Late Blossom

by Laura Lam

  I retreated to a darker corner and sat alone. I had changed from my white ao dai into a white blouse and a dark green skirt. I sat listening to the planes and the incessant sounds of rocket fire. Troops were running in various directions, jeeps patrolled to and fro, people wept as they were led this way or that. The worst off were those who had smuggled or bribed their way inside the fence surrounding the airport with their families. They now found themselves without papers. They ran hysterically from one American to another trying to gain access to a plane, shouting in desperation.

  Moving quietly and deliberately through the confusion were some who knew they weren’t leaving: the boys, for instance, who sold French bread at double the street price. But for everyone, leaving or staying, this was the end of a world, and it was ending with gunfire, the roar of engines, rushing jeeps, weeping, pleading, and incomprehensible announcements blaring out of loudspeakers.

  Barton’s assistant returned around ten o’clock. He recognized my suitcase but not me, since I was now wearing a skirt and blouse, with my long hair braided and tucked in neatly at the back.

  “I brought you these,” he said, handing me a package of ham sandwiches and a can of 7-Up. “You must be very hungry.” Then he rushed off, saying he had other people to see to.

  I desperately wanted to tell my family I was safe and on my way, but our house had no telephone. There was time, perhaps, to go home and return to the airport, but I didn’t dare. Security was too tight and even with my boarding pass, they may not let me back in. Instead I wrote letters, to my family, to Nu and Mother Chin.

  Midnight came and went. I was euphoric, unable to think. In all the tumult, time seemed to crawl, then stop altogether. I thought of the astrologer my father had consulted following my birth, twenty-four years earlier. There were those numbers again, ‘2’ and ‘4.’ Furthermore, it was once again in the Year of the Cat – 1951, 1963, 1975. According to the astrologer, this year would mark another major turning point in my life.

  And so it turned out to be.

  At one-thirty in the morning, seemingly and miraculously out of nowhere, Barton’s indefatigable assistant reappeared. He had already confirmed that my name was on the list for the first evacuation flight of that day, 25 April.

  He walked me to the boarding area where a military aircraft was waiting under bright lights. He said it was a C-141. This section of the airport was controlled by the US Army. Only passengers with boarding passes could enter. Barton’s assistant said goodbye there, handing me my suitcase. We shook hands and he wished me a good flight and then was gone.

  Near the stairs to the airplane stood an American in army uniform, holding a list of passengers on a clipboard. He was calling out names. When I heard my name I went forward, my boarding pass in hand, I joined the orderly queue of passengers and made my way up the steps.

  More than half of the passengers were Vietnamese. The others were Americans in army uniform. There were no seats and we all – civilians and military, yellow and white and black – squatted on the floor. Minutes later, there was a powerful roar and a shuddering surge beneath us as we raced down the invisible runway and lifted into the sky. My country was disappearing beneath us, unseen. A voice came over the loudspeaker, announcing we would fly across the South China Sea and head for the island of Guam in the Western Pacific Ocean, with a stopover for refueling at a US military base in the Philippines.

  I gradually managed to compose myself. I spent the long hours of the flight trying to make sense of this watershed in my life. This ending. This beginning.

  I will live in a foreign land, and sleep on alien soil

  I will travel far, far into an unknown world.

  A NEW LIFE

  “Let freedom warm the souls of all mankind, for as I walk in the autumn of my life, I shall reflect on my yesterdays and hope for our tomorrows”

  Margot Lindsey

  I sent Andrew a telegram as soon as I arrived on the island of Guam. He was so happy I had made my way to freedom. He suggested that I go to Minneapolis as he had some close friends there. From Guam I was sent to Camp Pendleton in California, and in mid June I was received in Minneapolis by Andrew’s old friends, Anne and John. They welcomed me into their home wholeheartedly, like a long lost family member. They became a solid anchor in my new life. I felt most fortunate. In September, I started a full-time job as a junior accountant with Northwestern Bank of Minneapolis, found a studio apartment, and began to take evening classes at a community college.

  I contacted Julian the following summer and we arranged to meet briefly in Colorado Springs. He felt disappointment that I had not contacted him upon arriving in Minneapolis. For the trip to Colorado, I had planned to pay my air ticket, but he insisted on giving it to me as a gift. He already knew that I had no intention to move to Florida. We had a long talk while hiking around the mountains and he seemed to understand my situation. At this second farewell Julian presented me with a gift – a beautiful antique iron he had collected in Viet Nam during his tour of duty there. We agreed to maintain our friendship.

  Andrew came to Minneapolis that same summer to see me and to thank Anne and John for their generous hospitality. We talked about his absolute commitment to his two children and painfully concluded that I should go on with life without him. It was a very difficult decision for us both, but what else was there? I suffered something close to a nervous breakdown, and my emotions slowly went into a deep freeze. To put Andrew completely out of my mind I talked to Anne. She offered to keep all his letters in a locked drawer at her house. I never thought that Andrew would ever care to keep my letters to him. But to my great surprise, he did. Twenty-one years later he handed them to me in France.

  * * *

  In 1978, with the help of a kind English literature teacher, Mr Hanson, at the community college, I was awarded an honours scholarship to attend Augsburg College as a full-time student. While enrolled there, I was sent to Europe for a year of study. Although we had ended our correspondence some years before, I wrote to Andrew in August 1980:

  Anne might have already told you that I had left Northwestern Bank in September 1978 to study full-time at the Lutheran college in Minneapolis called Augsburg. This year I will be at Schiller College in London for the first semester, then to its campus in Heidelberg, W. Germany for the second semester. If you happen to be in England, please stop by my school for a visit.

  Andrew appeared at the campus in London one morning in September and knocked on the door of the room I shared with a Sri Lankan girlfriend. We were just on our way to class. We couldn’t speak much, and I was somewhat speechless anyway. We arranged to meet later that day. Andrew came back in the evening in a taxi and took me to his favourite Spanish restaurant, Martinez. I learned that his family was still living in Hong Kong and he was in Europe briefly. We talked about my life in Minneapolis and my studies. We didn’t discuss his marriage or our relationship. But there was an irresistible desire to keep in touch, even if only casually.

  I returned to Minnesota in 1981 and became an American citizen. In early 1982, I graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration. Unable to find work in the business field in the midst of a recession, I ended up working in a community mental health clinic serving Southeast Asian refugees, funded by the state and managed by the University of Minnesota.

  I then enrolled in a Master’s degree program in Social Work at the same university. Before completing the program, I was transferred to the university’s Department of Psychiatry, working under Dr Joseph Westermeyer, a renowned psychiatrist in cross-cultural psychiatry. After obtaining the Master’s degree I continued my job in the psychiatry clinic. My work with various cultural groups was deeply satisfying. It led me to writing, public speaking, and travel. I began to see it as my calling.

  In 1984 I married Michael, an American from a distinguished family. This inter-racial relationship was incompatible. There seemed to be a permanent clash of cultures between us. A typical American, Michael had l
imited knowledge of the Asian world. He showed little appreciation for Asian cuisine and he detested the sound of any kind of Vietnamese music. Meanwhile, he felt that I wasn’t fully assimilating to the American culture and ways of life. He had a habit of making hurtful remarks when things were not the way he wanted. I was deeply unhappy and drifted away from him emotionally. He continued to feel frustrated. Less than three years later we decided to end the marriage.

  * * *

  Fate threw Andrew and me together again in October 1987. I’d not written to him since 1980 and had moved a few times. It was through Anne and John that he got in touch with me again. He was on sabbatical in Boston and had called them to ask how I was. He said he’d like to see me. Thinking he might want to renew our relationship, I said, “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to meet.” He kept insisting and wrote to say that the meeting would be “important”. Why so important now? If we had been meant for each other, it would have happened twelve years earlier in Sai Gon, or six years earlier in London. No, I had concluded there was nothing more between us. He wrote again with the same request. Then we spoke on the phone. Finally I agreed to meet him in New York City.

  On the plane from Minneapolis to New York, I tried to imagine if Andrew had changed, what he was going to say to me, and what I was going to say to him. Part of me was anxious to see him, while part of me felt quite the opposite. I knew there was still a powerful emotional bond between us, but I was too afraid to acknowledge it.

  Andrew met me with a warm smile and gave me two kisses on my cheeks. I smiled in return but was unable to find the right words. He was now a stranger to me. My level of discomfort was real but I tried to remain cool and unaffected as we passed through the noisy crowd at the airport. A taxi was waiting outside, with a chatty driver.

  Andrew said we were going to Arden House, a grey-granite mansion in the Catskill Mountains above the Hudson River, belonging to Columbia University, where he was staying while teaching a senior executive group. I talked to him about my career in Minneapolis and my American “family” – Anne and John. There were moments of silence in which I wondered what he was thinking and why he wanted to see me.

  We arrived at Arden House, and there, at the doorstep, Andrew reached out his arms to embrace me. So confused were my emotions that I almost cried, but at that very moment I saw a man coming toward us. Andrew promptly introduced me to one of his teaching colleagues. The three of us chatted for a few minutes. After a pleasant lunch, Andrew said he would be working all afternoon, but we would go into the city in the evening. Neither of us had remembered it was Halloween.

  While Andrew was teaching, I took a quiet walk around the mansion and along the surrounding footpaths. The sky was hazy, with rays of sunshine now and then. The autumn season was well advanced, turning the leaves on the forested hills all shades of gold for miles into the far distance. The mountain air was cool and crisp. I listened to the crunching of fallen leaves and the sighing of the wind. In the breeze more leaves were falling and brushing my shoulders. I found a wooden bench and sat for a long time, breathing in the aroma of the cool season. I began to think of my times with Andrew in Sai Gon. I became agitated and anger and frustration welled up inside me. I got up and chased the unpleasant feelings away. All those lost years – those twelve years I should have been with him.

  It was my first time in New York. Andrew wanted to show me one of his favourite cities. That evening we strolled around Greenwich Village before having dinner at La Chaumière, an old restaurant with a fireplace, serving classic French cuisine. He spoke slowly and gently, “I remember it clearly. The date was the seventh of April, this year, while I was shaving in the bathroom. A decision finally clarified in my mind, that I would get a divorce.” I was unable to speak. My eyes were burning and I made an excuse to leave the table. I cried uncontrollably in the lady’s room, then emerged with a controlled expression and returned to the table. I smiled at him. He was anxious to know my reaction to his divorce plan but I couldn’t respond. My emotions and feelings had been frozen for twelve years.

  Coming out of the restaurant, we encountered exotic figures in elaborate masks and gowns, witches and wizards. They were marching, singing, cackling, and screeching. A trumpeter was playing on a nearby rooftop. How I wished I had had a broomstick to fly away – to flee from Andrew. Perhaps a mask could conceal me too? Cold air penetrated my skin and as I moved through the crowd, Andrew tried to put his arm around me and keep up. We were soon swallowed up by a Halloween party that seemed to go all the way to Fifth Avenue.

  Before I returned to Minneapolis, he asked me again, more specifically, “After my divorce, can I share my life with you?” After a long silence, he asked another question, “How do you feel about it?” I replied, “I have mixed feelings about it.”

  He wrote to me afterwards:

  Thank you for coming to New York. It was magical. After so many years of thinking about you, it was so delicious to be with you again, especially after such a long period of accepting that it would not be possible again. Life is strangely quixotic.

  Although he was ready to share his life with me and I was beginning to dismantle my defensive armour and thaw my emotions, I was still unable to make a commitment. We were to meet several times again over weekends in various American cities, including a return to New York. In the spring of 1988, we were in San Francisco when Andrew offered to make a trip to Minneapolis. He arrived in May. I held a party and introduced him to my friends and some of my colleagues from the university. I was living in a nice apartment on Groveland Terrace next door to the Guthrie Theatre and the Walker Arts Centre, just a few steps from the beautiful Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. I had chosen the place because I was always fond of theatres. I had attended many performances in London while studying there. I rarely missed a play at the Guthrie. In June I visited Andrew in Hong Kong, and spent my summer vacation with him in Hawaii. My heart had come out of the freezer.

  But I found it hard to give up everything I had achieved in Minnesota: my job, my friends, and my home. Month after month he waited for confirmation from me. Still I gave no indication as to when I would move to Hong Kong.

  Finally, in October, exactly one year from our trip to New York during Halloween, I told Andrew I would give up my job and move to Hong Kong. Delighted, he wrote to me:

  I don’t want to appear pompous, but at a time when you are giving up so much to be with me, I would like to tell you how precious that gesture is to me, and how very significant. It is something I will treasure forever.

  The astrologer had been right – 1987 was the Year of the Fire Cat, marking another turning point in my life – a new life with Andrew. We were engaged on the Orient Express ship between Istanbul and Venice, before taking the connecting train to London in the summer of 1989. There was a small wedding ceremony in Hong Kong in early 1990.

  Shortly afterwards I was given a full time job by the United Nations’ High Commission for Refugees in Hong Kong. As a child welfare consultant, I was to make recommendations on long-term solutions for the many unaccompanied Vietnamese children held in detention centres.

  I worried I might have already passed childbearing age. Then, in the winter of 1991, I became pregnant. In 1992, Year of the Water Monkey, our son Edward was born. The boy inherited his father’s natural charm and easily wins everyone’s heart. Highly intelligent and with a happy nature, he is very devoted to his mother. Ever since, my life has been filled with love, affection, and material comforts.

  SAI GON REVISITED

  In the spring of 1991, after sixteen years living overseas, I contemplated a return visit to Sai Gon. Diligently saving my salary from the UNHCR, early in the year I sent eighteen thousand American dollars to my parents to buy and remodel a spacious house, located in one of the better areas of Sai Gon. My return trip to Sai Gon took place a few months after they had moved in with my sister Hong.

  My brothers were all married by then and the old family house was given to Nhan, wh
o would later sell it to buy a better house with help from me. My three other brothers were either living in rented property or with their in-laws. Shortly after the war I learned that my parents had not been able to secure the apartment in Sai Gon – the one I’d had transferred to them before leaving the country. According to them, the construction hadn’t been completed and it had been broken into when the Northern regime took over Sai Gon. The squatters remained there as if they owned it. The new Communist authorities at the time did not intervene because they wanted to protect the “homeless”. The regime introduced a ruthless land reform policy called “danh tu san”, or “attacking private assets” which allowed the confiscation of private houses and other properties from the “capitalists” in the South. In Sai Gon thousands of families were targeted. Houses and properties abandoned by those who had already escaped the country fell into the hands of government officials and senior cadres. Though my family was not well off, they were trapped by this policy.

  For several weeks before the return visit, I was subjected to a strange mixture of emotions. I worked hard to remain cool, cheerful, and unaffected. I filled an entire suitcase with gifts and I carried a large amount of cash in American dollars.

  The flight from Hong Kong to Sai Gon took only three hours. As soon as the plane entered Viet Nam air space, I gazed down anxiously from the window, as we descended through masses of white cloud. My heart was beating rapidly as mountains, trees, water, land, grass, roads, and vehicles, and finally an airport runway, appeared. I knew my family was waiting at the airport entrance. My happiness concealed my fear. I feared the Communist regime. I feared their reprisals, I feared the unknown – not only for myself but also for my family. I was coming back as an American citizen – a citizen of the enemy. Fear of persecution had prevented me from returning earlier. I’d waited and waited, patiently, for sixteen years.