The Zenith (68 page)

“I think we represent an independent nation,” said the vice minister. “We have the right to choose for ourselves the optimum policy in line with our national interests. The resistance war against the French was concluded only yesterday; there remain tons of problems that need attention. We are not sure that the minefields in Muong Cum and Him Lam have been thoroughly cleared. Rice has yet to cover all the old battlefields. The wounded in many camps must still be nursed and helped. And the people still lack many essentials such as food, clothing, medicines. And we have not yet touched upon the books and notebooks and school supplies for our young ones. In such circumstances we have no reason to commit ourselves to a new war just to prove the superiority of socialism. Two opposing camps can coexist on one planet, for our earth is large enough to sustain different countries and different political systems. We can triumph over the Americans without having to go to war. We can triumph over them through scientific competition, industrialization, and economic prowess.”

While Vu does not remember exactly what Le Liem said thereafter, he is able to recall in detail how those surrounding him cast hostile eyes at the vice minister. Those sitting in the front rows turned themselves fully around to stare with bloodshot eyes at the man holding the floor, frankly promising that he would be stoned or have a knife stuck through his neck. Those sitting in the back rows showed their anger and protestations toward “this revisionist” by comments and loud cries…After a moment, a delegate jumped up, got out of his seat, went over in front of Le Liem, pointed his finger at Liem’s face, and shouted:

“If you don’t shut up now, if you go on spitting out this revisionist line, I will hang you, you hear!”

Liem stopped on the spot as if someone had hit him in the back of his neck.
He looked intensely at the guy who just tried to shame him, Vice Minister of the Interior Le Chi Than, a crony of Quoc Tuy. Taking off his glasses, Liem blinked, somewhat embarrassed. He was at a loss as to what to tell his antagonist even though he was known for having cutting rhetorical skills. The entire plenum also went quiet. This was the first time that they had witnessed a situation where “comrades” were treating one another like the scum of the earth. More than three hundred people had to look down in shame.

On the dais Ba Danh and Sau were speechless as well.

After a moment, the president of the plenum stood up, turned to Le Chi Than, and in a natural voice said, “If you want to hang Le Liem, then you have to hang me first.”

Le Chi Than shut tight his lips, looked down, and regained his seat. The assembly was quiet for a short moment.

Sau then rang a small bell.

“Refreshment time. Please take a break.”

After the plenum, Le Liem wrote the Politburo a letter requesting that the Party’s top leaders correct this excess, for he did not believe that the Party could tolerate hoodlum language and behavior among members of the Central Committee, who represented the people.

The vice minister of culture was much too naive. He was an aesthete. But aesthetics had no place in this country. The Politburo, which he expected to arbitrate between him and the one who had humiliated him, was cut from the same cloth as the latter. To create a monumental Arch of Triumph, the Party necessarily needed people with monumental capabilities to destroy and to exterminate. War needs criminals—professional and amateur murderers—among which those who excel are precisely the hired guns and executioners, soon to be recognized as the flowers among the grass. Their achievements had been recorded in lists and put into charts. But come to think of it, the majority of those in power also came from crooks and thieves, the very replicas of those unprincipled proletarians!…Wolf howls normally make every other species shudder but are reassuring if you happen to be of the same breed. It’s people like Le Liem who were the odd ones out. While waiting for a response from the “comrade leaders” he was at once expelled from the Party, relieved of his post, and put under house arrest. A few days later, General Dang Kim Giang, director of the Hoang Minh Chinh Institute of Philosophy, the literary author Nguyen Kien Giang, and nearly one hundred other personalities—those identified as having been poisoned by the thought of the archrevisionist
Khrushchev—were arrested. During the same week, more than twenty generals were thrown into jail because they had undergone long training at the Kutuzov military academy or were close to General Long. The following week, more than five hundred officers from the rank of colonel down, officers who had collaborated with or who had held posts under the direct command of General Long, were also arrested, one after another. They were picked up in trucks belonging to the Second General Directorate of Internal Security, then incarcerated at the Thanh Liet prison on the outskirts of Hanoi, and, additionally, in two other centrally run prisons in Ha Tinh and Thai Nguyen provinces.

The war was only just starting.

The people’s itinerary changed destination.

Together with it came tragedy to all those who had been close to Vu.

Fresh from sleep, the president notices that plum flowers have blossomed white outside his window. Is this spring’s last showing of blossoms? He stands up and gazes at the flower-covered branches, which look like the snowy cotton hanging on a Christmas tree, like crystal petals carved from white dew. The white plum garden makes him think back to the Parisian sky on snowy days.

Paris, a far horizon that he misses all the time.

Paris, city of passionate love and bitterness.

How many winters did he spend in that city? Oh, how many times had he stood there to watch snow fall on the uneven roofs, filled with complicated feelings of alienation mixed with intimacy, of sadness with delight? Being short of money, he always had to rent attic rooms, the kind let out to poor students or workers from the provinces, or miserable exiles. In those attics he had to endure bone-chilling cold, but in compensation he felt himself that much closer to the sky; the flying snowflakes whirled and whirled in spectacular fashion before they fell to the earth. At such times, when the city was deserted, Paris became incredibly forlorn, so forlorn as to no longer look like Paris but only a snowbound plain. During chilly sunsets, the snowflakes flying obliquely in the air blurred the weak light of the streetlamps, making the cloudy sky appear mysterious, as if it were a witch-drawn painting. On other occasions, he walked on the snow-packed sidewalks, watching indifferently as the white carpet was sullied by the black
boots of pedestrians. During those Paris winters, the rich aroma from the bakeries was the warmest, sweet-smelling thing that he, a man from Asia, had ever encountered. Very often he found himself walking back and forth, dozens of times, in front of a shutterless window that opened right onto the curb, with black vertical bars looking somewhat like the windows of a prison. From these totally unappealing windows came the intoxicating smells of newly baked breads.

Paris!

Oh, why this sudden gnawing memory?

These white plum branches floating in the white mist of the Lan Vu peak brought back memories of a world both far and near. A glorious stage of his life. His youthful days. For far too long he hasn’t revisited that city. Has it changed a lot or is it still the same, he wonders. The old cafés no doubt must have changed their furniture and decor; the houses must have changed owners, the old-fashioned streetlamps must have been replaced by more modern ones. But in the end, how could the Seine change its course? And the trees bordering Ile Saint-Louis still must shed their leaves in great numbers during winter. He misses Paris as if missing an unfulfilled and unforgettable love.

Suddenly, a wind arises and stirs the plum blossom branches. Masses of petals are scattered at each gust, making them look exactly like the snowflakes of yesteryear. The first time he had seen those snowflakes the size of popcorn he found himself exclaiming, “Oh, how pretty they are, these tiny flakes!” Many years later, he still laughs at himself over such naïveté. In his case, these memories of snow have become an eternal sorrow, a sorrow associated with lost youth. After he had become a sophisticated person, on days when snow had fallen, his mind was still entranced by that old song “Snow Falls!” Could it be that the white of the falling snow has become part of his life, an integral part? Could it be that those old lyrics, once they became part of his inner being, have turned into an undying refrain that survives all the ups and downs of fate, the collapsing journey of time?

All his life he has been missing love. All his life this song has echoed in him as an endless refrain. Sadly, he could not fill this gaping hole. He feels
pity for all those who, even when white-haired, still remember this song, “Snow Falls,” and whose hearts still twinge with unrequited love.

“Mr. President, please have some hot congee.”

“Oh, have they served it?”

“Yes, sir. The doctor asks that you take this at breakfast so that, if you prefer, lunch can be reduced by half. That would do your health good.”

“I have heard him explain it to me. But I have long been used to two meals a day.”

“Yes, sir…The doctor, though…”

“OK, I’m coming.”

He steps into the outer room. An unusual aroma coming from the patio makes him stop. It reminds him of the Paris bakeries.

Somewhat doubtful, he takes in a deep breath. Seeing him doing so, the guard says right away:

“Mr. President, what you smell is the mung bean paste coming from the temple. This morning, the abbess wants to show that she can make good fried mung bean paste.”

“Is that so? It’s so different.”

“What is it different from, Mr. President?”

“Oh, I mean that it is unlike the aroma of other dishes.”

“The smell of vegetarian food is definitely different from that of ordinary food.”

“Of course, otherwise how would people call it vegetarian?” the president said, laughing.

The guard looks at him inquisitively and asks, “Mr. President, would you want to try the temple food?”

He shakes his head: “Don’t bother them like that. That we live here is already intrusion enough into the territory and freedom of the nuns.”

“Not really, sir. The abbess brought us a big plate. The fried paste is still piping hot. May I bring up some so you can have a taste?”

Before he can reply, the guard runs out like an arrow and disappears in the huge white cloud floating over the patio. A minute later, he comes back with the dish of fried mung bean paste wrapped in a thick cotton cloth.

“Please, sir. Have some while it’s still hot.”

“Thank you.”

He picks up a piece of the fried paste and tastes it in front of the anxious eyes of the young guard.

“It’s truly very delicious. This is the first time I have had this.”

The guard is beaming: “Fried mung bean paste is one of the most
delicious vegetarian dishes. But they prepare it only on special occasions, for it’s rather time-consuming.”

“How do they do it?”

“First of all, they have to steam the mung beans as they would any steamed rice dish. After that, they have to pound it in a mortar to make it into a thick paste. You mix this paste with some starch so as to make it somewhat gluey. Then you add a pinch of salt and spices. You then mold it into patties and have them deep fried. Today, the abbess used peanut oil to fry them. But they would taste better if they were deep fried in sesame or sunflower oil.”

“How clever you are. You can become a chef anytime.”

“This morning I helped the abbess with pounding the mung beans, and I was able to hear her explain all sorts of vegetarian dishes.”

“It seems that life in a temple can be quite a rich experience, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I ask only as a joke. Life for a monastic person is truly very simple. The difficulty lies in keeping and adhering to that simplicity.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowing that the young man might not fathom what he had just said, the president pats him on the shoulder.

“Stop. You don’t have to stretch your mind fighting with these intellectual debates. Just trust that their lives are entirely different from ours.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answers happily, as if he has just been able to rid himself of a big burden. He then takes away the food with an elated mien as if he were a general just coming home with a whole convoy of war booty. The president has finished the deep-fried mung bean paste, but did not touch the cook’s bowl of pork congee.

Only a few seconds later, the guard can be heard loudly laughing on the other side of the patio. He cannot see him because of the unceasing movement of the white clouds floating across it, which are like a band of God’s oxen being herded over a fairy meadow. Those white oxen keep walking past his eyes. Suddenly, his solitary situation meshes with those white clouds to send a chill through his heart. The president is taken aback; never has he felt such terrible solitude as he does today. A strange loneliness to the point of crunching chill, of limb paralysis. Lonely as if there were an invisible net dropping on him, tying him up in its cruel mesh. He becomes short of breath. He feels that he cannot endure even one more minute of this crushing loneliness even though all his life he has had solitude as his constant companion. He suddenly shudders with fear.

“How can I be so weak? Is it because of old age that I have become a stranger to myself, a miserable person even in my own eyes?”

So he berates himself. While sipping his tea, he looks into the bottom of the cup, trying his best to find in the gently rocking yellowish water an association, a memory about streams, a thought of long ago about tea parties, thin wisps of steam that wave over still hot dishes. Anything that would make him forget his solitude. But that is impossible. For his solitude is the twin of his forgetting. The more you forget and run away, the more solitude comes back to haunt you: two garrotes tightening around his neck.