Beauty Rising

by Mark W. Sasse

  “None.”

  “So you went from the United States to Vietnam and stayed only two days? Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why such a short stay?” he inquired.

  I was starting to get nervous. My whole life sounded like a joke.

  “Well, I was just going there, and I,” I said stumbling over my words and the officer glanced right at me.

  “What were you doing in Vietnam, Mr. Kinney?” he said in a more forceful way.

  “I was burying my father.”

  He raised his head and gave me a startled look.

  “Well, no, I wasn’t burying him. I just brought his ashes to Vietnam. He asked me to take his ashes to Vietnam.”

  “You are carrying ashes with you now?”

  “No, no. I dumped them out. They are in Vietnam under a banana tree. Not that that was important.”

  “Why were you bringing your father’s ashes to Vietnam?”

  “He asked me on his deathbed if I would bring his ashes there. You see, there was this girl, and, well, actually he was a soldier in Vietnam during the war and, and, he was very sick, and he asked me, after he told me about the girl that smiled at him, ah, then…”

  “Mr. Kinney,” the officer interrupted my rambling. “What do you do for a living?”

  I stopped and looked squarely at him.

  “I work in the stockroom of K-Mart in Lyndora, Pennsylvania, sir.”

  He sized me up again, looked down at the passport and chopped it once.

  “Thank you Mr. Kinney,” he said and pointed toward the baggage claim area.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. My country wanted me after all. I had felt like an unwanted orphan during that short exchange. Another bout of humiliation – a sure sign I was getting close to home.

  I took the red-eye to Pittsburgh landing at 5:35 AM. I felt so tired and hungry. I had used all the money Jason had given me, and I only hoped that my stockroom colleague remembered to pick me up. If not, I would be stranded thirty miles from home. The airport transit train unloaded me at the air mall. I walked past the statue of the young George Washington who surveyed the back hills of Western Pennsylvania as a young British officer. I imagined Tan as an American taxi driver telling me all about the young George – I missed him. It dawned on me that George and Uncle Ho of Vietnam had a few things in common – the great symbol of freedom for their people. George stood beside the other great symbol of our region – a statue of Franco Harris making the immaculate reception. I’m sure Tan would have had no equivalent for Franco.

  I descended to the baggage claim area and found my conveyor number on the display board. Belt 1. As I approached the belt, I looked and then looked again. I thought my jet lag played tricks on my eyes. Standing in front of me, arms calmly at her side, slight smile on her face stood my mother.

  “Hello Martin. Welcome back.”

  She spoke with a warm, unfamiliar glow. Her face seemed calm without a hint of anger or frustration.

  “Mom?”

  “Welcome home,” she said and came over to give me hug.

  My tongue locked. My heart nearly stopped. My stomach ached and twirled.

  “Mom?”

  I could say nothing else.

  “I’m glad you’re home. Let’s just put all this stuff behind us and live our normal lives. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Emotion welled up in me. Tears slipped slowly down my cheeks. She met me at the airport. She didn’t yell at me, and above all she hugged me. I hadn’t felt a loving touch from a parent in such a long time. I had trouble putting my emotions into perspective the whole ride home. We said very little to each other except for a few exchanges about how the airplane rides were. She asked me nothing at all about Vietnam or dad’s ashes, and I certainly didn’t feel that I could bring any of it up. Perhaps it all didn’t matter anymore. Perhaps just these few days apart put everything into perspective for her. Maybe it wouldn’t be like it used to be. Perhaps we could finally put the abusive past behind us and slowly pretend to be family. It’s strange that during the entire two days travel home I could think of nothing but Vietnam, my new friends, the girl who stole my wallet, the lovers cuddling by Turtle Lake, and the ashes under the wrong banana tree. But now, Vietnam suddenly seemed less important – a mere distraction from everything that was really important in my life. Could it be that my excursion abroad would bring us together? I started missing my room at home; even the thought of showing up to work at K-Mart didn’t seem too bad. It will be fun to bowl with my buddies on Tuesday I thought. I looked out the window as the sun rose, a red ball. Its piercing light blinded me, and I eagerly awaited what this new day would bring.

  Three Years

  I slept for fourteen hours. I awoke around 10 PM and started unpacking my suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack since I didn’t buy any souvenirs. As I threw my clothes into a pile on the floor that would eventually end up in the laundry basket, I remembered something about my blue striped button down shirt. It was the shirt I wore when Tan took me sightseeing around Hanoi. I reached into the front pocket and felt it immediately – the Phuong tree flower petal. It was still brilliant red in the shape of fan with a serrated edge. I laughed when I thought of how Tan told me it represented the girl that got away because I didn’t have money. It made me think about dad. I traded my dad’s ashes for a red flower petal. I touched it gently and smelled the faint sweet scent emanating from it. I went into the dark living room. Mom must have already gone to bed, I thought as I turned on the stand lamp and walked to our book shelf built into the wall and encased with wooden framed glass doors. I opened the shelf doors and looked for a book in which to place the petal. After glancing through the shelves, one particularly large hard cover picture book caught my eye – A Day in the Life of Vietnam. I had never seen it before. I removed it from the shelf, went into my bedroom, and spent the next hour pouring over each photograph until I saw her on page 89. It was that same Vietnamese girl with the simple smile, the small statured frame, who looked taller due to her thin features. It was that girl that popped into my sights on every street corner, at the ice cream shop, and in dad’s dreams. It was most likely the same girl that sat on the rock in the banana tree grove looking down at my father. This girl, too, had a smile on her face. I stared at her for several minutes and then pressed the Phuong flower petal directly against her and closed the book firmly. I placed it on the night stand and lay back down in bed. I would be back at work in the morning.

  I settled back into Lyndora life. Mom and I lived civilly, not completely unlike before; though without dad, the house had lost a lot of its edge. I continued unloading coffee makers, particle board furniture, and electronics from the eighteen wheelers which rolled into the loading dock on a daily basis. On Tuesdays, I bowled with my gang and continued to eat those spicy tacos. Sunday afternoons were filled with NASCAR.

  I ran into Reverend Fox over in Butler about six weeks later. We chatted briefly, and I told him an abbreviated version of my Vietnam trip. I told him my mission was accomplished, and I thanked him again for his help. In nearly every way, my life went back to normal. I thought less and less about dad as time went on, and I guess I could have said the same thing about my trip to Vietnam. I did from time to time skim through the pictures of the Vietnam picture book, and I always stopped to rub my fingers up and down on the red flower of page 89.

  Three years passed from the date of my dad’s death. Lyndora and I continued as usual sauntering slowly towards twilight unaware of what stood just beyond the horizon. I never could have anticipated what I was to find in front of my house on Home Avenue in Lyndora one late spring evening. Perhaps I was not the same person after all.

  Part II

  I am My Phuong.

  Point of Contact

  He stood as wide as a bus – a target too easy to spot and easier still to nail. I had been pickpocketing for several years, and foreigners were the easiest and typically most rewarding prey. On festiv
al days, I always wore my all white ao dai which made me seem more dainty and lady-like. I was always told I had an innocent looking face, which I also exploited as an important asset.

  This one stood tall and wide, and completely out of his element. Hung walked beside me as usual. He had a very intense look on his face. The crowd pressed thick on this overcast day that was pleasantly cool. We walked deliberately, wading through the festival goers toward the target. We pressed and pushed. He wore jeans which made everything that much easier. Hung now walked directly behind the tall, red-headed foreigner or tay as we called him. I walked just behind him to his right watching the varied movements of his backside as he jaunted through the throngs. Hung glanced quickly and nodded; then I counted to three. Exactly on the three-count, Hung put two hands on the giant’s back and violently pushed him forward. He nearly toppled an old lady in front of him. A split second after the push, my hand, which had been placed on his behind at the count of two, quickly slid in and out of his back pocket clasping the wallet. I quickly slid the wallet up the left slit of my ao dai and into my underwear. I then pushed past him to the right while Hung split past him to the left. Someone grabbed my left wrist and squeezed. The large foreigner pulled me hard toward himself as the festival goers continued proceeding intermittently and haphazardly like stalled rush hour traffic. I glanced at my captor and looked directly into the face of the large red-headed beast. Foreigners, at times, seemed more like specimens than humans. He had scraggly red hair on his face and arms with round ruddy cheeks.

  “Where is my wallet?” he yelled at me.

  Hung got away, but I had the goods. I stared at him pleading mercy with my eyes. Would he notice my innocent face and my beautiful ao dai? How could I be a thief? I tried to wriggle free, but he had a very firm grip. I resolved to stare him down. My eyes were watering, asking him Why? Why are you being so cruel to me? Why did you grab me? You are hurting me. He looked away from me but continued his firm hold. But I knew he was wavering, for I saw the doubt in his eyes. He looked to his left and then right. He seemed unsure. He didn’t know if he had the right person. He looked once more into my eyes, and I felt his fingers release their grip one by one. I turned, head down, and tried to put some distance between me and tay, who was so kind to leave his wallet in such an accessible position.

  I learned never to run from a scene. I also had learned if no one in the general vicinity of the incident got a good look at what happened, then it was often a good idea to stick around. No one ever suspects a nicely dressed young woman loitering around a crime scene to be the culprit.

  About ten meters down, I forced myself through the crowd and into the temple courtyard, which sat on a small bank overlooking the main strip. I watched the tall, red-headed foreigner from behind the courtyard’s metal gate. He kept looking in every direction. He was agitated and so very out of place. I almost felt bad for him. He seemed to have no friend in the world, and now he had no money. I thought it was silly to feel bad for him because after all, he was a rich foreigner. After another minute, he was out of sight. I would now go and meet up with Hung and see how we did.

  ______________________

  Eight hundred and twenty one American dollars. It was a good haul. I skimmed a hundred off the top and put it in my bra as I waited for Hung to show up at the small boarding room he rented off the backend of the university. I was surprised to beat him here. His loss. I kept the rest of the money in the wallet but looked through everything else. A credit card, an insurance card; then I pulled out his driver’s license.

  “Martin J. Kinney. You have a fat face. Where are you from? 1201 Home Avenue, Lyndora. You are a long way from home Martin. But I thank you for your kindness, and I thank you for putting your wallet so conveniently in your back pocket.”

  I heard a motorbike pull into the courtyard. It was Hung. I slide the license into my bra with the money, and threw the wallet onto his bed. He entered and closed the door behind him.

  “Well, how did we do?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “You didn’t look, did you?”

  “No. You know I would never do that.”

  He went to the bed and opened the wallet and counted it out.

  “Seven hundred twenty one.”

  “Good,” I said. “Now give me my share.”

  “I’ll give you three hundred.”

  “You’ll give me half.”

  “Hey, I’m running this operation.”

  “I do the hard work. Anybody can push someone from the back. Give me three hundred and sixty dollars.”

  Hung talked tough, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I wasn’t really afraid of anybody. I’ve been battered, beaten, and bruised enough to know when I should back down from a threat. But Hung was nobody. I knew he would give me the money, and he did. I headed towards the door.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No, I’m working tomorrow.”

  “But that’s the last day of the festival.”

  “I don’t care. This is enough to last me while.”

  He came towards me and grabbed my arm.

  “I want to do it again, tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll be doing it yourself. I’m busy.”

  I yanked my arm free and left.

  I had been renting a couple of rooms with my friend Hoa off the back courtyard of a house that belonged to a local university teacher. A teacher’s house lends an aura of respectability that we tried to maintain. I took off my ao dai and removed the items from my bra. The license caught my attention again. He had such a funny looking face. His face was as wide as three Vietnamese faces. I couldn’t help but think what Martin was doing right at that moment. How would he cope with losing his wallet? What would he do? How would he get home? I don’t think it was remorse creeping in, but I did have a sense that I certainly would hate to lose my wallet in a foreign country. But of course, I knew better than to keep it in my back pocket.

  “Thank you Martin! Four hundred and sixty dollars. A very good day.”

  I looked at his face another time, and then I went over to my friend’s desk, took her hole-punch and punched a hole out of the left corner of his license. Then I attached it to my key chain.

  “My good luck charm.”

  The Shave

  When I first left home, I ended up spending many nights in dark places with strange men just trying to survive. It’s the night society of Vietnam; the part that the Communist cadres try to deny or ignore until something happens that makes it become too embarrassing. Then they raid a couple inconsequential karaoke bars for show. But that’s what it is – show. Half the cadres themselves can be found in those dark places on most nights. The local police happily look the other way when presented with the right sized envelope. It’s all about who you know and how much money you have. I was happy to leave that lifestyle, so when I got a chance to start cutting hair in a local salon, I took it. My friend Hoa, whom I met when taking some evening English lessons at the local university, introduced me to Co Thu, the owner of the only air conditioned, glass door salon in Thai Nguyen – a clear step above the ‘hole in the wall’ open air hair cutting places which dotted the main roads. Co Thu took a liking toward me and gave me a chance. So I worked in the salon about six days a week, but I still made time to freelance with Hung from time to time.

  One day after working there for about a month, I had to take on double the load because one of the other hairdressers was sick and didn’t show up. A little after noon, a very well dressed gentleman with slightly greying hair, a handsome narrow face and a neatly trimmed, thin mustache, came into the shop. Co Thu jumped out of her chair to greet him, smiled unabashedly, bowed slightly and shook his hand. She talked to him in an animated fashion for a few moments then pointed towards the back, and he walked down the hallway and entered one of the private rooms. Co Thu quickly approached me.

  “I need you to go cut that gentleman’s hair – right now.”

  “But, I’m in the m
iddle of-”

  “Just go now,” she said cutting me off.

  “Yes, of course,” I said as I put down the electric trimmer and scissors and walked down the hallway and into the room.

  As I entered, I nodded slightly and went to organize the cutting tools which sat on the stainless steel tray on the counter next to the man. His eyes followed my every move, though he said nothing.

  “Would you like a haircut?”

  “Shave.”

  I reclined his chair back so he directly faced the ceiling. I wet my hands and gently rubbed his cheeks with warm water. He barely even needed a shave since his skin felt rather smooth. I lathered the brush and put the shaving cream on his face.

  “What’s your name,” he asked abruptly.

  “My Phuong.”

  “You are not from around here,” he said immediately recognizing my southern accent.

  “No.”

  “What brought you to Thai Nguyen?”

  “Work.”

  “Do you miss your family?”

  I didn’t want to talk about my family, so I ignored the question.

  “Do you? Do you miss your family?” he repeated.

  “They are dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in a sympathetic voice. “What happened to your family?”

  “They died in a bus accident,” I lied.

  “Let me guess; the driver fell asleep at night?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s terrible. When did that happen?”

  “About three years ago.”

  He stopped asking me questions as I used the straight razor down his cheek and around the curve of his jaw. He closed his eyes, occasionally opening them to look at me. When I finished shaving him, I rubbed his face with a towel, and then started soothing both of his temples with my fingers. I worked his face over gently massaging his facial features for about five minutes. Then I dug my fingernails into his scalp and began to itch his entire head. When I finished, I leaned over towards him.