misadventure, some cruel melodrama authored by destiny.
That night he had written in his pocket diary: “Tan Mao Year.”
In the Mao month.
Noon. I had…
But even the most intelligently curious mind could not have completed the unfinished sentence.
“Mr. President, please come in for your meal.”
For a while now the chubby guard has been standing behind him.
“You all have already eaten a while ago?”
“Sir, the company cook is preparing lunch.”
“Oh, is that so?” he mutters. For a time he had been eating irregularly, not even three meals a day. Often he even forgot to eat, and eat well, so that the people could trust in his good health. Forgetfulness is the faithful friend of old age, a friend we can’t shake off no matter how much we try. He turns and enters the room to sit down before the tray with his breakfast. A bell-shaped bowl has a lid covering it. He turns over the hot lid, moist from steam:
“Ah, so today the cook gives us rice gruel.”
The fragrant smell of onions and herbs arises; that fragrant smell so familiar to cooks of long ago. Rice gruel with onions and herbs is light on the stomach as well as a remedy for flu. He has known this fragrance since early childhood.
“Sir, please take your food before it cools,” the chubby guard reminds him, his eyes not leaving the president’s hands.
He bends his head down to see the finely sliced scallions and the herbs as nicely cut as Chinese bean thread noodles, sharply reminding him of the time when he was sick and the girl showed off by cooking rice gruel for him. The gruel unskillfully cooked by the girl had whole rice grains in it and the scallions were still on their stems.
“Little one, you’re a girl from the mountains…! Mountain Girl: you are our nightmare, little one, our private nightmare…”
“Oh, please, Mr. President…” the soldier blurts out, tilting his head to hear some low noise. After a minute:
“An airplane is coming up, Mr. President, do you hear it?”
“I don’t hear anything. The ears of someone over seventy can’t compete with those of an eighteen-year-old,” he answers with a smile.
He looks to the east. The sun had already been up for some undetermined time. It is a completely ordinary day; the sun wants to hang just like a ripe orange suspended in the air, as a gentle sun, not one of sheer brilliance. A sun still undecided in the middle of a dream; a drowsy sun that could signal something ordinary like a burning areca nut or something like a carriage furiously bringing fire to burn all the land on a cursed planet. The white clouds still swirl like the sea around the mountaintops, but around the sun is a light blue halo. A blue completely surrounded by a strange darkness.
That blue was the color of endless summers. Why has it appeared today?
While he stands looking at the sky to the east, the phone in the corner of his room rings stridently. The chubby guard runs in to answer and comes back to report:
“Mr. President, sir, the helicopter has arrived. The office invites you to go down to the landing strip.”
“Has Chief Vu come up?”
“Yes, Chief Vu will accompany you with a bodyguard to take part in someone’s funeral in Tieu Phu hamlet. After that, Chief Vu will follow you back to the pagoda. The program has been set.”
“I will change clothes.”
“Sir, you need to finish all your rice gruel, as the day is very cold. The first squad of guards will come up here to accompany you down to the landing strip.
“Clothes must be chosen.
“Mr. President, sir, all is ready.”
6
The mountain roads curve back and forth like a chicken’s entrails. Hearing the sound of music, one might think it was close at hand, but the curved road makes its source rather far off. On both sides of the way, bushy bamboo blocks a traveler’s progress. But the special singing to send off a soul is continuously melodramatic. First notes from a one-string zither, then those of a flute and a two-string
That night he had written in his pocket diary: “Tan Mao Year.”
In the Mao month.
Noon. I had…
But even the most intelligently curious mind could not have completed the unfinished sentence.
“Mr. President, please come in for your meal.”
For a while now the chubby guard has been standing behind him.
“You all have already eaten a while ago?”
“Sir, the company cook is preparing lunch.”
“Oh, is that so?” he mutters. For a time he had been eating irregularly, not even three meals a day. Often he even forgot to eat, and eat well, so that the people could trust in his good health. Forgetfulness is the faithful friend of old age, a friend we can’t shake off no matter how much we try. He turns and enters the room to sit down before the tray with his breakfast. A bell-shaped bowl has a lid covering it. He turns over the hot lid, moist from steam:
“Ah, so today the cook gives us rice gruel.”
The fragrant smell of onions and herbs arises; that fragrant smell so familiar to cooks of long ago. Rice gruel with onions and herbs is light on the stomach as well as a remedy for flu. He has known this fragrance since early childhood.
“Sir, please take your food before it cools,” the chubby guard reminds him, his eyes not leaving the president’s hands.
He bends his head down to see the finely sliced scallions and the herbs as nicely cut as Chinese bean thread noodles, sharply reminding him of the time when he was sick and the girl showed off by cooking rice gruel for him. The gruel unskillfully cooked by the girl had whole rice grains in it and the scallions were still on their stems.
“Little one, you’re a girl from the mountains…! Mountain Girl: you are our nightmare, little one, our private nightmare…”
“Oh, please, Mr. President…” the soldier blurts out, tilting his head to hear some low noise. After a minute:
“An airplane is coming up, Mr. President, do you hear it?”
“I don’t hear anything. The ears of someone over seventy can’t compete with those of an eighteen-year-old,” he answers with a smile.
He looks to the east. The sun had already been up for some undetermined time. It is a completely ordinary day; the sun wants to hang just like a ripe orange suspended in the air, as a gentle sun, not one of sheer brilliance. A sun still undecided in the middle of a dream; a drowsy sun that could signal something ordinary like a burning areca nut or something like a carriage furiously bringing fire to burn all the land on a cursed planet. The white clouds still swirl like the sea around the mountaintops, but around the sun is a light blue halo. A blue completely surrounded by a strange darkness.
That blue was the color of endless summers. Why has it appeared today?
While he stands looking at the sky to the east, the phone in the corner of his room rings stridently. The chubby guard runs in to answer and comes back to report:
“Mr. President, sir, the helicopter has arrived. The office invites you to go down to the landing strip.”
“Has Chief Vu come up?”
“Yes, Chief Vu will accompany you with a bodyguard to take part in someone’s funeral in Tieu Phu hamlet. After that, Chief Vu will follow you back to the pagoda. The program has been set.”
“I will change clothes.”
“Sir, you need to finish all your rice gruel, as the day is very cold. The first squad of guards will come up here to accompany you down to the landing strip.
“Clothes must be chosen.
“Mr. President, sir, all is ready.”
6
The mountain roads curve back and forth like a chicken’s entrails. Hearing the sound of music, one might think it was close at hand, but the curved road makes its source rather far off. On both sides of the way, bushy bamboo blocks a traveler’s progress. But the special singing to send off a soul is continuously melodramatic. First notes from a one-string zither, then those of a flute and a two-string
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