The Zenith (42 page)

“You are right, growing cassava brings nothing.”

Miss Ngan was a newcomer, but she kept up with them all; even though she foraged by herself, every day she collected more or less four kilos of mushrooms. Mrs. Tu boasted to everyone:

“Auntie Ngan came to live in Woodcutters’ Hamlet, yet without even warming her seat, she already works better than thousands of others.”

“Thousands of others” here included the three members of Quy’s family and the gaggle of know-nothing women whose tongues itched with envy: “With that little red-and-green blouse, how can she climb the mountain? No doubt, though, that she can climb on top of her husband’s belly!”

Only Mr. Quang could confirm the point about “climbing on top of her husband’s belly”; but climbing the mountain to pick mushrooms was common knowledge. Every day, the whole village weighed and counted. Each family had a notebook for record keeping; it was a competitive practice among families as well as a way to indirectly encourage effort; but oftentimes it only created jealousy. Thus, at the end of the mushroom season, those who pouted their lips and despised the girl “in the red-and-green shirt looking like a grasshopper” were all embarrassed and hung their heads in silence. The painter from the city had done better than all the local women. Many a time, children playing on village paths sang:

Mr. Quang understood how those old lines were picked to point to someone. His wife never wore a red shirt—the only color she liked being green—but
the phrase “red blouse, green blouse” was used by villagers to expose women who paid extreme attention to their looks. By her own labor, his wife had the right to refute any defamer. As Mrs. Tu said: “From now on, to anyone with a loud mouth saying bad things, Auntie Ngan only has to take a stick and throttle their throat…”

Of course, Mrs. Tu did not say this only once, but over and over, again and again, wherever hearing it would have the most effect. Such tough words were taken as a most official and most acceptable form of warning, the kind that women in Woodcutters’ Village traditionally used to defend their honor.

By the end of the mushroom season, only a few families—those without any or with lots of children—continued to glean in the far corners of the woods; most villagers were now staying home to undertake the final, laborious task of drying and bagging the mushrooms. All over the village the fragrance of mushrooms made the air sweetly intoxicating. Smoke from the drying ovens rose, delicate and light, spreading up like an unraveling bundle of floating white threads, surrounded by mountain clouds striped white, and the large, infinite white steam rising from rocky cracks—all forming an exquisite painting, where the white colors mixed against the blue background of the expansive, enveloping air. The mushroom season gave safekeeping to many happy memories of working together as well as to hearts warmly indebted to heaven for its gifts.

In Mr. Quang’s house, after the last bag of mushrooms had been filled and closed, the time came to prepare for celebrating the first anniversary of his wife’s death. Two days before, cousins had erected tents to cover the patio and set up tables and chairs. Probably there would be more than one hundred trays, because guests would eat from noon to evening on three occasions, each time consuming thirty-five trays.

Always the first anniversary of a death is the most important one for those alive as well as for the deceased. For the deceased, it is the moment for the soul to rest eternally in peace, not wanting to return and disturb loved ones after having received in full measure incense and flowers as well as repayment of past love expended. For the living, it is the moment to display responsibility along with appreciation and love for the departed. It is the opportunity to openly show your attitude toward others and also to prove how strong your moral character is. Given the unusual circumstances in Mr. Quang’s family, these expectations were bound to be examined very carefully from every point of view. The host was clearly aware of this challenge,
so preparations were executed to perfection. The responsible party of course was Mr. Quang himself, but it was Mrs. Tu who actually took charge. Miss Ngan did no more than assist her, doing only what was assigned to her like anyone else among those neighbors who came to help. While she had always worn green blouses, from the lighter green of rice plants and banana shoots to the darker green of coconut palm leaves or moss, she wore black on the day of Mrs. Quang’s death anniversary—a clear statement of mourning for the deceased. Next, her voice and speech became demure and light, no longer spontaneous and youthful as was her natural habit, nor as strident as when she had to counter her opponents. Therefore, the most censorious of villagers would have no pretext to open their mouths in criticism.

As for the physical preparations, Mr. Quang paid very close attention, for there is a saying: “Even in living spiritually, one must eat first.”

Those who have life are not allowed to forget this basic principle. The banquet for Mrs. Quang on the first anniversary of her death had to be far more sumptuous than any previous wedding celebrations. Though there were plenty of neighbors ready at hand to help him, Mr. Quang still hired three chefs from the city, who brought along a van full of spices and ingredients as well as all sorts of cooking gadgets and supplies that one could not find in the countryside. The banquet thus became as elaborate as a fair or an exposition. Was it to be a five-course or a seven-course banquet? Because the host prepared the banquet according to urban preferences, with big bowls and large plates placed on tables, not on trays, it could not be measured by accustomed criteria. All bystanders agreed that no family had ever presented a banquet this classy and tasty, since the founding of the village. The banquet would consume one day; two days were required for preparation and one day afterward to clean up and distribute gifts and food to all the helpers, both relatives and neighbors.

In all, Mrs. Tu counted about 180 large service trays with each one holding enough food for six people. She said, “Even with this we won’t have enough. To provide for all, we would need easily two hundred such trays.”

“To provide for all” in her statement pointed to the absence of Quy’s family and his connections. He performed his own anniversary celebration of the death, of course, because his father had disowned him. From the power point of view, he clearly lost out to his father. In his relations with relatives and neighbors and in the way he connected with others, he was far inferior. The only power he held came from the official stamp in his possession, an advantage that people knew was neither a potato nor a piece of dry clay used for
forgeries. That was why anyone who might come to the village seeking an official seal for some document was forced to come to Quy’s house to attend the “first anniversary” of Mrs. Quang’s death there. They would have a gift in one hand and a carefully prepared envelope in the other. Besides those who needed a favor, Mr. Quang’s in-laws on his son’s side—the parents, uncles, and aunts of Quy’s wife and her siblings—dared not set foot in Mr. Quang’s house. The core group of village cadres, those who daily sat at the same table with the chairman, including the party secretary, the police chief, the women committee’s head, the heads of the village clinic and stores, also had to come to the son’s house. Miss Vui sought the upper hand—attending neither. The majority of the villagers attended both celebrations because they thought it their business to ignore the divisions and to be anywhere that the spirit of the dead was present. They were at the father’s banquet at midday; in the afternoon either returning to their homes to rest or gathering somewhere to chitchat; and then at the son’s celebration in the evening. “Since I was born I have never gone to an anniversary of the dead twice like this.”

“Me neither.”

“Has any family fallen into this kind of mess before?”

“How could they?”

“A long time ago, during my great-grandparents’ era, there were two brothers who didn’t get along and they would not see each other. On the father’s and mother’s death anniversaries, the older brother did his separately and the younger one his. Relatives and others had to attend both.”

“That’s the right way to go; whatever the conflict, they are still family. As for outsiders like us, our duty is to ‘value harmony’ above all.”

The “scary” thing that made the people of Woodcutters’ Hamlet suspicious and frightened, something they could not explain, would soon expose itself. Twelve days after the first anniversary of Mrs. Quang’s death it rained hard. People could not go up to the woods or to the fields. Everyone sat at home to pan-fry green rice, cook sweet soups, or play cards. In the wee hours after the third day of rain Mr. Quang’s horse could be heard neighing loudly for joy. Mr. Quang’s kitchen was lit up by a fire: Miss Ngan was cooking plain white rice, then steamed sweet rice for Mr. Quang to take on the road. They ate together in the kitchen. Afterward, the green-bloused woman wrapped her arm around her husband’s back and walked with him to the hedge where the carriage was waiting. The sight of the two with their arms around each other was an unfamiliar one in Woodcutters’ Hamlet and it quite upset the neighbors. Miss Ngan did not know, but Mr. Quang surely realized
that hidden behind doors, at the corners of walls, in bushes, many pairs of eyes discreetly watched them. Even though he knew how people thought, he still acted according to what the elders had taught:

Stopping at the gate, he bent over to kiss Miss Ngan before he climbed into the carriage and whipped his horse into a trot. The sounds of the horse’s hooves, fast and hard, broke the calm rural air. In the pace of a horse that had been kept enclosed because of the rain, one sensed an uncontrollable force mixed with the unsettling danger of a freedom that had endured repression. Miss Ngan stood there to look at the carriage until it disappeared in the row of trees.

Most of the people in Woodcutters’ Hamlet stayed at home that morning. Many called out to one another to go up to work on the cassava fields, but in the end they dallied around home to launder piles of clothes, to rake up scattered hay, to clean and straighten up their rooms. Many things had mildewed after all the rain.

Close to noon, as the women were getting ready to cook lunch, loud footsteps were suddenly heard on the paths. First came small children; then curious teenagers; finally, villagers, men as well as women: all had dropped whatever they were doing to go gawk at “Miss Ngan being arrested.” They were neither hesitant nor shy about loudly calling out to neighbors, from the patio of one house to another, from this hedge to that one:

“Hey, do you know yet? Mr. Quang’s young wife has been arrested by the police. Let’s go see what is going on.”

“Hey, stop what you’re doing. Did you hear the news? Mr. Quang’s green-bloused girl has been grabbed by the neck!”

“What did she do to deserve this?”