniences of life had piled so many heavy burdens on his shoulders. In carrying them all, he had had no time to think of himself. Now, at sixty-one, he suddenly felt his heart shifting; within him there was another man who needed attention and love.

While his mind drifted in thought, she looked around and picked up a cup from the inn’s tea set and poured it full:

“Please try a sip and see.”

He lifted the cup and sipped, finding the wine very good even though the herbs had taken away the taste of the sweet rice.

She looked at him attentively, asking, “How is it?”

“I find the wine really good. Maybe it would be better without the herbs.”

“How can you be so simple? My aunt sells her medicinal wine for ten times more than a liter of ordinary young wine.”

“Yes, I am still such a simpleton!” he replied, and as he looked at the girl the thought emerged quickly that she had been part of his life for a long while, since before the time he and she had each appeared on this earth. Perhaps, he imagined with some awkwardness, in their past lives lived long ago, lives he could not visualize just as we cannot see the dark side of the moon but know that hidden half nonetheless exists. Even so, those far-off incarnations hidden away among many layers of cloudy memories could be efficacious, even though a person could not apprehend them.

“Real or unreal; unreal or real? Why suddenly do I find life really strange?” he asked himself as he continued to look at the woman who stood not more than two yards away. That day she had also worn a green blouse, the same pineapple leaf green she had worn when he had seen her that first time. Her eyes were strikingly beautiful; now he could clearly see each of her lashes. Her brows, long like two strokes of black ink, extending from the middle of her forehead to her temples, almost touching the roots of her hair.

“This young woman is really beautiful! A person out of a painting!” he thought to himself. Suddenly he felt very pained, knowing that she would leave very soon and he would never see her again. Then she would live out her life, and that life would have no connection to his. And him, surely he would pass his old age in this boardinghouse, or in his old home in Woodcutters’ Hamlet, or in a horse carriage on his trips to and from those two locations, with so many messy and tiring family matters. With all his calculated plans, his worries, all the arrangements he constantly had to juggle among a handful of supposed loves ones—those thought to be so close to him but in reality so far distant, those so used to putting burdens on his shoulders without thinking of all that he must taste, all that he must endure, all the bitter bile and burning peppers that he had to swallow—he could now no longer live tranquilly. After this encounter, life ahead of him would be so lonely. And what of him?

This train of thought left him feeling lonely and lost. He experienced a strange weakness, of a kind he had never before encountered that filled up his soul and burned his nostrils. Fearing that he might cry in front of her, he quickly grabbed a cigarette, inhaled forcefully, and twice lifted his face to exhale. Large tears filled up his eyes and rolled down both temples. He forced a cough and annoyingly cursed:

“The tobacco in this inn is the crappy kind from Tien Lang.”

And the young woman, she just stood there, puzzled, looking at the wine cup in his hand, still wondering why he didn’t like this medicinal wine but preferred the kind that was ten times cheaper—he…the hero who had saved her from a desperate situation.

At that instant, the innkeeper stepped in to remind him that his meal was ready and to ask whether he needed additional food for his guest. He suddenly realized the awkwardness of the situation: she had come all the way from the work site, which had taken her two and a half hours, and now it was high noon. He hurriedly said:

“Please take care of food for my guest.”

Then, turning to her, he asked: “Would you care to share the food with me?”

“Why ‘care to’?” she asked quite sincerely.

And he smiled: “Because you think of me as a simpleton.”

“Oh, I was just blabbering.”

“So, really now: What do you think of me?”

“I find you…find you…a very good-looking older man.”

After so replying, she burst into laughter. Maybe because she found her own answer ridiculous. Her laughter took a heavy weight off his chest. In that laughter, in her smiling eyes, he detected a promise. He no longer saw life’s desert spreading out before him. He no longer felt threatened by her departure. In his innermost mind, he secretly enjoyed this auspicious gift of destiny. Walking out of his room, he loudly called out to the innkeeper:

“Make me an elaborate meal, OK? I have a special guest today!”

Just as Quy had predicted, on New Year’s Eve everyone in Woodcutters’ Hamlet, except Mr. Quang and his young wife, came out to watch the opera
Thi Mau Goes to the Temple
. They did not attend for several reasons. First, they were in love—in the steamy, hot phase of love. Miss Ngan had the energies of youth, of course. But for two years Mr. Quang had been deprived of a woman’s touch—since the day when his wife had come down with the hungry demon ailment. For both, their marriage was like a downpour during a hot drought. Second, all year they both worked down in the city, where there were constant opportunities to attend theater performances, new music, movies, and singing contests; they were not as deprived of entertainment as were the residents of Woodcutters’ Hamlet.

Those were the obvious reasons. In reality, their reasons should have been of no concern to anybody. But in life, differences create envy, whether you like it or not, whether you speak openly about it or conceal it. Even before the curtain rose, village eyes eagerly scanned around, looking for this odd couple, as if their presence would cause the opera to succeed or fail.

“We don’t see either him or her! Perhaps they stayed home!”

“For sure they did. They don’t care to see a play in the countryside. There’s plenty in the city. Down there the theater is many times larger than our hamlet temple, and all the curtains are made of red velvet, very classy.”

“Why didn’t Master Quy invite a first-class opera troupe for the villagers to enjoy? It might be expensive, but it’s only once a year. People would pinch their budgets to afford a ticket.”

“Even if we had invited them, they wouldn’t have come. The road is too long and bumpy, and all the props and velvet and brocade curtains need to be transported in special cars. You would have to pay a lot for just one trip.”

“OK, if you’ve only got wooden chopsticks, use ’em; don’t go crazy asking for velvet and brocade curtains, for what?”

“You talk with your dick. Everyone has skin and flesh; everyone likes to eat their rice with fish. Only the crazy refuse new and tasty dishes.”

“No, you’re the one who talks with his dick. You want some, but have no money. Empty pockets longing for good food! Under the circumstances, shut up; talking just puts you to shame.”

“Enough, gentlemen; I ask you all, it’s New Year’s Eve, no arguments. The festivities are about to start, what’s the point of fighting anymore?”

They all backed off. Women pinched and squeezed their husbands to calm their hot tempers. Then the sound of drums gave a cheerful welcome. The two panels of the red stage curtains, dotted with holes made by roaches, slowly drew open and female singers in loose costumes floated onto the stage like the five tinted winds:

“I come up to the temple and see thirteen little novices, fourteen monks, and fifteen nuns.”

The band behind the stage struck up a tune. A flute hit a high note over the two-string zither; the sound of the flute and the drum carried the beat. Life’s now smiling face lets people temporarily forget oppressions and emotions.

Two hours later, the opera drew to a close.

Villagers stood around for a long time in front of the stage longing for more. The entertainment had ended much too quickly. And after the fun, sadness is always on duty. It was only eight p.m.; there were still four more hours before the old year ended, four more hours until they could light firecrackers and start their banquets. Four more hours to endure the everlasting quietness of the isolated mountain terrain, after being soaked in an atmosphere filled with the lights, colors, images, and sounds of the opera. It was quite oppressive and extremely difficult to endure. People stood around and watched as performers dismantled the stage and packed away their costumes and props. Suddenly, longing filled their souls; a vague realization of something missing brought heartache. There was only life worn out like a piece of cloth down to its bare threads.

While the crowd was still lingering about, Quy had taken care of compensation for the professional troupe. He said to Miss Vui:

“Now I have to take the troupe to get chicken congee before they return to
the district town. The villagers still linger and are not ready to leave. If it’s OK with you, could you please invite them to your house before the end of the old year? It’s only once a year; we need to provide them with an evening of hospitality.”

“Right away; no problem for me. Will you come later?”

“I will come if every task is finished.”

“That’s all right, take care of your duties,” Miss Vui answered. Then she approached the crowd and said:

“If you are not ready to leave, I invite you to come to my house to have tea and eat New Year’s candies. Wait for the New Year then return home and bring certain good fortune to your house.”

“Fantastic! You’re really the best.”

“Did you make the candies or buy them?”

“I bought them in town. The watermelon and pumpkin seeds are top of the line; I guarantee their quality. The tea is the fragrant Hong Dao brand—for real!”

“Who’ll come with me to Miss Vui’s?”

“You don’t have to advertise! Whoever has legs knows how to use them!”

Nobody voiced it out loud, but everybody knew that the gathering at Miss Vui’s house was to be a second performance for the New Year’s Eve celebration: following the traditional opera would be a romance about a mismatched couple. Because they were the wealthiest in the hamlet, because they lived differently from the rest, Mr. Quang and Miss Ngan were a target for all the gossips. Gossip has always been a spiritual food unique to villages, as well as a poison that permeates humanity’s bones and marrow.

That night, the subcommittee secretary’s house was bright with a storm light. She had bought this light after convincing herself that she had become someone of importance, having risen up as if she were a hamlet VIP. But compared with Mr. Quang, she was still a lightweight going up against a heavyweight. Nonetheless, it was a source of pride that not many women had the right to savor. Besides, she thought that the way to her success had been paved by her father and so she wanted him to be proud in the spirit realm. Thus, in Woodcutters’ Hamlet, she had been the second person after Mr. Quang to have a four-horsepower generator, a storm lamp, and all the objects that are indicative of prosperity. For people in the region, after a nice house with a large patio comes a horse carriage, both assets and means to make money; then after a horse carriage, the biggest dream is for a household generator to water the yard and the fields, and to light up the storm lamp during the New Year holiday. That New Year, Miss Vui also had bought
three porcelain tea services from Hai Duong, the kind that have a large teapot with brass handles. She used them to serve tea to her guests. One teapot could contain two liters of water and each brewing used half a bag of Hong Dao tea. The villagers were overwhelmed, for in the countryside people tend to be frugal. The average family could make one bag of Hong Dao tea last for at least ten days.