by Kien Nguyen
I pulled at Kim's hand. “I see him,” I said. “How do we get to the other side?”
“Come with me,” she yelled over the noise.
It took us twenty minutes to push through the mob to get to a policeman. From a distance, I could hear the marching footsteps. Kim tapped on the officer's shoulder to get his attention. He turned around and looked at her, his eyes bloodshot from the sting of the rain.
“We would like to cross the street,” Kim said to him. “Can you let us through?”
The policeman raised his hand to stop her. “Wait a minute, the prisoners are coming.”
As if to emphasize his statement, at the turn of a street, the band appeared, led by a troop of police. Their banners flapped in the wind, proclaiming slogans like “rectification campaign against the guilty members from within the Communist Party,” and “erroneous thinking and nonsocialist behavior among the traitors deserve a severe punishment from the People's Court,” in trails of dark ink scribbled across white fabrics. The deputy commander of the police sat atop a moving jeep, reciting Communist rhetoric into a loudspeaker. After each motto, he paused to allow time for the crowd to cheer. The prisoners, at least thirty of them, staggered in two rows, their heads bent downward, their hands tied behind their backs. Conical paper hats, the kind worn by the fool in Chinese operas, identified them with derogatory labels: betrayers, reactionaries, and antisocialists.
As the condemned passed through the crowd, people on both sides pelted them with rotten fruits, bricks, and stones, while at the same time chanting phrases like “long live the Communist Party,” and “beware of the sinister schemes of the Chinese expansionists and the U.S. imperialists.” Angry fists pounded the air, and hoarse voices demanded justice.
From across the street, I saw my grandfather. He stepped forward clumsily, dropping his walking stick on the ground. His hands reached out, shaking. Followed his stare, I looked among the prisoners and saw a beloved face. It was Loan.
As soon as she recognized my grandfather, Loan halted. Her knees wobbled and she fell to the wet pavement. The foolish hat dropped from her thick river of hair and was lost under the feet of the crowd. I saw that a rope was wrapped around her neck, making an X across her chest to dig at her hands, which were bent tortuously behind her back. In her bare feet, she appeared diminutive, almost like a little girl.
My grandfather limped over to Loan. He touched her shoulders, pressed her face against his waist, and stroked her hair. His mouth moved, but I could not hear his words above the street noise. At a corner of the street, a policeman noticed the affectionate display. He strode in between them, using his rifle to shove my grandfather back. The officer's strength and aggressiveness knocked both Loan and my grandfather to the ground. He fell backward, landing hard on his hip.
“Grandpa,” I screamed out.
My grandfather didn't hear me. I dropped the torn umbrella, pushed aside the policeman who was holding Kim and me in place, and plunged into the crowd. My grandfather hoisted himself on his elbows and looked around, disoriented. I helped him up, brushing the filth from his clothes. Suddenly, Kim was beside me. The officer who had hit my grandfather stood a few steps away, blocking Loan from our view. I recognized him as one of Mr. Qui Ba's personal guards.
“Grandpa, are you okay?” I asked him.
“I am fine,” my grandfather replied. “Get me to Loan. I want to say good-bye.”
The officer held up a hand to us warningly. “It is forbidden to show affection to the criminals. I advise you two to get out of here, and take the old man with you.” Someone yelled a taunting comment to the prisoners, and the policeman turned to investigate.
I straightened up and said to Kim, “Please stay here with my grandfather. I will say good-bye to Loan for him.”
While the policeman was distracted, I rushed to Loan. Kneeling beside her, I noticed Mr. Tran for the first time. On the front of his chest hung a big cardboard sign that said, “I was once a member of the cadre, but I dishonored the Party and betrayed my own country. I am now beyond redemption.” He seemed to recognize me, and a rush of shame washed over his face. His upper lip was swollen and curled upward, revealing the black gap where his long, repulsive incisors used to be. Quickly he looked away.
Loan remained on her knees on the ground. Her rain-soaked hair fell over her face, and a few strands caught in her mouth. Remnants of egg yolk and tomato seeds adorned her clothes. My head felt dizzy, as if I were in a nightmare. The noise of the angry crowd faded away. I reached out and touched her cheeks.
Loan buried her face in my hands and cried, her shoulders shaking. Suddenly, I could feel her tongue dart out of her mouth, soft and wet, brushing against my skin, as she expelled something into my palms. Then she lifted her head to look at me intently. In my open hands, a gold necklace and a piece of green jade the size of an old Chinese coin sparkled against the gray afternoon. I closed my fingers instinctively.
“Put it away, Kien,” she said. “Your grandmother gave it to me when I first moved in with your family. Tell your mother I am returning it to her.”
A blow exploded against my back, knocking me forward. I looked up to see the police officer looming above me, his eyes wide with rage.
“Get away from the criminals!” he screamed, whacking me again with his rifle.
“No!” Kim cried out. She left my grandfather on the pavement and ran to seize the officer's arm.
The moment he saw her, his anger changed to fear. “I'm sorry, Miss Kim,” he stammered. “I didn't recognize you.”
Kim took my hand. “We're leaving, right now. We don't mean any trouble.”
We rejoined my grandfather and as quickly as possible, the three of us disappeared into the crowd.
NIGHT FELL over the square and the rain stopped. Outside the Tan Tan Theater, a large stage strung with colored lights faced the large piazza. A wooden bar on the left served as the defendant's stand. At the center of the platform, three male judges sat on a bench, looking down at the front row, where the prisoners were assembled. Since it was a People's Court, there would be no need for jurors or lawyers. Furthermore, the defendants weren't allowed to speak at any point during the trial. The People's representatives had already predetermined their guilt. It now was time for the officials to announce the verdicts.
We stood in the dark, watching the proceedings from behind hundreds of bobbing heads. People moved in and out of their rows, talking loudly to each other, fighting for better seats. Snacks passed from hand to hand, as though everyone were watching a performance. I stood transfixed, gazing at Loan among the prisoners. She sat with her head bent and her shoulders hunched, hiding her face between her knees. Her arms were tied behind her back, and it hurt my eyes to look at her.
When it was time for the trial to begin, a policeman on the stage fired his gun three times. The shots echoed through the square, and the crowd hushed. One of the judges stood in front of a microphone, holding a sheet of paper. Everything became a blur to me until I heard Loan's name called. Two policemen pulled her, kicking and screaming, to the stand. One of the policemen shoved a rag in her mouth to quiet her.
A judge denounced Loan and her husband for their degenerate conduct, which he called “a demonstration of an extremely dangerous kind of peasant Communism: subjectivism, rollback of socialism, and Maoism.” They had betrayed the country, joined hands with the reactionaries. They insulted the honor of the Communist Party. And for that, he said, “They must be punished!” Loan was sentenced to fifteen years' hard labor with no chance of parole. Her husband's punishment was life imprisonment. After the ceremony, both of them were shoved down the stairs and driven away.
AT HOME, my mother waited for my grandfather and me under the guava trees near the compound's entrance. The air was cool after the rain. Rotten guavas lay scattered near her feet, and from the garden steam rose into mist, drifting softly above the ground like pale apparitions. The smell of garlic and fried food lingered in her clothes as she hugged us to
her. I noticed a thick envelope in her hand.
“Guess what?” she cried. “We got our visas. In three months, we'll go to Saigon to be interviewed at the American Embassy. Kien, at last, those countless hours you spent at the community center for their signatures have paid off. Tonight, we'll celebrate our good fortune with a decent meal.”
Lightheaded from the unexpected news, I handed her the necklace. My happy tears tasted bitter at the tip of my tongue.
My mother examined the chain. “What is it?” she asked.
“It's from Loan. She said to return it to you. We just came back from her trial.”
My mother looked at my grandfather and said sadly, “Oh, Daddy, I am so sorry —”
My grandfather raised his hand to interrupt her. “Please, don't be,” he replied, limping away into his room. “It isn't anybody's fault.”
“Mom,” I said. “What are you going to do with it?”
She replied without hesitation, “We'll sell it to raise money for the trip to Saigon. What else would you want me to do with it?”
“You can sell the necklace,” I suggested. “But can I keep the jade? It's the only thing left for us to remember Loan.”
My mother frowned. “Are you sure that it is what you want?”
I nodded.
“Okay,” she sighed, separating the jade from the golden chain and handing it to me. “Take it now, before I change my mind. But if you lose it, may the gods help you, because I won't be so understanding at your excuse.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
That night after dinner, I stole away to bed to examine the passports we had received from Hanoi. Each permit consisted of a four-inch-by-twelve-inch sheet, folded into four sections, as thin and fragile as an ordinary piece of paper. The front page was white and stamped with the Vietnamese national symbol—a circle of red on a flag with a yellow star in the middle and bordered with long grains of ripened rice. At the bottom of the image, the golden rice strands were tied together in a red ribbon, and the phrase “Socialist Republic of Vietnam” was printed across its surface. Underneath, it said, “Laissez-Passer, No. 40783ATH1.” Inside was my picture looking straight at the camera, along with a space for my signature. The rest of the passport was dyed a pale green color and covered with red stamps, most of them dated May 30, 1984. Most exciting was the line that read, “The bearer of this ID is permitted to leave the Socialist Republic of Vietnam before May 30, 1985, to final destination: The United States of America.” I repeated the line over and over again, trying to absorb its meaning.
Outside, my mother's voice called me to help with the dishes. I folded the passports away, got up, stretched, and walked out. The roofless kitchen had almost dried from the earlier rain. Still, puddles of stagnant water lay here and there on the floor, reflecting the iridescent, cloudless sky. My mother stood in the dark, watching my aunt's house, waiting. The chilly air howled through the empty dining hall, playing with her thin clothes. My footsteps startled her.
“Shhh.” She put a finger to her lips, signaling for me to be quiet, and whispered, “Don't make a sound. I am waiting for her.”
I halted in my tracks. The whooshing sound of water in the bathroom vibrated through the long hallway. Soon after, I heard the opening and closing of the door, and then the familiar clapping of my aunt's clogs echoed closer. She emerged into the frail glow of the kitchen's light, her hands at the side of her pants, tying the waist strings.
My mother cleared her throat. “Hello, sister,” she said.
She looked up with a gasp. “Oh, hello.” In the shadow of the corridor, her eyes formed two large spots on her face that made her look like a raccoon. “I didn't see you standing there. You scared me half to death.”
“I am sorry. You must have heard about the news. Our passports came today.”
“Yes, I did,” my aunt replied, fixing her clothes. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. There is something I want to discuss with you. I am thinking about selling my house and moving to Saigon. We are leaving soon for America and I want to raise some cash to pursue this —”
My aunt interrupted her. “Wait, don't tell me this now. We need to discuss it with my husband.”
“Why? It's my house and I am going to sell it. I just want you to know about my plan since you are my sister. I don't need to check with your husband.”
My aunt yawned loudly. “I think you should. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” my mother said, nodding. “If you insist—what time?”
She turned away from us. “Nine o'clock, my living room.”
THE NEXT MORNING my mother woke up early even though she didn't have to prepare for the market. In the kitchen, she sat quietly on a small stool, boiling a pot of water to make ginger tea for my grandfather. I lay in bed, awakened by the frosty breeze that gusted through the big gap in the wall where my window used to be. The rough rice sacks felt prickly against my skin. I reached in between their layers for the hidden passports and read the fine print once more time, wondering whether we would actually leave Vietnam by the deadline of May 30, 1985. Jimmy got up from his bed. He walked noisily outside, into the kitchen, scratching his head. My mother handed him a cup of water and a toothbrush packed with a mixture of salt and baking soda. He brushed his teeth and spat out the excess liquid into the garden through a hole in the wall.
Outside, the neighborhood came to life. Houses rang with voices. Cocks crowed, doors squeaked open and closed, and children recited their poems one last time before school. Everything seemed clean and bright after the rain, and the smell of wet soil filled the air.
The grandfather clock in my aunt's house struck nine times, resonating through the garden. My mother wore a silk blouse that was so blue it was almost black, with tiny, faded gardenia flowers printed on it, and a pair of black nylon pants. They were the only decent garments she had left, and they were reserved solely for important occasions. Her hair was pulled back into a simple bun. Her body was stiff, and her eyes stared straight ahead, hard and chilly. She took a deep breath and walked out of the kitchen, heading past the garden. Jimmy and I waited by the window. We watched her disappear behind the tall column covered with thick patches of green moss that led to my aunt's house.
No more than two seconds later, she pushed their door open and stormed out angrily. She raised her fists above her head in frustration as she screamed out, “Daddy, where are you?”
My grandfather poked his head out of his room with a look of bewilderment on his face. His tangled hair stuck out from his head like porcupine quills. “What is going on?” he asked.
My mother stomped through the kitchen door. She kicked the stool out of her way and yelled, “Daddy, there is something I need you to settle for us. Would you please come with me?” She turned to my brother and me and ordered us in the same voice, “You two, get dressed, and follow me.”
Before we could finish putting on our clothes, my mother grabbed Jimmy and me and strode back to my aunt's living room. My grandfather followed us a few steps behind. Waiting for us at the coffee table, my uncle sat with his back to the Buddha's altar. His arms were folded against his chest. Through his thick glasses, his eyes glared at us with a look that spelled trouble. Behind him, like a platoon of soldiers ready for combat, his eight sons stood still, echoing their father's unyielding expression. On the small section of the wall behind the Buddha hung Moonlight's picture, mounted neatly in a black frame, and next to it my grandmother's. Clouds of incense from the altar permeated the tense atmosphere. In the electric silence we could hear the relentless ticking of the clock.
My mother raised her voice, addressing no one in particular. “Where is that awful sister of mine?”
My uncle replied, using the same tactic to counterattack. “My wife can't attend the meeting. Something came up unexpectedly.”
“What can possibly be more important than this? Is she afraid to face me?”
“My wife is not important in this matter,” my unc
le said. “You made us meet you here for a reason. Why don't you just say what you need to say and leave?”
My grandfather spoke up. “Aren't you going to invite us to sit down?”
“Forgive us,” he said. Turning to Le, his oldest son, my uncle ordered, “Pull out a chair for your grandfather.”
Le moved out of his rank like a robot, but my mother waved her hands to stop him. “Forget the phony formality,” she said. “This is going to take only a minute. I want you all to know that I am planning to sell my house.”
“I'm sorry,” my uncle said, “but you can't do that.”
My mother raised an eyebrow. “Why not? It's my house, isn't it? I hold the title deed.”
My uncle turned to his oldest son and signaled to him with his eyes. Le opened a small door behind the Buddha's altar and pulled out a stack of folders, giving it to his father.
“Well?” my mother prodded him.
“Miss Khuon,” my uncle began, turning the pages before him, “you are right about the ownership of your house. However, you can't sell your property, because I am the owner of the land that your house is standing on. It is documented in here. When you calm down, you may examine the papers if you don't believe me.”
Anger darkened my mother's face. “I bought that land from you years ago,” she said. “Your first son just turned fifteen years old the day you brought him to my mansion. I remember giving him his first bicycle, and I gave you the money to pay for the estate and the renovation. My parents and your son witnessed the deal between us. How dare you change the story now? Besides, I practically bought this entire compound for the price that I've paid you through the years.”
My grandfather nodded pensively. “I am not senile yet. I remember that day clearly. Do you remember, Le?”
