From That Day, Farewell

Translated from the original French text by Grand Master Nam Anh, 1999

Before the final gong had fully faded, the camp inmates had already spilled out into the yard, each vying for a favorable spot to bask in the sun. I withdrew from the crowd together with the elder master to savor a moment of quiet. This morning, sunlight drenched the vast central courtyard of the camp in brilliant gold — a color that cruelly mocked the harshness of fate. Christmas was only a few days away, and the faint air of festivity that lingered in the atmosphere only made our hearts heavier still.

The elder master suddenly called to me, his voice unusually tender:

— Come sit beside your Master, child — my back itches terribly!

I had lost count of how many times I had lifted the tattered cloth the Master wore to scratch the wrinkled skin — layered with years and ravaged by festering scabies, that cruel affliction which had claimed the lives of not a few camp inmates, slowly but surely, embalming them in thick layers of blood and pus. The Master suddenly asked me:

— Tomorrow — will it rain or shine?

I performed the divination using the secret method the Master had taught me:

— Venerable Master, there is a strong likelihood of heavy rain and storms tomorrow — I hesitated for a moment — but a storm in the middle of the dry season, Master?

It seemed absurd! And yet the hexagram clearly showed the image of Water — and not just any water, but a Great Flood! The Master turned to me with delight, patting my shoulder:

— Very good! But you must still train far harder — never forget that a hundred talented hands are no match for a practiced one! This art of divination has been passed down since the age of the Spring and Autumn Warring States¹ and is remarkably efficacious.

Still half-believing, half-skeptical, I asked the Master again:

— So it will not rain tomorrow after all?

— Oh, it will! There will be heavy rain and fierce winds — within our souls, my child!

Gently furrowing his silver brows, the elder master sank into deep contemplation, his gaze fixed upon some mysterious void, his hand slowly stroking his long beard — a habit commonly seen among Eastern sages. Accustomed to the Master’s sudden shifts, I kept a respectful silence and waited patiently for his words of prophecy. The moment his reverie broke, the Master gripped my hand firmly — two iron clamps radiating a deep, burning inner force.

— My child, today is the last conversation between Master and student. Therefore, I will give you the answer you have long been waiting for.

— Venerable Master, please forgive me — but in truth, over the past year, I have come to understand the very core of what you have taught me. I have forgotten all hatred, I no longer know fear, and even the matter of family — wife and children — now appears to me as nothing more than faded, meaningless images. I only wish for a mind at peace, with no desire for the dizzying suffering that comes with success and failure, gain and loss in this world.

The elder master’s voice was both soothing and solemn:

— My child, if life always flowed smoothly according to one’s wishes, how could there ever be the rise and fall of the tides of fortune? If the road of life were forever level and smooth, what would set the hero apart from anyone else? You have not yet settled your debt with this life, my disciple! Do not worry — for anger and delusion are like the phoenix reborn from the ashes; they will rise again the moment you return to society.

— But Venerable Master, tomorrow you and I must part — I wish to…

The Master waved his hand to cut me off and clicked his tongue:

— People commonly cling to life and fear death, just as they desire union and dread separation — not knowing that death is the very condition of birth, and that parting is what makes reunion possible. Can a person of wisdom such as yourself truly not rise above such ordinary sentiments?

Rain soaked the soul; fire scorched the heart — two forces of Yin and Yang merging as one, my entire being submerged in a deep and still suspension. Dimly, as if from a distance, I heard the elder master ask:

— What is your name?

Without waiting for my reply, the Master suddenly roared like thunder:

— What use is a name?!

The Master’s shout reverberated to the very depths of my consciousness, tearing away the veil of ignorance within me. I raised my head. The Grand Master stood before me — solemn and still as a marble statue of Laozi. His long silver brows hung down like a curtain over sunken, bony eye sockets, from which blazed two surging currents of inner power. In fewer than three rainy seasons, a full century of blood, tears, and suffering would have been poured upon that gaunt frame, already bent beneath the accumulated weight of a lifetime. The Master explained:

— According to the art of physiognomy, you possess the Dragon Brow, the Phoenix Eye, and the Tiger Gaze — signs that in time you will attain the highest distinction in both literary and martial pursuits. Your name will resound to the farthest corners of the earth… Your sacred duty is to educate and enlighten humanity — but keep far from the realm of politics, for politics is nothing but the corruption of the soul! Remember: the strength of a noble person lies in placing Virtue above all else and always honoring truth, while the weapons of a petty person are nothing but slander and scheming!

— Venerable Master, how could I ever be capable of bearing such a weighty responsibility?

— Hear me well: success and failure cannot be the measure of a hero. Moreover, I have already thought of someone who can teach you far more than I ever could — in both martial skill and breadth of knowledge. To that end, when you are released from this camp, seek out that person without delay and recount to them “an old story, a thread of former grace”². That person will understand the deep bond between Master and student, and will fulfill your wish. That is all there is to it!

As he turned to leave, the Master discreetly pressed into my hand a small scrap of paper bearing the address of the one who would become my future Master.

The Warring States Period: the third century before the Common Era.
“An old story, a thread of former grace”: This short story is an anecdotal exchange between a Zen master and two disciples. It was only several years later, through the guidance of Grand Master Nguyên Minh, that I came to fully understand the profound meaning hidden within that tale.