I waved her to me. She came warily.
“Here, Little Niece, take this and buy something to eat for yourself and the baby.” I gave her all the money in my pocket. Not much.
She looked at it, shocked, eyeing me with such gratitude that I was ashamed. She bowed. Voice trembling, she mumbled, “Thank-you-very-much-Uncle, thank-you-very-much. Little-Niece-thanks-Uncle-very-much.”
And she seemed to want to say something else but didn’t. And I wanted to say something, but couldn’t. In that moment, she seemed so awfully old. I felt terribly young. She jammed the bills into a pocket on her shirt where she held the baby. She hurried away, a lightness in her step. From across the street, she turned, waved bye, and smiled.
Abruptly, the easing of tension I had felt as I gave her the money vanished. It was only my selfish conscience. I stood there sickened for her, gasping at her tragedy and my part in it. Oh, child. What have they done to you? What have I done? Her parents will send her back here again and again on the off chance of a windfall like today’s. Oh, God. Why is she here? This beautiful child. What is her birth-fortune?
But on this afternoon in this city of webbed intentions on this hot sidewalk, I stood rotten with doubts, more lost than I had ever been in my life. Why do I care for this persimmon-faced child? Is it simply because she bears a likeness to someone I once knew? Is that what it takes to remind me that I am Vietnamese? That I am human, capable of feeling the misery of another? If so, I am a worse bigot than those I despise, those who have hounded me in America.
A grayness swept through me, but I wanted to feel the pain. Deserve it. All my life I have held pain in check, kept grief at a distance. I got on my bike and pedaled into the traffic, spooling into the six-way intersection. I could not stop. I felt a spark ignite something flammable in me, and my insides combusting. I couldn’t stop and I didn’t trust—didn’t know—the wetness welling up behind my eyes. So my legs pumped me headlong with the traffic, round and round the park I flew. Blue exhaust teared my eyes, seared my nostrils. In the circling, my mood spiraled downward, inward, powerless. There was nothing I could tear down. Nothing to smash my fists into. Roaring. A monster eating my heart.
I raced around the intersection. A madman. I went faster than cars and motorcycles. Reckless young men gave chase, but I left them behind. I rode, hands on the bars, not fingering the brake. A dark Herculean strength burst forth from the pit of me. Faster and faster I raced and I knew I was heading toward an accident, but the realization was remote, misty behind my red anger. Drivers honked, swerved. I went faster still. Sweat slanted down my forehead and salted my eyes. My chest burned.
My Saigon was a whore, a saint, an infanticidal maniac. She sold her body to any taker, dreams of a better future, visions turned inward, eyes to the sky of the skyscrapers foreign to the land, away from the festering sores at her feet. The bastards in her belly—tainted by war, pardoned by need, obscured by time—clamored for food. They laughed, for it is all they know. She hoped for a better tomorrow, hoped for goodness.
Then there was nothing. The wildfire swept past. Ashen, I pulled over. Without a word, Viet, his nephew, and I went home. At the house, I parked my bike just inside the gate. The tears came without warning and I had to turn away from my uncles and aunts and nephews and nieces. I cried into the wall, the sobs racking my shoulders. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide in this little house, in this crowded neighborhood. I wept uncontrollably, as I did when I heard my sister Chi had committed suicide—my father cutting her free from a yellow nylon rope. I had known then, as I knew now, that I was weeping for her and I was weeping for myself because I was not there in the months before her death. Although we had lived in the same city, I had avoided her, too engrossed in my own life, my own problems.
This time my tears made my relatives ashamed for me. Yet, in this alley-world of theirs where there was no space, no privacy, they gave me both. My aunt said to her son, “He got dust in his eyes. It’s painful. Nghia, go upstairs and fetch him the bottle of eyedrops.”
When the eyedropper was in my hand, they dispersed. They never mentioned my shame, my unmanliness. Never asked me why. And in all my time here, they never once mentioned my sister’s suicide Never once spoke of her unspeakable act. The only thing they said, they said it thrice: Poor Chi. Poor Chi. Poor Chi. These wonderful, generous people, they gave me face when I deserved none.
I wept for my sister Chi. I wept for myself. I wept for the disparity between my world and the world of these people. And I wept for my sorry soul. When the tears eased, I bathed. In the breezeway behind the bathroom, a servant girl, washing dishes, sang to herself. A wall and two feet between us, I cried and she sang of monsoon rain in the countryside. I emptied the cistern of cold water over my head, one tin at a time.
Baptized, I went alone to a bar—an expensive, exclusive, airconditioned oasis, carpeted and lavishly upholstered, with a guard at the door to keep the beggars out. And I drank myself into a stupor, watching crusty people through leaded glass.
Now, in the grip of the tequila—this toast to Tyle, my shipwrecked Viking—I sense a terrible doubt. I wasn’t there when my sister needed me. I did not turn my life into a crusade for runaways. Did not volunteer to help the homeless or to counsel troubled people. For these starving children of Saigon, I have no intention of sacrificing my life to change theirs. Then, perhaps, my grief is but a compensatory facade.
I am drunk and I am tired. Whether my journey is a pilgrimage or a farce, I am ready and anxious to see this last leg through. Tomorrow I will head north to Hanoi.
16
Fallen-Leaves
Tonight, Anh was with her old friend Bich in downtown Saigon having tea and strawberry ice cream, a middle-class luxury she had come to adore.
Bich, I brought you some green mangoes. Ahhhh, Older Sister Anh, look at me craving green mangoes and fishsaucesyrup just like a peasant girl. They chortled madly. Remember how we could tell which one of your girls was in trouble when she started eating green mangoes like bread? They sang the chorus in unison: Quick—Brew the roottea—Call the midwife—Catch the Jeep before they take him back to the front lines. They were laughing, but they were holding hands, comforting each other, their weathered peasant fingers interlacing like roots, wrists bound by matching circlets of blood jade. Bich, you aren’t going to Paris with Claude, are you? Yes, I am and I’ll have him reserve plane seats for your family. No, Bich, we can’t. We have too much here. Our family, our home. Listen, Older Sister Anh, we’re leaving, all your girls are leaving. Uyen is leaving with Jack. He says Saigon will fall any day now. Ly and Paul are going to America with her family. We’ve come a long way. We can’t lose everything again. You must come with us. Anh shook her head sadly.
They were women of the same harvest, strong women who did what they had to for the survival of their families. They knew pain and they knew joy and all the selflessness that was required to take a person from that one place to the other.
Anh scanned the park lawn, wondering where her boy went. He wanted to go to the movies, but she didn’t want to take him, not with all the recent bombings. He was a strange one, that An. Always burrowing into one fix after another, off in his own world, constantly getting into trouble.
An was angry when the crowdjostled him and his scoop of chocolate ice cream tumbled out of its sugar cone. He was reaching down when a woman stepped on it then cursed him for the mess on her sandal. An ran. He squirmed between adults’ legs and popped out in front of the crowd. The heat of the fire on his face made him forget the taste of chocolate on his tongue.
He thought there ought to be a bittersweet odor of burnt meat, but there wasn’t. Just gasoline fumes. People gathered to watch robes of flame dance brightly against a whitewashed backdrop of a wall. Black smoke billowed to the night sky. A blackened form silhouetted amid unfurling orange. A Buddhist monk aflame. His last sacrifice.
17
Hope-Adrift
The engine was running, but the
sea had us in its palm. Our poor fishing vessel bobbed directionless, putting no distance between us and the mysterious ship in pursuit. The crew looked defeated. Mom muttered that it was terrible luck. First the net fouling the propeller, now this. She said to Dad, How could this be? The calendar showed today to be auspicious. All the celestial signs were good—clear sky, good wind. She shook her head, looking at her Japanese flag, a patch of red on a white sheet, flapping noisily. Our hopes were pinned on that fraudulent banner.
We waited. Time sagged. I counted the waves surging beneath our keel. There was nothing to do. The men’s lips were moving, mumbling prayers. Eyes closed, Mom had her jade Buddha in her palms. Miracle. Miracle. Our boat seemed to plead with the ocean. Please send a miracle.
It happened. The men stirred, but no one uttered a word. They looked hopeful, fearing that saying something might jinx whatever was happening. Another minute, I could tell that the ship was veering away from us. They cheered. Tai instructed us to stay hidden, knowing that the ship had us in its binoculars. Mom was shaking with relief. Eventually, the ship went over the horizon and the men celebrated with a meal.
The ocean grew more restless by evening. We were exhausted, dehydrated, and hungry, but couldn’t eat because food made us vomit. This was fine with the men who ate and drank our portions. The night was chilly. We put on our sweaters. Dad pointed out the constellations to the men. As soon as I fell asleep, a spray of water would wake me up. My face was crusty with salt. I wanted to get up and stretch my legs, but Dad forbade it. No standing. He didn’t want to lose us overboard.
Clouds puffed into the sky the morning of our second day. A ten-foot sea rose up from nowhere. Stress was beginning to show among the crew. They were sullen and irritable with each other. Some of the men washed their faces with our dwindling supply of fresh water. They were also in the habit of rinsing their cups with fresh water before drinking. Dad protested. They cussed him. Tai, the leader, looked on without comment. Dad shrugged, resigned to the young men’s foolishness. We couldn’t afford a quarrel.
The sea continued to build through the afternoon. Occasionally, a rogue wave broke over us. We were drenched and cold. A shark nosed by our boat, the fishermen panicked. Some started lashing themselves to the boat, others had their knives in hand.
Tai asked his first mate, “Did you make an offering at the Shark Temple?”
“Yes, I did. I lit two batches of incense, just in case.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“You didn’t drink the money, did you?”
“Fuck, no! I swear to heaven I made the offering!”
This mollified the crew, but they were still nervous. The weather worsened and the shark went away. The wind picked up. Shivering, we changed into our last set of dry clothing. As the sun slipped toward the water, flying fish took wing, shooting out of the waves like silver bullets. Long fins out tricking the wind, they skimmed the sea in straight lines, in curves, in banking dives like tiny, shiny jets on a raid. When golden rays caught them broadside, they shimmered like splinters of the sun-gilded ocean shaken loose by a breaking wave. A pair kamikazed into our boat. They flopped about stunned. I asked Mom if she would cook them for dinner. She rolled her eyes at me and threw the fish back into the water, saying it was bad luck to let flying fish die in the boat, much less eat them.
Then dolphins came, arcing beside us. We waved at the visitors. Cheering, the fishermen took it as a very good omen and devoured the rest of our food, which was supposed to have lasted us a week. None of them had brought food. Apparently, they had drunk the money Mom had given them to buy their own supplies. Dad tried to stop them from eating everything. A nasty argument broke out and they nearly came to blows. Tai and Anh simply watched their rabble of a crew snarling at each other over bits of food. It dawned on us all then that unless we chanced on a boat with a kind captain, we were going to die at sea. There wasn’t enough fuel to turn around and we were nearly out of food and water.
Just when the ocean was about to nibble the foot of the sun, we sighted a tall white ship, aft to starboard. Tai turned the boat around and pointed us at the ship. It was a French vessel, a beautiful white ship slicing across the ocean. Some sort of freighter-cruiser. We cheered. We screamed. We laughed, giddy. The men embraced each other, arguments forgotten. Salvation had never looked more beautiful than a tall white ship shouldering through waves in the sunset. Mom gathered her bags. Dad readied his flashlight, mentally reviewing his Morse code. Unwrapping a set of signal flags Mom had fashioned, Dad started signaling S-O-S. My brothers and I were hollering, yelling, waving as though it were the biggest parade boat we’d ever seen.
“We are very fortunate,” Dad told everyone. “It’s a French ship—a friendly ship.” His face was lit up with what must have been memories of himself, the young son of an aristocrat who had thrived under French colonialism. Dad adored everything French, from their badsmelling cheese to their classical poets.
The fishermen were excited, too. They knew Dad was fluent in French and that France had given refuge to many Vietnamese since the fall of Saigon. As the ship drew closer, we screamed ourselves hoarse. I thought the ship had vaults full of chocolate and cookies and roast chicken. I told my brothers as much, then we howled happily. We cheered so long and loud that we didn’t notice the adults’ hooray had tapered off. When we did, an ill-fitting quiet netted the boat. The men exchanged uncertain glances. Our tiny fishing boat chugged faithfully toward the ship. Someone muttered a curse. The others shook their heads in disbelief. Tai’s broad face grew grim, a hint of anger. Dad was clearly worried, frowning in a state of shock. The ship did not change direction. It didn’t slow. Was it speeding up? We were so close, they couldn’t possibly not see us. The ship was going so fast, it would pass us within minutes. Go directly at them, Dad ordered Tai, make them stop. It looked as though we were going to ram the white ship’s flank. Dad signaled them in French, then in English. No reply, not even a warning horn. We drew closer, dead set on a right-angle collision course.
At the last moment, Tai idled the engine and we coasted, inert, impotent, unable to reach out to beg for help. The ship sailed by, its white side rearing up in front of us like a great wall. It was so close, we wished we could just swim over and grab on, but the ship was going too fast. The current would have dragged us under. We shouted, waving. Dad worked his flashlight, spelling out our desperate plight with dots and dashes. Dad had us all stand up on the listing deck to show them we had women and children aboard. I could see people aboard the white ship looking at us through portholes. They did not wave back. The ship slipped past us, an untouchable dream. The fishermen looked on in silence. Nothing to say. I saw an officer standing on the upper deck at the stern of the ship, hands bracing on the rail, regarding us. He was white, perhaps French, and he wore a beautiful white uniform. Mom was moaning, Oh my God, oh my God. They are going to let us die. Chi had her arms around Mom. Auntie Dung was shouting, not giving up. The fishermen made drinking motions to the ship’s officers, tilting imaginary cups and pointing into their mouths. We begged them to help us, they looked on without interest, our boat and our pathetic lives but flotsam in their wake. I was so angry I thought I could hit the officer on deck if I had my slingshot.
The ship hummed by, its stern receding from us. Suddenly, the ocean leaped up. A wall of water—the ship’s wake—maybe two stories high, bore down on us. EVERYBODY DOWN! Tai shouted, throwing the throttle into full forward. Hang on! The diesel stuttered under the urgent load. The boat nosed into the barrier of water, head-on like a car trying to scale a building it was supposed to hit. Up we went. Mom screamed. We screamed. Up, up. Up until we were sliding back on the deck. Up until I thought the boat would pitchpole backward. Then, in a breath, we teetered on the crest of the wave, looking down to the white trough. Down we plunged. Water foamed white, swirling energy. The bottom looked hard, asphalt-like. My stomach lurched up as we fell over the back of the wave. The boat slid sideway
s. Tai wrestled the tiller, fighting the ocean from rolling his boat. The cords in his neck stood out. Screams. The boat was lifting to port, about to pour us over starboard. I jammed my feet against the toe rail, grabbing on to Tien and Huy. Then the boat dropped into the trough, the sea blasting over the bow and abeam. The hull groaned. The wooden planks strained against the sea, creaking sick-like. A moment. The boat popped up like a plastic ball.
As we caught our breath, the boat climbed again. This time Tai was ready. He guided us over the series of waves, each smaller as the ship’s wake diminished. When we looked up at the French ship again, it looked like an iceberg moving ponderously along its course, imperturbable, oblivious to us, to everything. An empty-stomach feeling wrapped itself around our small vessel. The white ship dwindled. Dusk folded around it until its mighty bulk was no more than a speck on the water, indistinguishable from the breaking waves.
Things grew desperate the third day. My brothers and I shared a can of water laced with sweetened condensed milk among the four of us. There were a couple of packets of instant ramen left for seventeen people. Without a stove to boil water, we crushed the dried noodles and ate them like crackers. Two gallons of water remained. The younger fishermen realized their mistake and accepted Dad’s rationing, one sip for everyone. The weather fattened the dark clouds and fouled the waves up another few feet. The sea god was bouncing us mercilessly on his belly. Our inexperienced crew fretted. There was talk of turning around. Some suggested heading toward Thailand, though, of course, with no bearings and only a compass, we had one chance in ten of picking the right direction.
Catfish and Mandala Page 12
