The Unwanted (29 page)
I wanted to run, but my knees wobbled. I wanted to speak, but the words were trapped in my throat. Everything threatened to turn black around me. As I struggled for consciousness, I wondered how Lam had recognized me after six long years.
I
woke up sometime that evening inside a new prison cell, shaking like the severed tail of a lizard. The tatami mat underneath me was soaked with my perspiration, yet I could not stop trembling from a chill that came from somewhere deep inside my bones. Pain shot up and down my spine, radiating through me to the joints of my hands and feet.
There was no electricity inside the camp, and the barracks had no window for ventilation. As a result, the inner space of these prisons was always submerged in an eerie, bluish darkness—a perfect environment for starving rats. They emerged at night from the gutter in the back, reeking of feces. Their eyes were tiny red dots, burning like fire as they chased each other and jumped on the inmates to look for food. A pair of them attacked my feet, making a
tic-tic
sound with their teeth. I was too weak to shoo them away. All I could do was to wiggle my toes in misery and hope they would get tired of the game soon. But I had no such luck.
The night was silent. The other children who shared my cell slept on, making little noises as the rats pricked their hair and scratched their skin. Huddled in a fetal position, I struggled against the urge to throw up the ration of cassava roots I had received earlier at the mess hall. As the fever heightened, the churning in my stomach became more violent, and I disgorged the contents on the floor. The puddle of vomit was instantly covered with rats. I dragged myself away, and the chills finally stopped.
Morning's arrival was greeted around five o'clock with the national anthem from a transistor radio. The music screeched through the loudspeakers, followed by the ringing of a bell, long and insistent, pulling people from their mats. Outside, the sun still hid behind the mountains. The compound was encased in a dull, sallow fog so thick it gave the illusion that we were all swimming among clouds. In the courtyard, shivering against the mountain's chilly dawn, we exercised to the radio music. Breakfast came next—a small portion of a thin rice paste mixed with a few strands of spinach. Dead roaches floated in my bowl, and the dirt at the root of the unwashed greens tasted as bitter as my own bile.
Soon, the adults lined up outside their barracks. The other children and I were locked inside the mess hall until eight o'clock in the morning. We watched the grown-ups' activities outside through small windows covered with iron bars and wire mesh. Each woman inmate was assigned a double-wheeled cart heaped with freshly cut potato vines wrapped in bundles and ready to plant. The women pushed their barrows down the path past the junkyard of weapons, through the prison's entrance, and toward the other side of the mountain. The guards trailed behind the prisoners in horse-drawn carriages, their machine guns held ready in their arms.
When it was time for the children's assignment, a guard marched into the kitchen hall. He sat on a chair, opened a thick folder, and called a few names. Another guard stuck his head through the door and signaled for me and two other children to follow him.
We followed the officer to an open field not far from the underground dungeon. He stopped in front of a mountain of rocks the size of a two-story building, about thirty feet away from the double fence.
“Hey, kids.” Without lifting his bald head to look at us, he commanded, “Pick up these rocks and stack them against the barbed wire. Continue where it was left off, starting with the black mark over there. Like you are building a base for the fence, understand? This is your assignment for the next three weeks, so do it well, or I will find a way to punish you.”
We nodded.
The guard walked away. I lifted the first stone and moved it along the road. At first, it didn't seem like much of a task, and I was thankful to be busy. However, as the sun traveled up, and the temperature increased, my back began to throb under the heavy load. The fever returned, eating through my body like acid. Beside me, the other two boys were sharing the same torment. Their shirts hung around the waistband of their pants, revealing their sparrow chests. Their shoulders were shrunken, and their backs were bent parallel to the ground. Staggering with the weight of the stones, we advanced slowly.
On the other side of the double fence, Lam was on his knees, pulling weeds from the dried soil with his bare hands. His eyes were glued to my face so intensely that I had to look away. His appearance had changed a great deal from what I remembered. His cheeks were now swollen, covered with old and new bruises. His nose, which may have been broken a few times, was flattened and crooked. He looked overweight, but sickly, as if underneath his jaundiced skin, he was bloated with water instead of fat.
“Come over here,” he whispered each time I approached the fence.
Finally, I stopped. “What do you want? How did you recognize me?”
Lam threw a weed into a basket that hung on his side. He grinned the same old devilish grin. “It's funny that you ask. At first, I wasn't sure that it was you, but when I called your name, you turned around, so I knew my suspicion was right. Anyway, it isn't difficult to guess. You stick out from the rest like a dog among a herd of sheep.” He licked his lips. “Besides, what else could I do in this place for the past six years if I didn't think about your family? What happened to you, boy? Miss the boat to Heaven, so you stop by to visit Hell instead? How is your mother doing?”
“She's fine. Thank you for asking.” I walked away from him to pick up another rock.
When I returned, I chose to work on a new spot away from him. Nevertheless, Lam crept closer to me.
“No, your mother isn't fine,” he said under his breath. “Where is she? She must be here somewhere, doing her time, the evil whore.”
“Don't bother looking for her,” I snapped. “She isn't here.”
His eyebrows rose triumphantly. The whites of his eyes were yellow, like the rest of his skin. “Well, even better than I thought, you are in here alone, and that must have killed her. Thank heavens I've lived to see this day. Now I can die a happy man.”
He paused, blinking at the sun. Suddenly, the smile vanished from his face. “Unless this is the monster's plan to get rid of you, just like she did to me six years ago.”
I stood up, forgetting the pain in my back. “You are crazy. My mother would never do such a thing. Don't blame her for your misfortune.”
Rage washed over his face. He shot up and grabbed the fence as if he wanted to strike me. From behind Lam, a guard walked over to his side. To get his attention, the guard kicked a clump of red soil in his direction. Some sand hit the back of Lam's head. He froze, bit his lip, and turned around to face the officer.
Glancing at the prison number printed across Lam's right breast, the guard asked, “Do you have a problem, x-o-six-seven-five-eight?”
“No problem, sir,” he answered quickly. “There was a bug crawling up my pants, sir. But I got rid of it. Squashed it dead!”
“Keep away from the fence. Don't make me come back here again. Whether you are sick or not, I am not hesitant to send a bullet in your head.”
“Yes, sir,” Lam replied. He resumed pulling wild grass from the desiccated field.
The moment the officer disappeared from view, Lam whispered to me, “Things sometimes aren't what they seem. Your mother is a witch, Kien. She might have had a motive to send you to death camp, just like she did me. After all, you are becoming a member of the species that she loathes most—a man. It is understandable why she destroyed you.”
Angrily, I spat in his face and turned away.
Lam burst out laughing. “Take a look at me. Learn my face well, Kien, because I am the image of your future, boy. This is Hell, and it is your new home, where boat people come in but no one leaves.”
May 15, 1981
F
or two months I wasted away behind the barbed wires. The world ceased to exist. Each night before I drifted to sleep on my tatami mat, I used a piece of charcoal to scribble a line on the wall. As my calendar grew, my hope withered. Slowly but surely, I acquired the look of an inmate. In a single file with the others, my head bowed, my shoulders sagged, and something began to rot inside my body.
On the morning on the fifteenth of May, three days after my fourteenth birthday, the children were locked inside the dining hall after breakfast as usual. Out in the open field, the warden stood on top of a chair, scanning a thin folder. The prisoners stood in lines, tired, sluggish, and impassive. However, deep underneath their vacant looks, an undeniable anticipation mounted.
The officer took his time reading the names of visitors off his list. Standing at a small window, crushed by the other children, I heard my mother's name. I could sense her presence. She was somewhere behind the rusty gate, among the stirring crowd who had come to see their loved ones. The smells of dried meat, sweet rice, and curry powder filled the air. I could hear the clinking sounds of their pots and pans next to a roaring fire they had set for themselves against the cold morning air.
In an unusually sympathetic voice, the warden addressed the inmates. “For those whose relatives' names were mentioned, you have visitors. Stay in your barracks until we come for you. The rest of you, have a nice day in the potato fields.”
After the announcement, the children remained inside the mess hall and the adults went back to their shelters. At ten o'clock, the front gate opened and the visitors poured in, laden with heavy sacks and baskets. Under the guards' watchful eyes, the guests' movements were disciplined as they moved into the visitors' barrack. I could not catch a sight of my mother from the window, which faced the gate at an odd angle. Surely she was somewhere in the dense crowd. I wondered whether I could survive the disappointment if she didn't show up that day.
At twelve-thirty, the bell in the warden's office rang in long and continuous tones, pushing us to our feet. We ran out of the barracks and lined up in single file, impatiently waiting for our turn to move.
Fifty feet behind the watchtower and facing the junkyard, the visitors' quarter was built from red bricks and cement pillars, covered with red tiles. People pressed and pushed each other inside a small area, searching for familiar faces. All the noise and confusion faded the moment I saw my mother's face. She sat on the end of a wooden bench in the second to last row, next to a crowd of people. For the first time in many years, I saw her face with full makeup. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a big and simple knot. Her lips, always full and well defined, were painted with a humble, natural shade of lipstick. Her pale and aging skin was concealed under a layer of powder. The makeup, however, did not create a distance between me and my mother as it had done in the past. Now it softened her features and drew me closer into her space. Seeing me, she remained seated on her bench and stared. Her eyes, highlighted with black pencil, brimmed with tears.
I fell onto the ground before her. My mother held my head in her hands; my knees pressed against her feet. I could feel my tears leak between her fingers and fall on her lap, but I didn't care. I had not been able to cry openly for so long, and my anguish felt enormous. My mother rocked me in her embrace as she had when I was small. And her soft voice murmured next to my ear, singing “Happy Birthday” to me.
She kissed my cheek. Some of her tears trickled down my neck, but I felt much better, revived.
“I am so sorry, Mother,” I told her. “Auntie Dang passed away.”
My mother nodded. “I know, son. I learned about what happened to her a few months ago. Three days after your arrest, the fishermen found her body washed ashore in Cam Ranh Bay. Her parents came from Saigon for the funeral.”
She paused, reaching for her purse. “Let's talk about something else,” she said. “I don't want to get depressed anymore. Let's talk about your birthday present.”
“Please, Mom. I don't want any present. I can't keep anything in here, except some food.”
Her eyes brightened. “You will want this, son.”
She pulled out a piece of laminated paper and handed it to me. “Here is your present. You are free, son. I've come to take you home. As soon as you are ready, we'll leave.”
I voiced a cry of happiness, but my excitement evaporated when I saw the green-uniformed police standing guard at the entrance. “What about them?” I asked my mother.
“Don't worry,” she assured me. “I've already informed the warden. The deputy commander in chief of Nhatrang personally signed this release. No one would dare to stop you from leaving.”
She opened one of the sacks and arranged a few food items on her lap, beckoning for me to eat. Through the sealed containers, I detected the rich, sweet smell of sticky rice wrapped inside banana leaves, the familiar, succulent scent of roasted chicken with ginseng, and most of all, my favorite, the pungent, garlicky aroma of grilled beef paste in grape leaves. I devoured the food quickly, then looked up at her face. My lips were slippery from chicken fat. “Mother, there is something you should know,” I said.
She studied my face, her eyes questioning. I got up from the floor and gazed out the window. Past the open courtyard, I saw a dark figure, gripping at the wires and staring at me. The raging sunlight beat down on him; however, he remained at the same spot unmoved.
Pointing at him, I told her, “That is Lam over there. He has been here for the last six years.”
She nodded matter-of-factly, as if the news was not shocking to her. “Have you been talking to him?”
“A bit. He has this idea—He thinks that you are responsible for putting him here behind bars.”
“I see.” She bit her lower lip. “I guess that man and I are long overdue for a talk.”
Her eyes searched my face, and worry clouded her features. “Listen to me,” she said. “Whether you know it or not, you are now a grown-up. I trust you to be part of the conversation I am about to have with him. I want you to go with me and listen, but don't say anything, okay? The next ten minutes aren't going to be easy, but I am here with you. Let's go meet Lam.”