One night, in the dark of their bedroom, Công told her they should leave
the country.
“Leave?” she asked. “Why? Where?” The proposition seemed absurd,
more so coming from Công, a rational man who only ever wanted a home.
“We can go anywhere. Remember Cảnh?” he asked.
Cảnh was a fisherman. The village woke up one morning and his shack
had disappeared, the wood walls gone, the plot of land empty like he had
never existed. Everyone was sure he’d packed up and sailed away. Cảnh
became a local legend: one was not condemned to the oppression of the new
Socialist Republic of Vietnam as it eliminated its traitors, planted new seeds,
grew a new society. One could leave.
“Công,” she said, “go to sleep.”
Công got out of bed. He took out his notebook. He consulted his books
and wrote until the sun rose. He came to bed only to sleep for two hours
before getting up again, acting as if nothing had happened.
The nights would continue the same way. He became erratic. He wrote in
a mixture of French and Vietnamese, pages and pages of it. She couldn’t
understand anything. When one sentence started in Vietnamese, it ended in
French. She never knew he had this in him, this paranoia. Sometimes his
handwriting looked more like miniature drawings than words. And there were
letters put together that surely couldn’t have meant anything in any language.
Eventually, the government began a new economic program. They would
buy from the country’s workers—“the foundation of our new society”—and,
to ensure everyone got what they needed, sold the crops back to the masses
—“to serve the people.”
One day, a government official came for their bitter melons. He laughed as
his colleagues loaded up a truck. “Who eats mướp đắng anymore, sister?” he
said, though he took a load of the crops anyway and handed her not money
but a small book of vouchers. “Thank you for serving the people.”
“Serve the people!” she scoffed after they left.
Hương felt belittled and betrayed. As the official went door-to-door, at
times laughing at her neighbors, sometimes even yelling at them if they didn’t produce enough, she began feeling angry more than anything else.
“Ungrateful,” she said. “They’re stealing our food and giving us vouchers
that won’t buy even a kilo of rice and then telling us we’re heroes of the
country, the backbone of society.” It made her want to cry for the state of her
country.
But Công saw an opportunity. “Classic communism by the book! Now
aren’t you glad we grew crops?” he told her. Công’s plan went into motion.
They grew more than they would sell to the government. The surplus they
sold on the black market, mostly to traditional herbalists and of course to
starving families. After several months, they had the money for an escape—
for three seats on the boat, for the fuel for the boat, for the food they would
have to bring along. The money they had left over Hương sewed into their
clothes, along with whatever jewelry they could trade for what they needed.
When the time came to leave, Hương couldn’t believe it. That night, an old
man with a dirty beard arrived at the house. They packed the suitcase and
Công paid the man. They followed him into the jungle.
The old man, who must have been at least fifty, ran like a teenager, and
they tried to keep up with him through the thick, moist air that made it hard
for Hương to breathe and run and carry Tuấn at the same time. A storm was
coming; this was why it was so humid. Was it safe to go to the water now?
Tuấn cried and Hương had to cover his mouth.
“Please be quiet, Tuấn. Please!” she begged him.
He cried louder and she felt his hot breath on her palm. When there was a
sudden noise, she nearly let go but didn’t. They all stopped running. The
insects stopped their singing. The birds stopped their calling. It was the first
time she had ever heard complete silence in the jungle.
“It sounded like a gunshot,” said Công after a lengthy pause. “Are they
after us?” Then, in an accusatory tone, Công yelled at the old man. “Are you
one of them, old man? Are you ambushing us?”
The yelling made Tuấn cry louder, and the old man yelled back that he
would never do anything like that; he said he was a man of his word, that he’d
served for years in the South Vietnamese Army. The two men argued as
Hương tried to make out their figures. She began to walk toward a shadow she thought was Công, but, approaching it, she saw it was a tree with its top
chopped off like it was struck by lightning. The loud, sudden noise repeated
and everyone went quiet again.
“Anh Công?” she said, grasping out in the dark. “Anh Công?”
“This way,” she heard Công say. He grabbed her hand and they continued
running, rubbing against trees, stumbling over vines. Hương had to stop twice
because her stomach ached. For a month she’d had the idea that she was
pregnant, and the last four weeks of sickness confirmed it. When she gave
Công the news, she said she could have it taken care of before the trip, but he
was so ecstatic he wouldn’t let her. “Why would we want to do that?” he
asked and touched her belly. “Just let me name the baby,” he added. She had
chosen Tuấn’s name; he could have this.
Then, there was the beach. Several boats waited ashore. There were more
in the water—Hương could see flashlights in the distance—circles of light
floating and bobbing up and down, then disappearing. A woman was
screaming on the shore, pointing out to the water.
“My baby! My baby boy!” the woman screamed. “My baby is on that
boat! Bring him back! My boy!”
The woman looked familiar, but it was too dark and Hương couldn’t tell
for sure. The woman ran into the water and disappeared.
Hương squeezed Công’s hand. A sudden rush of energy came over her. All
this time planning and here they were.
“Let’s leave,” she said. “It’s time to go, Công.” She pulled him, but he
stopped to gaze back into the jungle. He paused. Eyes straight ahead, she
pulled harder and they ran toward the boat. There, a man waved them
forward. They were the last ones on before the boat was pushed out into the
water.
“Quick, quick,” said a man as the boat sputtered forward.
They were out at sea for ten days. Hương would stay sleepless for most of
that, holding Tuấn in her arms, his head against her chest, buried there, away
from the sea. How had Công’s hand slipped? she kept asking herself. That was
the only explanation. The only possible one. After she recorded her message, she wrote “The Teachings of Uncle Hổ” on
the tape and the address of their Mỹ Tho house on an envelope. In the
morning, she would ask the priest to take her to the post office. The message
would be sent. She would receive something back. They would be reunited. It
was the best she could hope for. She could hope.
After dinner—instant noodles from a Styrofoam cup the church gave out
—she cleaned up her sons and tucked them in. When she couldn’t sleep, she
turned on the TV and watched it with no sound. Images flashed on the screen:
men in business suits signing papers and shaking hands; reporters laughing
behind a desk and shuffling their papers; a man smiling in front of a map of
America.
Deep into the night, Bình woke up crying. Hương rocked him in her arms
and walked him around the room. Though the blinds were drawn, the lights
from the streetlamps streamed in. In the glow, Bình looked angelic and she
felt sorry he’d been through so much already. From the very first day, even.
His birth took ten hours and two midwives. When he was finally out in the
world, one of the midwives frowned. Something was wrong; he wasn’t crying,
he wasn’t breathing. The other midwife took the baby and examined him.
From where Hương lay, she could see the child in the midwife’s hands. She
was afraid he would be still, but his arms were waving frantically like he was
drowning. “I know,” the first midwife said. She took him and tapped him on
the back, once, twice, three times before the baby started coughing and the
first cry was heard as he took in a breath of air. Hương let out a sigh of relief
along with the midwives. Thinking about that now, she wondered what
hardships her children would have. What misfortunes? What heartaches?
What wars?
“As long as I am here,” she whispered, enclosing his small hands with
hers, “nothing will happen to you. I promise. I will protect you. The both of
you. I promise.” She felt a certainty in this statement, in her ability to keep
this promise. It was the most sure thing she’d ever uttered.
She took him in her lap and together they watched the evening news. Any minute now, she was sure, they would talk about home.