The Lotus and the Storm (14 page)

Soon it was obvious to us that real power lay in the North Vietnamese Army, not the Vietcong insurgents fighting in the South. At one of the many meetings held at military headquarters, General Khanh, the general who ousted the mutinous junta, solemnly pushed his chair back, stood up, and pointed to the map of Vietnam on the wall. The energy in the room was dense, tightly coiled. General Khanh took up his position on the right side of the map. I watched the pointer, tightly gripped, migrate above the demilitarized zone that divided North and South. Its tip sat above the 17th parallel. There it stayed, 17 degrees north of the equatorial plane. Immediately I tensed up. I knew what was going to be discussed because I had experimented with the idea myself. Of course it was an audacious approach—taking the war to the North. The deployment of the pointer
above
the 17th parallel said it all.

“I want all options on the table,” the general declared. And then, looking straight at me, he said, “Colonel Minh, I know you've looked into this possibility. Could you summarize your main ideas for us? We will take each proposal on its own merits.”

I stood up and offered my presentation. “We could send several divisions to fortify a zone along the seventeenth parallel, from Dong Ha to Savannakhet, to prevent infiltration from the North. That would be step one.”

Encouraged by murmurs of approval, I continued. “The next step might be a landing operation at Vinh. Maybe Ha Tinh, north of the eighteenth parallel, so we can cut their front off from their rear.”

I leaned against the high-backed chair. It was beyond doubt a brazen plan, one that went against the prevailing orthodoxy that emphasized defense at the expense of offense. But for all its difficulties, it was still feasible, from a military standpoint.

With barely a pause, other commanders weighed in. The marines could be used here, the airborne divisions there, the air force could provide support. I was surprised by the avalanche of not just tolerant but positive responses and concerned that the surge and swoon of euphoria would leave little room for restraint. I resisted the momentary temptation to insert a bit of doubt and ambiguity into my own plan, an urge I disguised as a quick cough. General Khanh was nodding. His facial muscles were tensed up, the eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Which division can be moved from Saigon and redeployed?”

Several hands went up. I hesitated, but my hand shot upward, almost by its own volition, as I looked for a way to slow the moment down. Other options should be considered, complications assessed, I suggested. At that moment, Phong cleared his throat and, with a tone that bordered on flippant, lobbed a devastating appraisal of our situation. “This has to be approved by the Americans, doesn't it?”

There was a moment of suffocating silence. I wasn't sure whether I felt relieved that a counterargument had been proffered or angry that Phong was the one who had done it. Phong, who was more knowledgeable in the ways of politics, had, with one sentence, reeled us back into this brand-new world we found ourselves in.

The general paused. Without irony, he said, “I will find the right moment to bring it up with them.”

The meeting continued but Phong's question served as a powerful call for restraint. He glanced at me and smiled. If I hadn't seen that smile many times before, I could almost have mistaken it for mockery.

When the meeting was adjourned, General Khanh stood up and solemnly said, presumably to Phong but in a voice all of us could hear, “Thank you. That was good of you to inject a necessary dose of political reality into our plan. Military strategies cannot be isolated from politics.”

Even though a part of me agreed with this assessment, its articulation nonetheless was irksome. The political situation was clear: The Americans had to approve all plans. But the United States was like a giant tree with shallow roots and a heavy top. A storm could topple it.

Phong began to plunge headlong into the realm of politics. He met Thu and got married. I was not sure if he was in love or just wanted to partake in the grandness of its experience. When the newlyweds first visited, I wondered if he had, with a sigh of relief, collapsed into love at long last. Had his desires finally attached themselves to another? Had he finally accomplished what he had so desperately sought?

My wife liked Thu immediately. They both came from large landowning families. Phong's wife was a slender willow, poised, graceful, and eager to please. When she drank tea, she wrapped her hands around the steaming cup and held it before her chest, as if she were performing a bow. In bringing her to our house, he was including her in our fold. But at that moment it felt as if he were seeking our permission, even our approval. I saw his eyes watching me with an expression that was at once imploring and nervous.

Later when I walked with him to the door, I squeezed his hand and said, “You have found love.”

He let a moment pass and then he said, “I have found Thu.”

“She is lovely,” I said.

He nodded. “She is entirely so.”

That night, as I got myself ready for bed, I found myself thinking that Phong was still a man who yearned and craved.

MAI, 1967

I
t is a day like any other summer day. But it will not end like any other.

I know there is a war on because our father is in it, but the war is a distant presence for us. The windows of our dining room face the garden and are covered with a material thick enough to shield us from the harshest light but sheer enough to allow faint glimpses of tree trunks and branches outside. My sister and I eat a breakfast of French bread buttered and dusted with a light sprinkle of sugar. Our mother eats fruit—whatever is in season, although she prefers the tart succulence of a ripe mangosteen. I watch her press a knife into the reddish-brown rind and twist it in a circular motion, paring the fruit in half. She puts her lips to it and inhales its fragrance. She scoops the white segmented pulp into her mouth, savoring the softness of its flesh. Holding up the rind against the light, she admires out loud its inky hue.

Our father has a bowl of rice congee before he rushes off to work. Because it is soupy, our father can eat it quickly. Our mother tries to keep him at the table, adding minced beef and vegetables to his bowl even as he waves her chopsticks away. Our mother is not in a far-off, hard-to-reach mood today but our father is. This morning they have changed places—usually it is our mother who is preoccupied and it is our father who tries to get her attention. Today, her face shines and she holds on to his hand. I smile as I see their fingers interweave. Leaning in toward him, Mother whispers something in his ear. Her flashing eyes suggest conspiracy. Our father looks at his watch and murmurs a reply. She averts her eyes. She is resplendent as she presses her face against his cheek when he stands up. It is early morning. He has just shaved and so I imagine that she would not be feeling the sandpaper roughness of his cheeks yet.

We know our mother will be visited by her many business partners. Older Aunt Number Three the Pharmacist will inevitably leave mentholated oil or cough drop candy for us. My sister and I have the rest of the day to fill. Summer vacation has just begun. She prevails upon me to stretch my limits, to be adventurous. She believes that my natural timidity and aversion to risk might dissolve at any moment. I might even become bold and fearless if I allow it.

The outside world beckons.

Banh cuon! Baaaannnhhhh cuuuoooon!
The steamed crepe vendor hawks her specialty in a musical drawl. Our mother calls her in to buy several plates for her Chinese business friends. A hash of minced pork, mushrooms, and prawns bulges from the soft rolls of rice wrapping. When served with sliced cucumber, fresh mint, and deep-fried shallots, it acquires a crunchiness that one does not expect from the soft folds of the crepes. A revelation of contrasting textures.

My sister takes my hand and leads me out of our front door toward the back part of our house where a wholly different neighborhood waits. There, a confounding mass of crooked, unmarked streets wind and eventually merge seamlessly into one another. Our Chinese grandmother is with us of course and, I can tell, has been coddled into accommodating my sister's desire. Tightly huddled houses on these dense, indecipherable streets are all inhabited by Chinese speakers and that makes the police nervous. It might be the perfect environment for an undetectable Vietcong hideout. Several times a day, soldiers and military police make their rounds through the neighborhood, some in plainclothes, trying to make sense of the confluence of good and evil that lurks behind closed doors, the difference between paranoia and true danger.

I stand back and wait, cautiously contemplating my options. My sister continues onward in a blithe display of self-assurance. She turns back toward me once she realizes I remain far behind. “Come on,” she says. I am afraid and equally excited. I think my sister might lead me into danger but will, I am sure, also lead me out.

“Once you see it, you'll be astonished,” she promises.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It's something Mother never lets us see.”

I try to decide if the promise of being able to do what our mother forbids is enough to coax me forward.

“Just follow me,” my sister calls out.

And to my surprise, I do.

“The orphanage is nearby,” she adds. “James will be finished there and coming to meet us.”

We make our way through the fecund heat, amid the squat gray shadows of corrugated tin shacks. Rust bleeds from the walls. Lizards and water bugs scurry under our feet, among flat tires and broken spokes. Of course our mother would not allow us here. The air is full of snores, cries, sawing and hammering, the chants of peddlers, the constant jangle of domestic activities spilling from the insides of houses into the open air of sidewalks. Children shriek and pour buckets of water over one another as they wash themselves near gray, gritty rivulets. Old men nap on makeshift cots tied to lampposts and utility poles. Perching on the sidewalk, women do the wash, scrubbing and pounding dirty clothes, reciting the ordinary heartbreaks of their lives as they work. They flex their muscles and wring the clothes, hanging them on frayed clotheslines to dry. Our Chinese grandmother directs our attention to the deep ruts cut into the road and warns us to be careful. Men covered in black grease work wrenches and pliers, adjusting the chains and brakes of broken-down bicycles. The smell of charcoal and kerosene lingers in the air. As we approach an open area, surrounded by only a few houses, I hear the screech of animals, chickens perhaps, and the guttural snorts of fat-bellied pigs. There is a wild fluttering of wings as feathers swirl and float in the air. I smell calamity in the vicinity.

James waves to us from his spot in a distant crowd. My sister runs and throws herself into his arms. His big hands cup her head. Shrieks crescendo from somewhere a ways off. Black smoke makes lolloping curls and hangs lazily in the blistering heat. On a day like this, I would rather be home in front of our air conditioner. I close my eyes and lick the sweat beads that have collected on my arms and shoulders. James jabs a bare arm in the air as my sister waves me toward them.

I take our Chinese grandmother's hand in mine. Around us, children our age, barefoot and stripped down to their underwear, jabber in a foreign language.

James scoops me up and hoists me over his head. Perched on his shoulders, I take in the view. We stand before an outdoor eatery famous for its roasted meats, or so our Chinese grandmother says. A suckling pig lies flat on a metal grill set atop two large concrete blocks. Hot coals glow red underneath. A sauce of oil and other seasonings is lathered onto the length of the pig's body to produce a thicker, brawnier taste. The pig's skin will turn crisp even as its flesh, larded and white, turns tender.

A small and slender man, bare-chested and fine-boned, runs his finger along a knife's blade before placing it on a sharpening stone at his feet. Then, with surprising speed and using only his bare hands, he pulls a fat chicken out of a wire coop and holds it upside down by the legs. The chicken lets out full-throated clucks. It sputters and thrashes violently. I want to turn away but I find myself a captive of what is occurring before me. His arm fully extended, the man swings the chicken by its legs in wide, windmill-like circles. Dazed and dizzy, the blubbering bird is placated at last and cannot move. The man holds it against a cutting board and whacks its head off with a precise downward motion of his knife. The crowd coos. I feel a grunt, an echo deep from James's diaphragm. He nods approvingly and tells me that it is not always easy to deliver such a deft and decisive blow to end an animal's life.

“When I was thirteen, I killed my first chicken,” he says. I remember “Old MacDonald Had a Farm.” I imagine James as a farm boy, surrounded by chickens and pigs and cows. “I used a hatchet, and even with my full strength coming down on its neck, the blow barely broke the skin. The chicken stared at me, eyes wide open, before it escaped and then collapsed, its body shaking against the ground. My mother was horrified.”

I too am horrified. With feigned calmness, I remain motionless on his shoulders. My sister is transfixed, sucked into the drama of agony and surrender. The man hangs the chicken by its feet on a low tree branch to let its blood drip in a red arc into a bucket below. When the blood stops draining, another man dunks the bird into a pot of water boiling on a portable charcoal stove. The feathers loosen and are ready to be plucked. The man pulls the feathers off the chicken, reaches inside its body and scoops out the guts, then throws it on another large grill already covered with roasting fowls. A third man brushes sauce on the breasts and thighs. Drippings of concentrated sugars and soy sauce fall on the coal-fed flame.

When we sit down to eat, I concentrate hard on the task of chewing and swallowing, the stench of guts and blood still in my nostrils. Clouds have swallowed the sun but the heat still sticks to my skin. James twists open a “33” beer and takes a long swig, wiping his mouth with one bare arm and tickling my sister with the other. Somewhere deep inside myself I feel the urge to retch and vomit. My sister turns to me, squeezing my hand.

“Are you upset I wanted you to come?”

I nod. I don't lie to my sister, not even to spare her feelings.

Our Chinese grandmother takes a bottle of mentholated oil from her pocket and rubs the balm on my stomach and throat. She dabs a few drops on my tongue to keep the nausea at bay. I put my head on my sister's lap as I lie on the bench.

 • • • 

To my delight I am awakened by a gushing downpour. It is the sort of rain I love. No threat of thunder or lightning, just torrential rain that empties the sky and cools the earth. It is the sort of rain that will make water run off the roof for days, spilling into the waiting cisterns of hot-fired clay. The grown-ups run. Our Chinese grandmother takes cover under the store's awnings. My sister grabs my hand. Rain pelts our faces. We are drenched. Doors open and children run out, arms extended, faces up, mouths open, screaming ecstatically. The smallest of them peel off their clothes and surrender themselves naked to the force of rain. My sister and I pick a puddle and splash. James whoops and throws himself into the downpour. He puts me on his shoulders. Occasionally he dips his body and threatens to spill me onto the street.

We walk home along the washboarded alleyways, water running down our shoulders and arms.

 • • • 

Hours later, I've recovered and we are playing on our own street. Ngo Quyen Street. I love this time of the day, when time makes a turn around the bend and slides into the purple evening hours. The tamarind trees lining our block shade it from the summer heat. Soon the mimosa leaves will close up and night will arrive. A brisk wind stirs the tamarind pods, making scraping sounds as the surface of things shifts. Our parents are getting ready to leave the house.

I am giddy with happiness as I walk with my sister and our Chinese grandmother toward James's compound to cook our evening meal outdoors. We each carry a bag of ingredients for tamarind soup. James is fond of meals that appeal to a peasant's palate. I have the tamarind, pineapple, shrimp, and fresh coriander to give the broth a savory balance of sweet and sour. The pineapple will infuse a sweetness into the sharp tamarind base, tempering its reddish-brown sourness with a flicker of delicate redolence. It is not a temperamental dish and requires no vigilance, merely a steady flame. We will cook in the open field across from the military compound. Once James emerges from the sandbagged garrison, we will take three bricks and make a triangle with them. We will put a pot on this impromptu stove. We will gather clumps of dry grass and wood shavings to make a fire. We will bring the soup to a boil, then add tomatoes, celery, and garnishes. We will eat in bliss.

From the other side of the street, James comes toward us from the military compound, holding a portable cassette player. I see the starched crispness of his uniform. Our father wears his the same way. Ironed and pleated.

I am about to wave at him but I freeze instead. I find that I am gazing right through him, into a washed-out, speckled grimness that so startles me I close my eyes to ward it off. A moment passes. My bare skin registers a sensation of dread. I hear the sound of my shoes tap their own tentative echoes against the cement. An enormous heaviness swoops through me, pressing my eyes shut. When I open them, I see my sister as she meets her reflection. I see the pale contour of her shadow sliding into itself, like a retrospective likeness that glides softly by.

No, I say to myself, not knowing what it is I am saying no to, not knowing why it is I am trying to wrap myself inside her reflection.

A car drives past us, then backs up. It is our black Peugeot. Our father rolls down the window. We look in. Something heavy hangs in the air, the weight of an argument cut short and suspended to create the appearance of peace.

“No,” I repeat.

“Yes,” commands our father, thinking I had said no to him. He tells us to get into the car. Our Chinese grandmother gives us a gentle push. Our parents would like to kiss us before they leave. We jump into the backseat. Our mother turns around and pinches our cheeks. She caresses Khanh's hair.

I look out the window. James is walking toward us, waving. My sister waves back. He is waiting to cross. In a slow, rippling motion, a peddler stretches her legs, hunches down, and shoulders a pole with two baskets dangling from each end. Several men gun their motorcycles down the street. Horns blare. Motors rumble. Heat blasts from the asphalt road.

The windshield shatters.

My sister is sitting next to me, then the entire weight of her body collapses into my arms. We both fall against the seat. It is as if the laws of physics themselves have been broken. People begin to shriek.

Khanh reaches her arm to her neck as blood shoots out from it. Every time I think of it, it is as if I have never moved from that spot nor emerged from that moment in time. I see her arm reaching up, touching her neck. Our parents scream. Our Chinese grandmother screams. James screams. Our mother clambers into the back of the car and clamps her hand on my sister's neck. She tries to plug the hole with her finger, first this finger, then that finger. Red oozes around her hand, gradually turning brown. Our father throws our mother aside and takes over. He ties a piece of cloth around Khanh's neck. Our mother screams instructions. James also tries to help, pressing his hand as if it were a bandage over the cloth covering the hole. Helpless, my mouth opens. I impulsively take in her breath, breathe it into my mouth and lungs, holding it inside. My sister's breath is in me. Her body collapses against mine as her shadow wavers over me.