At the motel, she set the tape recorder on the desk. She tested it, and thesound of her voice surprised her. She sounded young and immature, a littlebit needy. Did she always sound like that? She tested it again, changing hervoice and the pitch of the words. She wanted to make a good impression.When she was happy with her test recording, she cleaned up and dressed theboys as if the recorder could see what they looked like.“I don’t like this,” Tuấn complained. He pulled at his shirt. “Itchy.”“It’s only for a little bit,” she told him. “It’s important. We dress up forimportant things.” She told this to herself and changed into an áo dài, the oneluxury she had packed. After they were ready, she pressed the button and themachine began recording.“A lô, anh Công? Hương đây.” She paused. Where to start?It felt odd speaking to a machine now. She had practiced so much, butnow it meant something. She had to pick the correct words to get hermeaning across clearly, to describe her situation correctly, to express heremotions so that there were no questions about how she felt. Her lungsbecame heavy and her cheeks flushed red. She turned off the machine andthen turned it back on.“We made it to America,” she started. She turned the recorder off andtook another breath, then started it again. “But before, we were in Singaporein a camp full of other boat people. That’s what they call us: boat people.”She wanted to stop, but the words just kept coming. She had so much tosay and none of it would make sense to Công. They spent a week on a boat, she and Tuấn, and, somewhere within her,their baby. The only food they brought were a small bag of cooked rice andanother bag of bananas. (Công knew that already.) A few days in, this wassplit among the twenty or so people on the boat. (She had lost count of howmany there were.) She remembered that at one point the entire boat ran outof water, and all the babies, including her son, were crying and screaming ofthirst. Then it rained, the sky turning black, and water droplets fell down.They lifted their plastic bottles and bags to the air as the children openedtheir mouths. Soon came the lightning and thunder and everyone croucheddown, huddled in the mass of skin and bones as if the act of clutching on toone another was enough to save them if the boat were to topple over.The next day a ship found them, and their greetings were friendly. Theship sailed them to a camp in Singapore, where they stayed for severalmonths, long enough for her to have the child, which she was surprisedsurvived at all after the cruelties of the sea. Finally, they were told to get on aplane and that plane took the three of them—a mother and two sons—toNew Orleans, a place she never heard of before and still couldn’t place on amap.She held up Bình and the baby cooed into the recorder. She should havetold Công about him first. Why didn’t she? “This is our son, Công. I namedhim Bình. Isn’t he đẹp trai? He was born at the camp. I thought I wouldn’thave been healthy enough and that if he came he wouldn’t be healthy, either,but here he is. He’s healthy and he’s strong! He’s a miracle.” She held thebaby up higher and he laughed as if tickled. “That’s your father,” she said andpointed to the recorder. She waved his little hand and he laughed louder. Shewished he hadn’t. This was a serious moment. They, all of them, should beserious.“Công, are you safe?” she asked now. “Where are you now? Are youcoming over? How is our house? What are the Communists doing? Is it safethere? Are you safe?” There were so many questions. She opened her mouth,but nothing came out except a weak whimper. She stood up to get a tissue The last night in Mỹ Tho they packed an old suitcase. They had used it yearsearlier—before Tuấn, before there was talk of family—on a trip to Đà Lạt.Hương remembered the rolling hills, covered in morning mist and lookinglike giants: tall and sturdy, mysterious and unknowable. She told Công thatthis was where she would want to spend the rest of her life. Công, on theother hand, didn’t like Đà Lạt. He didn’t like traveling. He had left the Northwith his family when he was a child. A refugee, he associated movement withloss. Since then, he had looked for a place to put down his roots—to stay. Inthe days before Saigon was lost, everyone was trying to leave, but Công wasadamant about staying. They had just moved from Mỹ Tho to the city forCông’s job at the university. He had worked his entire life for this, he hadsaid, and now they were letting him teach literature—to talk about not onlythe great Vietnamese poets but about the great French ones he loved, too, likeRimbaud, Verlaine, Gautier, Apollinaire, and Hugo. At the age of two, Tuấnknew these names better than those of the other kids, and he sang themwherever he went: Rim-baud, Ver-laine, Gau-tier. Công was proud of all he’daccomplished, even if teaching was, at times, difficult. More often than not,he came home with two or three full folders of papers to grade, along withstories of troublesome students. He struggled with the ones who were closedminded, the ones who were stuck to their small-town ideologies and resistedbeing educated. The worst, he would tell her (looking around as if he weredisclosing a secret), were the students who joined the Communist clubs. Theywere so set in their ideologies there was no teaching them. (“You wouldsooner teach a horse to fly,” he would say.) Still, his life was coming togetherthe way he had planned. The look in his eyes said “hãy tin anh.” Trust me.And Hương did.They were finally getting used to Saigon, the loud vendors, the litteredstreets, the overbearing smell of motor exhaust. They had fallen into acomfortable domestic routine.Mornings, Công and Hương would wake up early. The day would startwith morning stretches in their small backyard as the sun rose and their coffeedripped into warm perfection. After, they’d cook breakfast together, oftenrice with nước tương and eggs. By the time the city woke up—with people walking to work and motorbikes taking to the streets—Tuấn was awake, andthey got him ready for school. She’d walk him there as Công biked to theuniversity. They’d arrive before classes started and she’d hand him over to hisfriends—three other little boys—and they’d play with a soccer ball. Hươngwould sit under the shade of the tree and watch until the teachers came tocollect their students.During the day, she’d clean the house and settle the family accounts. Côngbrought in the money, but it was because of her know-how with numbers thatthey could survive. Công appreciated her for this and often told her sheshould have gone to school and studied math. But that idea only called tomind abstract theories discussed in front of dusty chalkboards. And whywould she want that when she could calculate numbers with the sun streamingin through the window, a light breeze blowing now and then? No, that lifewasn’t for her. She knew her life and what she wanted, and having had it,there as if in the palms of her hands, she felt happy.In the afternoon, she would pick Tuấn up and they’d go to the market tobuy ingredients for dinner that night. It was the best time to buy because thesellers were tired by then and easy to bargain with. Though, of course, itmeant not getting the best picks of produce and meat. Still, it saved themmoney; their country was at war, after all (though, in Hương’s mind, the warwas always over there—someplace she’d only ever heard of). Công, if hewasn’t busy, would be home by the time they returned.They’d cook as a family, discussing their day. If Công had a particularlygood day or if he left his office early, he would bring home a treat for his son,the catch being he had to answer one of his riddles. But, of course, their sonwas so smart—the professor’s son—that he answered everything right andclaimed his prize with a kiss and a smile. Theirs was a house of love, Hươngwas sure. It was all they ever needed—love. And with love, they wouldsurvive. She believed this with all her heart.When the city fell, Công didn’t anticipate things changing dramatically.The Communists had won the entire country; what else did they want? Thewar was over, after all. Life would resume. He had a new class to prepare for.The week Saigon fell, he said he was dreaming about his syllabus and wondering if he could fit the works of Musset in there somehow. Thepeaceful shift of power and how easily everything returned to normal—theschool schedule, the bustling market—seemed to confirm what Công said.That was May 1975.But soon the curfews came. Tanks and soldiers with guns patrolled thestreets as everyone else went about their daily business. Hương rememberedhow young the soldiers were. She had assumed they would all be older men,but they were all younger than she was. She saw the soldiers eating atrestaurants, playing catch in the park, wooing girls. Surely these Communistscould not have been bad. They could not have conquered an entire country—these boys with bone fingers, hungry arms, optimistic smiles. They passed outpamphlets from the new government explaining how it existed to serve thepeople. She would grow to hate that phrase—serve the people—at firstbecause it was ubiquitous, then later, much later, as it became sinister,prickly.The next year, a letter came for Công, asking him to report to a militarytraining camp in Lăng Cô. As a member of the University of Saigon faculty,the future of the new nation depended on him, said the letter. It was time forthe teachers to be taught. Pack enough clothes for two weeks of reeducation.They held him for five months.When he returned to Saigon, shirtless and shoeless and emaciated, Hươngdidn’t even recognize him until he called her name—“Hương. Anh đây.” Sheran to him and held him gently. Nights after, the feel of bones would haunther.It took him a month to recover. When he was better, Công didn’t talkabout what happened at the reeducation center, but he decided they shouldleave Saigon. Immediately.They packed the suitcase—and Công gathered his favorite books into aknapsack—and took a bus back to Mỹ Tho, where Hương had grown up,where they had met. She still had a plot of familial land out there and a smallshack, both inherited after her mother died years ago. An hour outside thetown, the bus was stopped by a group of military officers and they werequestioned. What were they doing, going to Mỹ Tho? Did they have permission to go? Did they know they had to ask permission? Công told themthey were visiting Hương’s mother, who was very ill. The officers looked atthe couple suspiciously. The couple was let go. They told Công he looked likean honest man.Upon their arrival in Mỹ Tho, they stayed with a family friend for a fewweeks before setting up a meager, quiet home. If asked, by villagers ormilitary officers, they said Hương’s mother had died and they had decided tostay in her maternal village where they would farm a small plot of land.How life was different for them now. In Saigon, Hương was the youngwife of a professor and they were a professor’s family. Now she and Côngrooted around in a country garden, the dirt getting under their nails, the scentof earth and insects and sun baking themselves into their clothes and skin.They had planned on planting all types of vegetables—cabbages andcucumbers and lettuce—but the only thing that grew were bitter melons. Whywere they farming, she often asked, when Mỹ Tho was a fishing village? Saferand a better investment, was Công’s answer with an anxious look in his eyes.Or perhaps it was something else. She didn’t ask; the recent months had beenso much. Yes, of course, she reasoned, safety. So they farmed, and when theharvest was ready, Công took it to market.Having no school, Tuấn stayed home and became bored and listless. Hecomplained about not having books or toys. He asked about school and hisfriends. Somehow, he had the idea they were just a short walk away and hewanted to go there. He became grumpy when Hương said he needed to stayon their property.The change didn’t sit well with Công, either, who, though still loving, wasdistracted and distant. It was as if he was always looking over his shoulder,expecting someone there. Tuấn must have sensed this, too. During the day,their son would find little gifts for his father to cheer him up—a particularlypretty rock or an interesting flower. Công would smile and ruffle his son’shair. But then, again, his gaze would return outside to the quiet village, which,soon, became impossibly quieter, emptier.Men began to disappear. First here and there, but then more noticeably.Then some women. Then entire households were replaced with families with stale Northern accents and pale skin.