by Vincent Lam
Percival put his tea down. “You have everything, except a boy.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ling. “I will be Pham, the child’s mother. He will be Truong. I have been waiting for the right boy, and perhaps you have brought him to me.”
Percival thought of switching to Teochow, but then continued in Cantonese, which Laing Jai understood. “So then the price I would pay for Laing Jai to escape safely on an airplane … is Laing Jai.”
Mrs. Ling nodded. She turned to Laing Jai. She spoke to the boy in English, and asked him to describe Mr. Peters. Laing Jai did so—spoke of his blue eyes, his loud voice. She asked him what Peters liked to eat in the morning, and what he liked to drink at night. She asked him what kinds of things Peters said when he was happy, or upset. Laing Jai answered precisely in good English. Laing Jai chose one biscuit at a time, trying to be polite, and yet he had almost devoured the whole plate already.
Mrs. Ling turned to Percival. “There are thousands of métis boys, but I need a boy like yours, not some poor wretch from the street. They conduct interviews to make sure they are evacuating the right people. Even in charity, they are picky. I need a boy who can remember an American, describe an American, and speaks English as well as Truong would have. Most children who would be suitable have a mother here. Laing Jai is perfect.” She turned to Laing Jai. “Do you think you can play a game of pretend? ”
“What is it?” The plate sat empty.
“Pretend that everything you remember of Mr. Peters is what you remember of Lieutenant Michaels. He was an American who loved me. You are our child. You pretend that I am your mama. If you can play this game, we can leave by airplane.”
“But I have a mama,” said Laing Jai, his voice fading at the end. Laing Jai looked at Percival to see if this was what he wished.
Percival nodded at Laing Jai with both sadness and hope. “If you can play the game well, we will go to America.”
Laing Jai said in English, “Just by playing this game?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ling. “As long as we pass the tests. This game has tests, called interviews. But it is easy—you don’t have to study. Just remember, until we are on the airplane, I am your mama. Lieutenant Michaels is your baba. Whatever you remember of Peters—”
“Is Michaels.” Laing Jai swirled the bottle of soda, in which he had rationed the last sip. The orange fluid spun around at the bottom, fizzing as it circled. “And what about my real baba?” said the boy, turning now to Percival. “How can he come with us, if baba Michaels is dead in America? ”
“He is very smart, isn’t he?” Mrs. Ling drummed her nails on her chair. She said to the boy, “Would you like another soda? Go into the kitchen. Ask one of the girls for a Fanta. Cookies, too.” Obediently, Laing Jai went.
She looked at Percival. “If you agree, you will come to America later. By boat.”
“How can I trust you?”
“Do you have a better option?”
Laing Jai darted back into the room towards Percival with a fresh soda and a plate of biscuits, sucking on a straw. Percival clasped the boy to him. “You see, there are not so many seats on the plane,” said Percival. He must be as brave as the boy and hold back any tears. “I will come later, by boat, and you will go by airplane. I will meet you in America. It’s a good game, a wonderful game. You will play it perfectly.”
Mrs. Ling held out her hand, beckoned. Laing Jai shrank back and hid behind Percival’s chair. He said, “If that’s how it is, I don’t want to play that game, baba.”
“It’s what mama wants you to do. It is what she wants, and what I want. It’s the best thing, I promise,” said Percival desperately. He pulled Laing Jai around and put him on his lap. “I will go on the boat, which is a little slower, but it goes to the same place.”
That night, as Percival put Laing Jai to bed, Laing Jai wept and pleaded that he didn’t want to go without baba. Percival shushed him, and settled the sheets around him. He said, “Maybe you are scared to be alone?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s a secret. Whenever you dream, I will be with you. If you go to sleep every night and think of me, I will see you in America every night.” Laing Jai gripped his hand tightly, and eventually it relaxed. Once the boy was asleep, it was Percival’s turn to weep.
CHAPTER 29
LAING JAI LEARNED THE ROLE OF Lieutenant Michaels’ son perfectly. Percival snuck him out to Saigon several times a week during the siesta, and when he was practising, Mrs. Ling fed them well. Percival was happy to see the boy gaining weight, and felt some of his own strength return. Laing Jai and Mrs. Ling underwent three rounds of interviews with the USAID officials, and each time Mrs. Ling reported with satisfaction that the boy had been clear and charming in describing Peters’ quirks as those of Michaels. “An all-American boy,” she laughed, and tousled his hair.
After round three, the USAID officials were satisfied that they were dealing with Pham and Truong, the surviving family of Lieutenant Michaels of the U.S. Marines. American visas and air tickets were issued for Pham and Truong, complete with new identity papers that had officially stamped photos taken by the USAID photographer.
As she had promised, Mrs. Ling arranged and paid for Percival’s escape by boat. She fixed it so that Percival would be smuggled out of Saigon on the night that he left Laing Jai with her. It was safest to do it this way, so that when the can bo thought to look for them, they would all be gone.
On the appointed day, when the afternoon classes of the Revolutionary School were in progress and Percival judged that the can bo was having his siesta, he roused Laing Jai from his afternoon nap.
“Let’s go—quietly,” said Percival.
“Yes, baba,” said Laing Jai. “Are we going to an interview?”
Percival took Laing Jai’s clean white shirt and blue cotton pants from the armoire and placed them in a rough sack. Laing Jai had dressed in plain clothes for the interviews, but Percival wanted him to arrive in America properly dressed.
Percival had not told Laing Jai that he and Mrs. Ling would be flying the next day—it was safer that he didn’t know, in case they were stopped and questioned.
Sewn into Laing Jai’s good pants was the letter Cecilia had sent from America. In a concealed pocket that he had sewn within his own trousers, Percival had the one true letter from Dai Jai and a photo of Jacqueline. In his jacket pocket, he had the residency permit for himself and Laing Jai, but that was just in case they were stopped on the way to Saigon. Soon the boy would become Truong, the child of Pham and Lieutenant Michaels, and Percival would be making an escape attempt from which no document could rescue him if he was discovered.
Percival closed the door of their room silently behind them. Pulled it tight. They slipped down the stairs, down the hallway, to the front door. They stepped out. Percival eased the front door shut, grasped Laing Jai’s hand, and they walked along in the shadows of buildings, alongside the barren square. The church’s doors were chained shut. None of the priests had returned from their re-education. A few monks stood on the steps, though people were wary of them now, for some said they informed to the can bo. Since the incident at the zoo, Percival had not seen the one-eyed monk of whom he had once been fond. On the site of the old post office, a drab cinder-block cube now stood as the neighbourhood food ration office, built without windows to prevent theft. There were no rations today, and it was quiet.
Percival kept his eyes ahead, did not look at the houses and shops that had all once belonged to people he knew. Now, many of the voices that came from within them were unfamiliar. The Chinese owners had been sent away and the houses given to Northern Vietnamese. The strangest absence was the lack of vendors and hawkers in the square. Something pulled at Percival and he had a peculiar thought, that the Gold Mountain was behind them. At the corner, seeing that no one was nearby, Percival turned back once, saw Chen Hap Sing, already small from across the square. He looked at the house that his father had once built. It came as a surprise, this sharp a
che, that he would miss the house, Cholon, even Vietnam. Then they turned the corner and walked away.
Laing Jai said, “Are we going on our trip, baba?”
“Shh … gum laik.” So clever.
They went in the direction of the market, away from Saigon. Percival had planned a cautious detour. There was hardly anything for sale in the stalls, so he knew it would not appear suspicious that they did not buy anything. When Percival was satisfied that no one was following them, he and Laing Jai took a circuitous route to Mrs. Ling’s house. It was dusk when they arrived.
She opened the door with relieved smile. “You are later than I thought you would be,” she said to Percival. She turned to the boy. “Tell me our game.”
“I am Truong Michaels,” said Laing Jai. “My father was Lieutenant Michaels, Marine helicopter pilot. He loved to dance the twist. After his tours in Vietnam, he worked in banking, here in Saigon. He went home to America and was arranging to send for my mother and me. He died in a tragic automobile crash. Now, my greatest wish is to go to the land of my father.”
Mrs. Ling clapped excitedly. “Gwai jai!” She showed them into the neat side room in the back of the house where they had practised Laing Jai’s game and where he would sleep for a few hours. Their flight was early in the morning. She brought them big bowls of food—barbequed pork and vegetables on rice. When they had finished, Laing Jai said, “Baba, there is only one bed here.”
“I won’t be sleeping here,” said Percival. “I have to set out tonight, to meet the boat. You will leave before dawn. I will see you in America.”
Laing Jai’s face collapsed. “But baba, I don’t want to go on the plane without you.”
“But that is the game. You remember.”
“I don’t want to go. I’ll come on the boat with you.”
“But the plane is much better than the boat.” Percival felt his eyes begin to water. “Get to sleep now. Remember your game. You are the son of Pham and the late Lieutenant Michaels. You are an American.” Percival let down the mosquito net and sat by the side of the bed.
“I don’t want to go without you, baba.”
“I will meet you there. Until then, I will see you in sleep. Think of our special story, our secret.”
“Yes, baba,” Laing Jai said. “Tell it to me.”
Percival reached into the mosquito net and found the gold charm around Laing Jai’s neck. He rubbed it in one hand and took one of Laing Jai’s hands in his other. Laing Jai began to recite, “Many generations ago, our venerable ancestor left Shantou to go searching for wealth in the land of the Gold Mountain.” Laing Jai yawned with the familiar words. “He went to make his fortune, and in that faraway land, he found this piece of gold. Whoever wears it will be safe wherever he wanders.”
“And there is no design on the charm because …”
“Because one never knows what form wealth will take.” Laing Jai touched the gold lump around his neck and grasped Percival’s hand. “Baba, did he ever return home?”
“Who?”
“Our ancestor, who went to find this gold.” The boy’s voice was already tiring.
“Well, of course he did. He brought this gold back to China. This is the proof.”
“Baba, if it is good luck, you take the charm.” Laing Jai’s voice perked up. “I don’t need it. The luck has rubbed off on me.”
“Shh … sleep now.”
“Baba, when will we return to Chen Hap Sing?” The boy’s words were drifting off.
“Once you have left a place, you can never go back. I made that mistake. I thought it was possible. If you come back here one day, that house will be changed, or it may be gone. The place of your memories will have vanished, and you will have new memories. They will make the old ones feel different.”
“I’ll miss all the good things the cook made,” the boy yawned again. “The oyster omelettes and the mee pok noodles.”
Somehow, Percival realized, the boy recalled pleasures that were already years away in the past of Chen Hap Sing. He was glad. “But don’t worry, it’s inside you. Take the good luck with you, and go. The people who love you, and whom you love, remain always. Everything else vanishes. The gold lump doesn’t even matter, except for what it helps you to remember.”
The boy resisted sleep and turned from side to side. Night grew until darkness was complete. Percival waited. Eventually, the boy’s breathing became heavy and regular.
CHAPTER 30
Chen Pie Sou was at the age of growing tall, but was still skinny as a reed. He was playing after school with friends, near the railway siding. That day, he bet the pickled duck egg in his pocket. His overseas father, Chen Kai, had not been home in years but sent enough money that his son could eat an egg every day. He wagered it against an older boy’s triangle of bean cake that the train would pass through without stopping.
The train had speed at first, when it appeared far away. It laboured towards them with the steady grumble and fire of an earthbound dragon. The boys stopped and watched it keenly. The odds were on his side, Chen Pie Sou reminded himself. The shelves in the town shop were well stocked, and mail had been delivered the day before. As it came near, grew large, its brakes squealed. Even as the brakes sounded, he counted on the beast to exhale its smoky trail of breath and speckle their skin with black soot as it passed through and continued onwards.
It did seem to be slowing.
The older boy, of similar height but with almost an adult’s weight, said “Ha! Give me the egg.”
Raising his voice above the shriek of brakes, “It has not stopped.”
“You are trying to run away from your bet.” The older boy attempted to shove his hand in Chen Pie Sou’s pocket to grab the egg, but he danced away. The train soon overwhelmed their voices as it ground to a stop. The older boy ran at Chen Pie Sou and tripped him before he could get away. Chen Pie Sou kept his hands up and tried to deflect the punches that came for his head. His mother would be upset if she saw more bruises. Everyone knew that Chen Kai was far away. This allowed them to attack Chen Pie Sou, and it made him fight harder. The other boys envied his eggs and resented his bragging about being a landlord. Fortunately, he picked his bets and won more than he lost. The eggs were a tempting prize that allowed him to make profitable wagers. The older boy was fast, straddled him now, and had the upper hand. Chen Pie Sou was hardly able to land a blow, and struggled beneath the older boy, who pummelled him with both fists.
An adult’s voice yelled, “Stop!” The taunts of the gang of boys grew distant as they fled. A man walked from the train and stood sternly over the combatants. The older boy rifled Chen Pie Sou’s pocket and snatched the crushed egg before he jumped to his feet and ran. The man who drew close wore a well-cut suit and a crisp felt hat.
“Why are you fighting?” asked the man.
“I lost a bet. For my egg.”
“If you lost a bet,” said the man, “then you must pay.”
From behind the man, the railway porter brought two handsome leather suitcases and placed them carefully beside the passenger. The Western-dressed man gave a tip that must have been generous, judging from the depth of the porter’s bow. His shoes shone like the smokestack of the locomotive. He fished a gleaming watch from his pocket, checked the time, and replaced it. Chen Pie Sou had never seen such a watch, or such a man, glowing with wealth. Though the man had Chinese features and spoke Teochow, in clothing and manner he was exactly like a gwei lo. He must have come directly from the Gold Mountain. He stared inquisitively, softly.
“Why did you bet your egg?” asked the man.
“I wanted the piece of bean cake.”
“But you had the egg for a snack.”
“I wanted more.”
“Yes,” he nodded, “I understand.”
“I thought the train would pass through. I wanted to win, and I felt very lucky today. I was wrong.”
The man had not touched his baggage. He stared. What did he mean by this? Perhaps he would pay to have
his bags carried. Perhaps he expected them to be carried, whether he paid or not. Chen Pie Sou went to pick up the suitcases, but then he did not know what to do with them. He waited for the man to tell him where to take the bags. The man said, “You were wrong about the train,” his eyes twinkling, “but right about the luck.”
Chen Pie Sou stared at the man, at his clothes of a foreigner, at the soft cleanliness of his hands and the roundness of his well-fed face. It contained something familiar. Then he dropped the suitcases to kowtow at his father’s feet.
IT WAS A NIGHT WITH NO MOON, chosen for darkness. Along with the others, Percival lay in the sharp, tough grass of the dunes above the beach. He guessed that they were somewhere a little north of Vung Tau.
After Laing Jai had gone to sleep, the smuggler collected Percival from Mrs. Ling’s house. This man was a sergeant of the North Vietnamese Army, and he packed Percival into the back of an army truck crowded with other passengers. Over the days that followed, they took a meandering route through the countryside, heading east from Saigon. The smuggler knew the soldiers at the checkpoints, told them casually that he was deporting counter-revolutionaries to be re-educated, and pressed bills into their hands. There was a new currency, the dong, and this sergeant had plenty of them. Mrs. Ling had been good at the exit business, because she had found soldiers to do the smuggling. For several sweltering days in the back of the truck, babies nursed lethargically at the breasts of dozing women, and men kept silent as they bounced along small roads. Laing Jai would be in a new world already. Percival was glad that his grandson was not in this truck that stank of people and fear. The passengers survived on the little food and water that the sergeant provided, and finally they reached the coast.
“Not to worry,” the smuggler had said, as they all climbed out of the truck. “Wait patiently. The boat will come tonight. Don’t let yourselves get caught by the coastal patrol, because then you will not see morning.” The man got in his truck and drove away. They hid for hours in the dunes of the desolate beach, pressed against the sand, grateful for the cover of night. Darkness shielded them, but they still kept low. The hushing noise of the ocean was the only comfort. It reminded him of his luck.