by Dana Sachs
I followed Phai back to the private bedroom he now shared with his wife and child, the room he’d talked of building so many years before. It was narrow and plain, furnished with a stand-up electric fan, a wooden bureau, and the bed, which filled an entire end of the room. Bare as it was, however, a fresh coat of pale blue paint and a new linoleum floor gave it a clean, cheerful look. On one wall hung a day-by-day calendar with tear-off pages. Against another wall sat a small case full of books. For an instant, I remembered that I could have been the one to live here with him, but then something pulled my attention away. On the bed sat Phai’s bride, Thuy, with their daughter.
Thuy was curled up on the pink sheet, cross-legged and barefoot, with the little bundle of baby in her lap. As soon as she spotted me, she leapt off the bed and, baby in her arms, rushed in my direction. “Miss Duyen!” she gasped, pushing the infant into my arms. “Here’s our child.” Thuy was small-framed and delicate. She had bright eyes, full lips, and a braid that fell like a rope down her back. A new mother’s cloud of exhaustion hung over her face, but her expression was very vui. The two of us sat down on the bed together and I held Ngan, Phai’s daughter, who was still so new to the world that she couldn’t even hold up her head.
Thuy gazed at me. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said in Vietnamese, her hand gripping mine. “As soon as I met Phai, he told me about his American friend Duyen, and about how precious you are to him.”
Thuy had used the word “qúy,” which translates as “precious” or “esteemed.” One could use the word to describe one’s feelings toward one’s grandparents, but I could also remember how Phai would whisper it into my ear while he and I were lying in bed.
“Phai is qúy to me, too,” I stuttered, wondering what she knew.
Voices drifted in from outside the door, and within a few moments the room was crowded with women cooing over the baby. Huong and Linh arrived, then an American named Kyra, an expatriate whom I’d introduced to Phai years before. The one-month birthday of his daughter turned into a reunion, and we moved into the main room of the house, where a feast of a dozen dishes had been laid out on straw mats spread across the floor. Down at one end of the room, the men ate, smoked cigarettes, and drank their beer. Jesse played on the floor, alternating his attention between Todd and Phai’s father, who knew how to whistle like a bird. Thuy sat down at my end, holding Ngan in her arms, gently caressing her. Linh and Huong admired each other’s clothes and gossiped. Phai’s mother, debilitated now by illness, sat on a bed eating rice with a spoon.
Seeing Phai’s mother reminded me that his life still had its sorrows. None of his enterprising job ideas had evolved into a successful career. And according to Huong, he had no work at all. Because he and Thuy lived with his parents, their expenses would be low. But now they had a child to raise. Phai could no longer get by on only a few thousand dong for a week. Whenever I looked at him, though, he was smiling. Even when he and I had been intimate, he had never allowed me to fret about his future. He certainly wouldn’t do so now.
We’d finished eating. Son, Tung, and Todd were laughing, telling jokes. Phai got up and walked over to where I was sitting. “Duyen,” he said, squatting beside me. Thuy had taken baby Ngan into the bedroom to nurse her to sleep. Jesse, worn out from so much play, was curled up in my lap, sucking his thumb. It was almost time for us to leave. “Are you happy?” Phai asked, in Vietnamese.
For years now, I had considered my life and Phai’s as two lines that had intersected briefly, then veered off in opposite directions. But now we seemed quite similar. We were the same age, both recently married, and each of us had a child. In the most fundamental ways, our lives were running parallel after all. I looked at Phai and nodded. “I’m happy,” I told him. “And you?”
His face eased into a wide grin, and he shifted into English. “Happy very very,” he said, and he had a look in his eyes that told me he meant it.
Acknowledgments
The verb acknowledge sounds too unenthusiastic to express the gratitude that I feel for the support I’ve received while writing this book.
First, and most importantly, I’d like to thank the people whose stories I told here. In order to protect their privacy, I changed their names and certain biographical details, but I struggled to capture the truths of their lives in a way that I hope will satisfy them.
I have learned about Vietnam from many sources, but I especially wish to thank Robert Brigham, Nguyen Ba Chung, Nguyen Nguyet Cam, Barbara Cohen, Lou Dematteis, Dan Duffy, Wayne Karlin, Le Minh Khue, Natasha Kraevskaia, Bui Hoai Mai, T. T. Nhu, Peter Saidel, Lisa Spivey, Vu Dan Tan, Nguyen Huy Thiep, Bac Hoai Tran, and Peter Zinoman. Thanks to Kyanh Tonnu for her astute analysis of Vietnamese attitudes toward illness and to Neil Jamieson, whose Understanding Vietnam helped me do just that.
Nell Bernstein, Bill Clegg, Linzy Emery, Sara Frankel, Laura Fraser, Randy Frisch, Sherry Goodman, Carolyn Jones, Eileen Kelly, Hope Mitnick, Kathryn Olney, Kathy Steuer, and Kathryn Winogura all either read pieces of this book or offered other forms of valuable advice along the way. I don’t know that I could have finished this manuscript without the unfailing guidance and unwavering support of Paul Wilkes. Thanks also to the community of writers at the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, particularly Wendy Brenner, Stanley Colbert, Rebecca Lee, Lindsay Pentolfe-Aegerter, and Bob Reiss. Thanks to my agent, Sarah Lazin, and her associate, Cory Halaby, for all of their efforts, and to my editor, Kathy Pories, whose wisdom and precision added immeasurably to this book.
Finally, I wish to thank everyone in my large and loving family, especially Diane Sachs, Ira Sachs, Lynne Sachs, Ira Sachs, Jr., Rose Sachs, Todd Berliner, and Jesse Berliner-Sachs. I’ve had many blessings in my life, and I can trace every one of them back to you.
Published by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2000 by Dana Sachs. All rights reserved.
Parts of chapter 13, “Firecrackers on Dream Street,” appeared in a different form as “Tet” in the January/February 1995 issue of Destination: Vietnam magazine.
ISBN 978-1-56512-872-9