Things We Lost to the Water: A Novel

by Eric Nguyen

  They were finally getting used to Saigon, the loud vendors, the littered streets, the overbearing smell of motor exhaust. They had fallen into a comfortable domestic routine.

  Mornings, Công and Hương would wake up early. The day would start with morning stretches in their small backyard as the sun rose and their coffee dripped into warm perfection. After, they’d cook breakfast together, often rice with nước tương and eggs. By the time the city woke up—with people walking to work and motorbikes taking to the streets—Tuấn was awake, and they got him ready for school. She’d walk him there as Công biked to the university. They’d arrive before classes started and she’d hand him over to his friends—three other little boys—and they’d play with a soccer ball. Hương would sit under the shade of the tree and watch until the teachers came to collect their students.

  During the day, she’d clean the house and settle the family accounts. Công brought in the money, but it was because of her know-how with numbers that they could survive. Công appreciated her for this and often told her she should have gone to school and studied math. But that idea only called to mind abstract theories discussed in front of dusty chalkboards. And why would she want that when she could calculate numbers with the sun streaming in through the window, a light breeze blowing now and then? No, that life wasn’t for her. She knew her life and what she wanted, and having had it, there as if in the palms of her hands, she felt happy.

  In the afternoon, she would pick Tuấn up and they’d go to the market to buy ingredients for dinner that night. It was the best time to buy because the sellers were tired by then and easy to bargain with. Though, of course, it meant not getting the best picks of produce and meat. Still, it saved them money; their country was at war, after all (though, in Hương’s mind, the war was always over there—someplace she’d only ever heard of). Công, if he wasn’t busy, would be home by the time they returned.

  They’d cook as a family, discussing their day. If Công had a particularly good day or if he left his office early, he would bring home a treat for his son, the catch being he had to answer one of his riddles. But, of course, their son was so smart—the professor’s son—that he answered everything right and claimed his prize with a kiss and a smile. Theirs was a house of love, Hương was sure. It was all they ever needed—love. And with love, they would survive. She believed this with all her heart.

  When the city fell, Công didn’t anticipate things changing dramatically. The Communists had won the entire country; what else did they want? The war was over, after all. Life would resume. He had a new class to prepare for. The week Saigon fell, he said he was dreaming about his syllabus and wondering if he could fit the works of Musset in there somehow. The peaceful shift of power and how easily everything returned to normal—the school schedule, the bustling market—seemed to confirm what Công said.

  That was May 1975.

  But soon the curfews came. Tanks and soldiers with guns patrolled the streets as everyone else went about their daily business. Hương remembered how young the soldiers were. She had assumed they would all be older men, but they were all younger than she was. She saw the soldiers eating at restaurants, playing catch in the park, wooing girls. Surely these Communists could not have been bad. They could not have conquered an entire country—these boys with bone fingers, hungry arms, optimistic smiles. They passed out pamphlets from the new government explaining how it existed to serve the people. She would grow to hate that phrase—serve the people—at first because it was ubiquitous, then later, much later, as it became sinister, prickly.

  The next year, a letter came for Công, asking him to report to a military training camp in Lăng Cô. As a member of the University of Saigon faculty, the future of the new nation depended on him, said the letter. It was time for the teachers to be taught. Pack enough clothes for two weeks of reeducation. They held him for five months.

  When he returned to Saigon, shirtless and shoeless and emaciated, Hương didn’t even recognize him until he called her name—“Hương. Anh đây.” She ran to him and held him gently. Nights after, the feel of bones would haunt her.

  It took him a month to recover. When he was better, Công didn’t talk about what happened at the reeducation center, but he decided they should leave Saigon. Immediately.

  They packed the suitcase—and Công gathered his favorite books into a knapsack—and took a bus back to Mỹ Tho, where Hương had grown up, where they had met. She still had a plot of familial land out there and a small shack, both inherited after her mother died years ago. An hour outside the town, the bus was stopped by a group of military officers and they were questioned. What were they doing, going to Mỹ Tho? Did they have permission to go? Did they know they had to ask permission? Công told them they were visiting Hương’s mother, who was very ill. The officers looked at the couple suspiciously. The couple was let go. They told Công he looked like an honest man.

  Upon their arrival in Mỹ Tho, they stayed with a family friend for a few weeks before setting up a meager, quiet home. If asked, by villagers or military officers, they said Hương’s mother had died and they had decided to stay in her maternal village where they would farm a small plot of land.

  How life was different for them now. In Saigon, Hương was the young wife of a professor and they were a professor’s family. Now she and Công rooted around in a country garden, the dirt getting under their nails, the scent of earth and insects and sun baking themselves into their clothes and skin. They had planned on planting all types of vegetables—cabbages and cucumbers and lettuce—but the only thing that grew were bitter melons. Why were they farming, she often asked, when Mỹ Tho was a fishing village? Safer and a better investment, was Công’s answer with an anxious look in his eyes. Or perhaps it was something else. She didn’t ask; the recent months had been so much. Yes, of course, she reasoned, safety. So they farmed, and when the harvest was ready, Công took it to market.

  Having no school, Tuấn stayed home and became bored and listless. He complained about not having books or toys. He asked about school and his friends. Somehow, he had the idea they were just a short walk away and he wanted to go there. He became grumpy when Hương said he needed to stay on their property.

  The change didn’t sit well with Công, either, who, though still loving, was distracted and distant. It was as if he was always looking over his shoulder, expecting someone there. Tuấn must have sensed this, too. During the day, their son would find little gifts for his father to cheer him up—a particularly pretty rock or an interesting flower. Công would smile and ruffle his son’s hair. But then, again, his gaze would return outside to the quiet village, which, soon, became impossibly quieter, emptier.

  Men began to disappear. First here and there, but then more noticeably. Then some women. Then entire households were replaced with families with stale Northern accents and pale skin.

  One night, in the dark of their bedroom, Công told her they should leave the country.

  “Leave?” she asked. “Why? Where?” The proposition seemed absurd, more so coming from Công, a rational man who only ever wanted a home.

  “We can go anywhere. Remember Cảnh?” he asked.

  Cảnh was a fisherman. The village woke up one morning and his shack had disappeared, the wood walls gone, the plot of land empty like he had never existed. Everyone was sure he’d packed up and sailed away. Cảnh became a local legend: one was not condemned to the oppression of the new Socialist Republic of Vietnam as it eliminated its traitors, planted new seeds, grew a new society. One could leave.

  “Công,” she said, “go to sleep.”

  Công got out of bed. He took out his notebook. He consulted his books and wrote until the sun rose. He came to bed only to sleep for two hours before getting up again, acting as if nothing had happened.

  The nights would continue the same way. He became erratic. He wrote in a mixture of Fren
ch and Vietnamese, pages and pages of it. She couldn’t understand anything. When one sentence started in Vietnamese, it ended in French. She never knew he had this in him, this paranoia. Sometimes his handwriting looked more like miniature drawings than words. And there were letters put together that surely couldn’t have meant anything in any language.

  Eventually, the government began a new economic program. They would buy from the country’s workers—“the foundation of our new society”—and, to ensure everyone got what they needed, sold the crops back to the masses—“to serve the people.”

  One day, a government official came for their bitter melons. He laughed as his colleagues loaded up a truck. “Who eats mướp đắng anymore, sister?” he said, though he took a load of the crops anyway and handed her not money but a small book of vouchers. “Thank you for serving the people.”

  “Serve the people!” she scoffed after they left.

  Hương felt belittled and betrayed. As the official went door-to-door, at times laughing at her neighbors, sometimes even yelling at them if they didn’t produce enough, she began feeling angry more than anything else.

  “Ungrateful,” she said. “They’re stealing our food and giving us vouchers that won’t buy even a kilo of rice and then telling us we’re heroes of the country, the backbone of society.” It made her want to cry for the state of her country.

  But Công saw an opportunity. “Classic communism by the book! Now aren’t you glad we grew crops?” he told her. Công’s plan went into motion. They grew more than they would sell to the government. The surplus they sold on the black market, mostly to traditional herbalists and of course to starving families. After several months, they had the money for an escape—for three seats on the boat, for the fuel for the boat, for the food they would have to bring along. The money they had left over Hương sewed into their clothes, along with whatever jewelry they could trade for what they needed.

  When the time came to leave, Hương couldn’t believe it. That night, an old man with a dirty beard arrived at the house. They packed the suitcase and Công paid the man. They followed him into the jungle.

  The old man, who must have been at least fifty, ran like a teenager, and they tried to keep up with him through the thick, moist air that made it hard for Hương to breathe and run and carry Tuấn at the same time. A storm was coming; this was why it was so humid. Was it safe to go to the water now?

  Tuấn cried and Hương had to cover his mouth.

  “Please be quiet, Tuấn. Please!” she begged him.

  He cried louder and she felt his hot breath on her palm. When there was a sudden noise, she nearly let go but didn’t. They all stopped running. The insects stopped their singing. The birds stopped their calling. It was the first time she had ever heard complete silence in the jungle.

  “It sounded like a gunshot,” said Công after a lengthy pause. “Are they after us?” Then, in an accusatory tone, Công yelled at the old man. “Are you one of them, old man? Are you ambushing us?”

  The yelling made Tuấn cry louder, and the old man yelled back that he would never do anything like that; he said he was a man of his word, that he’d served for years in the South Vietnamese Army. The two men argued as Hương tried to make out their figures. She began to walk toward a shadow she thought was Công, but, approaching it, she saw it was a tree with its top chopped off like it was struck by lightning. The loud, sudden noise repeated and everyone went quiet again.

  “Anh Công?” she said, grasping out in the dark. “Anh Công?”

  “This way,” she heard Công say. He grabbed her hand and they continued running, rubbing against trees, stumbling over vines. Hương had to stop twice because her stomach ached. For a month she’d had the idea that she was pregnant, and the last four weeks of sickness confirmed it. When she gave Công the news, she said she could have it taken care of before the trip, but he was so ecstatic he wouldn’t let her. “Why would we want to do that?” he asked and touched her belly. “Just let me name the baby,” he added. She had chosen Tuấn’s name; he could have this.

  Then, there was the beach. Several boats waited ashore. There were more in the water—Hương could see flashlights in the distance—circles of light floating and bobbing up and down, then disappearing. A woman was screaming on the shore, pointing out to the water.

  “My baby! My baby boy!” the woman screamed. “My baby is on that boat! Bring him back! My boy!”

  The woman looked familiar, but it was too dark and Hương couldn’t tell for sure. The woman ran into the water and disappeared.

  Hương squeezed Công’s hand. A sudden rush of energy came over her. All this time planning and here they were.

  “Let’s leave,” she said. “It’s time to go, Công.” She pulled him, but he stopped to gaze back into the jungle. He paused. Eyes straight ahead, she pulled harder and they ran toward the boat. There, a man waved them forward. They were the last ones on before the boat was pushed out into the water.

  “Quick, quick,” said a man as the boat sputtered forward.

  They were out at sea for ten days. Hương would stay sleepless for most of that, holding Tuấn in her arms, his head against her chest, buried there, away from the sea. How had Công’s hand slipped? she kept asking herself. That was the only explanation. The only possible one.

  * * *

  —

  After she recorded her message, she wrote “The Teachings of Uncle Hổ” on the tape and the address of their Mỹ Tho house on an envelope. In the morning, she would ask the priest to take her to the post office. The message would be sent. She would receive something back. They would be reunited. It was the best she could hope for. She could hope.

  After dinner—instant noodles from a Styrofoam cup the church gave out—she cleaned up her sons and tucked them in. When she couldn’t sleep, she turned on the TV and watched it with no sound. Images flashed on the screen: men in business suits signing papers and shaking hands; reporters laughing behind a desk and shuffling their papers; a man smiling in front of a map of America.

  Deep into the night, Bình woke up crying. Hương rocked him in her arms and walked him around the room. Though the blinds were drawn, the lights from the streetlamps streamed in. In the glow, Bình looked angelic and she felt sorry he’d been through so much already. From the very first day, even. His birth took ten hours and two midwives. When he was finally out in the world, one of the midwives frowned. Something was wrong; he wasn’t crying, he wasn’t breathing. The other midwife took the baby and examined him. From where Hương lay, she could see the child in the midwife’s hands. She was afraid he would be still, but his arms were waving frantically like he was drowning. “I know,” the first midwife said. She took him and tapped him on the back, once, twice, three times before the baby started coughing and the first cry was heard as he took in a breath of air. Hương let out a sigh of relief along with the midwives. Thinking about that now, she wondered what hardships her children would have. What misfortunes? What heartaches? What wars?

  “As long as I am here,” she whispered, enclosing his small hands with hers, “nothing will happen to you. I promise. I will protect you. The both of you. I promise.” She felt a certainty in this statement, in her ability to keep this promise. It was the most sure thing she’d ever uttered.

  She took him in her lap and together they watched the evening news.

  Any minute now, she was sure, they would talk about home.

  Tuấn

  1979

  The Versailles Arms apartments were new. That much Tuấn could tell. The white paint smelled fresh. The rooms had a crispness of touch to them, no dust, no staleness. When they moved in—after living at the church, the Minhs’, the motel, and the cha xứ’s house—everyone else was moving in as well. Rows of cars idled outside. One car’s radio was tuned in to what sounded like a sports game, though Tuấn couldn’t understand
any of it and couldn’t guess what was being played, either. It all reminded him of the motel they’d stayed at, where people moved in and out of rooms and sat in their cars waiting for someone to come out and meet them, or just sat with their windows down, smoking or eating hamburgers. Except here everyone looked like they meant to stay. That was the difference.

  As men brought in boxes, women unpacked them. Tuấn and his family had only one suitcase and a few plastic bags of things they’d accumulated since getting here: a new pair of shoes for him, Styrofoam cups of noodles, a blanket with baby animals on it for Bình. They had so little. His mother must have seen him noticing, because she placed her hand on his shoulder.

  “We won’t be here long anyway,” she said.

  “We won’t?” He looked up. He couldn’t read her face. What she felt—for she must have felt something—was undetectable. She had been like that since they left Vietnam, a silent mother. Sometimes she cried, but most of the time she was quiet and her face stayed serious.