Late Blossom

by Laura Lam

  I had received a long and serious letter from Julian a few days before. He told me the Communists were soon going to take over Sai Gon any time and he was willing to sponsor my evacuation to America. He added that he owned a nice house in Florida and would welcome me there. He assured me that I would be well looked after in America. It was clear from his letter that he was still in love with me. But it was too late for me to start any kind of paperwork with the Vietnamese government. Nu said I’d been foolish not to keep in touch with Julian. He had written to me several times from America, but I’d replied only once. “A marriage plan with him would have worked out if you’d taken the opportunity when you had it,” she said.

  My frustration – a feeling of being trapped by circumstances – was like an iron band tightening around my head. I had no answers. I became more and more haunted by the fear of a violent death and by worry over the financial responsibility to my family. What would become of them if the regime collapsed? In deep despair, I sought solace from Quan Yin.

  I pray to you, the Goddess of Mercy

  May I not be reborn in the Western

  world?

  May I now become a drop of water on your willow branch?

  Whose sprinkling may help reduce my pain and sorrow.

  The office was increasingly quiet, hour after hour, day after day. There were no clients, foreign or local. I had no idea where all my male colleagues had gone. A senior member of the team had said goodbye the previous week and had given me an address in the United States. He said it was his American sponsors’ home, where he would be living temporarily. The deputy minister had stopped coming to the office.

  I was one of three remaining employees, including the security guard, who still routinely reported to work. Suong – the woman who had studied in Australia – and I spent hours aimlessly tidying, talking, waiting for someone to come, waiting for something – anything – to happen.

  But nothing did happen. From time to time Suong would go out of the building and walk along our street to look at shops, or would run some errands for her husband and son. I was often by myself in the office.

  On 24 April there were rumours all over the city that the Americans were evacuating. Nobody knew anything for sure. Nu came to see me mid-morning. We went across the street to the Brodard Café and ordered fresh fruit juice and croissants. I didn’t want to broach the subject of our usual conversation, but what else was there to talk about? Two days before, she’d informed me that she and her mother were going to buy their way out of the country by boat. If their gold savings weren’t enough, they would sell their house. This was an illegal arrangement and extremely risky. There was a chance they would lose all the gold without securing their escape.

  All I had to rely on was Donnelly.

  “I’m afraid it will be too late,” I told Nu in the café. “Everybody says the Americans are leaving and Donnelly says he will be one of the last ones out. What if he isn’t allowed to take me with him at the last minute? I don’t have any kind of relationship with him. He doesn’t owe me anything. Besides, I have no passport. I’ve got nothing.”

  Nu listened to my lament without comment. After a long silence, she said, “You realize, don’t you, that neither of us will ever find out what happens to the other, alive or dead?”

  We walked down Tu Do Street toward the river. Beneath the giant clusters of the dusky-pink bougainvillea covering the archway next to a stone bench, we sat in silence. The sky was bright and clear and the surface of the river was infused with morning sunshine. Boats and ferries moved about normally. I thought of Nu and her family escaping in the dark of night on this very river. I had no idea what kind of a boat they had arranged for, neither did Nu. I feared they would drown at sea and Nu would be lost forever. This led to thoughts of my own family’s plight and the shocking question that suddenly came out of nowhere, as to why my father had never made any effort to get his family out of the country.

  We walked along the riverbank, talking inevitably about our situation. When we arrived inland at the junction of Rue Pasteur and Thong Nhat Boulevard, we were only a block away from the white US Embassy building. Nu mentioned that she’d heard the embassy was helping Vietnamese flee the country.

  “That’s what I keep hearing,” Nu said. “Everybody says the Americans are leaving but also that they’re taking people with them. Why don’t you go over there today and find out?”

  “You can’t just walk in there,” I said. “You have to know somebody. Either that or you have to have worked for them.”

  “But you worked with Americans at the Ministry of Transportation.”

  “That’s not the same as being employed by Americans.”

  “Well, if I were you I’d go back to the ministry and ask them for a letter proving you had worked with the American Advisory Board. Then take it to the embassy. Why not try anyway?”

  “But the Americans aren’t at the ministry any more. And nobody will pay attention to a letter written by the Vietnamese.”

  “Well, what about your correspondence with Robert and Jerry? And the letter you just got from Julian? Why can’t you show them the letters and the photos? That’ll prove your connection with Americans.”

  “I can’t show my personal things to other people! It’s too embarrassing. Besides, all those relationships are over.”

  “Well, what about the Americans who work at the embassy? You must know somebody there, don’t you?”

  The more she insisted, the more I came up with reasons why I couldn’t, or why it wouldn’t work. But all her pressuring did finally give me an idea.

  “All right!” I said. “There is someone I know there. I’ll try to go see him later today. But I doubt it’ll work.”

  Nu made me promise even so, and more to placate her than because I believed it would lead anywhere, I promised. We agreed to meet again at my office the next day.

  “See you tomorrow!” my friend said.

  These were Nu’s last words, as we embraced. We did not know that this was the last time we would ever see each other.

  The person I knew at the embassy was called Robert Barton. He was in charge of the embassy dining rooms. We’d met two years before, when I’d applied for a job in his accounting section. He hadn’t hired me, but he had said there might be something suitable at a later time.

  One day I ran into Barton unexpectedly while passing by the gate to the embassy annex. He invited me to his office for a drink. We became casual friends and occasionally I’d stop by his office to say hello. I suppose I still hoped in some vague way he might offer me a job. He never did, though. He always called me “the girl in white.” This made him laugh, and despite his austere air, we always found something to laugh about when we chatted.

  Ours was the most casual of relationships, not even a friendship really. How dare I ask him for a favour? And not just any favour.

  At the office, I tried to find some work, but there wasn’t much to do. Time was running out on me – on us all – like sand in an hour glass. The Americans were fleeing the country, leaving most of us to fend for ourselves, and Andrew was begging me in his letters to find a way out on my own. Nu was exhorting me to go to the embassy, and Donnelly was telling me he was going to take me with him. I began to have doubts. And the numbers from the dream, ‘2’ and ‘4’, continued to flash through my mind. I finally made the connection.

  ‘2’ and ‘4’…’2’ and ‘4.’

  ‘24.’

  Today’s date…April 24!

  I believe in such things, in dreams and omens. It was five-thirty. I had wasted a whole afternoon. I normally stayed at the office until at least six. I bid goodnight to Suong and the security guard.

  Not that it mattered. Not that anyone cared.

  I walked briskly along Tu Do Street towards Notre Dame Cathedral. It was an evening like any other, the beginning of the rush hour with all sorts of vehicles pouring noisily into the street, belching smoke and ignoring the traffic rules. Unless you knew o
therwise, you’d never have thought that a noose was now tightening around Sai Gon’s throat. Turning into Thong Nhat Boulevard, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a strange sensation.

  It was already quarter to six. What if they sealed off the embassy before I got there? Suppose the gates were locked and nobody could get through. Or suppose Barton had left the office. What if he had already fled Sai Gon like so many of his countrymen?

  In a panic, I ran, thinking that if I didn’t get there by six, all would be lost. At the same time, I had a premonition – as powerful as it was irrational – that Robert “Bob” Barton was my last chance.

  Was I fixated on six because it was the sum of two and four?

  I can’t say. I do know I arrived at the embassy gate at precisely seven minutes to six. One of the security guards on duty recognized me from somewhere and let me pass. Barton was at his desk when I dashed into his office, winded and breathless.

  “Well, look who’s here!” he said with a big smile. “To what do we owe the honour?”

  I couldn’t get a word out. I was gulping air, trying to catch my breath.

  “Well, come on,” he said. “Sit down. Relax. Have a seat.”

  “Hello Bob,” I finally managed. I sank into a chair in front of his desk.

  He was a tall man in his late forties, with a stern face that belied his friendly ways. He waited patiently. Then I launched in.

  I asked him directly about the evacuation.

  Yes, it was taking place, he said. The Americans were getting out, he too. I somehow managed to find the courage – or was it simply desperation? – to ask him to include me.

  I didn’t just ask, I begged.

  He was taken aback. Then he became serious and he questioned me sharply.

  “Is that what you really want? Do you really want to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’re not going to change your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then I may be able to help you,” he said. “But you’re not going to be able to bring any family members with you. Just you only. Is that clear?”

  He obviously knew stories about the Vietnamese who always wanted to include a trail of relatives when they sought help at the embassy. I was too dumbfounded by his offer to ask for anything more.

  Then I confessed I had no passport.

  He said I wouldn’t need a passport. He wanted to know, though, if I knew anybody in the United States who could sponsor me.

  I rummaged in my handbag and took out the letter from Julian, still in its envelope bearing Julian’s address in Florida. Barton read the letter. He teased me when he came across the passages where Julian described me as “beautiful” and “serene”. But he was amused and, in his way, pleased at my resourcefulness.

  “So you will be joining your Navy captain in Florida?” he asked. “Well, good for you!”

  I didn’t dare correct him.

  He asked me to wait while he stepped into the next room and gave orders to one of his staff. I could hear some of what he said – “That’s her full name. Just put down that she’s my adopted daughter!”

  He then returned and told me to get ready for departure that evening.

  “You’re leaving tonight,” he said. “I want you back here at seven o’clock!”

  Seven o’clock? I glanced at my watch. That was only 45 minutes away!

  Nonetheless, I thanked Barton and in a daze and managed to walk out of his office. I couldn’t believe it. Then suddenly I realized something I’d forgotten to ask.

  I retraced my steps. Barton looked up at me from his desk, as though surprised to see me.

  “Can I bring a suitcase?” I blurted out. And: “Are you sure that you won’t change your mind?”

  He started to laugh but then, realizing my discomfort, he reassured me with a fatherly smile.

  “Yes, my dear,” he said. “Bring a suitcase. And I will be waiting for you right here – at seven o’clock sharp!”

  I looked at my watch again, worrying about the time but not daring to ask him to delay the appointment. No, I couldn’t ask him for that. Suppose he changed his mind!

  I hailed a taxi and told the driver to go as fast as he could. The traffic, however, was impossible – it was still rush hour – and I was in a near-panic at each stoplight, each traffic jam. Like other drivers, my taxi driver was oblivious of traffic rules, forcing his way through the crowded streets. There were no longer any cops to enforce any rules.

  Finally, at quarter to seven, the taxi driver stopped at a lamppost on the main road leading to my home. I asked him to wait while I ran through the long alley to my house. Dashing through the kitchen door, I could hardly speak. I shouted that I had a flight out and could not delay. I don’t know how long I was there – no more than ten minutes – feverishly throwing things into a suitcase and trying hopelessly to cope with saying goodbye. There were tears in my father’s eyes and in the uncomprehending grimy upturned face of my little sister. My heart was beating so rapidly I thought my chest would burst. But all the while, I knew that this desperate act was my last chance to save us all from destitution and misery.

  None of us knew the future. None of us could speak the words. I ran out into the alleyway with only the simplest and most helpless gestures of goodbye.

  I clambered back into the taxi with tears, determination, anxiety, and remorse. I fell back against the seat and the taxi rushed off into the night.

  We arrived at the embassy at seven-thirty. Dragging my suitcase, I ran past the half-open gate, ignoring the security guards. One of them came after me, shouting, “Where are you going? Miss! Where are you going?” I turned and pointed in the direction of Barton’s office, shouted back, “To see Mr Barton. He’s waiting for me over there!”

  But suppose he wasn’t! Suppose I was too late!

  Then I saw him standing in the parking lot next to a white car. His assistant was sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “Here she is!” Barton shouted. “Come on, Jasmine, get in! You’re late!”

  I started to apologize but he shushed me. The car’s rear door was open and I jumped inside, shouting goodbye. He waved back, smiling, as we drove off.

  We headed straight to Tan Son Nhat airport, roughly two kilometres north of the city centre. Though Barton had introduced us that evening, I couldn’t remember the assistant’s name, and was too ashamed to ask him directly now. He was a chubby man in his early thirties, quiet but pleasant and respectful. He assured me that he would see me safely on the plane that night and report back to Barton the next morning. He told me not to worry; he and Barton would be leaving too.

  Maybe it was because I was now in American hands that I felt a huge relief as I sank back in the comfortable seat of that big white car. It was as though a magic wand had been passed over me, and I was on my way at last to freedom. Airport security had been tightened for obvious reasons. Every vehicle was subject to search and its passengers to questioning, but even when we entered the security checkpoint, I felt no anxiety. Calmly, at the driver’s instructions, I wound down the window on my side. A uniformed Vietnamese guard glanced at us quickly and greeted me, “Chao Ba!” “Evening, Madame!” Then, without asking a single question, he signalled us to pass.

  It was magic indeed. Either that, or seeing me neatly dressed in the traditional Vietnamese manner in the back seat of a car with an American diplomatic license plate driven by an American, he simply assumed I was someone important.

  We drove straight onto the brightly lit tarmac, among dozens of Vietnamese people and their suitcases and bags. They stared at me, and watched the assistant’s every movement with great interest. He stopped the car, jumped out and quickly opened the back door. Before I was even out of the car, he had already lifted my pink suitcase from the trunk. Out of the quiet and comfort of the airconditioned car, I returned to the usual noises, heat, humidity, and dust of the tropical city.
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  “Come, Miss,” he said. “We have to hurry now.” He took the suitcase and guided me with his free hand. We rushed to a waiting area where more Vietnamese families stood near their luggage with papers in hand. Americans in army uniforms were dashing about and there was the roar of engines close by. A military plane took off behind me into the night sky.

  The assistant told me to wait while he contacted someone to add my name to the passenger list. I wasn’t to leave the waiting area. I wasn’t to worry either. But the moment he disappeared, panic set in. I felt as though everyone was staring while I stood alone with my suitcase, helpless and vulnerable. A Vietnamese man with a distressed look approached me, begging, “Miss, can you please help us? We are here but without any papers. We can’t board a plane.”

  I replied that none of my family members who were back home had papers either. I couldn’t help them. This seemed to satisfy him. He walked away, head down, to rejoin his family.

  I spotted the assistant making his way through the crowd. He handed me a piece of paper. It was my boarding pass. He told me the plane on which I was meant to go was full. But he’d registered my name for the next flight, which was due to leave the airport at two in the morning.

  The distressed Vietnamese man decided to take another chance. Suddenly he was back, and begging me, “Miss, can you please ask the American gentleman to help us? Please! Please!”

  I translated for the assistant, but he said that he had no authority to get him and his family on the plane. I translated back, and again, in resignation, the man slunk away.

  The assistant then took my suitcase and led me into another area on the tarmac. He said it would be a long wait. It was now nine o’clock. There, he said goodbye again. “Don’t worry! I’ll be back before you board the plane,” he assured me.

  The scene at Tan Son Nhat airport that night was one of seething frenzy, of people milling around and rushing, headlights from jeeps and big cars probing their way forward, and every once in a while, a plane roaring down the runway into the night. Intermittent sounds of distant rocket fire punctuated the din. Everywhere were groups of people sitting on the gravel ground of the tarmac. I found a piece of paper in my handbag and spread it on the ground, huddling down next to a large group of waiting passengers. A boy carrying a basket of French bread made his way through the crowd. He stopped by me, “Please have some bread!” I wasn’t hungry but offered to buy a small loaf. The price was double the normal price, but what did that matter? What use was Vietnamese currency to me now?