The Zenith (90 page)

“Where are the emergency aides? Bring the oxygen here.”

A dreamy thought comes to his mind: “Well, they are bringing the oxygen for the officer with the wheezing breath, with lips dark like the Lang Son plums. Strange, though: this guy is dead but still he needs lots of oxygen from the hospital?”

Suddenly he hears a fish twisting in his ears. It makes the same sound as the fish jumping in the container where his mother had kept them. The fish had noisily fought all night. Above that container was the tile roof. And above the roof was the sky, a high, open space filled with sunlight, a light blue…

Military Field Hospital 306 sits at the jungle’s edge, not too far from a stream, in a fine setting for a multispecialty facility. The buildings are clustered together up high under the shade of bushy trees that are so dense, even during bright summer days sunlight cannot break through. In that permanent shadow, clusters of wild orchids and crow’s-nest plants dangle. Behind the hospital is a large stone cave into which as many as thirty seriously injured soldiers can quickly be moved when bombs fall. The kitchen, the communal dining room, and a storeroom are shoved into an area close to the cave’s mouth.

It is the spring of 1969 and the hospital is full of injured soldiers. The number of those waiting for surgery is three times more than normal, forcing the doctors and staff to work around the clock. The screaming and moaning, along with the angry fighting of the crowd of injured soldiers, has turned the hospital into chaos.

Among the injured soldiers appears an alluring prince, a delectable prey for the twelve girls who work at the hospital and stand shakily on the divide between their last moment of youth and the time of loss. It is Lieutenant Hoang An. Hoang An is considered a manly ideal not only for his looks but also because of his unusual courage. He did not utter a sound during an entire surgery performed without anesthetic. A piece of shrapnel had cut
Hoang An’s left arm; on arriving at the hospital, the wound—tourniqueted too long on the road—had become infected, and they had to remove the arm from the shoulder down to save him. Oddly, Hoang An healed very quickly, almost magically. The injured soldiers around him, even though some were half his age, looked at him with admiration and envy. Even before new skin had grown to cover his stump, he was strolling all over the area, setting up traps to catch porcupine and fox for the kitchen to prepare for meals. After he had fully recovered, he volunteered to help the girls carry stream water up to the camp; With only one arm, this lieutenant could carry more than many men with two arms. He had the legs of a hunter and he climbed the slopes like a gazelle. The girls of the hospital looked at him with adoring eyes. But Hoang An shared his goodness with everyone, thus there was no fighting among the girls waiting for life’s chances. So when he was completely rehabilitated, the head of the hospital kept him there instead of transferring him to another post. Eventually, Hoang An became a member of the hospital staff without specific duties. He seemed extremely pleased with his new role. Nobody said anything, but people understood that soon he would be sent to the rear because he could no longer fight. Until then, it was best to dedicate himself to helping others.

One frigid morning, with fog covering the mountains, the loud horn of a vehicle is heard. From the truck comes a shout: “Medical supplies from the regional command have arrived…”

Everyone in the hospital rushes out, surprised.

“The telegram said two more days before the ambulance would arrive…”

“Who knows? Perhaps there was no bombing so the road was open…”

The staff, including Hoang An, go down to pick up the medicines and medical equipment. It is indeed true that the American bombers have taken the weekend off, which has left the road safe to travel. Everybody is happy because, besides medicines, there are also food and loose-leaf tobacco. When all the packages have been unloaded and lined up neatly along the sides of the road, the driver starts the engine and immediately takes off for headquarters. As the truck rolls a few meters, he suddenly cries out, “I forgot!”

Bending down under the seat, he takes out a tattered and dirty backpack.

“Does this hospital have anyone by the name of Hoang An?”

“That is I.”

“Headquarters sent along this backpack, which belonged to a martyr. Was he truly a relative of yours or not?”

“If not my relative, then why would they send it to me?” Hoang An replies, with doubt in his mind. He wonders whose pack it could be—perhaps that damned Meo tribesman Ma Ly.

The soldier looks at Hoang An and explains: “Not that I am nosy, but the address is very vague. Moreover, in this military region there are six named Hoang An. The administrative office was skeptical of sending it to you because your birthplace is Lang Son but this martyr was a Tay from Thai Nguyen.”

“Ah,” An says, smiling. It is beginning to make sense to him now.

The driver turns over the backpack and squeezes his hand. “I wish you good health.”

“Thank you. I also wish you safe travels.”

Hoang An looks down on the dirty, smelly backpack; it is like a beggar’s bag. He guesses it had been thrown in a stone cave for a while, at least a year or two. That would explain the moldy, dried bloodstains and the many holes made by roaches eating the canvas. Attached to the pack is a faded piece of white paper on which someone had written not too long ago.

An is lost in his thoughts for a moment. The name Hoang Huy Tu evokes a time of warmth and happiness. He had been the husband of An’s sister My. Tu’s family had lived close to the town of Lao Cai. His father had been a famous welder. Hoang An has fond memories of his sister’s wedding; it was the first and only time he had set foot in Lao Cai.

After everyone returns to the hospital and the medicines and food have been stored away, An takes Tu’s backpack and walks toward the stream, where he can be alone. He carefully opens the pack, which contains a fall-winter outfit, a dry tube of toothpaste, a brush with worn-out bristles, a small horn comb, and an envelope sealed by layers of plastic. A smell of mildew is mixed with that of the damp cloth.

“This is all that is left of a handsome and healthy man. All that is left from a husband and a father. The possessions of Lieutenant Hoang Huy Tu. Precious items that someday I will turn over to My and her children.”

He sits there for a while before the insignificant items. Then he opens Tu’s letter. It is written on the ruled paper of kindergarteners.

Dear Brother,

Since the day I saw My off to go to Lao Cai, so much time has passed and so many things have happened. Even though we have had no opportunity to meet since then, I have never forgotten you because My always reminds me of you. We have two children, both boys. My family moved to Thai Nguyen after you enlisted, because there my father found a connection to do big business and the welding shop had potential to grow. My father is also old and the production for which we are responsible required hiring almost ten workers. I have nothing to complain about, except among the three brothers, two must take the road. With no clear news about the youngest brother, tomorrow I have to fight in Thanh Hoa. Soldiers sent there have little hope of return. It is said that the earth is hard and narrow, therefore corpses are not buried singly but mostly piled up by five or seven. This afternoon, the whole company is writing letters to their families. I am writing to you. Everybody thinks quietly that it is the last letter they will ever write as a soldier.

Dear Brother, there is something you have surely guessed about but didn’t know for certain. Miss Xuan and Miss Dong were both killed in the year of the rooster (1957), their skulls smashed with a wooden mallet. The body of Miss Xuan was thrown on the side of a road outside Hanoi, making it appear that a car had hit her, pretending it was a traffic accident; and Miss Dong was thrown under the bridge across Khe Lan, on the road to That Khe. I only learned about this three years after the fact through an acquaintance. My parents-in-law and Mr. Cao were all killed in the winter of the year of the dog (1958), a year after the deaths of the two women. When I returned to Xiu Village, three weeks after that disastrous night, only ashes remained of the two houses. The hamlet people said that one night they had suddenly heard a helicopter landing by Son Ca Falls. Because it was so cold and dark, nobody went outside to look. About half an hour later, the two houses went up in flames. When neighbors arrived, they smelled gasoline and the fire was high like a dragon lick, so they could do nothing. Looking through the flames, they could not see one person. They stood there like statues, watching each beam fall. The fire burned until the next day. Later the charred body of Mr. Cao was found among the ashes. My parents-in-law were missing, invisible. The district proclaimed that a company of American lackeys from South Vietnam had flown up to start the fire and bring havoc to our people. But I know that the killers were the same ones who killed Miss Dong and Miss Xuan. Our Tay logic tells me that.

Dear Brother, early tomorrow morning we have to leave. Surely there will be no return. Please live to revenge this by any means. Please protect My and our children. If you do, even in the grave, I will owe you a debt forever.

Your younger brother, Hoang Huy Tu

The signature is firm, not a bit shaky; the writing of a welder who had used a hammer since youth. Hoang An puts the letter down. An emotion shakes his body. Then thoughts run through him one after the other like rats.

“They murdered the women with a wooden mallet because that was the most frugal and simple way to kill. They stabbed Mr. Cao, letting people think that his death was due to some score being settled among playboys because Mr. Cao had left the hamlet to run around for twenty years. They kidnapped my uncle and aunt in an airplane and killed them, then threw their bodies in the woods of another town, making it appear as if bandits had murdered them, because my uncle was then village chief, the lowest position in the power machine. All my loved ones destroyed as chess pawns. I have no one left in this world…no one.”

The flames in his head burn like the fire of the two houses. The rats inside his head do not stop running back and forth, jumping around. The thick smoke rises right to the top of his skull and a sharp pain erupts in his stomach, overflows his throat, and pushes into his lungs with a burning hot steam, as if his chest is now a pressure cooker ready to explode. Suddenly, he lets out a terrifying scream, one that makes him dizzy; it sounds like the roaring of an odd monster who has borrowed a human throat.

Everybody comes out to look. They have never heard such a horrifying scream; it sounded like wild waves twirling with a terrifying force. People are so scared that they stop breathing. Such a scream could only have come from a river demon, a mountain devil, or a demented, wicked giant who was extremely agitated.

But there is nothing to see other than Lieutenant Hoang An sitting by himself at the side of the stream. As he hears the footsteps of the approaching group, Hoang An turns around, his face pale but smiling broadly.

“This is my brother’s backpack; he died in the Thuan Hoa battle. I could not bury him nor can I cry for him. I screamed from rage. I hate America’s lackeys.”

“Comrade An…” The head of the hospital gently puts his hand on his shoulder. “Please go back to the hospital to rest. It is war. We are all here because of this war. All of us hate America’s lackeys…”

The president awakes at midnight from very heavy dreams, his heart apprehensive and tense. From the two guards outside comes the sound of the
slapping of cards. It’s 1:25 a.m. He pulls the blanket to his chin and absentmindedly listens to their whispering:

“Eight.”

“Ten.”

“Queen of Spades.”

“King of Spades.”

“King of Hearts…you’re about to die, kid.”

“Dying, no shit. The red king is hot. I’ll wait to see what you drop.”

“Kid, it’s the end of your life.…Ace of Spades. Where is the joker? Play it. If not, just surrender…”

“OK, I accept defeat this time. If I’d had the joker I would give you a sticky face. Now it is eighty-three. You still owe me five rounds. It’ll be hard to undo tonight, mister.”

“They are really happy, these lads who play at cards,” the president thinks to himself. “In victory, they eat a couple of sesame or peanut candies. In defeat, the opponent will paint their face with ashes. Their game hurts no one; no blood is shed, no heads roll, no one harbors hatred.”

A face appears in the president’s imagination—the face of the woodcutter’s son. He sighs.

“My own son: if the traitors leave you alone and don’t kill you, for sure you will live as just an ordinary person. You will mix with those at the bottom of society. Someday you will play cards for sesame candies and get a mustache like those guards. Who knows, maybe you will be satisfied with such anonymity. Perhaps games that pay off in candy might bring you real happiness.”