Inheriting the War

  The eight-mile drive to Ben Bach Dang took twice as long as usual. Traffic was crazy. I saw half a dozen crashes. Throngs of people were fleeing to the pier. The military vehicles and cars that I had seen early this morning were now parked haphazardly by the riverside. The dock was littered with abandoned cars, bicycles, motorbikes, and luggage. No one even bothered to pick them up. I arrived just in time to see the last ferry cast off its moorings. The ship was dangerously overloaded, every inch of its deck packed. People hung onto the railing, calling to friends and relatives who didn’t make it aboard. Some jumped into the churning water and swam after the ship. I pushed my way to the edge of the dock. Hoang was on the ferry. I yelled and waved at him, but he didn’t see me. I didn’t see Hung anywhere. If Hoang was on this last ferry, there was little chance Hung was on it as well. After telling Hoang about the ferries, Hung had wasted more time crossing the city to look for me. My heart pounded violently in my chest. What if Hung had gotten into an accident on the way back here? I screamed out his name, my voice lost in the cacophony. Hung had taken an immense risk trying to help his brothers escape. In this desperate panic when everyone was solely focused on his own survival, my dear brother Hung did not think of himself, but instead jeopardized his last chance of escape to save me. I felt nauseous. My single wish then was to see Hung standing on that ferry. But it was getting farther and farther from me. I kept looking at it until distance fused the passengers into a single mass, between us, a stretch of brackish water as dark and forbidding as abyss.

  I was drowning on the dock. Another chance to escape had slipped through my fingers. If only I hadn’t counted on Dr. Tam’s help. If only he had sent word to us when he knew he couldn’t keep his promise. If only I had trusted my instincts this morning and followed those cars. If, if, if . . .

  I came to see Tat. His house was locked. No one was home. His neighbor told me that Tat and his brother Han, our Ministry of Transportation insider, had known about the evacuation and left early this morning with his huge family and relatives—more than forty people. They had boarded one of the first ferries. Tat’s house was three blocks from mine. We had seen each other several times a day for the past month. My best friend had left without taking a moment to share the information that would have made a world of difference for me. I would have had plenty of time to save not only my own family, but also my brothers and in-laws. This was someone whom I had tutored and guided throughout high school and college. I had seen Tat through the death of his father, performing many of the duties as though I was a member of his family. When he had been summoned to the draft center, I held his full-time teaching position to keep the school from replacing him. After bribing himself another exemption, Tat returned, and I gave him back his job and the entire month’s salary that I had earned teaching his classes. He was like a brother.

  It broke my heart. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my wife the news.

  All through the darkest night, the most quiet and peaceful night Saigon ever had, I wrestled with fate. Dawn revealed a ghost town. I looked out from my second-story window at a vacant street. I couldn’t eat and hadn’t slept in two days. I felt detached, drunk with fatigue.

  Mid-morning, a convoy of camouflaged trucks roared through the street, heading to the city center. The North Vietnam Army was entering Saigon without resistance or a single gunshot. It was chilling. The air had somehow gone bad.

  The victors entered Saigon in the late morning on a medley of vehicles: American Jeeps, army trucks, civilian pickups, and sedans. They were the South Vietnam Communist troops, the PAFL, the paramilitary units, and Saigon’s own underground Communists. They brandished weapons and wore mismatched uniforms, black pajamas, T-shirts, and even jeans. Pickup trucks with loudspeakers declared the surrender of the South Vietnam government, announcing that we were now “liberated” from tyranny and capitalism. Cheering packs of Saigon youths followed the convoy with their mopeds and bicycles. People stepped outside timidly. They stood drowsily in front of their homes as if they were just waking from a long sleep.

  Late in the afternoon, my father came riding his creaky bicycle, dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a white shirt. Bent over the handlebars, he looked ghastly thin—as vulnerable as a pauper. I hadn’t seen him pedaling his bike for years. I was afraid he was going to fall over. He came to make sure I didn’t do something crazy like commit suicide or hike to the Cambodian border. Father knew that sooner or later, the Communist’s ax would fall on my neck and he wanted to be there with me when bad things began. He had always said that our family had been extremely blessed compared to all those around us, the countless others who had suffered heartbreaking losses. He believed it was karma. He came to remind me that we had lived with good intentions. He wanted to give me hope.

  We climbed to the fourth-story rooftop together. He said he believed Hung had escaped on the ferries along with my cousin Tan and my brothers Hong and Hoang. Father sighed and admitted that his trusted friend and confidant, Mr. Tri, who had advised everyone to stay, had fled without a word of good-bye or warning. I could tell the betrayal wounded him deeply. I felt very sorry for Father. I wanted to comfort him, but it wasn’t our way to show weakness or emotion. I was forty years old. Father was an old man entering the last stage of his life. This was the most serene silence we shared, standing shoulder to should in the fading light.

  The sun simmered on the skyline. The day was closing, and with it an era. I could feel the city, my city, kneeling down. The vast orange heaven, pillars of smoke, the ragged cityscape. It was a beautiful sight. It was like standing at the helm of a ship. The whole city was sinking.

  Father turned and stared at me. The unforgiving years had carved themselves into his gaunt face, deep scars of a life I had known but never dared study. I saw it then, the immense sorrow brimming in his eyes. It was staggering. I could tell he wanted to say it, but didn’t know how. All at once, our barriers fell, and I saw through the blurred seasons of our history, our pains, his disappointments, my childhood fear of this distant man. For the first time in my life, I felt the fullness of my father’s love. It was crushing, the lateness of the hour.

  AIMEE PHAN is the author of the story collection We Should Never Meet and the novel The Reeducation of Cherry Truong. She has received fellowships from the NEA, the Rockefeller Foundation’s Bellagio Center, MacDowell Colony, and Hedgebrook. She is a core member of the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network, an alliance of writers and artists of Southeast Asian descent, and co-directs the Diasporic Vietnamese Literary Festival. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times, USA Today, Salon, and The Rumpus, among others. She currently teaches at California College of the Arts in San Francisco.

  MOTHERLAND

  The first impression: gazing, gawking, analysis of the site and its surroundings, discussion on whether it lives up to photographs from history books and brochures. Nods, murmurs, and smiles of recognition. It seems bigger. No, smaller. Opinions vary.

  Then the historical context: tour guide Leah in her red visor and matching “Vietnam Specialist” T-shirt, motioning for them to keep up with her.

  The Reunification Palace has gone through many transformations during the different political regimes in Vietnam, Leah says, her hand sweeping over her head for effect.

  Once the home of the French governor, it is best known as the former central headquarters of the South Vietnamese government. The palace has survived several attacks and renovations through the years and now stands as a museum for us.

  Members of the tour consider her their cultural ambassador, eagerly absorbing every word, since Leah has been leading tours in Southeast Asia for almost five years. She says without irony that she considers herself an honorary Vietnamese, to which her travelers, most of whom are white, nod approvingly.

  While the palace, with its modern architecture and beautifully manicured gardens and fountains, is impressive, Huan is distracted by the activity surrounding it. On the main boulevard leading to the palace, moped
s and cars noisily tangle in five-lane rush hour. In the gardens around the palace, other tour groups snap pictures of the landmark, while pushcart vendors in conical hats and slippers creep around them, hoping to lure customers with their hot pastries and roasting meats.

  Visual recordings come next and usually last the longest. Cameras and camcorders, of various sizes and qualities, emerge frantically once Leah steps out of the way. Postcardlike shots of the site, zoom in and out, then individual photos, and, finally, the group picture, which never takes less than ten minutes to organize.

  All right, everyone, Leah yells, squinting behind the company camera. There is an option after the trip to purchase her professional-quality photos. Get real close. We’re one big family, right?

  Huan must resist the urge every time to flee the mass photo op, wary of squeezing into another photograph with all those red shirts. But his mother insists. Gwen’s eyes plead with him when he tries to edge away, and the dutiful son must acquiesce. He stands next to his old friend Mai, who rests her head against his shoulder. She, too, is tired of the group atmosphere, but they know it is ending soon, at least for today.

  They’ve been sightseeing all morning: the former U.S. embassy, the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Old Post Office, and the Remnants of War Museum. Individually interesting, but packaged in one day, exhausting. The next stop is the Binh Tay market, where Leah promises brief commentary and ample leisure time to wander.

  Fifteen minutes are allotted for souvenirs while Leah flags down their motor coach. She instructs them to remain inside the palace garden, so that no one is left behind. She is always worried about losing people.

  Do you want something? Gwen asks. The group is dispersing to various gift stands along the plaza, Mai already waiting in line at a dessert vendor. Although Huan’s mother already has a large tote bag full of embroideries, a conical hat, and a miniature bronze Buddha statue, she is ready to hunt for more.

  No, Huan says. I’m fine. His only purchases so far are postcards to send back to a few coworkers and friends.

  Don’t you want to come browse with me?

  I’m tired, Mom. You go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.

  Okay. I’ll look, and if I find something you might like—

  Go, Mom. The bus will be here soon.

  She leaves her tote bag with Huan and hustles to the nearest souvenir vendor. Ho Chi Minh City is a land of bargains, anything and everything on sale, an ideal match for Huan’s mother, an avid shopper. Yesterday, Gwen was throwing up in the hotel bathroom all afternoon from a dubious rice pudding purchased from a sidewalk peddler. Today, fully recovered, she happily haggles with a vendor over a plastic replica of the palace.

  Huan feels a tug on his pant leg. He peers over his sunglasses to the impediment.

  A small boy grins a toothless smile, holding a stained cardboard box full of crumpled cigarette boxes, candy, and soda cans. He wears only shorts and rubber sandals. He bumps his merchandise against Huan’s thigh. You buy now, suh.

  Huan shakes his head.

  C’mon. You rich American. Lots of dollahs.

  He doesn’t smile like he had this morning, when these child peddlers were still new and endearing. Their relentless pursuit and broken, cackling English have gnawed through his patience. Leah’s advice is to avoid eye contact with tenacious vendors and beggars, and they will eventually move on. But Huan tries a different tactic, looking directly at the boy, hoping to intimidate him away permanently.

  The stare-off lasts several minutes, the boy beaming and Huan scowling. The child thinks it’s some kind of game with a prize at the end. Huan grows suspicious that the boy’s patience can be greater than his own.

  Have you made a friend? Gwen asks, quickly snapping a picture of the two.

  Mom, don’t, Huan says, as his mother slips the boy a Vietnamese coin piece, but it is too late. The child squeals victoriously and scampers off.

  Oh, it’s all right.

  You’ve made yourself a target. Now they’ll be chasing us down all afternoon.

  You’re exaggerating.

  I’m not. He’s going to tell all his friends to look for the American red-haired lady in the red T-shirt. She’s giving away money.

  Does somebody need a nap?

  Mom.

  Sweetie, his mother says, squeezing his shoulder. Relax. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.

  She is determined to do this. Traveling, especially in groups, is much more her thing than Huan’s. On their first day, she quickly learns the names, occupations, and home states of all their fellow travelers. In exchange, they know all about Gwen and her Amerasian son’s trip to Vietnam, a belated quest to discover his roots, visit the Saigon orphanage he once lived in. She divulges this story to anyone who asks, so proud of Huan’s decision to learn more about his native country, something she has encouraged his whole life.

  Huan realizes this must come out sooner or later. It is obvious that he and his mother are not biologically related: she, a chubby Caucasian redhead, and he, a lanky half-black, half-Vietnamese with fuzzy black hair. Gwen’s enduring strategy to combat raised eyebrows and sneers is to explain their situation frankly: she and her husband adopted Huan once he arrived in America with the Operation Babylift evacuation. The way she gushes over her miraculous family and beautiful son, even the most cynical keep their opinions to themselves.

  To her credit, Gwen doesn’t mention, not even once to their tour companions, that she isn’t supposed to be on this trip. That she is taking the place of Emily, who originally suggested this vacation to Huan for their three-year anniversary. She thought it would be fun to explore his past. Huan didn’t even want to go after their breakup, but since they didn’t think to buy travel insurance, his mother convinced him not to waste such a lovely trip. She even called his friend Mai, who was teaching in Japan for the year, and persuaded her to meet up with them in Vietnam. Gwen said she was doing this for Huan. It will be good for him to get away and appreciate what he does have, which is so much. His mother tries to see the best in everything and, especially now, is determined to pass this trait down to her son.

  The Binh Tay market is in the Cholon district, a half hour’s drive away, so the travelers use the downtime to rest in their tinted, air-conditioned motor coach. There are enough seats for everyone to take two and lie down, but Huan’s mother likes for them to sit together. They are on vacation.

  The bus is quiet. They are normally a noisy, awkward band of travelers: a mix created solely by coincidental vacation times. They are mostly families, some with small children. One family is Vietnamese, the Vus, who immigrated to America shortly after the Fall and are returning for their first visit. There’s a senior couple, the Lewises, who are spending their retirement savings to see the world. There are three U.S. war veteran buddies who never seem embarrassed by their prolific dropping of words like gooks and ’Nam. The old men stare at Huan when they think he’s not looking, almost tempting Huan to ask if they left behind their own bastard child in Vietnam.

  Mai sits across from them, napping. Her long black hair fans across the cushioned seat, reminding him briefly of Emily. He hasn’t seen Mai in a few years and not regularly since high school. She seems comfortable in Vietnam, not complaining like the other tourists of the heat and humidity, probably because she’s lived in Asia for the past year.

  After college, Mai left for graduate school in England. Then a consulting job in Beijing. Now teaching English in Japan. She is living with a fellow teacher, a Canadian named Gordon, whom Huan has never met.

  Too bad, Gwen later says, privately to Huan. She’s become so pretty since high school. Good teeth.

  Mom. Don’t start.

  I’m not saying anything. Leah is rather charming, don’t you think? I know you don’t usually date Caucasian girls, but she seems worldly. Fluent in three languages.

  Gwen claims she wants him to date regardless of color, but he knows she is worried that he has never brought home a white girl. His last few girlfrie
nds, including Emily, were Asian. She wants to know why her race is being unilaterally rejected.

  Out the window, pink dust filters through the air, illuminating the abandoned colonial French mansions along the wide boulevards. The mopeds, cyclos, and pedestrians around their bus hustle past these ghosts, obsolete remnants of a forgotten foreign invader. The focus is on the bright gold pagoda, the center of the market, leading into hundreds of wooden vendor stalls. Twinkle lights, stuffed animals, and dangling clumps of neon rubber sandals decorate the market’s tarp ceilings.

  Under the pagoda, Huan’s mother eyes him warily. I suppose you want to go off on your own now.

  Mom, I love you.

  Forget him, Mai says, leaning into Gwen. He’ll just get in the way of shopping. Huan’s mother smiles. She has always liked Mai.

  Fine, Gwen says. Do you want to meet us for dinner then?

  Sure.

  Should we set up a meeting place?

  I’ll just find you.

  As he wanders through the stands, Huan realizes there is no farmers’ market like this in America. People bump against him, the locals, who are there to do business. Different languages barter and negotiate. Vietnamese, Chinese, Russian. In the livestock section, customers bend over wire cages, poking the live ducks, chickens, and pigs inside. Behind wooden tables soaked dark with blood, butchers prepare fresh meat for customers.

  He walks through the aisles, stopping occasionally to watch and listen to exchanges between peddlers and patrons. Sometimes Huan believes if he listens carefully, he will understand the language. At a chicken stall where a woman is plucking a fresh kill, a policeman stares pointedly at Huan. He is wearing a tattered olive green uniform and muddy black boots. A black nightstick and a clunky archaic pistol are prominently displayed on his plastic belt. The cop has to be at least a foot shorter than Huan.

  Huan smiles, unsure what else to do. When the policeman only glares, Huan casually turns around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, and walks away. A few minutes later, he notices the same policeman peering at him from behind a pile of bananas. Huan doesn’t stop at any of the stands anymore, the cop only a few paces behind him. Huan pretends not to see him and continues walking, until reaching the edge of the market, then turns around, and walks again.