Inheriting the War

by Laren McClung

  Twenty minutes of this and the policeman finally approaches him. One hand clenching his nightstick, jaw locked, he barks something at Huan.

  Huan shakes his head. I don’t understand.

  This seems to infuriate the cop even more. He stalks in a circle around Huan, muttering. Huan looks around for the nearest merchant to intercede, but they all avoid eye contact, refusing to get involved. He broadens his circle for help, spotting Mai at a vegetable stall in another aisle. His mother isn’t with her.

  Mai! Huan yells. The policeman jumps back at this outburst. Embarrassed, the cop begins shouting and jabbing his finger at Huan’s chest. His other hand nervously fumbles for the whistle around his neck. Huan realizes if other cops are called in, he will be in more trouble.

  Mai walks up to them, carrying a small sack of mangoes. She interrupts the cop’s railing, says something in Vietnamese, and the policeman quickly turns his anger on her. They stand eye to eye. She doesn’t raise her voice, but she doesn’t back down. She listens to what he says and responds calmly. Then she looks over to Huan.

  Take your hands out.

  What? The cop returns his attention to him.

  He thinks you’re hiding something in your pockets, Mai says. Show him you’re not.

  Huan obeys, making a big show of waving his hands in the air.

  The policeman huffs another order.

  Mai bites her lip and looks at Huan. He wants to pat you down.

  Are you kidding?

  He thinks you stole something. Just let him do it.

  By then, a curious crowd has gathered. Teenage girls, old men, tourists with cameras. Trouble happening to other people is always interesting. Huan hopes his mother is far away in another section of the market. Once Huan nods, granting permission, the cop nearly jumps him, quickly slapping into Huan’s arms, legs, and midsection. Huan stares at the ground, trying to control his breathing, attempting to expel his growing rage.

  The cop looks triumphant afterward, the humiliation complete. After releasing Huan, he nods, wags his finger at them, and walks off. The audience disperses.

  Mai walks up to him. You okay?

  Huan looks at her. I want to leave.

  They go to the deli section, where faded plastic tables and chairs lie strewn around for weary customers. Mai buys them a plate of pâté chauds, golden flaky pastry shells with spicy meatball middles. They eat them in silence.

  It’s not fair, Huan finally says.

  Yeah, Mai says.

  It’s bullshit. Did you get that guy’s name?

  What for?

  I’m going to complain.

  Mai looks around the market and back at him. To whom?

  The police chief, the American embassy, Leah. Someone.

  What were you expecting? For everyone to be nice to you?

  I didn’t expect to be harassed.

  This is Vietnam. If they can tell you’re at least part-Vietnamese, they’re going to have issues with you. I’ve been dealing with it, too. If you want courtesy for the rest of the trip, go stand next to Leah.

  It’s different for me.

  It’s not just you, Mai says. The authorities hate overseas Vietnamese. They think we’re rude and arrogant to come back home, throw money around, and expect to be treated like royalty.

  I’m not acting like that.

  No. They don’t know you. So don’t take it personally.

  He doesn’t know why he is. He has experienced discrimination before, plenty of it, in America, though his parents did their best to shield him from it. But it bothers him that the Vietnamese are looking down at him, angry at him. They want to show him how un-Vietnamese he is. Well, he knows that. He always has.

  As he tries to relax, Huan focuses on his calm, patient companion. Hey, he says, patting her hand. Thanks. He realizes it’s a little strange to have Mai, little Mai, rescuing him. Two years older, Huan remembers how nervous and awkward Mai was in high school, how she always sought him out for advice. She has matured during their years apart. She’s grown up.

  She pats him back. You’re welcome.

  Where’s my mom?

  She’s standing in line to see a fortune-teller.

  A scam.

  No, just fun. It’s cheap anyway.

  Did she talk to you?

  Mai hesitates, then smiles her answer.

  I’m sorry, Huan says, staring at his food. She doesn’t know when to shut up.

  She’s worried about you.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve been dumped.

  I know it’s not about Emily.

  I don’t know what I’m doing here, Huan says. This trip was never my idea. First, it was Emily’s, and now my mom’s.

  Mai looks down at the table. But it’s a good idea. So what if it isn’t yours?

  I’m glad you’re here.

  Me too.

  It’s been years, Mai. Are you ever planning on coming back to America?

  Sure I am. She takes a bite of her pastry and fastidiously wipes her mouth with a napkin. Huan decides not to press her on when.

  She tells him more about her classes in Japan and her boyfriend Gordon. He tells her about the new responsibilities at his job and how much work he’ll have on his desk once he returns. They reminisce about old high school and college friends. She laughs for the first time on their vacation, a reminder of the old Mai.

  What are you doing tomorrow morning? Huan asks.

  Why?

  We’re not going to the tunnels until the afternoon. My mom and I are visiting the nursery center that handled my adoption.

  Her face doesn’t change at all, and Huan suddenly remembers. Mai is an orphan, too.

  If you’re busy, it’s okay. He feels terrible. How can he forget? Mai grew up in foster homes her whole life. Sometimes she spent college breaks at his family’s house.

  I’m not, Mai finally says. I’ll come.

  Okay, Huan says. Thanks. Embarrassed, he looks away, into the crowded market, everywhere heads full of smooth, black hair.

  The Children of Mary’s Adoption Center is located in an old government building on the western side of District One. The morning traffic on the main boulevard in front of the center is heavy and noisy, and the children are instructed to stay within the building’s gates at all times.

  In the courtyard, young orphans bustle around Huan’s mother. They coo at Gwen with outstretched hands, softly chanting the English word please over and over. She smiles at them, struggling with a plastic trash bag in her arms, and dramatically hands each child a stuffed animal, rubber ball, or plastic toy.

  When one of the little girls gives his mother a kiss, Huan turns around and heads back inside. He remembers the argument he had with his mother before leaving for Vietnam, when he discovered half her luggage space devoted to these toys. She couldn’t understand why he was so angry about the gifts.

  These children don’t have anything, Huan. What’s wrong with giving if we can?

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. The toys would be played with for a few days, but they’d eventually get dirty, break, get thrown away, and the orphans would still be destitute. They didn’t need this kind of charity.

  He finds Mai in the hallway, looking at photographs of children on the wall. Huan walks up behind her.

  Are you looking for her? he asks. Mai’s childhood friend Kim was also on the Babylift. Huan never knew her very well, except that she always seemed angry, blaming the bad things that happened in her life on everyone else, often Mai.

  Mai nods sheepishly. I don’t even know which adoption agency she left from.

  Too bad she couldn’t come.

  She’s too busy with her kids and work. Besides, I don’t think she would’ve anyway.

  Why not?

  Mai pauses for a moment. I think she might hate Vietnam more than she hates America.

  Huan can understand that. He wonders if it is one of the few things he and Kim would ever agree on.

  Do you ever talk
to the Reynoldses anymore? Huan asks.

  We write. Christmas cards, birthdays.

  No plans to visit?

  Mai shakes her head. Not right now. I’m busy, they’re busy. They have a new foster child. He’s only seven.

  They walk along the halls, scrutinizing each picture. Mai slowly wanders ahead of him. Huan hangs back, remembering that Mai doesn’t like people watching over her shoulder. She couldn’t stand other people looking at the same picture as she at museums. She prefers observing alone.

  Huan is grateful that Mai decided to come today. Their cyclo driver got lost twice, raising suspicions that he was trying to pad his fare. Mai sharply threatened him in Vietnamese. A few minutes and two turns later, they arrived at the center.

  Eight years ago, the Vietnamese government granted permission for the adoption center to reopen in Ho Chi Minh City. The facilities look spare, but well maintained, with a fresh coat of paint on the building’s exterior and vibrant potted plants in each room. The staff and children seem happy. The orphans stare unabashedly at Huan, recognizing his mixed heritage and that he was once like them. But he isn’t. These children are pure Vietnamese.

  There are no more Amerasian children, the despised products of American military men and Vietnamese women finally aborting with the war’s end. No, those bastards are grown. Some gone, but not all. Huan realizes he should be more worried about other Amerasians in Vietnam than anyone else. The Amerasians who were left behind have good reason to hate Huan. They had to bear the brunt of a country’s devastation and poverty. Huan searches for them in the streets of Ho Chi Minh City, but he hasn’t spotted any yet. Perhaps they have learned to fade into the scenery, granting the country’s wish just to disappear. The children of the dust mercifully dissipated, the last bitter reminders of a hated war.

  Huan feels a tickle on his elbow. Sophie, the center’s founder and president, smiles at him. A bone-thin white haired American in her seventies, she looks at him like Gwen does, with näive, hopeless affection. He is getting this a lot today, his status of Babylift orphan suddenly elevating him to Christ child. Sophie was on the same evacuation flight as Huan. She is the one who placed him in Gwen’s arms twenty-six years ago.

  Thanks again for taking the time to meet with us, Huan says.

  Oh, it’s my pleasure, hon. I always enjoy seeing my babies all grown-up and successful.

  Well, I don’t know about that.

  Oh, hush. She shakes her head at him. So many people loved you, Huan, so many wanted you for their own. I remember.

  Huan smiles wanly. She probably says this to every orphan.

  Brunch is ready, Sophie says, looking around. Where’s your mother?

  She’s still giving away her toys.

  She is such a generous soul, Sophie says, shaking her head. You are so lucky to have her.

  Brunch is set up on the patio, tame American cuisine of sandwiches and salads, which Gwen is grateful for.

  Not that I don’t love all the new, exotic things we’re trying here, but I do miss plain, good American food. Am I right?

  Sophie and the other staff at the table smile at her. Huan looks over at Mai, whose face appears carefully blank.

  They have mementos to share. Sophie passes around photo albums taken during the Babylift, and in those washed out black-and-white pictures, they try to distinguish Huan from crowds of little faces. There is only one individual photograph of Huan, which Gwen already has a copy of back home. His identification picture, full name Huan Anh Cung, scrawled on a sheet of paper and held in front of his gaunt, confused face.

  The admittance and medical records are next. In a thick, faded green book on pages that record many other orphans’ lives, they locate Huan’s information. He stayed in Sophie’s adoption center for nine months before the Babylift evacuation. His biological parents are listed as unknown. He was named by the nuns at the orphanage where he was abandoned. His medical records indicate he suffered from bronchitis, ear infections, and boils.

  None of this is new. Huan’s mother requested his background information from the adoption center long ago. But he nods and smiles when he is supposed to, because he knows they are all watching him, expecting gratitude and humility.

  This information would have been more interesting for Emily. She was always curious about his vague heritage and couldn’t understand why he wasn’t, too. Emily was not adopted. Born to Korean immigrant parents, she was close to them and her extended family and cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Huan agreed to go to Vietnam with her, for her, because he liked that she was so interested in his past. He never realized until afterward that her motivation to learn about Vietnam was to prove to her family that he really was Asian, not just black. Her work went unfinished. She broke up with him after realizing her mother would never ultimately approve. Maybe if he were half-white it would be different, all Asian even better. She offered to buy out her half of the trip. She even suggested he still go with someone else.

  You know, we arranged reunion tours for the adoptees last year, Sophie says, looking at Huan. I thought we sent the information packet to you.

  He feels the others’ eyes on him, expecting an explanation for the rejection. I couldn’t take off work, Huan says.

  That’s too bad. Sophie grins. You would have enjoyed it. We organized the adoptees to visit the orphanages or maternity hospitals where they were first found. If I remember your file correctly, you came to us from Blessed Haven. That’s just south of here in the Delta.

  We’re going to the Delta, his mother says. Tomorrow as part of our tour.

  How lovely, Sophie says. Well, if you’d like to visit I can make a call.

  That would be wonderful, Gwen says, eagerly leaning forward.

  Huan doesn’t bring it up until after they leave the center. He wants to wait until they get back to their hotel room, but he can’t. They are in a taxicab, Mai is sitting in front, and Huan tries his best to keep his voice down.

  I never said I wanted to visit the orphanage.

  Gwen looks at him, surprised. Why wouldn’t you?

  Maybe I don’t feel like it. Maybe today has been enough.

  I don’t understand, she says. Why would we come all this way without talking to the people who once knew you and took care of you? Sophie says there is a nun who believes she remembers you.

  You don’t get to make that decision for me.

  Why are you getting so angry?

  If I wanted to do this, I would have asked. The reason you asked is because you wanted to.

  Fine. If you don’t want to go, we don’t have to go.

  They’re already expecting us.

  I’ll call Sophie tomorrow. I’ll fix it, don’t worry.

  Gwen is crying. From the front seat, Mai reaches over and hands her a tissue. For the remainder of the ride they listen to street noise from the driver’s rolled-down window. In the sun’s noon position, Huan can see the city’s smog hovering over its inhabitants. They breathe the pollution in easily, accepting the foul sight and smell as natural.

  In a dense forest forty-five miles outside of Ho Chi Minh City, a guide in faded green army attire leads the tour group to an open-sided hut. They sit in dusty plastic chairs while a woman in black pajamas turns on the big-screen television.

  Beautiful shade trees and smiling, simple Vietnamese peasants, nature, serenity, safety in the town of Cu Chi. And then the looming American B-52s unleash their bombs. Bursts of gunfire crackle from the television speakers. Clouds of smoke overwhelm the screen, making the peasants on screen cry and suffer. Out of dust, the valiant Communist liberators emerge. Young, beautiful, courageous faces. They will rescue their country.

  The female guide must notice the audience fidgeting uncomfortably. She appears to expect this, laughs as she turns the video off, explaining that it is old, times have changed, and everyone, American and Vietnamese, are all friends now.

  For their paying friends, Cu Chi Tunnels, the 250-kilometer underground headquarte
rs of the Viet Cong during the war, is now a popular tourist attraction. The maze of tunnels especially widened to accommodate larger Western sightseers, a recreational firing range where visitors can shoot AK-47 rifles, souvenir booths selling Zippo lighters, pens made from bullets, rubber sandals, keepsake T-shirts.

  Leah and the Vietnamese tunnel guide assure their group that the tunnels are safe and well maintained for the public. They are both much shorter than Huan. The tunnel guide climbs down the ladder first, and one by one, each traveler follows. Some of the older, heavier people struggle to fit down the snug hole, with Leah’s help. The ceiling in the underground areas barely reaches six feet and the tunnels themselves only three. They get on their hands and knees and crawl farther into the tunnels, the guide in front loudly reciting the tunnel’s history.

  Huan can’t help admiring this vast underworld. These Vietnamese rat people whom the Americans so underestimated hand-dug and created a three-level network that once stretched to the Cambodian border. Protected by tiger pits, punji stake traps, and firing posts, the tunnels successfully endured American bombs, allowing their intricate subterranean maze to flourish with kitchens, hospitals, sleeping chambers, and even a small theater. The American veterans are especially impressed, their eyes memorizing these once mythical caverns, finally permitted to see Charlie’s side.

  The damp earthy walls and moist air are making Huan dizzy. He is tired of bumping into people’s sweaty bodies, aware they can’t help it, but desperately needing space. There is no space here. Everyone is on top of each other. These Cu Chi guerrillas must have had incredible endurance. Huan feels he is not selfish about many things, but air, he decides, he cannot share.

  As they crawl into another narrow tunnel, Huan stops, falling back on his heels. Although the guide has advised them to take small, short breaths, he inhales a lungful of stale air and immediately begins coughing.