by Kien Nguyen
Le avoided my grandfather's stare. My mother drew a hand to her chest in her struggle for composure. Then she said to my uncle, “What am I supposed to do now? I need to raise money for our trip. Do you have any suggestion as to what we should do?”
My uncle pounded his fist on the glass surface of his coffee table, enunciating each word as though he were talking to a stubborn fiveyear-old child. “I don't care what you do. You are not selling my land. That is my final answer.” He slammed the file shut, making a loud snap with his hands.
Silence returned to the room.
Finally, my mother tossed her hair out of her face. “Very well, you damnable thief. In fact, you are all thieves. If I can't sell my house, I am going to break it apart, brick by brick. You will never get that house, not while I am alive. This is not over yet.” She stormed out, beckoning with her hand for Jimmy and me to follow. My cousins' laughter chased us through the garden.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, Tin showed up at the entrance of our kitchen. The sun peeked through the openings of my bedroom wall, shining on his pimpled face. His crossed eyes blinked apprehensively.
My mother walked out of her room and snapped at him, “What in hell do you want now?”
Tin stammered, “I am here to take back the rice sacks. My father needs them for storage.”
“Take my bed away?” Jimmy protested. “Where will we sleep?”
“Don't argue, Jimmy,” my mother said. She turned to Tin and said in a hoarse voice, “Take them away. Get those godforsaken things out of my house.”
“Mommy, the cement is cold,” BeTi cried.
My mother held her face in her hands, sobbing. “Then get some newspapers, lots of them. We don't need those stinking rice sacks.”
1985
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Saigon, January 2, 1985
With the money we got from selling Loan's necklace, my mother took us to Saigon one week prior to our appointment with the American interviewers. We took refuge at the home of the late Mrs. Dang's parents. The older couple lived within walking distance of the infamous Doc Lap Palace in a small shack that once had been their kitchen. The big house next door, where we had met with Mrs. Dang ten years ago on our way to the helicopter, had been subdivided several times and sold to different people. The kitchen and a tiny bathroom were all that they had left. The cabin was extremely small, even for two elderly people; nevertheless, Mr. and Mrs. Hom welcomed us in with open arms.
Saigon had changed a great deal since the end of the civil war. Like most of its disgruntled, tired citizens, the city showed signs of a difficult course of living. Once-fine houses were crumbling, gnawed by termites. Paint had peeled from walls and been replaced with moss. Through the holes that previously held windows, dirty faces of children peeked out at passersby with blank looks. Bicycles and rickshaws filled the narrow streets, contributing to a constant and deafening noise. In fact, the loud cacophony was difficult for us to get used to in this ever-zealous hive of activity.
I walked numbly through the unfamiliar streets, preoccupied with the complicated departure procedures. I was afraid to face my fears. I did not know where fate would lead my family and me. Our future was a mystery. Whether I was going to leave or stay was being determined by faceless strangers I would never know.
Saigon in 1985 was cramped, congested, and swamped with filth. In the blazing temperature, dirt particles floated in the air and trickled down onto everything like an endless stream of black snow. I quickly learned not to wear anything light in color outside. Things got dirty fast, especially around the center of Saigon, where everybody scrambled to get from one polluted place to the next.
The letter that accompanied our passports gave the address of the emigration office as 4 Duy Tan Boulevard, a street well known for its tall, healthy, and lustrous tamarind trees. These were familiar tropical fruit trees with branches that had whorls of fish-scale leaves and jointed stems entwining together to roof the road like a canopy. Doc Lap Palace and the former U.S. Embassy were just a few blocks away, hidden behind those green curtains of leaves. At six-thirty in the morning, my family and I gathered outside the emigration office's gate with twenty other Amerasian children and their families. All were waiting for a bus that would take us to the interview site, an hour away.
At that time, the embargo between the U.S. and Vietnam was strictly enforced. In order for the American Council of Voluntary Agencies to work in Vietnam, its staff had to fly in from Bangkok every morning to a secluded town outside of Saigon, and leave before night fell. We came by bus to meet with the representatives during those designated hours.
Their place of work was located inside a mansion that had probably belonged to a rich entrepreneur in the past. Remnants of the former owners' expensive taste were still visible. The house sat on one side of a hill, overlooking a forest of rubber trees. Two enormous wings joined together with a much bigger central house in a U shape, embracing a wide, red marble veranda. Large rooms with oversized glass windows on the second and third floors had been turned into offices.
Through the sheer glass, I could see foreign people moving back and forth with folders and pens in their hands. Any of them could have been the one who typed the first correspondence to me. And they now would determine my fate. From a short distance, their faces looked so beautiful, so bright, and yet so alien. How I wanted to be one of them. And for the first time in many years, I was not ashamed of my American features. Watching them made me realize where I came from, and where I should belong. Their presence stirred up in me a surge of anxiety.
As if reading my thoughts, my mother pulled at my arm. “Look, Kien,” she said, pointing at the Americans. “Do you know what that means? The eagle has come for her young.”
Waiting for our names to be called, we gathered around a large rectangular table on one side of the veranda. Each of us was dressed in the nicest outfit that he or she could afford, according to the latest fashion of the city—blue jeans and silk blouses or striped shirts. Most of the Amerasian children in my group ranged in age from twelve to nineteen. They stared at one another, straining to conceal their curiosity with a mask of polite indifference.
Standing apart from the group was a family of sixteen, clad in beautiful clothing and expensive jewelry, and shining like a flock of peacocks. They huddled under a casuarina tree, eating green bean cakes from a picnic basket. A young girl of about fourteen, with straight blond hair and blue eyes, stood shyly among them. In her hands, she held a big pitcher of iced tea made from condensed milk and black tea. The oldest woman in the group, who was so fat that she seemed to swallow the chair underneath her, called out for the girl in a clear, exultant voice, “Give me something to drink, my petite daughter.” She repeated the phrase over and over again, laughing as if at some private joke. A thick coat of powder cracked at the corner of her eyes. Her family recoiled each time she called the girl her daughter. They grunted with disgust, hiding their discomfort in their overly enthusiastic conversations.
When my family's name was called, we ran to meet our interviewer at the foot of a staircase. She was a black woman, dressed in a dark blue business suit, as beautiful and alien as a colored porcelain doll. Her perfume hung in the air like the smell of a black rose in my uncle's garden after the rain. A Vietnamese translator stayed a few steps behind her. After a simple greeting and handshakes, they took us upstairs.
As soon as she opened the door to her office and invited us in, a blast of cold wind from the air conditioner swallowed me in its gentle, westernized embrace. I took in a deep breath, and suddenly, America was inside my lungs. Next to me, my mother began to cry.
SOON AFTER THE INTERVIEW, we left Saigon in a hurry. There was no chance for us to enjoy the view. The city was so expensive that we could not afford to stay too long. Besides, the place of Mr. and Mrs. Hom was too small to accommodate a large family such as mine. My mother assigned Jimmy to stay behind at Mr. and Mrs. Hom's place to monitor the airplane schedule and the list of depart
ing refugees, which was posted every week at the emigration office. After we returned to Nhatrang, we communicated with him mainly through telegrams. My duty was to take care of the paperwork. According to the Vietnamese government, before anyone could leave the country, three essential documents were required: a signature from the Department of Real Estate, a debt-free statement from the Central Bank of Vietnam, and a certification from the Department of Taxation. The purpose was to prove to the government that those departing owned and owed nothing. For us, time was running out.
Rumors about my family's meeting with the American interviewers arrived in Nhatrang before we did. Greeting us in front of our door was a line of Amerasians. Most of these children were homeless. Their filthy clothes were torn, their skin was dull, and their faces had no traces of baby fat. They looked at us, their eyes sparkling with hope. Many of the children had brought along the application they had picked up at the local emigration center. I walked in side by side with my mother and BeTi, reaching for the latch of the front gate.
Two black girls, the first in line, grinned at me. One of them said shyly, “Mr. Kien, would you please help my sister and me? We need to fill out these papers, but we can't read or write.”
Her sister added, “We saved up some money to pay for your services.” She opened her hand to show me a wrinkled twenty-dong note. She must have held on to it so long and so tightly that the bill was nearly decomposed from the perspiration of her palm. Carefully, she laid it in my hand. Both girls were about the same age, thirteen or fourteen. Their hairstyles were enormous, like two thick pine topiaries.
I pushed the money back to her. “Keep it,” I told them. “I can't take your money. But don't worry, I will help you fill out those forms.”
My mother spoke up. “Where do I know you girls? Was it from the noodle shop at Le Chan Street?”
“Yes, madam,” they said simultaneously.
“Dear heaven, all those years, you are still on the street?” she asked. “Where is your mother?”
One of the sisters answered, “She died last year. The doctors said it was from syphilis. We have been on our own since.”
I took the applications from their hands. Curiosity overtook me, and I asked them, “How did you know that we were coming home today?”
The same innocent smile brightened their faces. “We heard about your lucky news at the market on Monday. And since then we have been waiting here for the past three days.”
THAT DAY I filled out more than twenty applications. The next day, more children arrived, bringing with them more papers. Not until then did I realize the shocking number of abandoned Amerasians in my city. Each morning, I woke up to see at least ten faces peering from behind the barbed wire that encircled my front lawn. All wore the same frightened, uncertain, yet trusting expression. They all wanted to touch me, to feel the significant reality of the Americans that I had come in contact with. For most of these children, what happened to my family was the dream they aspired to live someday themselves.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Nhatrang, March 21, 1985
Jimmy's telegram came on Wednesday, March 21, 1985. “Our family was first on the list this morning,” it said. “We are scheduled to leave Vietnam next Wednesday, March 28 . I am going home to say good-bye to Grandpa. Please send Kien out here to replace me. Love, Jimmy. p.s. Kien, have you taken care of all the paperwork yet?”
His last sentence overshadowed the exciting news, restraining me from jumping for joy. For over two and a half months, I had not been able to get the Department of Real Estate to sign a release for my mother's house. Every deputy commander that I met in that office had pushed my application aside once he saw my uncle's name on the land deed. Our case was too complicated and timeconsuming for them to handle, despite the expensive cigarettes and lotus teas that I brought on each visit as “gifts.”
The relationship between my aunt and my mother had reached a new level of friction. Arguments broke out almost every day, with my mother screaming, pleading, and threatening. In desperation, she even offered to give the house to her sister and brother-in-law in exchange for their signatures on the release form. Nevertheless, both my aunt and her husband were so worried about the possible inheritance tax that they turned away from my mother's woeful tears. As far as my uncle was concerned, once my family abandoned the house, it would routinely become his, since the land was in his name. Any action on his part might attract the government's attention, which he feared could pose a potential danger to his family.
“STOP RUNNING AROUND, you are making me dizzy,” my mother shouted to BeTi as they walked through the garden. The loud clanging of her pots and the heavy aroma of fried fish cakes preceded them, pulling me to my feet. My mother sauntered into the kitchen, cursing loudly at no one in particular. The heavy load of her baskets pulled at both ends of the bamboo rod, which dug painfully into her shoulder. She dropped her burden to the floor, squatted down right beside it, and fanned herself with her conical hat. Sweat soaked in large blotches across her blouse, accenting her armpits. BeTi stood at the entrance, holding a half-empty salad bowl. As usual, my sister seemed lost in her own trance.
I sat down next to my mother. “Was business bad today?” I asked her.
“Awful,” she retorted. “The whole block was filled with soup mongers competing with one another. I couldn't even give the food away if I tried.”
I showed her Jimmy's telegram. She glanced at it, and her eyes quickly filled with delight. She grabbed my arms and hugged me tightly, screaming like a happy child. Then, we both leaped onto our feet as she waved the paper above her head triumphantly. BeTi joined us, even though she was unsure about the reason for our outburst.
“Mother,” I said when we stopped to catch our breath, “I have to leave tonight. There is a midnight train leaving for Saigon I want to catch. Jimmy will be here early tomorrow.”
She nodded okay.
“I will need some money for the ticket. And you have to handle the real estate problem on your own. Without that piece of paper, you know we cannot leave this place.”
Just as fast as it came, the cheerfulness vanished from her face. She returned the telegram to me, silently picked up her hat, and stepped outside.
“Where are you going?” I asked her.
Without looking back, she said over her shoulder, “I am going to get you some cash before you leave.”
“How are you going to do that, Mom?”
“I don't know. It doesn't concern you. Go spend some time with your grandfather.”
IN HIS ROOM, my grandfather sat on his newspaper bed. A basket of my grandmother's belongings lay by his side. Quietly, he went through her clothes, unfolding each of her traditional dresses and arranging them in layers in front of him. His eyes were closed, and his arthritic fingers ran along the seams of the faded fabrics. Once in a while, he lifted one up and pressed it against his face, inhaling deeply as if he wanted to absorb what little was left of my grandmother's scent in his lungs. His lips moved faintly. In the stillness of the late afternoon, his voice whispered through the room like a soft breeze, chanting affectionate words to his deceased wife. This peculiar behavior had become my grandfather's ritual ever since my grandmother's death. Sometimes, the overwhelming feeling that she was still in the room with him would frighten my brother and me.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I called out, hoping that my voice would chase the eeriness away.
He looked up. Waves of the afternoon heat slipped through the openings in the wall, washing through his room, through his hair, and into the cement floor, as pungent as the steam off my mother's soup. The hot wind lured me closer to him. Upon seeing me, my grandfather's lips curled into a smile, and he patted the ground next to him.
“Come here,” he said. “Come sit next to Grandpa.”
I moved away from the entrance and sat down beside him.
“Grandpa, I am leaving for Saigon tonight,” I began.
“I know, child,” he said, nodding. “I
heard you and your mother.”
His attention shifted back to the array of clothing. Broodingly, his eyes softened as his fingers ran across a simple black velvet dress with large silver buttons and traditional high collar. Something had discolored the fabric, leaving a blotchy stain from its shoulders all the way down to the front of the skirt. On the elbows, the inside lining peeked through the torn fabric.
“Do you know that this was her favorite dress?” my grandfather murmured tenderly. “She wore it for every occasion. Shopping, dinner at Le Colonial Restaurant, my captain inauguration ceremony, our son's funeral, she was always in this dress.”
“What caused the stain, Grandpa?” I asked him.
My grandfather chuckled, “The stain was from me. Good heavens, she was so mad at me that day when it happened.”
“How could you make such a big stain, and from what?”
His chuckle turned into a healthy laugh as memory flooded his face. “Oh, it happened many years ago. And I don't think she would approve of me telling you this.”
“Sir, you can't do this to me,” I begged. “I am leaving soon. Give me something to remember about you and Grandma, please.”
“Well, you are absolutely right,” he said, smiling. “We don't have much time left together. Let's have some fun on her account. Okay, I'll tell you the story. It began one night. That evening was beautiful with a full moon, and we had just come back from dinner. I don't know if you are aware that your grandmother could become quite a dragon lady when she was jealous. And jealousy makes people do silly things —”
“Where was I?” I interrupted.
He leaned back against the wall. “You were just a little tyke, two or three years old. Your mother had just finished renovating the mansion for us. That night, I wanted to go out for some fresh air on the beach, to walk off the heavy dinner. Somehow, your Grandma didn't believe me. She decided to sneak out, spying on me a distance of about a hundred yards away. I knew she was there all along, but I pretended not to. On the sand, I waddled like a penguin, trying to embarrass her, but she kept on following me. Finally, I stopped, stretched, and said loud enough so that she could hear me, ‘Oh, good heavens, where can a man go when he needs to relieve himself?’ I could hear her plunging into a pine bush. I waited a while, then turned around, and walked over to the bush. I saw that black head of hers and I unzipped my pants and urinated, aiming straight at her hair. She didn't move once, not even a muscle, but I could hear her cursing me under her breath. So I whistled, finished, shook myself, and muttered as I walked away, ‘That was a number one. I think I might have to do a number two very soon.’ Still no word, she sat so still, waiting for me to get out of her sight —”
