The Unwanted (32 page)
I was lucky enough to land a steady source of income. Through a series of writing contests given by the Communist Board of Education in Nhatrang, I won a scholarship that provided us with thirtyfive pounds of rice and a hundred fifty dong a month. It also helped me find a position in the young writers' club, a prestigious organization. From then on, instead of going to regular school, I earned my education through attending the club's activities.
For a few golden months, I felt relief. Then, during my eleventh grade, while the other students prepared for the coming college examinations, the president of my club refused to endorse my college application. As a member of the “reactionary class,” he advised me, I had gone as far as I possibly could with my education. My future options were limited: I could be either a substitute teacher or a private tutor. My training could take me no farther in our society.
With my college dream shattered, I was forced to reevaluate my options. No matter how hard I had tried, I could not escape my unfavorable past. The urge to leave Vietnam once again took root in me. However, this time, my mother did not have the financial backup or the contact with other boat people to help me escape. And even if she did, I would be too terrified from the last experience to try again. In desperation I scrawled letters to the United Nations and the U.S. Embassy in Thailand, asking them for help. No replies came back. It was as though my pleas dissolved into thin air the moment they left my fingertips at the post office.
Then one sunny day in April, I received my first correspondence from Bangkok. With shaking hands, I tore open the envelope and inhaled the fresh, foreign smell that came from within. The letter was printed on one page of brown, recycled paper.
Joint Voluntary Agency (J.V.A.)
U.S. Embassy Refugee Section
Bangkok,, Thailand
Dear Kien Nguyen,
You have written to us several times in the past, requesting an application to resettle in the United States of America. Based on the information you have provided in your letters, we would like to explain to you the favorable probability of your case. In accordance with the Refugee Act of 1980, the United States of America has signed an agreement with the Vietnamese government relating to Amerasian children that were left behind after the Fall of Saigon in 1975. Orderly Departure Program (O.D.P.) provided that anyone who is an offspring of an American father can and will be found eligible for resettlement in the United States. Once you are granted permission to leave Vietnam, which shall be done in an orderly fashion, we will help you find a sponsor in one of the voluntary resettlement agencies. The announcement of this Act should be posted in your local county, together with the application. For your convenience, we enclose four copies of the application with this letter.
However, you cannot send the application back to us. The process must be carried out through your local government. Once you receive a laissez-passer (permission to leave) from your authorities, our sponsoring agency will arrange for a sponsor or will itself provide initial resettlement services for you and your family.
Your cooperation is appreciated.
Sincerely,
Richard C. Cooke
Deputy JVA Representative
Attachment: A/S
As I stood on my front stoop in the sultry afternoon, my jaw dropped. My throat tightened, incapable of making a sound. The letter was short, but the information it provided was like an earth-quake in my soul. I relived my family's years of hardship, my wretched attempt to escape the country, the many painful paths that I had walked since paradise lost. There had not been a moment of happiness since the day I was taught the word
half-breed.
My fingers ran over the black ink as I thought frantically to myself, “Who are the people that typed this letter? How do they live? What do they like?” They seemed so far away, yet a part of them was here, enclosed in the message that was addressed to me. Thousands of images raced through my mind and coalesced into one big question: How much of this could be true? Despite my past disappointments, I wanted to believe what it said, so much so that I would eat every word until it became one with me. This letter came just in time to give me the strength and encouragement I needed to keep on living. Without this news, I could not imagine what would happen to me. I sat there, my eyes blurred with tears, until the sky turned mauve.
That night, when my mother came home from work tired and cranky, I greeted her at the front gate with a cheerful smile. After taking her baskets into the kitchen, I hung up her coat and hat and served her a basin with fresh water so that she could wash her face. Jimmy pulled out the only chair left in the house for my grandfather. He sat under the wan light, looking out the window, waiting for the midnight cactus to bloom.
When it was time for dinner, I showed my mother the letter, translating as much as I could into Vietnamese. She stared at me with large, frightened eyes, as if the news were too much for her to handle. Jimmy clasped his hands together in excitement. I walked over to the window, joining my grandfather. Outside, the garden sank into an unfathomable darkness. A few steps away from us, the cactus shrub bathed in the dry and cool air, adding its aroma to the perfume of the rose bushes. Its white and pointed buds, as delicate as a lady's fingers, reached out toward the light from my room, waiting for the moon to help it blossom.
“What do they want us to do next?” my mother asked.
“We need to fill out the applications. After that we take our pictures, get our community leader to sign, and turn everything in. Then we sit back and wait some more.”
“Do what you must,” she muttered. “It sounds too uncertain and complicated to me. Just don't expect too much from this.”
Pulling me close to him, my grandfather whispered, “Try it, child. What do you have to lose?”
THE NEXT DAY
, I got up early. It was still dark when I headed for the community hall. After three hours of waiting in front of Mr. Qui Ba's office, I got my applications stamped and signed by his secretary. Next, I proceeded toward the emigration center—a tall building located three short blocks from the old Nguyen mansion. The salty wind rushed through the busy streets, reminding me that the ocean and its familiar beach were just a short distance away.
The emigration center was packed with anxious people clutching thick stacks of paper. At first, I thought I had gone to the wrong address and ended up in a busy doctor's office, since the construction was of a similar type. At the far end, where a glass panel divided the room, floor-to-ceiling shelves were packed with folders. Some of the files had sat forgotten for so long, their edges were brown and dusty. Behind the glass door, a receptionist slouched in her chair reading a translation of Victor Hugo's
Les Misérables.
Without losing her place in her book, she handed me a number. Her nose wrinkled indignantly as she told me to take a seat and wait.
I looked around the waiting room for an empty chair. There were none left. Most people were settled on the floor eating their lunches and gazing at each other with nervous fascination. It was a solemn, important day for them all, and the prospect of migrating brought hope to their faces. I went out to the hallway, joining the crowd waiting outside.
A man about thirty years old leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. He cocked his head and examined me with undisguised curiosity. His thin, delicate face and brown eyes seemed European, yet the rest of his features wore the same beat-up, ragged, and tired appearance of any other Vietnamese. I stood near the entrance, listening to the numbers that were being called from inside.
“Hey,” the man said as he waved at me. “What is your status?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why are you here?” he rephrased his question.
“I'm not sure.” I stumbled for an answer. “There is a program called O.D.P., and I just want to get more information about it.”
“Yes, I know about that program.” The man blew a cloud of smoke in an exaggerated way. “It serves the half-breeds. I applied for it six months ago. Today, I am just coming to check on my status. I want to know if my file has been sent to Hanoi.”
Curiosity took hold of me, and I asked him, “Was it difficult to apply?”
“Not really,” he said, shaking his head. “You just fill out the form and give it to them. The difficult part is the waiting.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The man inhaled deeply from his cigarettes. As he exhaled, his words accompanied a white fume of smoke. “Hey, would you believe from looking at me that I am the son of an American soldier?”
“I don't know, are you?”
“Well, not exactly,” he said, scratching his chin. “My father was a Frenchman. I hope I can fool them at the interview. What do you think?”
“I don't know, sir. But good luck.”
“Thanks,” he said, “You, too. Did you bring anything for the deputy chief?”
“No, I didn't know that I had to.”
The man nodded his head knowingly. “You don't have to, but you should. He'll send your case out faster.” He squashed his cigarette against the dirty wall and stepped back inside the waiting room.
MY MEETING THAT DAY
with the deputy chief of the emigration center was short and awkward. In the large office, which was full of bouquets of flowers and boxes of gifts, he sprawled on his large office chair. Through a large window a beautiful view of the blue ocean spread behind him. He was a hugely overweight man of forty. The collar of his white shirt and his tie seemed to be gripping his thick neck too tightly, making his large face a deep shade of plum. His round cheeks pushed his eyes upward into two thin slits, like the dark strokes of a Chinese ideogram. His feet remained propped on his desk as I entered the room.
“What can I do for you?” he shouted over the crash of the waves. His voice bounced off the walls, magnifying his powers of intimidation.
I held the applications protectively across my chest. “I am here to inquire about a program called O.D.P.”
“You want the application?” He reached for a pile of papers on his desk.
“No, sir. I think I've gotten the same ones through the mail.”
“Then fill them out.”
“I did.”
“Then hand them over to me.”
I handed the folder to him. His eyes met my stare, shifted to the mountain of presents on the floor, and then returned to me. A few seconds crawled by, and he terminated the meeting with a loud sigh. His eyes turned icy.
“Here is your receipt. Your case is number three-fifteen.” He handed a small piece of paper to me, then threw my file on the floor on top of the others.
“How long should I wait, sir?” I asked.
“I don't know, and I don't care. It's already out of my hands.”
Nhatrang, September 1984
S
eptember brought another monsoon season. For over two weeks the sky was obscured behind a layer of dark clouds. The wind bellowed, whipping violently against the coconut trees. All I could see from the window of my classroom each day was an endless sheet of water, falling over the flooded city.
On wet days, my mother found it difficult to sell soup at the market. Even if she managed to cover her pots, the customers could not enjoy their meals as the wind tore through the muddy streets, driving bullets of rain into them. The moisture saturated her clothes, and the cheap dyes that tinted her outfit washed down her body in a dense, black flood. Many days, she brought home a full pot of soup. Behind her, my sister chased bubbles across the wet ground, clutching her soggy pillow. As my mother's meager assets melted away, we could see signs of a devastating end.
One afternoon after the last period of my classes, I left the writing club in a hurry, holding a broken umbrella over my head. Outside, behind the school's large iron gate, Kim huddled inside an oversized yellow raincoat that covered half her face. As I pushed through the gate to join her, dead leaves scattered on the brick path.
“Ah, Kien, I found you,” she said, looking directly at me.
I was surprised to see her outside my school. In the months since I had returned from my incarceration, I only saw her secretly as we met at night, either under the magnolia tree near my house, or in the rice field behind her family's kitchen. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
She took a step closer. Her eyelashes, long and thick, fluttered like butterfly wings. I could see her round pupils open up like doors, beckoning me to gaze deeply into her eyes. Everything about Kim seemed so fragile my instinct was to reach out and protect her. Yet I could never forget everything her family represented. Conflicted, I stood statue-like in the downpour.
“It's about your grandfather,” she said. “I just saw him in town attending the People's Court. Today the Communist Party is holding trials to eliminate the ‘negative phenomena’ within the city government. Your grandfather was in the crowd watching as I was leaving. There are so many people, I am a little worried for his safety.” She lowered her voice and went on, “Why do you ask if something is wrong?”
“I was shocked seeing you here, that's all.”
“Why would I need a reason to see you?”
Her last sentence caressed me like a warm touch. I forgot myself and the incessant rain. All that mattered to me was the slender girl with velvet eyes, and the way she was looking at me.
“Shall we go?” she asked.
“Go? Where to?”
She smiled. “To find your grandfather, silly.”
I nodded dumbly and reached for her hand, leading her through streets overhung with the thick branches of oak trees. Her fingers rubbed tenderly against my palm. The combination of Kim's touch and the anxiety of walking with her on Nhatrang's largest avenues in broad daylight sent a shot of electricity through me that nearly made me swoon.
We walked through the main market. Kim took me to the square where she had spotted my grandfather. The open piazza, where the six major boulevards of the city converged, was blocked with police barriers and teeming with curious spectators. Police officers in brown uniforms were everywhere. Despite the rain, hundreds of people thronged the street, ready for the demonstration that the Communist government had announced in the last few days. The spectacle had not yet begun, yet the crowd was shrill with anticipation. Across the square I saw my grandfather standing under a lamppost. His hand rested on his walking stick. He was soaking wet from the rain, but he paid no mind to the weather. His eyes were fixed, and I could tell he was deep in thought.