A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain (46 page)

“We had fought together to throw out the Japanese. I had very good friends among them. I smoked their lovely Salem cigarettes. They had been repressed by colonialists themselves. Did they not know their own history?”

“Do you mean the Americans?”

“There are a million souls here with me, the young men of our country, and they are all dressed in black suits and bowler hats. In the mirrors they are made ten million, a hundred million.”

“I chose my path, my dear friend Qu
c, so that there might be harmony.”

And even with that yearning for harmony I could not overlook what my mind made of what my ears had heard this morning. Th
ng was telling L
’i that the murder weapon had been disposed of. Th
ng and L
’i both knew the killers, were in sympathy with them, perhaps were part of the killing. The father and son had been airborne rangers and I had several times heard them talk bitterly of the exile of our people. We were fools for trusting the Americans all along, they said. We should have taken matters forward and disposed of the infinitely corrupt Thi
u and done what needed to be done. Whenever they spoke like this in front of me, there was soon a quick exhange of sideways glances at me and then a turn and an apology. “We’re sorry, Grandfather. Old times often bring old anger. We are happy our family is living a new life.”

I would wave my hand at this, glad to have the peace of the family restored. Glad to turn my face and smell the dogwood tree or even smell the coffee plant across the highway. These things had come to be the new smells of our family. But then a weakness often came upon me. The others would drift away, the men, and perhaps one of my daughters would come to me and stroke my head and not say a word and none of them ever would ask why I was weeping. I would smell the rich blood smells of the afterbirth and I would hold our first son, still slippery in my arms, and there was the smell of dust from the square and the smell of the South China Sea just over the rise of the hill and there was the smell of the blood and of the inner flesh from my wife as my son’s own private sea flowed from this woman that I loved, flowed and carried him into the life that would disappear from him so soon. In the afterlife would he stand before me on unsteady child’s legs? Would I have to bend low to greet him or would he be a man now?

My grandson said, after the silence had nearly carried me into real sleep, troubled sleep, my grandson L
’i said to his father, “I would be a coward not to know.”

Th
ng laughed and said, “You have proved yourself no coward.” And I wished then to sleep, I wished to fall asleep and let go of life somewhere in my dreams and seek my village square. I have lived too long, I thought. My daughter was saying, “Are you both mad?” And then she changed her voice, making the words very precise. “Let Grandfather sleep.”

So when H
came tonight for the third time, I wanted to ask his advice. His hands were still covered with sugar and his mind was, as it had been for the past two nights, very much distracted. “There’s something still wrong with the glaze,” he said to me in the dark, and I pulled back the covers and swung my legs around to get up. He did not try to stop me, but he did draw back quietly into the shadows.

“I want to pace the room with you,” I said. “As we did in Paris, those tiny rooms of ours. We would talk about Marx and about Buddha and I must pace with you now.”

“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps it will help me remember.”

I slipped on my sandals and I stood up and H
’s shadow moved past me, through the spill of streetlight and into the dark near the door. I followed him, smelling the sugar on his hands, first before me and then moving past me as I went on into the darkness he’d just left. I stopped as I turned and I could see H
outlined before the window and I said, “I believe my son-in-law and grandson are involved in the killing of a man. A political killing.”