Saturday morning—unlike any other in recent history. A stillness hung in the air alongside the wisps of smoke from the recently ceased fighting. Mr. Tho fidgeted on a plastic stool at the edge of the traffic-less street. A fly was being particularly bothersome.
“Mr. Tho? You’re outside?”
“What are they going to do to me? I’m already ninety-five. Or is it ninety-four?”
“Mr. Tho?”
“I knew the day would come. History returns. This fly keeps returning too.”
“Mr. Tho?”
“History repeats itself so often that we never predict it. Even though it’s written on our calendar.”
He clapped his hands together attempting to trap the insect.
“Mr. Tho?”
“We shall have to find the strength within us once more to repel the Hans.” He swatted again and watched the pest escape past him. “They never learn, nor do we.”
“Mr. Tho? The electricity is coming back on. Now. There’s supposed to be an announcement. That’s what everyone’s saying.” The young teen seemed eager, if not agitated, but old Mr. Tho barely paid attention. “Mr. Tho, come. My mother wants you to see the announcement.”
Tho didn’t acknowledge the invitation. He just stood up with great difficulty. His knees ached from another poor night’s sleep. “Though I wish I had passed on from this life before I saw another occupation. This body will do no one any good in the struggle. Good thing my mind is razor sharp.” He let out a belly laugh, which converted to a cough.
“What, Mr. Tho?”
“Did you have to live on the second floor? The puffiness on the backs of my knees …”
The boy helped the old man through a metal gate and up two flights of stairs into a modest two room apartment. The mint green walls were pocked by the constant attack of oppressive humidity. A middle-aged woman lit the tips of red joss sticks of incense on a shelf clasped to the wall, holding several photographs of loved ones who had passed.
“Mr. Tho,” the woman greeted him. “Come. Sit. The power is supposed to come back on at 8 o’clock. Then we can have tea and watch the announcement together.”
“Oh, we are being civilized again? Since when does anyone in this country follow the clock?”
As the clock struck eight, the surge of electricity could be heard all around them. The fan started and the dimly hung bulbs glared every wattage they could afford. They each looked around the room as if they were seeing something new, a magical power they hadn’t ever experienced.
“This is a sure way to know our own compatriots didn’t flip the switch,” quipped Tho. “We’d still be in the dark if it was our Vietnamese engineers at the helm. There never was a hash mark on a clock they didn’t enjoy ignoring.”
“Behave yourself,” said Lien, the mother of the teen. She switched on the television and turned to channel four. A live feed of Ba Dinh Square caught everyone’s attention.
“My glasses,” said Tho. “I didn’t bring them.”
“Here, use mine,” said Lien.
“I can’t see far. I can’t see near. I can’t see at all without them.”
“Then why don’t you keep them with you at all times?”
“What is it about Hanoi on a day like this that I would like to see? Actually, I would like to see the Auntie Linh selling pho again. I would like to taste it too. And I don’t need my glasses to eat pho.”
Lien smiled. “Well I see you’re as ornery as ever. I hope you never lose that.”
“When I do, I pray my nieces and nephews will be placing incense next to my photo on the family altar.”
“Tho, you don’t have nieces and nephews. You were an only child.”
“At my age, everyone is my niece or nephew.”
“Look!” Minh, the young teen boy, pointed as the camera panned to the backdrop of the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, the granite structure towering over the square, which honored the legacy of the patron saint of modern-day Vietnam. In front of it stood the most disconcerting, incongruent image only meant to instill fear in the masses—if the last thirty days of raids hadn’t done that enough — a contingent of Chinese soldiers.
A wooden rostrum had been constructed in the foreground of the soldiers. Several Chinese officials, mostly in uniform, stood in a row behind a narrow lectern with one microphone.
“Oh, these Chinese have a flare for the dramatics, don’t they?”
“Why do you say that?” asked the teen.
“Mimicking the day Uncle Ho stood right there and declared independence in 1945. Mark my words, the Chinese will do the same. I guarantee you they use the word independence.”
The mother gripped a towel in her hand and squeezed it. “Tho, what do you think will happen?”
“Look to the past.”
“Mr. Tho,” asked Minh, with a passionate plea in his eyes. “Do you think the rumors are true?”
“Which rumors? I can’t keep them straight.”
“The rumor of the demon warrior. That’s what everyone calls him. The demon warrior who penetrates the most guarded fortress in the middle of the night. Nothing can stop him.”
“Rumors are always true, but always half false at the same time.”
“They call him the black demon,” said the mother.
“Nonsense,” said the old man.
“Tho, you of all people should believe in magic.”
“Only when I need to make a living. But what’s a man of my age need? A bowl of pho and a place to squat and do my business. Preferably not at the same time. Though that’s not always controllable.”
Lien slapped him in a playful way. “Look.”
A figure stepped to the microphone. He wore a Chinese Communist insignia on his hat and a Chinese-Vietnamese unification pin on his lapel. He spoke flawless Vietnamese, not missing a tone or inflection. The words eased off his lips like the methodical and smooth-flowing Red River during the dry season.
“Residents of Hanoi. The electricity was returned at exactly the moment we promised. Because we keep our promises, unlike the filthy liars who have poisoned your government for years. We are here to confirm that Hanoi has been liberated by the traitors …”
“Oh yes, a great start. Wait for it,” interrupted Tho.
“… to ensure the people’s independence …”
Tho burst out laughing.
“… and to re-establish the ancient ties which have always linked our two great peoples.”
Tho hit his knee with another howl. “Oh, I was not aware you invited me to a comedy show.”
“Shhhh—”
“As of this moment, the lock-down within the city limits of Hanoi has been lifted. You may, and are encouraged to go about your normal lives.”
“Normal lives?” Lien burst out, mimicking Tho’s best mocking tone.
“Oh, you’re seeing the humor, too?”
The broadcast continued: “The markets will be filled with meat and vegetables; indeed, they currently are as we speak. The traitors have made the countryside too unstable at the moment, so you will need a special pass in order to leave the city. This is for your own protection. We are on the cusp of great peace and stability, which will end the bitter regional feuds which have plagued our existence.”
“What a fictional tale!” screamed Tho in delight.
“Shhhh—”
“Community, solidarity, peace, prosperity. This is what we strive for …”
“Says the man who overthrew our government and slaughtered an untold number of our people,” complained Tho.
“Shhhh—”
“Oh, you are so enamored with them … yes, yes, I shall be quiet.”
“Look at this,” said Minh. As the Chinese official continued his monologue, a startling figure with broad shoulders a foot higher than the speaker moved incrementally into view. “Who is that?”
“He’s like a monster.”
“Who?” said Tho. “I can’t see.”
He had a neatly manicured black beard and mustache with slicked-backed hair in a ponytail.
“He must be seven feet tall.”
“Could that be the demon everyone is talking about?”
The camera zoomed in, almost as if they intended to show a closeup of the giant. He was in uniform, but different from the soldiers to the rear or the officials to his left and right. His arms hung off his shoulders like a bodybuilder, and he wore large half-oval sunglasses across his eyes, almost as if it was a mask fused to his face.
“Let me see him?” asked Tho and moved closer. “Oh, I still can’t see anything.”
“His head is twice as big as the man in front of him.”
“Give me your reading glasses.” Tho inched his plastic chair closer to the television with help from Minh.
The man continued speaking. “Disruptions, unwieldy speech, whispers and rumors will not be tolerated. We are at a new beginning, one which will …”
Tho moved as close to the television as the chair would allow him. He put on Lien’s reading glasses and leaned in to inspect the screen.
“Look,” he said. “That insignia on his left chest. That’s from the Wu Dynasty.”
As he was about to say something additional, a shot rang out on the television. The speaker turned in terror and soldiers roared into action but unsure of what to do. The giant man had been struck dead-center chest with a high-capacity rifle. It ripped a hole right through him, a visible hole which didn’t disappear. In fact, the wound didn’t bleed. The camera zoomed in on the chaos and the giant man removed the glasses from his eyes and staggered backwards for a moment, but then he let out a roar, almost beast-like, and the hole in his chest fused together as if it never happened. He gazed directly at the camera, and that’s when Mr. Tho saw all he needed to see. The giant man’s eyes were red, not bloodshot, but solid red as if bing cherries had been deposited in his eye sockets. They glowed as he seethed and hissed once more before putting the glasses back over his eyes.
The Chinese man, who had given the speech, stepped back in front of the microphone. “Do not be foolish in your attempts to overthrow us. We will cut off your heads, all of them, if necessary. That is all.”
The feed fell to static, and Tho sat back in his chair.
“Did you see that?” asked Lien. “He was shot and …”
“A Vietnamese sniper must have tried to take him out, but he didn’t bleed.”
The mother and son bantered back and forth excitedly as the old man pondered the scene.
“Wu Dynasty. I’ve seen that before. I know that. I know him. I …”
The mother and son stopped when they noticed the look on Tho’s face. A terrified look.
“What is it?”
“It can’t be.”
“What did you see, Mr. Tho?”
“That man, the beast, that giant …”
“What, Mr. Tho? Who is it?”
“That was Sun Quan.”
“Who?” asked the teen.
“Mr. Tho,” said Lien. “Sun Quan? The Chinese emperor who lived …”
She trailed off as Tho finished her sentence. “… eighteen hundred years ago.”