The Unwanted
COPYRIGHT © 2001 BY NGUYEN-ANDREWS, LLC
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First eBook Edition: November 2008
ISBN: 978-0-316-05005-0
Contents
TO MY MOTHER, WHO GAVE ME LIFE
AND
TO FRANK ANDREWS, WHO GAVE ME A SECOND CHANCE
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Unwanted
is the memoir of my childhood and adolescence in Vietnam. It springs from my vivid memory of those years and is augmented by the recollections of my mother and my brother.
Alexandra Bennett and Scott Morgan, for inspiring me to write my story.
Judy Clain, for giving me a chance to be a writer.
Fiona and Jake Eberts, for believing in me from the first day we met.
Elaine Gartner, for being there.
Michaela Hamilton, for helping me find my voice.
Peter Miller, for your lion-hearted support every step of the way.
BeTi Nguyen, for being my loving sister.
Jimmy Nguyen, for helping me walk, the path of memory.
Ilona Price and Jason Goodman, for your generous enthusiasm.
Joann Russo-Tabeek, for feeding me many free meals at your restaurant, Paninoteca.
Lisa Sharkey, for giving me the encouragement I needed.
Milan Tinan, for the greatest friendship a writer could ask.
Special thanks to everyone at PMA and Little, Brown who has helped bring
The Unwanted
from memory to bound book.
And especially to Loan, wherever you are. I will never forget you.
Nhatrang, May 12, 1972, 7 P.M.
I
remember that night quite well. It is my first memory, and the happiest one from my childhood.
The familiar smell of pig roasting on a spit wafted from the kitchen. My mother made cheery noises as she ran from one hallway to the next, giving orders to the help with a hint of pompous confidence. The moist summer air evaporated into a transparent mist all around me due to the kind of heat found only in Nhatrang and only in May. And what I remember most of all is the sense of festivity all around me as the last rays of sunlight disappeared into the ocean, just a few hundred feet away from my window. It was my fifth birthday.
My childhood home, in order to accommodate my mother's passion for living near beautiful beaches, was situated by the water, with the waves murmuring at the foot of the house. The mansion was comprised of three stories and over twenty-four rooms, including at least eight bedrooms. All were furnished with expensive Western furniture thrown together by my mother's own design. And both to give the house personality and to honor my grandfather's last name, Mother named it Nguyen Mansion. From the numerous stories I was told growing up, mostly by my grandparents, I came to understand that my mother built the house during her pregnancy with me, motivated by the idea of having her first baby in her own home. Mother painted the outside of the house the color of eggshells, and, much to her consternation, I always thought the house was just a simple white color that had aged poorly with time. From the main entrance of the house to the front gate lay a large reddish marble pathway that encircled the garden, which housed a kidney-shaped pool. Our gardener, Mr. Tran, had been hired through an agency, and his job consisted mainly of planting and maintaining the many exotic species of flowers around the front part of the house. My mother, in an effort to shield the inside beauty from the outside world, constructed two enormous iron gates, as well as a high barbed-wire fence covered with thick vines, to obscure all within their boundaries. In the old days, I used to play with my toys in the garden while the children playing on the other side of the gate watched me with fascination. According to my mother, those children were either too dirty, or I was too clean, for my association with them. In Vietnam, rich children like myself wore sandals to protect their feet from the dirt and the heat, while poor children like the ones from the other side of the wall ran around barefoot.
That afternoon, before the celebration, much of the activity was centered in the kitchen. I was flying through the crowded rooms with my arms out like an airplane and making buzzing sounds, bumping into people's legs to simulate a crash. My brother and I had made up this clever plan to get treats from the help. Unfortunately, everyone seemed too busy to notice me. In the middle of the main kitchen a group of chefs stood around an enormous table, decorating a gigantic white cake with bunches of red roses, brown vines, and green leaves made from heavy whipped cream and food coloring. On the other side of the room, barely visible in the dark smoke, live fowls awaited their turn to be slaughtered; their frightened cackles rose over the impatient sizzling of the pork. A few steps away, a group of my mother's maids hovered over the busy stove preparing the main courses. One of the women turned on the ceiling fan as her friend strained cooked noodles over the drain. The fog from the boiling water swept up from the pot, adding to the heat in the room.
Looking for a new victim for my airplane game, I spotted a young caterer's apprentice. He was about ten years old and of diminutive size, with dark circles under his eyes. Running through the kitchen with a big bowl of whipped cream, he crashed into me. I knew how fearful our servants were when it came to my mother's wrath. While the boy was making sure I was not injured, I reached into his bowl for a handful of cream. Before he could recover from his shock, I laughed and ran off, lapping the sweetness from my hand.
Upstairs, I decided to take a peek inside my mother's bedroom. She sat regally at her makeup desk, fully dressed in a pale evening gown that glistened under the orange light like a mermaid's scales. Her attention was focused on brushing her long hair, which rippled down her arching back, jet-black and wavy. My mother was not a typically thin Asian woman. She had heavy breasts and round hips, joined by a thin waist. Her eyes, big and rimmed with dark mascara, concentrated on the image before her. Years spent watching my mother gaze at herself in the mirror had convinced me that she was the rarest, most beautiful creature that ever walked the face of this Earth.
My presence startled her. She took her eyes off her reflection, looked at me, and smiled, showing her white, straight teeth. At times I had sat for hours in my mother's bedroom while she confided her beauty secrets to me. I would listen earnestly, not to what my mother said, but to the mesmerizing sound of her voice, always full of wisdom and intelligence.
Her smile faded into a slight frown as she said, “Look at you. What is that all over your face?”
I touched my cheek and felt the remnants of the whipped cream. Licking my fingers, I answered her, “It's for my cake in the kitchen. Can I come in?”
She nodded. “Sure, come in.” And then came the scolding. “What a dirty boy, eating in such a manner. Why don't you wait till dinner?”
I sat on her bed and looked at her curiously. Using a small cotton pad, she was pressing white powder onto the backs of her hands.
“What are you doing, Mommy?” I asked.
“I am putting makeup on my hands, darling.”
“How come?”
“You are always asking the same question.”
“I never remember what the answer is, Mommy.”
She paused and held her hands in front of her face, where they stood at attention like two proud soldiers ready for inspection. “I do this because I want people to notice my hands. Aren't they beautiful?”
Along with her fortune, my mother's hands were the ultimate pride in her life. Before she met my father, she had worked as a hand model for a jewelry company. In contrast to her voluptuous body, her hands were long and graceful. Each finger was a smooth cylinder with invisible knuckles and no wrinkles; each nail was defined, extended, well polished, and glossy. She spent hours smoothing the sharp edges of her nails, trimming the out-of-place cuticles, and changing the color of the paint. Not until she was completely satisfied with her hands did my mother apply makeup to her face, a process that would also require a few hours. She said that since her face was not extraordinary, her success would depend on her hands.
As if to prove her point, my mother made sure that her hands were always displayed. They danced in front of her face during a conversation, rested on her cheeks in photographs, or raised her chin when she exercised her power. Sometimes, they daintily held the stem of a champagne glass. Once my mother considered buying insurance for her hands; however, this idea did not meet with approval from my grandfather. I'm sure my mother wished that she had gotten insurance the day I accidentally bumped into her while running down the hallway. The collision broke two of her nails and scratched her fingers, leaving her boiling mad and me with welts on my cheek.
“Is this party for me, Mommy?” I asked as she continued tending to her hands.
“Yes, darling.”
“Does it mean I can stay up late tonight?”
“You can stay up a little while after you blow out your candles.”
“Will there be any children coming over tonight from my class?” I asked her hopefully.
“No, darling. No other children, just you and your brother. So you can be the star tonight. After all, it is an adult party; you don't want any children here to spoil it, do you?”
“Right, Mommy,” I agreed halfheartedly.
I walked to the bedroom window and looked outside. I could see porters carrying cases of Champagne Guy Larmandier into the house. The garden was lit up by multicolored lights, with every shrub transformed into some sort of animal. Next to the pool, behind a couple of rose bushes, a group of musicians tested their electrical instruments. The noise resolved itself into a lively, cheery tune that carried through the thick air. The cooks, maids, and waiters ran back and forth like ants in an ant farm, all lost in their own assignments. The neighborhood children, clustered next to a few adults, gathered around the front gates, staring curiously inside. Should anyone venture too close to the gates, security men would push them away. Over the sounds of celebration, deep in the darkness, the ocean moaned its constant, breathy rhythm.
“When do I get to blow out the candles?” I asked, turning to look at my mother.
“Right after dinner.”
“When do we have dinner?”
“When all the guests arrive,” she said.
“When will that be?”
“Around nine-thirty.” My mother regarded her nails. A pang of dissatisfaction washed over her face as she reached for her bright orange nail polish.
“Can I stay awake after the cake, Mommy?”
“No, darling. After the cake there will be dancing. You are too young to stay up that late. Maybe next year. Now, be a good boy and go play with your brother.”