by Vincent Lam
“The Airborne was dug in here. It was the most vicious battle,” said the driver. “Whatever your friends came for, they probably turned away.”
“No, they came here.”
“Then they might not be here anymore. I’m an idiot. Huh. Five cans of fish.” The cyclo driver huffed with breathless resignation, eyes forward. Through the back hatch of the personnel carrier, Percival glimpsed a charred torso slumped against a useless machine gun. A helicopter had crashed into a house. Its tail section hung over the street and its rotors were folded like blades of grass broken in a storm. The air stung with acrid smoke.
At first, Percival didn’t recognize the Mercedes, and the cyclo driver almost pedalled past it. Percival called, “Stop!” as he stumbled out of the cyclo towards the car. The windows had been shot through, or had burst in the blaze that had consumed the car. The vehicle sat on its wheel rims, the rubber of the tires having burned away. He stared at the torn-open hood for a long time. It had been penetrated by a shell, or a rocket? From another world, barely audible to Percival, the cyclo driver called at him to get back into the cyclo, to stop wasting time if they were searching for a light-coloured car. In some places, curls of cream paint had been left by the flames. The car emitted a stench of burning rubber, gasoline, and burned flesh. Percival went around to the front to read the licence plate—his own.
He forced himself to look through the space where the windshield had been, and then to walk around the car. The driver’s door was open, a blackened corpse sprawled half out of the car. Mak’s glasses lay on the ground near the skull, lenses shattered into cobwebs. On the other side of the car, still in the passenger seat, was the charred husk of a man slumped over. A burned hand still held a pistol, the arm out the window, flesh seared onto the weapon. Percival drew closer and saw the metal stars of Cho’s rank on the shoulders.
The third figure was in the backseat. Hands clawed at the window, frozen there by flame. Face burned beyond recognition, the earthly opposite of a ghost. Percival fell to his knees, silent. A faint smoke still wafted up from somewhere within the car, where something inside continued to smoulder.
“We are almost at the airport, mister,” called the driver. “Isn’t that where you wanted to go?”
Percival pulled himself up and stared. The neck was bare. He laughed through his tears. He turned to the driver and yelled, “It’s not him, he’s not wearing the charm!” If only saying it could make it true. “It is not my son! This is not really my car!” He was unable to pull his eyes away from the figure. No, it could not be. Percival stumbled back into the seat of the cyclo. “Go back, back to Cholon,” he wept. “He does not have the lump of gold on his neck.” Percival beat the frame of the cyclo with his fists. “Go!”
The driver shrugged. “Even if we didn’t get to the airport, you are paying me the same.” He stood on the pedals and pushed the handlebars hard to one side to turn them back to where they had come from. As they began to move, Percival glimpsed his licence plate, but surely one could not be certain of the numbers after such a fire. He kept his eyes open, for whenever he closed them he saw the blackened remains of the car’s third passenger, distorted by pain, struggling for escape. “The lump of gold was not on his neck,” he said to no one.
CHAPTER 27
AS THE CYCLO ROLLED AND BUMPED him back to Cholon, Percival searched the faces of the soldiers. Again and again, he thought that a profile resembled Dai Jai, believed at a distance that a soldier was his son, only to be disappointed when he saw the face clearly. At a checkpoint, the cyclo driver growled at him to sit back, to quit staring at the Northern soldiers lest they become angry.
“Don’t make trouble, mister.” The cyclo driver pedalled along, eager to deliver his passenger. “Remember, we are nothing, the defeated.”
As they neared La Place de la Libération, Percival was determined to hope. Mak was too canny to be killed. Any three soldiers could be dead in that car. Mak and Dai Jai might be at Chen Hap Sing already, waiting for him. They passed an army truck whose loudspeakers droned, “Collaborators with the Americans must write confessions and present them to officers of the people’s army. Former police and security forces must register and surrender their weapons. Confess now, and you will be treated leniently. If you fail to confess, penalties will be severe.”
When he got back to Chen Hap Sing, Percival prowled from room to room, flung open the doors of the echoing classrooms, searched the long-vacant family quarters, called for Dai Jai, and for Mak. After combing the building twice over, Percival sat in the school office. Dai Jai could appear at any moment, he forced himself to think. Should he go out and look for pet fish? No. He must be here when his son returned. Percival had given the charm to Dai Jai. It had been passed down from Chen Kai, from a line of ancestors, and it kept the wearer safe. The third dead figure, its image seared in his eyes, did not wear the lump of gold. It could not be Dai Jai. To displace this image, he tried to picture the vast empty sea at Cap St. Jacques, where he had once believed Dai Jai was lost to the water, only to see him walking down the beach, saved by the charm. It was hard to summon the feeling of the hot breeze, the wet smell of salt. He found himself desperate for the details of that day.
The phone on his desk rang. He jumped to answer.
“Hello!”
“Percival, you’re alright?” Jacqueline’s voice rang clear from so far away.
“Yes.”
“I’m worried for you,” she said. “They haven’t come to arrest you?”
“I’ll be fine. Mak has fixed it up.”
“Of course he has …” she said.
“Are you calling from America? How is Laing Jai?”
“He’s doing fine. You’re safe? What is happening there?” she asked.
“I’m waiting here … just waiting for someone,” he said.
“For whom? ”
Could he share with her the pain, the burned bodies? Talking to her made him feel naked, and it was harder to circumvent the truth. He longed for Jacqueline to help him carry this. But he was ashamed of the truth.
Percival said, “I’m waiting for Dai Jai.” It felt so good to say that.
“Oh.”
“He is in Saigon. Nearby.”
Her voice was kind, generous. “I’m happy for you, and for him.”
“I haven’t seen him yet. Mak is bringing him.” Percival felt he could use a pill or a drink. Neither was at hand. “Any moment, I’m expecting him …” Whatever the truth was, why should he weigh Jacqueline down with sadness? Yes, he would permit them the indulgence of speaking and hearing these words. Unknown to him for years, she had also shared the weight of Dai Jai’s departure for China. But now, she and their son were safely in America. She had loved Dai Jai too, let her imagine his safe return. His voice cracking, Percival said, “He is a hero, one of the liberators, as Mak says. When we last saw him, he was barely past being a boy, and now he has grown into a man.” There was a long silence on the line until Percival said in a broken voice, “What should I do, Jacqueline? You see, I’m confused. I don’t know what to do.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. “I love you.”
“You must welcome him,” she said. “I will not come between you …”
“I’m glad you loved him—”
“Nor between you and Laing Jai. Without me, Laing Jai could be Dai Jai’s half-brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Laing Jai would like it … if you took him to the zoo today. Be at the zoo entrance at three,” she said. “Let him be Dai Jai’s half-brother. You love them both. It will work.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have to go now.” Now it was her voice crumbling. “I’m so sorry, everything has changed.”
“Has it?” he said. Why was Jacqueline calling? Where was she? “Wait.”
“I love you, and I have to go.”
“I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t go.”
“At three. It’s the best thing, my love,” she said,
and hung up.
He held the telephone, heard the hum of the dial tone, and put down the receiver. Silence stretched out. Percival was unable to stand or look around, aware only that he continued to breathe, waiting. He wanted what he had said to be true, that Dai Jai was coming, and he said it again aloud, just to hear the words. It was not the same without someone else listening, believing. There was no knock, no arrival, and still he sat, hours later. Had he really heard Jacqueline’s voice? he wondered. Or was that also just something he wished for and had imagined? The office door was closed. The room was very hot. Percival realized that the ceiling fan had stopped. The air was suffocating. He was hungry—but the thought of eating nauseated him. He did crave his drugs, a lingering need, and hated the craving. He picked up the phone to call the Saigon apartment. Was she there? The line was dead now. Had she really called?
Yes, that had been real, he thought with a start. He checked his watch. It was past two. In the car, it would take half an hour to reach the zoo. But the car was gone. In a cyclo, it would be almost an hour. He took a few tins of fish to pay for the ride and rushed outside.
As the cyclo creaked its way towards central Saigon, Percival saw that since morning some pockets of the city had become strangely festive. North Vietnamese soldiers sat on their tanks and armoured vehicles, and vendors gave them free snacks, addressed young foot-soldiers as ‘big brother.’ Here and there, piles of uniforms and flags burned, the insignia of the old power cast into flames. Many of the Northern soldiers now wore American boots, and Colt sidearms. The newcomers examined the streets of the city, as curious and lost as tourists. Percival was stopped at checkpoints and asked if he had been a member of the police, the army, or a collaborator. No, he mumbled, he was a simple teacher.
They approached the zoo. Percival saw Laing Jai standing alone just outside the gate. Jacqueline was not there. Percival stepped out of the cyclo and was almost struck by a black Lambretta scooter. He crossed the street, ran towards the zoo gate, and lifted Laing Jai up in his arms, hugged him close. The boy was not wearing his imported clothes. Today, instead, he wore very simple blue pants and a blue shirt, which appeared to have been carefully chosen for their plainness.
“You’ve grown! I’m so happy to see you. Your mother called. At first I thought she was calling from America. I don’t understand—what happened? ”
“I was scared you would not come,” Laing Jai said, and he released the tears that he had held inside while waiting. It had been almost two years, and the boy was taller, more solid, and just as beautiful.
“Shh, I’m here.” Percival held the boy for a long time, amazed that he was real. “I thought you had flown away, both of you …”
“Mr. Peters said to stay in the apartment, he would fetch us, but when we didn’t see any more helicopters taking off from the embassy, we knew the Americans were gone. Mama said that you would be at the zoo today, but I was scared you might not come.”
Percival did not know what to say. “Shall we visit the animals?” He wiped away the boy’s tears.
“Yes, baba.” Laing Jai gripped Percival’s hand tightly.
There was a handwritten sign over the gate. WELCOME TO THE NORTHERN LIBERATORS! PLEASE VISIT FREE OF CHARGE. Percival and Laing Jai wandered the grounds slowly, without speaking. The animals went about their business as usual. Turtles splashed in their shaded pool. Elephants blinked and occasionally batted their ears. Percival steered Laing Jai away from the monkeys and big cats. He longed to see Jacqueline. If she was in Saigon, he realized, he would have to tell her the truth about Dai Jai. Would she hate Percival for what had happened?
They sat on a bench to rest under the heavy limbs of a banyan tree. Percival asked Laing Jai, “When did your mother say she would come for you?”
“Mama isn’t coming.”
“She isn’t?”
“She said she has another way to escape, but that I couldn’t go with her. Mama said I must stay with you from now on.” Laing Jai’s eyes began to fill with tears again.
Percival put his arm around Laing Jai. “Didn’t Mr. Peters promise to take you both away a long time ago.”
“Mama asked him all the time when we would leave for America. She gave him all the gold she had saved, to buy air tickets. He always said it would be soon but he had to stay a little longer for his work. But now he is gone.”
“The American broke his promise.”
“Mama cried so hard when the helicopters stopped. I must go with you, she said. She would see me in a better place. Baba, does that mean you are taking me to America? Is that where we will meet mama again?”
Percival forced himself to breathe. “We must go to the apartment.”
“Mama said that I must not go back. She made me promise not to go back there.”
Percival pulled with gentle urgency on Laing Jai’s hand. He said, “Yes, she’s right. You must wait downstairs, but I forgot something there. I must go and get it.”
When they arrived at the apartment, Percival hugged Laing Jai and told him to wait in the lobby. The boy sat cross-legged in a corner on the cool tile floor. The elevator was not working. Percival laboured up the stairs, his shirt soaked through with sweat. Once upon a time, they had been pleased to find an apartment on the eighth floor, a lucky number. His leg screamed. He stopped at each landing, but then pushed through the pain up the last two flights. Percival went down the hallway and tried the door—it was not locked. He eased it open.
Jacqueline’s shoes sat on a woven mat inside the door. Percival called her name. So often he had come here anticipating the pleasure of the woman he loved. But the last time he had found betrayal, humiliation. He pushed open the bedroom door. The bed was empty, and had been made. He peered into the living room. It was tidy, the shutters all closed. He felt that he was intruding upon the careful order of an apartment that was no longer his home. Yet while it was, he had tried so hard to pretend that it was not. He looked into the kitchen, empty.
Percival found Jacqueline in the bath. She wore no makeup. She was most beautiful that way, he thought, with a bare face. Her hair radiated around her, softly drifting. She was dressed in a white ao dai, the colour of mourning. Her eyes, peering out from beneath the water, were eternally still. Percival put his hand out, disturbing the water with his fingers, and closed them. He stroked her face. Her skin was the same temperature as the water. Did it contain her last warmth?
Ripples emanated out from Percival’s fingers. The cord of the hair dryer snaked from the outlet over the edge of the tub and into the water. The dryer itself had slipped from Jacqueline’s hand, submerged. She wore a thin, finely woven gold chain. Resting in the soft indentation of Jacqueline’s neck was a rough, unshaped lump of gold. He brought it to the surface, rubbed it, and knew it by touch. Percival’s sobs rose as if he were being choked from within, but he wept silently, afraid that a neighbour might hear. He undid the chain and clutched the charm in his hand, sank both of his arms into the water, held her cold form, and hoped for the return of the electricity.
And then he heard a voice, calling, “Baba! Are you here?”
It had taken Percival a while to climb the stairs. The boy must have become scared and followed him. Percival yanked his hands from the water as if scalded. He must not abandon the last person he loved. He stood, put the charm in his pocket, walked out of the bathroom, and closed the door quietly behind him. The living room of the apartment glowed with diffuse light from the bright edges of the shutters.
“Wait there. Don’t come in. Baba is coming.”
“Baba, I was afraid to wait alone,” Laing Jai called from the hallway.
Percival ran to the door, folded the boy in his arms, forced himself to bury his own tears. Laing Jai was small but strong, so much like Dai Jai had once been.
“Mama forgot to pack you a suitcase. We must bring some of your nice clothes. You wait here, stand near the door and I will pack for you. Gwai jai.” A good, obedient boy.
Percival found a val
ise and filled it with Laing Jai’s plainest, sturdiest clothing. He searched for Laing Jai’s identification papers, found them in a bureau and put them in his pocket. About to leave, Percival remembered what was going on outside and thought to check the kitchen. He found painfully little food—a half-kilo of rice, a small pickled ham in the silent refrigerator, a little packet of dried pork. He shoved all of it into the valise and hurried to the front door.
At the threshold, Percival stopped and said to the boy, “I have something for you.” He took the gold charm from his pocket and put the chain around his grandson’s neck.
CHAPTER 28
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, THE CYCLO drivers slept in their vehicles at the corners of the broad avenues. Percival offered the single can of fish in his pocket, and the drivers said that this was not enough to take a man, a boy, and a suitcase all the way to Cholon. The other scraps of food did not persuade them. Percival lugged the suitcase in one hand and clutched Laing Jai’s hand in the other. They stayed on the shaded sides of the streets and made their way slowly. They had gone down these roads many times with Jacqueline, to restaurants and cafes, around the market roundabout. What if this morning he had told Jacqueline that Dai Jai was dead? Would she be walking with them now?
Laing Jai looked tired but did not complain. He asked about the unfamiliar things he saw, an artillery piece with a red star on the side, the thin soldiers in green uniforms, the hastily painted banners that hung on homes to welcome the victors. He had many questions, but Percival had few answers. A group of soldiers stopped them, and the officer asked to see their identification. He asked who Laing Jai’s father was. When Percival said that he was, the officer looked confused, made a sour face, and examined the papers for some time. The officer waved them on and muttered, “American dog.” As they walked past, a soldier sneered at Laing Jai and spat on the ground. Laing Jai shrank closer to Percival.