Once We Had a Country (40 page)

“The money’s gone,” Maggie says. “Burnt.”

Yia Pao nods, not betraying any emotion, and she finds herself close to tears, because at last here’s someone who knows about the money and might explain what happened.

“It was still in the statue during the fire,” she says. “I only knew about the money by accident. My father didn’t tell me anything.”

She wants to say that she meant to give the money to Yia Pao’s son, but what does it matter now? Yia Pao rounds the bed, picks up the statue in one hand, turns it over to examine its hollow core, then lets the baby grasp it for a while. A pained smile crosses Yia Pao’s face.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he says, setting down the statue. “It was the cause of such misery.”

“Will you tell me?” she asks.

Rather than responding, he drops his chin. “I’m ashamed of many things that happened.”

“Tell me anyway.”

As he starts to talk, she almost interrupts to say she’s changed her mind. She has no desire to hear that her father was a drug runner, a hypocrite, a thief. But she doesn’t want to be told of his innocence and purity either. It’s an imperfect man whom she loved; the fervent, holy one will always be a stranger. Settling back to listen, she can’t decide which of them she wants to emerge.

This is what Yia Pao tells her. He says that in the summer, he agreed to be Sal’s middleman. The job was hardly honourable, but he took it out of a desperation to leave Laos with his son. Yia Pao had no other family, no reason to stay. Eventually the Communists were going to win, and everyone knew what would happen to those with Western educations, to the Hmong who had worked for Americans. People like Yia Pao would be the first against the wall.

Even before the CIA pilot arrived at the refugee camp to hand him the money, though, Yia Pao regretted his decision. As soon as the plane took off, he thought ahead to the twenty-four hours before Sal’s arrival and was racked with paranoia, certain that others in the camp knew what was happening, that he’d be robbed in the night. Panicked, he placed the bills in one of the clay figures he’d made and sealed the thing. Even then he worried that somebody would divine what it contained. So, in his terror, he made
a mistake. Thinking that no one would look for the money in a missionary’s tent, he took the statue to Gordon and said it was a gift, telling him nothing of what it contained. Yia Pao said he’d made the statue in the likeness of Saint Clare because he remembered Gordon saying she was his daughter’s favourite saint. Yia Pao shared this detail only to make the gift seem better planned. He didn’t realize the calamity it would bring.

That night, he didn’t sleep a wink. In the morning, when the time approached for Sal and his men to arrive, Yia Pao returned to Gordon’s tent, planning to steal back the statue if Gordon wasn’t there, but ready to say that it needed a coat of glaze if he was. When Yia Pao arrived, he discovered neither Gordon nor the statue was there. Alarmed, he scoured the camp and finally found his friend bandaging a little girl’s toe. Gordon didn’t understand why Yia Pao was demanding the statue’s return. He explained that he had put the statue in a parcel for his daughter and had just sent it on the supply plane with the rest of the mail.

Yia Pao raced to the landing strip, knowing even before he set eyes on the field that the supply plane was gone. By the time he returned to the camp, he was weeping uncontrollably. It would have been better if he thought Gordon had betrayed him, but he knew it was his own fault for being so stupid.

Sick with fear, he gathered a few things from his tent, preparing to flee into the jungle. He would have an easier time on his own, but he couldn’t leave his son to Sal, so he made his second mistake. With Gordon, he went to
fetch Xang from the woman minding him near the river. When they arrived, Sal and his men had already landed on the bank.

Yia Pao couldn’t tell Sal the truth because the man would never believe it, so in his terror he offered the simplest lie he could imagine: he said the money hadn’t arrived. Sal didn’t believe that either. Before he led them away on his boat, Yia Pao tried to return Xang to the woman, but Sal said no, bring him along, we’ll take good care of the little guy.

During their captivity, Gordon never blamed Yia Pao. Often he went without food so Yia Pao and Xang might have more, and when the chance to escape presented itself, when they entered the jungle without supplies, already half starved, bruised, and bleeding, Gordon was the stronger of them, the one who insisted on carrying Xang. They moved slowly even so, and when they reached the river, Gordon suggested they split up, then meet again at a rock visible in the distance, so as to confuse Sal and his men should they be giving chase. Upon reaching the rock, Yia Pao found no sign of Gordon and Xang.

He waited an hour, backtracked, tried to follow Gordon’s path, became lost. Finally he found the river again and followed it downstream until he stumbled into a village, barely able to stand. It wasn’t until he was in Vientiane weeks later that he heard of Gordon’s death and his son’s survival. The rest of the autumn he lay low, searching for Xang, sheltered by old schoolmates and making inquiries through them, knowing that Sal had powerful friends.

It seemed both a miracle and a cruel joke when Yia Pao discovered that his son was also in Vientiane. He wanted
to walk straight into the orphanage and claim him, but he knew that if he’d found Xang, Sal might have too. So Yia Pao entered the orphanage in the dead of night, lifted Xang from his crib, and stole out with him.

They were a block away when a man stepped from the shadows. Yia Pao didn’t recognize him until Wale reminded him of their meeting at Long Chieng in the spring. Wale said he wanted to keep him from Sal’s hands. Yia Pao worried it was a trick, but he knew that if it was, there was no point trying to escape; he’d be shot in the back before he got ten yards.

They ended up at a tiny flat in a rundown building with no electricity, the single room empty but for a roll-up mattress. Wale told him not to leave and promptly abandoned him, promising to come back soon.

An hour passed, then another. Yia Pao grew ever more certain that Wale would be returning with Sal. But if that were true, why would Wale have risked leaving Yia Pao by himself? Doubt and a lingering hope kept him from fleeing into the street.

It was the next morning before Wale returned with food, clothes, milk, and diapers. He said he had spoken with a friend, a former military man, who could arrange for Yia Pao and his son to go to Canada. Wale explained that Gordon’s daughter lived on a farm there, and that she wanted to help them begin a new life. When Yia Pao said he had no money for such a trip, Wale said the tickets would be taken care of, that in fact he’d be grateful to Yia Pao for accepting the offer. He smelled of alcohol, and he slurred his words as he spoke, but Yia Pao didn’t hesitate. He said yes.

Wale left him there again and didn’t come back until the following afternoon, when he stopped by briefly to inform him they would fly out in nine days. After that, he returned only once a day to drop off provisions, never staying long. Yia Pao wanted to tell his friends in Vientiane of his imminent departure, but he dared not leave the apartment or ask Wale to take the risk of delivering a message.

The day before the flight, Wale informed him that a man would drive him and Xang to the airport in the morning, and that Wale would meet them there. The man who arrived wore dark glasses and barely spoke. At the airport, he produced papers and tickets, as well as an index card with the address and phone number for the farm. Yia Pao asked where Wale was and the man didn’t answer, only advised him to get on the plane before the wrong people turned up. Yia Pao passed through the airport with Xang and boarded the airplane, expecting to be pulled aside at any moment. When he felt the wheels leave the runway, he couldn’t believe it. Then, at the terminal in Toronto, he called the number he’d been given and got no answer. There was nothing to do except make his way to the address on the card.

Yia Pao says he wishes deeply that Gordon were here too. He can’t say how sorry he is for what happened. He wants Maggie to know that her father was a fine man, thoughtful and brave, a true friend. The Hmong believe the spirits of one’s ancestors remain in this world, looking out for their loved ones. The spirit of Maggie’s father must be a powerful one, and she’s lucky to have had him in her life.

As Yia Pao tells his story, the pain in Maggie’s body grows. She tries to recall the television documentary about her father, wanting to determine where Yia Pao’s version of the story differs from it, but focusing is hard. At times the bed beneath her seems to quake, and Yia Pao’s voice reaches her ears as if through a long funnel. She remembers that the documentary showed her father snatching Yia Pao’s baby under the nose of Sal’s goons, then hiding behind a waterfall. The filmmaker seems to have guessed right that he and Yia Pao escaped from their captors, but Yia Pao says nothing of a pit, nothing of being washed down a river.

When he recalls becoming separated from Xang and her father, she feels the tears start down her face. By the time he finishes speaking, they flow easily, without shame. She reaches for the statue and holds it tight against her chest. Not a taunt, after all, nor a tainted inheritance; just a sad reminder of a shared life. For the first time, the little saint seems like something she can love.

“You really don’t think my father knew what was in it? I mean, when he sent it to me?”

A look comes over Yia Pao, as if the question is one he doesn’t want to consider. Eventually the muscles in his face loosen. “How could he have known?”

A mistake, then. A stupid mix-up. It should be a comfort, but it makes things seem even worse.

“Why didn’t you tell Sal what happened with the money?” she says. “He could have contacted me. I could have sent it back.”

Yia Pao shakes his head. “Your father made me swear not to tell. Sal would have thought he’d sent the money on
purpose. He would have killed us, then come after you. It was better for him to think the money was still in Laos.”

She doesn’t want to imagine what it meant for her father and Yia Pao to keep the truth hidden, doesn’t want to contemplate the scars on Yia Pao’s face. It’s easier for her to dwell on the escape, the jungle, the search for his son.

“Once you were in Vientiane,” she says, “you should have gotten in touch with me.” She could have helped him, and he could have told her what had happened.

“I didn’t know how to reach you,” he replies. “It was dangerous to make inquiries.”

It makes sense. It’s an explanation. But when she thinks about it, she can also imagine him staying quiet to keep her from knowing about the money. That way, he might hope to find himself in Canada one day, as he is now, with the chance to take it for himself, and Maggie none the wiser.

She shouldn’t be so mistrustful. When she told him about the statue burning in the fire, he looked genuinely glad. It doesn’t matter anyhow, now that the money’s gone. What matters is that this man was a friend to her father, who never had friends, and he’s here with his son, alone in the world.

“What do you think happened to Wale?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” He looks downcast as he says it.

“You think Sal found him?”

“Perhaps he is lying low.” But he doesn’t sound hopeful.

The throbbing in her leg grows stronger, turns into a screaming. There’s a knock at the door and Josef appears with a grin, his eyes already on the baby. As he enters with Lenka in tow, he waves at Xang and the boy laughs. Josef
draws closer and waggles his fingers at the child. Then, turning to Maggie, his smile diminished only a little, he tells her that visiting hours are over for the morning and they’ll have to come back later.

Maggie’s mind grows crowded, even as her foot shrieks. There’s so much they haven’t talked about. Where are Yia Pao and Xang going to stay? What about their papers? Knowing Wale and the company he keeps, the documents are likely forged. What about Wale? They should be calling the authorities in Vientiane, telling them about Sal, urging them to keep a lookout. Surely not everyone in the place is corrupt. They should be contacting the documentarian, telling her she was wrong and Yia Pao never drowned in any river. But already he’s saying goodbye, his voice once more swirling down a funnel. He and Xang are moving toward the door with the priest and Lenka, and Maggie has a feeling that if she lets them go, she’ll never see them again.

Lenka must recognize the look in her eyes, because she returns to take her hand. “Do not worry about things. Only rest.”

“Where are you going?” asks Maggie.

“Tomorrow we have appointment with consulate,” Lenka replies. “There we deal with the serious things.”

“What about this afternoon?”

Even as the pain in her foot drags her away, she can see a look of pleasure on Lenka’s face.

“Today we have fun,” says Lenka, sounding gleeful, like someone younger than herself. “Today we take them to see the Niagara Falls.”

A
lready there are shoots coming up through the mud, green stems starting to dot the barren field that was the cherry orchard, though it’s still March. At the centre of the editing viewer stands a backhoe next to a pile of uprooted, charred stumps. Pauline runs through the frame in a rain slicker and yellow boots, followed by Xang, who wears a bright red toque and wobbles on stubby legs. Yia Pao holds his hand and tells him to slow down. In the next shot the three of them examine a puddle while Elliot appears in the foreground, leaping to swat at a fly. Behind them, moated by a ring of tire tracks, is the concrete foundation of the new house. A pair of bearded men with tool belts move between the upright timbers that form the beginnings of a frame.