Fire Summer

by Thuy Da Lam

  Fire Summer

  Fire Summer

  a novel

  THUY DA LAM

  Red Hen Press | Pasadena, CA

  Fire Summer

  Copyright © 2019 by Thuy Da Lam

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner.

  Book design by Mark E. Cull

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Lam, Thuy Da, 1971– author.

  Title: Fire summer : a novel / Thuy Da Lam.

  Description: First edition. | Pasadena, CA : Red Hen Press, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019017794 (print) | LCCN 2019021213 (ebook) | ISBN 9781597094641 (pbk) | ISBN 9781597098380 (e-book)

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A543287 F57 2019 (print) | LCC PS3612. A543287 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017794

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019021213

  The National Endowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson Foundation, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Max Factor Family Foundation, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Foundation, the Pasadena Arts & Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, the Audrey & Sydney Irmas Charitable Foundation, the Kinder Morgan Foundation, the Meta & George Rosenberg Foundation, the Allergan Foundation, the Riordan Foundation, Amazon Literary Partnership, and the Mara W. Breech Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.

  First Edition

  Published by Red Hen Press

  www.redhen.org

  for ba má

  We die with the dying:

  See, they depart, and we go with them.

  We are born with the dead:

  See, they return, and bring us with them.

  —T.S. Eliot

  Prologue

  SHE WAS FREE at last. She gripped the railing of the now-abandoned fishing boat, its plank deck heaving beneath her feet. In the noon light, the distant island seemed to bob like a mossy green canteen on its side.

  The captain and navigator, an old fisherman from a southeastern seaport of Vietnam they had escaped from a week before, had plunged in first. Others followed. The shoal of their black heads dipped and rose in the waves as the pouches and satchels strapped to their gaunt, sunburnt backs dispersed. A flock of seagulls circled and settled upon the crests to pick at the feast afloat on the South China Sea.

  The woman looped the straps of her red shopping basket around her shoulder. She was glad her few possessions were in tightly sealed jars and plastic bags. When she hoisted her leg onto the railing, she noticed someone had scratched the date on the wood. Bidon 18-12-1980. She slowly raised herself and pulled up her other leg. She crouched there, feeling the pitch and wallow of the boat. As her body moved, she balanced herself and stood up.

  White sand encircled the hilly island like a strand of luminous odd-shaped pearls. Farther inland, thatched roofs nestled beneath coconut palms that bowed toward the sea. She breathed in deeply, clasped her hands, and gazed into the water. She felt suddenly light.

  She dove into a reflected sky.

  As she submerged, the woman arched her back and lifted her head skyward to surface but slipped back instead. The ocean coursed through her body and pulled her down. The murmur of the sea lullabied her. She relaxed her grip, and the straps of her basket rose from her shoulder, scattering pictures of a husband on a bridge that hung across a river like a crescent moon and a daughter named after a blossom of the Lunar New Year. The ocean tugged at the woman’s fingers and spread her arms. She soared through the clear blue sky.

  One

  Pearl of the Orient

  WHILE SAIGON SLEPT at noon, Maia Trieu returned with her father’s ashes. Her flight on the Boeing 707 from Los Angeles with a layover in Bangkok bore citizens of free nations. As she deplaned and bussed across the tarmac of Tan Son Nhat International Airport, she was caught in the intertwinement of yellow rice paddies and abandoned bunkered hangars, fusing in the summer heat of 1991.

  Across the aisle, a man murmured about the humidity and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. When he pushed his dark hair off his forehead, she saw gray-green eyes, and her hand reflexively reached for the jade locket around her neck. The jade’s muted color did not spark like the man’s eyes, but the locket felt large and important on her. She gazed out at the midday mirage. Sunrays flickered on the hot asphalt runways and glimmered off wet rice paddies. Thirteen years earlier, she had escaped the country with her father, crossing the South China Sea in an overcrowded fishing boat to find asylum in America. Her hand clasped the octangular jade locket. Ba, we’re home.

  “That’s a shame,” the man said, looking past her through the window at the bunkered hangars. “A terrible shame.” He peered through his camera and snapped several pictures. Besides a few Asian businessmen, the visitors were mostly Europeans, some from the newly unified Germany. The gray-eyed man of mixed ancestry was traveling alone. He looked at her. “Viet kieu?” he asked. His voice had a distinct American intonation. Except for a lightning bolt tattoo on his upper left arm, he fit the profile of an innocuous tourist. Beneath his relaxed exterior, she detected something else.

  The trolley stopped at the terminal, and attendants in light azure áo dài pulled the glass doors open, greeting the visitors with the words of the yellow and red banner fluttering above. Welcome to the City of Enlightenment!

  Rainclouds massed from the distant Western Range and lingered for the anticipated afternoon storm. The visitors left the stifling heat and entered the air-conditioned terminal.

  “I’m JP Boyden,” the man introduced himself and smiled. “And you are . . . Pearl . . . of the Orient?

  “Maia Trieu,” she offered her name matter-of-factly.

  “Trieu? The maiden warrior from the third century A.D.?”

  She shook her head, but he was already swinging a long imaginary sword and reciting lines from the legend of Bà Triệu in a resonant bell-like tone on riding the storm, slaying the behemoth, and rescuing the drowning in the Eastern Sea.1

  Just then two oversize backpackers jostled past and knocked her off balance. JP Boyden grabbed her by the waist to keep her steady and held her close as the herd of travelers rushed by. “Why hurry?” he whispered. “Fast or slow, the checkpoints will be waiting.” She pulled away and pushed through the crowd, but not before seeing a glint in his eyes.

  At the checkpoint, she placed her shoulder bag onto the rolling metal bars before an x-ray tunnel. In Bangkok, the Thai officials had stepped back when they realized the cylindrical tin held ashes. Palms clasped, they had nodded her through. Now the Vietnamese stared at the black-and-white TV screen, speaking to one another in a northern staccato, too quick for her to understand.

  What did they see? Could they see inside?

  Bone white particles like sea coral and gray sand, ashes of a southern soldier escaped after the fall of Saigon, a daughter in his arms, now he in hers.

  The muffled exchange stopped, and the men signaled her to step aside.

  JP Boyden followed her. “How’s your Vietnamese?”

  She read aloud the VIỆT KIỀU sign that hung above the checkpoint and then switched to English. “Foreigners, the line is on the other side.”

  “You know,” he said, “I’m looking for an interpreter.”

  She saw a bureaucrat in a crisp olive-green uniform approaching. Quickly assessing the American beside her, she asked, “Can you hold this?” as she passed the handbag to him. She placed a hand on his arm as if to keep her balance and bent down to fuss with t
he strap of her sandal.

  “I’m here to write a travel feature,” JP Boyden said, gripping her bag awkwardly, “and I need a local translator. You see, I’ve studied Viet at UH Mānoa, but it’s still very basic. Chao co. Co dep lam! Bao nhieu tien?” He grinned with boyish satisfaction. “And I can count to ten: mot, hai, ba, bon, nam, sau, bay, tam—”

  The customs agent interrupted him at eight. “Mời cô đi theo tôi!”

  She stood up, a hand still on JP Boyden. “I can translate for you.” Turning to the Vietnamese, she asked in a soft Saigon lilt, “Hàng này cho người ngoại quốc, phải không anh?”

  The Vietnamese gripped her arm and ordered her to follow.

  “What does he want?” JP looked at the official. “I’m an American journalist.” He pulled out a glossy June 1991 issue of USA News and waved it in the official’s face, on its cover—Sex, Lies, and Politics.

  “You, American!” The official jabbed his bony index finger into JP’s chest. “You go customs table.”

  “Where is he taking you?” JP turned to her, the handbag now dangling from his shoulder.

  The official led her toward the glass doors at the far end of the terminal.

  Her reflection belied what she felt inside. Dark eyes, a plain moon face, and straight hair gave her a child’s mien. The white schoolgirl blouse and loose violet pants made her appear as fragile and benign as a morning glory.

  When the door closed, the official released his grip and pushed her along the narrow corridor lit by dim florescent light. They turned corners and ascended steps. They passed closed doors spaced ten feet apart. The silence and stale air reminded her of the carpet hallway she had followed to the viewing room in South Philly five years earlier.

  She had cried then and avoided her father’s impassive face, staring instead at the bare cardboard casket. Chết là sướng, her father had said, his way of throwing up his hands, greeting life and death, his advice to his eighteen-year-old daughter to live bravely. Your father fought with courage against the Communists. The expatriates’ homage rang in her ears. For his service and sacrifice, he will be remembered. In that last hour, before his body became ashes, bravery dripped from her eyes, each teardrop her inner voice calling across the border to the dead.

  She was left at an open door.

  The room had a wall mirror and a high window, through which sunlight cast a shadow on the man at the desk. “Sit down,” he said, a faint northern accent. Brown sinewy hands opened a manila folder. “Triệu Hoàng Mai,” he read her full name, reverting it to its native tones and order, “like the yellow flower that blooms on Lunar New Year in the South.” He leaned forward, a compact man with intense eyes. “Twenty-three years old.”

  “Yes.” She eased back into her chair. “Yes.” She confirmed his next statement. “I was born on the Central Highlands in 1968.”

  “You left Vietnam with your father. Why did you leave?”

  “I was ten years old.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “He passed away.”

  “His rank in the U.S. puppet army?”

  “He was a second lieutenant.”

  “Your mother’s occupation?”

  “We lost contact.”

  “What is the purpose of your visit to Vietnam?”

  “I’m here to research Hòn Vọng Phu.”

  “Who’s your sponsor?”

  “The Museum of Folklore & Rocks.”

  “Will you be visiting relatives?”

  “I hope to see my maternal grandmother.”

  “What do you know about anti-Vietnam groups—the GFVN, the FVO, the IVC?”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “On Tết this year, an overseas Vietnamese male was caught trying to return with terroristic intentions. To protect our country’s independence, social order, safety, and territorial integrity, he was executed. What do you know about Huỳnh văn Vinh, a.k.a. Vinnie Huynh?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  The interrogator paused and sat back in the shadow. He asked about Little Saigon, Orange County. “Tell me about your daily activities there. Why did overseas Vietnamese in California vote Reagan-Bush and now Bush-Quayle? Explain your view on the recent fall of the Berlin Wall. What’s your relationship with Jon Pōki‘i Boyden? And who’s the man in US Army fatigues in the picture he carries?”

  JP Boyden had her bag when she left the interrogation. Along with a few selected visitors, they were herded onto an old Russian bus, whose black Cyrillic script remained visible under fresh layers of yellow paint. The bus left the airport for their temporary accommodation in downtown Saigon until their travel papers were cleared. After the midday sleep, the streets overflowed with people on bicycles, Vespa scooters, and three-wheeled xích lô.

  “What’s your relationship with Jon Poki’i Boyden?” she mimicked the interrogator.

  “You should have said something.”

  “Of course, I should have said something. What should I have said?”

  “I’m writing a travel article on post-war Vietnam, and you’re accompanying me as my interpreter. That’s our story.” The bus passed an ancient redbrick pagoda with a bell tower and twin pillars. JP released the cap of his camera, peered through the lens, and snapped several pictures of glass-shard dragons in flight.

  “What’s the story with the strawberry?” She studied the insignia-like tattoo on his upper left arm.

  She wanted to ask about the photograph of the GI in his wallet that the interrogator also questioned her about, but JP leaned over and whispered, “Our tour guide is watching.”

  The tour guide in the front seat next to the driver was her interrogator, who shifted his focus to the traffic when she caught his eye.

  “Xuan is a People’s Army veteran who knows the terrain,” JP said. “Interesting fellow. He clearly believes that you’re my girlfriend.”

  “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t need a tour guide in my country. This is my country.” She lowered her voice. “I’m here on research—”

  “To collect oral folk stories on . . .” He pulled out an embossed leather notebook, flipped through several pages, and read, “hon vong phu.” He looked at her. “What’s that?”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Customs personnel suspected that you might be a member of an insurgency. Are you?”

  She flashed him a look that said his presence was unbearable.

  “How about this for a headline? Young Woman Returns to Continue the Work for Freedom.” He scribbled in his journal, in which he had already drawn lines and intersections and landmarks with fanciful made-up names, mapping their route in detail from Tan Son Nhat International Airport to downtown Saigon. “It’s a justifiable story, isn’t it?”

  The bus stopped at the Hilton Inn near the junction where an urban canal emptied into the Saigon River. When they disembarked, she saw JP’s deep frown. She quickly averted her gaze and squeezed in between a portly Frenchwoman and her stalky grandson.

  The visitors tried to forget the annoyance of their delayed itineraries as they trailed Xuan through the common area on the ground floor. He informed them that the three-story inn was government-run and explained the list of rules for housekeeping, washing, and ironing. They had a six o’clock family-style dinner and a midnight curfew.

  “It’s bloody house arrest,” a man grumbled.

  Xuan stopped in front of an eight-by-ten framed picture of Vo Chi Cong on the wall. Next to the Chairman of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam was a life-size portrait of Ho Chi Minh in the garden of the Presidential Palace in Hanoi some thirty years before. To the visitors’ amazement, Xuan read aloud the script beneath the portrait in near-perfect French—words copied from France’s 1789 “Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen.”

  Les hommes naissent et demeurent libres et égaux en droits . . . .

  la liberté, la propriété, la sûreté, et la résistance à l’oppression.

  “Ma
ia,” JP whispered, “how about you and me see the Pearl of the Orient tonight?”

  “No.”

  They hauled their belongings up the circular stairwell and paused at the landing window, through which they could see the sky bulging with rainclouds. “The second floor is for the gentlemen,” Xuan said, “the third, for the ladies.”

  “You have plans?” JP asked.

  “I’m visiting my grandmother.”

  “Mind if I come along?”

  Through the glass doors onto the veranda, the visitors watched the raindrops plummet into the Saigon River and flood the downtown streets where half-naked children splashed from puddle to puddle under the stormy sky.

  Alone in the room, Maia sat on the bed and unzipped her bag. From beneath the travel kit of anti-malaria pills, iodine tablets, first-aid supplies, and a Swiss Army knife, she pulled out a bundle of clothes and unrolled it: a pair of black peasant pants, two light blouses, a pale yellow embroidered đồ bộ, and an old Dragonwell tin in which she carried her father’s ashes, a bit of which she kept in her octangular jade locket. She put the tin on the rattan nightstand beside the bed. She caressed the yellow outfit, fingering the floral embroidery around the heart-shaped neck of the top and the silkiness of its matching bottoms. The bon voyage gift was as thin and velvety as rose petals, more like nightwear than street clothes, but the giver had assured her that she would blend in with the local womenfolk. She repacked and placed her bag at the foot of the bed.

  She lay down, listening to the footsteps on bamboo flooring in the adjacent rooms and the pouring rain outside. She closed her eyes and saw satisfied gazes. She had not thought of returning until she stood in the headquarters of the Independent Vietnam Coalition in Orange County, California. She had stripped off her T-shirt and blue jeans, slipped on the delicate outfit, and then posed for scrutiny in the hall full of exiled Vietnamese. She saw longing in their eyes and heard anguish in their voices. She thought of her deceased father, and her desire for the home they had left more than a decade before surged through her. She believed she would be the one to return.