The Unwanted (17 page)
My grandfather kept his promise. Night after night, he rocked me to sleep in his arms, trying his best to keep my nightmares away. At the same time, in the next room, Jimmy shared his bed with my grandmother.
MY MOTHER WENT INTO LABOR
in September, two weeks early. In a dirty room of the hospital, next to the venereal disease section, she gave birth to my sister. The moment that she was pushed into the world, she began crying nonstop, as if she were constantly in pain. My mother called her BeTi, meaning “little girl”—a name that reflected my mother's indifference to her.
A few days later, Lam came in for a visit. BeTi was feeding at my mother's breast. Without touching either of them, he leaned over to stare at his daughter. My mother avoided looking at him. In her tired voice, she asked, “What is on your mind, Lam?”
He whispered to her, “I don't want to be here anymore. I am getting myself out of this mess.” Then, without waiting for her answer, he continued, “Let's face it, we are making each other sick by staying together. To make it easy for you, I came up with a plan to help you get rid of me.”
“What can you possibly be thinking?” she asked.
“I have a connection.” The tip of his nose almost touched my mother's face, and he said, “I need some money. Help me escape.”
Nhatrang, 1978
F
or the next three years my family continued to live in the house next to my aunt and her family. My mother was busy caring for our baby sister, BeTi, and our only income came from selling her jewelry. We wore the same clothing that we had brought with us from the Nguyen mansion. For many years, Jimmy and I never outgrew these outfits because my mother kept adding length to the hems and width to the waistbands in order to accommodate us. We had two meals a day; the mainstay of our diet was rice, which my mother bought from the market at eight dong per bushel. Rain or shine, we concentrated on surviving from day to day.
As I grew older, my hair got darker. I do not know if it happened because of my mother's wish when she poured liquid dye all over my head or simply because of my own urgent desire to fit in with the other children in our community. By the time I was eleven, my blond hair had become a rich brown. Even on the hottest day of summer, the sun could not bleach it back to its original silvery hue.
Jimmy and I attended the local elementary school, where our studies focused on math, literature, history, and science. All were taught from the Communist point of view. Miss San, who continued to teach my class, decided to hold a free tutorial session at her home every Sunday afternoon. Those were the only lectures in my experience that were not delivered with any political overtone.
Miss San lived in a two-story dwelling several blocks away from my street. She used her first floor as a fish-sauce factory, and three enormous earthenware jars were constantly at work there. Each container could hold two to three hundred pounds of fish, marinating in an equal amount of salt. She explained to us that making fish sauce was her main source of income. Teaching was just a recreational activity. The rancid smell of rotten fish was deadly, like the stench of tooth decay, only stronger. The odor permanently clung to her clothes, seeped into her hair, and like a miasma, spread to her surroundings. The adults, especially men, avoided her. They feared her eccentric nature. Children, however, were drawn to her warm personality, and no one found her more magnetic than I did.
As each Sunday afternoon approached, we eagerly wondered what surprise she had in store for us this week. Sitting on the floor in her rumpled bedroom among her scattered clothes, we waited for her appearance like the audience of a performing artist. One of Miss San's favorite subjects was English. “The only way for us to grow as a nation is to learn from other countries' technologies,” she often told us. “How can you learn their technologies? You can start by learning the universal language—English.”
She winked at us with a mischievous smile. “Today, let's not learn from the textbook. Instead, let's test our vocabularies, shall we? For the next hour, all of us must speak in English. I know this is a very difficult game, but we can try. Let's have some fun together.”
We were trembling with excitement. Abandoning our language in a large group discussion such as this one was a forbidden act, yet it seemed so natural and harmless to us in that moment. As if she sensed our uncertainty, Miss San continued, “Let's keep this our own little secret, children.”
She switched to English and the lesson began. “Duy went out last night,” she said, and I saw my friend sit up a little straighter. Pointing at a small girl in a ponytail, Miss San ordered, “Chi, please finish that thought.”
Chi pondered a few seconds and then said carefully, “Duy went out with a girl last night.”
There were some giggles among the students. The image of Duy with a girl was funny in any language. Miss San turned to me. “Kien, please?” she asked.
“Who was that girl?” I formed a sentence quickly.
“Yes, that is a good question,” she said. “Tell us who that girl was, Duy.”
Duy stood up. Scratching his ears, he stuttered, searching the room for help. Someone whispered an answer, and he seized it as though he were drowning. “That girl was—was—was—my—mother,” he shouted. His voice cracked from the excitement. We fell into each other's arms with laughter. Leaning against the wall, Miss San, too, was smiling. In the shadow of the room, I thought she was quite a beautiful lady, almost like a vision.
That day, after dismissing the class, Miss San asked me to stay behind. “Do you think these curls would be gone completely if you, let's say, cut your hair really short?” She ran her fingers over my head thoughtfully. Something about the way she posed her question made me sit up with apprehension.
“I don't know,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”
“The school is planning to celebrate the unification of Vietnam. The dean has chosen our class to lead the parade because of our academic achievement. You are my best student, and I have decided that you will be the front-runner of the march, holding the national flag in your arms.” She paused. “There is one small problem, though. I fear that your appearance may cause some distraction among the spectators.”
“I can get a haircut tomorrow if you think it would help.”
She nodded. “Yes, love, I think it's a wise decision. Do it and the honor will be yours.” A cloud darkened her face. “Kien, please do a good job. We won't be together for much longer. School will be closed for summer the day after the parade. You will be in junior high next semester and I won't see you much anymore.”
“I'll visit you often.”
“We'll see. It's difficult to plan for the future. I may or may not still be here,” she said sadly.
“Of course you will be here, helping other students,” I said. “Where else could you go? You belong in a classroom, Miss San.”
She bit her lower lip and turned away. Outside, my classmates' laughter echoed through the sultry air as they raced each other to the juice stand at the end of the road. Miss San searched her bedroom and located her fake leather bag. She rummaged through it for several seconds and then looked up, brushing a heavy lock of curled hair away from her face.
“I have a few teacher coupons left over from the beginning of the semester that I never used. Why don't you take them and buy some notebooks for yourself? You'll need them for next year.” She handed me a couple of red tickets.
The new regime reserved special vouchers solely for schoolteachers so they could purchase books and educational supplies at very low prices. To augment their meager salaries, many professors sold their coupons on the black market instead. Miss San's unexpected and generous gesture surprised me. The thought of showing my mother a couple of new notebooks and observing her happy face prompted me to reach for the tickets. At the same time, an awareness of my destitute condition came over me, burning my cheeks red with shame. I took a step back and shook my head.
“They are expensive gifts. I can't accept them, Miss San.”
“Why not?” she asked.
I sighed, searching for my answer. “My mother usually buys enough supplies for us at the market.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw her there the other day. We talked for over an hour. She was upset because she wanted to buy you and your brother some new clothes, but there wasn't any money left after she bought the books. I thought I could help her with these coupons, since next year you are going to need a lot more than just a few notebooks.”
I lowered my voice. “We can manage.”
Miss San furrowed her brow. “Are you ashamed of being poor, Kien?” she asked me.
I avoided her stare by concentrating on a dot of sunlight on the ground.
She pushed the coupons into my hand. “You should not be ashamed of your humble condition or of who you are. In fact, you should be proud. Look at it this way: you are no longer a capitalist. In the Communists' eyes you have achieved the lowest and most desired status—the class of the poor. Be pleased, Kien, for you now have nothing to lose but much to gain. Wait, there is more.” She searched in her bag a second time. “Take this money, too. I want you to get a haircut, so that no other teacher in this school can criticize my brand-new parade marshal. I want them to be just as full of pride as I am when they watch you lead the march. Now go home. You have a lot of chores to do, and so have I.” She stroked my hair and simultaneously pushed me out the door. I muttered an incoherent appreciation to her as I left.
THE NEXT DAY
, I visited the local barbershop for the first time. Before then, my mother had always cut my hair. The shop, where most of the male populace went for a haircut and a nose-hair trim, was a small hut built crudely out of four wooden posts and a black poncho. It stood under a large oak tree, a few steps away from my school. The barber gave me a military-type haircut. His instruments seemed to have been around for at least twenty years, and he occasionally sharpened them on a piece of cowhide nailed to the tree trunk. He left about an inch of hair on top of my head, shaving the rest with his gleaming blade.
For the following three weeks, under Miss San's supervision, we practiced marching around the schoolyard like small soldiers. The rest of the school lined up behind my class according to their ranks of achievement.
A week before the parade was to take place, Miss San failed to show up for school. Even the teachers seemed to have no idea what had happened to her. A substitute was assigned to take over my class—a man in his early thirties with greasy hair and teeth that were so dark they made his mouth look purple. He, too, refused to discuss Miss San's absence.
One morning, as usual, before the classes began, the entire school stood at attention in the schoolyard. I stood at the rear of the assembly, paying close attention. The moment the national anthem began to play over a loudspeaker, it would be my cue to march down the long center aisle, past the principal's podium to the flagpole. Hearing the opening strains of “Hey, Vietnam citizens, our country has been liberated…” I strode forward with my head high, my eyes forward, and my back straight. In my arms was the country's new flag, with its red background and yellow star in the middle.
After everyone recited the salute to the flag, the dean took the podium. His features, always severe, had turned darker with foul temper. The wrinkles on his face sagged and his mouth, thin as a pencil line, hid beneath a faint mustache. Glaring at his audience, he switched off the radio that was playing the last notes of the national anthem. His abrupt gesture sent a screeching noise through the speakers to pierce our ears. Then, holding the microphone in one hand, he waved us to silence with the other.
“Listen up, people.” His voice rose impatiently into the fog that was settling from under the trees. “I know that there have been rumors around the school, especially about Miss San, teacher of class 5C. You all are curious about her absence. My advice to you is: don't be!” He scanned the crowd with his birdlike eyes. “Why not, you might ask? Well, here is my answer: it's none of your business. It is an act of opposition for anyone to continue probing this matter. And if you are caught breaking this rule, don't expect any mercy. You will be expelled immediately. Now, before you all return to your classrooms, I would like to shift my attention to another matter.” Looking straight at me, the dean resumed his usual calm manner.
“The school board has decided to vote for a new parade marshal,” he said. “To earn the honor of opening the parade, one needs to be more than just an outstanding academic achiever. He also has to develop strong relationships with all of his classmates and teachers. He has to participate in many extracurricular activities and be a positive symbol of our school. Kien Nguyen is a good student but by no means the best candidate to represent our school. There are many other students who have exceeded him in all aspects. Therefore, we will reassign his position to a new parade marshal who will lead the march with much more success.” He strode over to where I stood. Abruptly, he snatched the flag from my hands and handed it over to the vice president of my class.
Turning back to the assembly, he said, “This is the end of my speech. You can now return to your first-period classroom.” He dropped the microphone on top of the podium with a loud thud and stepped back from the stage, his hands folded together in front of his chest.
As we dispersed from the schoolyard, my face burned with shame. Wordlessly, I slipped away from the crowd and disappeared from sight.
THAT SUMMER OF 1978
marked three years under the Communists' rule. Even though the new government had successfully taken over the south of Vietnam, many of its citizens still hoped for the Americans' return, and they listened in secret to the forbidden BBC news report every Monday night. As life grew increasingly harder, hope became the only luxury that the Communists had not yet snatched away. Sadly, for many, hope became a destructive force that held their lives in a prolonged limbo of futile expectancy. Instead of relishing life, people merely existed. Such was the case with my family.