The Eaves of Heaven

by Andrew X. Pham

  As the frequency of Ms. Nguyet’s visits increased, Vien’s frustration grew into anger, then outright hostility. “Oh, here comes that freeloading harlot again. She had better not expect me to wait on her hand and foot,” Vien would say to anyone nearby, loud enough for Ms. Nguyet to hear, but not my father.

  Vien was from a poor peasant family and did not know how to suppress or express her fury. She was fiercely territorial and lacked the subtleties that were expected of a woman at the time. The more aggressively she pursued Father, the more he sought refuge in Ms. Nguyet’s soothing companionship. Vexed, Vien screamed, cussed, and vented her anger by being rough with the baby. Eventually, things reached a climax after Ms. Nguyet spent five consecutive nights at the house.

  The moment Ms. Nguyet left, Vien confronted Father as she served his breakfast. She poured his tea and announced, “Mr. Hao, I cannot work in these conditions anymore.”

  “What conditions would those be?” said Father. I could tell by his tone that Father was irked that Vien was not educated enough to know that mealtime was never the appropriate time for a row.

  “Ms. Nguyet is a bad influence on the children,” said Vien.

  Hung and Hong ate their chicken rice porridge, oblivious to the adults’ undercurrents. Tan and I glanced at each other, but didn’t dare say a word. Vien’s claim wasn’t true on two counts: First, the inn was full of prostitutes. Second, Ms. Nguyet always sequestered herself in Father’s room with the opium as soon as she arrived at the house, especially after Vien began baring her claws.

  “The children are fine. You shouldn’t worry about them,” he said, reaching for his tea.

  “Well, I refuse to work like this. Either Ms. Nguyet stops coming here, or I quit. I can easily find better employment elsewhere!”

  Sighing, Father put down his teacup and canted his head in contemplation. There was much tension in the house, and yet he would have preferred to do nothing. It was his character. He never acted unless forced—as Vien was doing then.

  The longer he took to reply, the smugger Vien looked. She thought she had trumped him. If Ms. Nguyet were banished from the house, it was only a matter of time before Vien would become his wife—a disastrous scenario. My mother had been a quiet woman. I had never heard her yell or speak harshly to anyone—servant or stranger. I shuddered at the thought of a loud, brassy stepmother like Vien controlling my life.

  Father nodded and said, “Ms. Vien, you have been a wonderful nursemaid for my daughter. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and obviously, you’ve made up your mind so it wouldn’t be fair for me to keep you any longer. You have every right to seek better employment elsewhere. Naturally, I will include a good bonus with your severance pay.”

  WITH Vien’s departure, the household came under a peaceful spell. Father found another nanny for the baby. Our business was doing well. Tan and I proved ourselves capable managers. Carefree, Father eased deeply beneath the opiate currents with Ms. Nguyet at his side. It was perhaps the happiest period of his addiction. They slept, made love, smoked opium, dreamed, ate, and chatted in uneven, looping hours. Their curtains were drawn against both the sun and the moon. Time was not their concern. Servants brought them all they required. For months, ages really, they led a serene, almost connubial life, enwrapped and enraptured by each other. Day and night, they curled around the warmth of the yellow flame, the opium between them as precious as a child.

  UNCLE Tao, who often smoked opium at our house, saw that—short of a miracle or his own intervention—Ms. Nguyet would become Father’s next wife. Knowing Father’s passive nature and Ms. Nguyet’s background, he feared that the woman would seize our family business and mistreat his nephews and niece. It was clear to him that our chances of being in financial ruin were real and significant.

  At one of their opium sessions, Uncle said, “Nguyet wants to marry you. She’s after your money.”

  They were coming out of the reverie from the first round of opium. It was the usual period when they liked to talk. Father was lying on his side. He smiled. “Do you know any woman who doesn’t want money?”

  “But this one is a devious professional. Sooner or later she will give your money to a younger lover.”

  “Any wife can cheat on you if you cannot satisfy her needs.”

  “But the chance of adultery is higher with co dau than with a virgin wife.”

  “I know, that’s why I paid her for every visit, even though she refused the money.”

  “That’s not the point. If you keep letting her come frequently like this, one day you’ll wake up and decide that you want her around permanently. You won’t be able to stand the thought of her serving other men.”

  “I know you’re right, but I need a companion.”

  “A woman like her won’t raise your children well. You must find a woman to marry quickly or you’ll fall into her trap. Isn’t there anyone you fancy?”

  “The butcher across the street has a very nice daughter.”

  “Oh, heaven! That beauty queen is far out of your reach! Besides, even though he’s only a butcher, he won’t ever let her marry an addict like you no matter how big a dowry you offer.”

  “Ah! You see my problem? No one wants an addict with four children, and I don’t have the energy to look for another woman.”

  Uncle Tao chuckled. “You’re a hungry man who can’t be bothered to cook.”

  “And I’m a finicky eater too!”

  They laughed. Uncle Tao promised to help him find a suitable wife.

  AN old and wily politician, Uncle Tao had numerous friends and acquaintances in Hanoi. Like most successful public figures, he had a knack with people and understood them. Being a heavy opium user himself, he knew Father needed a young obedient wife raised with traditional values, who would not have the temerity to question Father’s ever-deepening addiction. She must be prepared to work diligently as a wife. In other words, she must be a traditional Vietnamese mother who was willing to sacrifice herself for her children and family.

  A few weeks later, Uncle Tao introduced Father to Mr. Cuong, who had a daughter of marriageable age. Mr. Cuong was a former magistrate of a small domain in Hung Yen and enjoyed a good reputation as an honest and fair man. Traditional in every way like the mandarins of his generation, he had married three wives, one after the other, when they failed to give him a son. His third wife finally produced a male heir and thus kept him from taking a fourth.

  Father, who was thirty-five years old, decided on Mr. Cuong’s eldest daughter, a sweet, petite girl of twenty-one. At the time, the age difference was not unusual for second marriages, so Uncle Tao made the proposal to the girl’s father. Mr. Cuong agreed, seeing that the suitor, though not young, was a man of means and could provide for his daughter. The girl, whose name was Sanh, met with my father and, with her parents’ encouragement, found him acceptable. Arrangements were made quickly and they were married within two months of setting eyes on each other.

  Father now had a young wife to look after the household, and I had a stepmother, a wonderful and kindhearted woman only three years older than me. She asked us children to call her “Auntie” and adamantly refused to let us address her as “Mother,” saying that she was too young for that title. The following year, she gave birth to a baby boy, Father’s fourth son. Selfless, industrious, and cheerful, she became the pillar of our family.

  THE SOUTH

  1975

  32. THE CAPTURE

  After a frantic night of preparations, we drove out of Saigon at daybreak on May 2, in my in-laws’ Volkswagen Beetle. It was a very tight fit with four adults and seven children. Uncle Khanh was driving. I was in the passenger seat with my two sons, An and Huy, on my lap. Our wives shared the cramped backseat with Tien and Hien, and Khanh’s two young daughters. With our reluctant blessings, our daughter Chi had opted to stay behind with her grandmother.

  On the surface, life in Saigon had returned to near normal within two days of “The Liberation.” The residentia
l streets were peaceful and quiet. Army uniforms, file cabinets, and debris left by refugees had been pushed into piles on the curbs. On the major avenues, most shops reopened for business as usual. The restaurants, however, had a booming trade. Fear did wonders for the appetite. People packed the noodle shops and dumpling diners, wolfing down meals as though they had just emerged from a fast. Rumors circulated that there were no blockades on the roads.

  The conquerors were busy. They made no new laws or declarations regarding travel restrictions. High-ranking officers were availing themselves of the empty mansions and the clubs of the deposed elites. The victorious army that had paraded into Saigon two days before had settled into makeshift camps in the city parks and at the government buildings. They kept a surprisingly low profile. Their green uniforms had a camouflaging effect, blending them with the trees and bushes in the parks. If I hadn’t been looking, I wouldn’t have noticed them lounging in hammocks and cooking over campfires in the middle of the city.

  They kept themselves largely out of sight, leaving the local paramilitary units to control the streets. I was very impressed with the Communists’ discipline. There was no pillaging, commotion, or any type of public disturbance. The soldiers didn’t wander the city, celebrating their victory. I would have been awestruck if I had known that they had endured unimaginable hardships during the war. Later, I would learn that many of them didn’t even know how to use a flush toilet, and that some high-ranking cadres had never seen a color television.

  Saigon felt almost serene. Some refugees began leaving the city to go home. Traffic was very light. Like us, many were looking for an escape route. Some headed to the nearest coastal cities of Vung Tau and Phan Thiet. Our destination was at the very southern end of the country, a coastal town called Rach Gia near the Cambodian border. Uncle Khanh claimed he had a contact there.

  Uncle Khanh was actually twelve years younger than me, but since he married Aunt Han, my stepmother’s younger sister, I was stuck calling him “Uncle,” which at first made both of us a bit uncomfortable. Although Uncle Khanh was an army colonel, he wasn’t rich. His assignments in the Special Forces kept him on the front line for the length of his service, so he was the poorest colonel I knew. He had this Volkswagen Beetle and a modest house. His parents were southerners and lived in the same alley as my father. They worked out of their home as bamboo-screen weavers. Most nights, they could be found sipping beer, playing guitar, and singing vong co in front of their house. In every respect, they were the same as their working-class neighbors who were enthusiastically cheering the Viet Cong as victors in an unwanted war. But Uncle Khanh had served in the South’s army, and now he was on the run like me while his family in Saigon waited fearfully for the Viet Cong’s retribution that would surely come.

  We’d barely cleared the outskirts of Saigon when the left rear tire went flat. The women and children sat on the side of the road while Uncle Khanh and I changed the tire with the spare. Sensing the adults’ mood, the children became very quiet. Anh and Aunt Han were talking fiercely.

  Aunt Han finally said what was on everyone’s mind: “This is a bad omen. We’re not even an hour from the city.”

  “Do you want to turn back?” I asked her. She looked at Uncle Khanh.

  He shook his head. “If we turn back, we’ll be caught at home sooner or later. If we push on, there’s at least a chance we can get out of the country before they tighten their border control.”

  I said, “Uncle Khanh, are you sure your friend can find a boat with a good skipper?”

  “I’ve known him five years. He was one of my best commandos.”

  Without Anh and me, Uncle Khanh and his wife couldn’t afford to buy the boat. It was risky, but it was all we had. Looking at the dozens of middle-class cars going our way, I figured we weren’t the only ones with this plan.

  I took Anh’s hands and looked into her eyes to let her know I would do whatever she wanted. Anh wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been in the army. She closed her eyes a moment and took a breath to gather the courage to go against an omen. She nodded.

  RACH Gia at dusk looked like a beached fishing trawler, barnacled underbelly exposed, rigging askew, and spilling bilge muck. It was an unsettling sight that hurried us into the nearest hotel by the city square. We took two rooms, but were afraid to leave our money in the hotel. We stuffed our gold, cash, and jewelry into homemade bandoliers and wore them underneath our clothing. The streets were dark and a smell of smoke was in the air. We walked to a restaurant half a block down the street. During dinner, there was some commotion in the street. Down at the fisherman’s wharf, a gunfight broke out between the local VC regiment and some South Vietnam officers in civilian clothes trying to board a ship. A South Vietnam major was killed, his men captured. We retreated to our rooms. Uncle Khanh’s contact would have to wait for morning.

  At 2:00 a.m., Anh woke me and said, “I had a dream. The Viet Cong came to our room and arrested us.”

  Drowsy, I didn’t understand what she was trying to say. “They came to our house?”

  “Not the house. Here in this room!” she exclaimed. “They jailed us.”

  I shot out of bed. Anh often had uncanny premonitions. There was nothing we could do except hide our gold and cash. Leaving the hotel at this hour would surely get us shot. We woke Uncle Khanh and his wife and told them to hide their money.

  A Viet Cong patrol came to the hotel within the hour and began searching. We stood with the children in the corridor while they ransacked the rooms. They missed the gold and money hidden among the children’s clothing. They were looking for weapons and ammunition and said that out-of-towners had been seen in a restaurant nearby wearing bandoliers of ammunition hidden under their clothing. It was possible that someone had mistaken our gold belts for ammo.

  Around five in the morning, a car with loudspeakers circled the town, announcing that the government had declared martial law and ordered all non-residents of Rach Gia to leave the city and go home. Hopes dashed, we left for Saigon at dawn, not suspecting any deception.

  The previous day, the checkpoint right before Rach Gia only had a couple of guards who waved us through without a word. Today, it was staffed with many soldiers in PAFL uniform and civilians with red armbands. They signaled for us to stop. Two other cars had stopped in front of us, the occupants sitting on the side of the road with their luggage. Civilians with red armbands were searching the luggage. A man told us to step out of the car. He collected our identity cards, saying that they were looking for soldiers of Thieu’s regime with concealed weapons because those “traitors” still did not see the revolutionary light and refused to surrender.

  Uncle Khanh kept saying that we should be fine because we didn’t have any weapons. I didn’t reply, but I thought we were certainly in trouble. Aunt Han and Anh were busy looking after the children. My son An was old enough to sense something wrong, but the other young ones started chasing each other around the car and going over to look at the two cars stopped in front of us.

  The guerillas frisked us and then searched our belongings. I was impressed with their discipline. They found wristwatches, cash, and jewelry in our luggage, but they did not take anything. After about half an hour of searching without finding weapons, they told us they must take us back to the city to wait for orders from their superiors. Some very young men with AK-47s rode motorcycles to escort us back to Rach Gia along with the two other civilian cars.

  It was clear then that we were under arrest. Whoever engineered the capture was very devious. Arresting all the out-of-towners last night would have caused considerable commotion. Some might have escaped. But today, by ordering non-residents to leave Rach Gia, they netted everyone since there was only one road out of the city. Catching people at the checkpoint was clean and efficient.

  “Why did you leave dollars in the open?” Aunt Han asked Anh right after we got in the car. “They must have arrested us because of the money! They probably don’t know that people could buy U.S. doll
ars on the black market in Saigon. They could charge us for being spies!”

  “I’m sorry. They must have fallen out from one of the pants,” Anh replied, feeling guilty. She had sewn several small clips of U.S. $100 bills into the children’s clothes. Somehow one clip fell out in the search. We didn’t know at the time that all non-residents of Rach Gia who tried to leave the city that day were arrested.

  “What should we tell them?” Uncle Khanh asked.

  “Tell them we were returning to Saigon because we heard there was no more fighting,” I said.

  “But they will say there was no fighting when we left Saigon.”

  “They don’t know when we left.”

  “They could ask us to prove when we arrived here and where we stayed.”

  “In this chaos, they won’t have the time to check what we say. I think if we take the chance and if they believe us they may let us go.”

  “If they believe us.” Uncle Khanh was skeptical.

  His face was taking on a sick pallor. Beads of sweat trickled down from his forehead. He was terrified for good reasons. As a former high-ranking army officer in the Special Forces, he could certainly expect serious punishment if caught. Seeing him in distress made me think about my own situation, which, in fact, was worse. I had worked for USAID, a well-known front for the CIA. It would not matter to the Communists that I was drafted.

  “Maybe we should not tell them that we are related,” Aunt Han said. I knew she was afraid the Communists might suspect that she and her husband were American collaborators like us. We had U.S. currency. Normal people working for the Americans were not paid with U.S. dollars.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea. Maybe we should say we gave you a ride,” Uncle Khanh said. I was disappointed to hear him say that. Even if he claimed he gave us a ride to make some cash, the Communists would not believe him.