My mother went to St. John’s High School in Saigon. She first traveled from her hometown, Quy Nhon, to Saigon on an overnight bus, carrying cash and gold strapped to her body by her mother. Before attending St. John’s, she was taught by missionaries in Quy Nhon at a school with no name. She learned her catechism and wrote in Chinese and wore calf-length socks and knee-length skirts. She told me she had to keep her hair cut to the jawline, and she pulled the thumb of her right hand from just underneath her left ear to her chin in a gesture that resembled slitting a throat. Quy Nhon is a coastal town in central Vietnam. The town is unremarkable, somewhat isolated, except for its fishing and transport industries, which brought both Northerners and Southerners into town for short periods of time. The only things of any real note are that:
1. The beaches are beautiful.
2. It was the site of one of the largest American troop landings during the Vietnam War.
3. It was once an opulent city, the capital of a refined civilization that has since been wiped off the earth.
Every major old city was probably once some ancient capital city, just as everyone has been beautiful at some point. That’s what my mother told me, at least. My mother said that from infancy to death, everyone is beautiful at least once, and part of what wisdom entails is knowing when that moment occurs and living accordingly.
… …
But my mother’s thoughts on beauty and its relationship to time were probably in their most nebulous and inarticulate state at the time of this story. Linh — that was my mother’s Vietnamese name — was fourteen and close to the shore when the American troops came. Close enough that she saw the metal boats slowly opening like the mouths of strange aliens, unloading soldiers, who were laughing and playing rock music like satyrs. She stayed the whole day, hidden by mangroves, and watched the soldiers with her friend Quyen, who was also dressed in her Catholic school uniform, not thinking about the potential danger in which they both could have found themselves. The girls had beer with them, which quickly became warm. They saw the soldiers set up tents and tables. Do you see that one over there? asked Quyen. With the yellow hair? Linh asked. He looks like Charlton Heston, right? Doesn’t he? Like Jack Lemmon? Exactly, like Dustin Hoffman. You mean Andy Griffith. I love Andy Griffith. You take the other one. He looks like a white Ho Chi Minh. White Uncle Ho. They laughed.
Toward evening the lights came out, and she saw who must have been the more experienced soldiers challenge the new soldiers to drinking games. One game involved a grenade. They pulled the pin of the grenade, crammed it upside down into a pint of beer so that the mechanism couldn’t engage, and then chugged the beer. They slammed their glasses down on the table. No one flinched. But, of course, Linh knew that soldiers had to act invincible. After all, her brother was a soldier as well.
… …
The war was intensifying, so Linh’s father decided that she would go to school at St. John’s in Saigon. The situation seemed safer in a city. Her father was a tea farmer who owned fertile land and employed twelve people, paying them enough that they could comfortably raise their families in the same compound in which Linh and her family lived. When the soldiers began taking over, Linh’s father was worried that their property would be seized. He frantically bought little Kim-Thanh gold bars and stored them in various secret places on the estate, on boats that he owned, even giving them to the families he employed to have them hide the gold themselves. Linh’s father developed a sense of doom. Sometimes he saw himself as a hero taking care of his family and his employees. Sometimes he desperately thought only of himself and how he could disappear. Linh saw him more than once in the courtyard of their house, praying. Even though she couldn’t hear what he was saying, she definitely heard pleading in his voice. She couldn’t tell what gods he was praying to, because he wasn’t at the family shrine and he wasn’t holding a rosary. She could sense something was wrong, because he had never seemed so small, his shoulders thin and frail. Before the war, on clear mornings, it was her father’s habit to take her out to the fields, to have her develop a sense of awe and proprietorship for the neat terraces carved out of the gentle slope of the mountains where they grew a tea that later, at the turn of the century, when their lands had been seized by the government, would be exported to Taiwan and sold around the world.
Linh had never traveled to another city. Nevertheless, the prospect of heading to Saigon for school was more exciting than scary. She had read about legendary cities in the Bible and in old Chinese epics in which nobles from the countryside found themselves dwarfed and awed by the splendor of the capital. She had also learned about Paris and its cathedrals and even the pale houses built upon a hill in Gordes, the birthplace of her history teacher, Sister Chirache, who often spoke about homesickness and yearning, concepts that seemed exotic and aesthetically pleasing to Linh because she had never felt them. Two days before her departure for Saigon, Linh’s father left home for business in the night. Before he left, he came into Linh’s bedroom after she had taken a bath and sat at the edge of her bed. He touched her damp hair and told her that he loved her and her sisters and her brothers all equally and all very much. He talked about family, property, and starting anew. Then he said good night instead of goodbye and left Linh perplexed. She didn’t find out he was gone until the late afternoon, when he would usually be back in the courtyard, talking to employees. Her mother didn’t tell her where he went and didn’t give any details of what he was doing. The very next day Linh had a bus ticket to Saigon. That night, in Linh’s bedroom, Linh’s mother said to her, Don’t ask what this is, as she tied pouches of what were obviously bills mixed with taels of gold and jewelry to her body in makeshift bandoliers. She patted the pouches to make sure they were as thin as possible. She stepped back and looked at Linh’s near-naked body, hidden only by secret cash, valuables, and underwear. She shook her head and looked through Linh’s wardrobe. Then she sighed and said, Wait here. She left the room and went toward the workers’ quarters, coming back with faded clothes, presumably from one of the workers’ daughters. Over the cash and valuables, Linh’s mother made her wear dark unisex pants and a shirt with tiny flowers printed on the fabric, Bombax ceiba, also known as the red cotton tree, which grew in abundance around Saigon.
Linh’s mother told her, “You will take a bus to Saigon. It will be overnight. You have papers, so you will be OK. No soldiers should stop you. You’re going alone, so don’t trust anyone. No matter what you do, don’t ever take your clothes off until you see your brother in Saigon. If someone asks what your father does, tell them he’s a shopkeeper. No. Tell them he works for a shopkeeper.”
“But what if someone does try to stop me?”
“You’re pretty,” her mother said. “But not that pretty. Thank god.”
Linh didn’t know what to think. Her clothes were almost like pajamas, which either allowed her to blend in with other civilians or highlighted her vulnerability. Her mother was on the verge of tears. Is there money in here? Linh asked, tapping her chest. And her mother replied, I told you not to ask. You don’t need to know. Does Father know? No, he doesn’t. Her mother began to cry. Don’t worry, Mom, Linh said. It was dusk. There were sounds of someone in the kitchen. Linh’s father was somewhere in the world, and not at home. The sun was rapidly setting.
… …
Linh’s mother was the only person to take her to the bus station. Linh’s mother kept talking about things unrelated to the trip itself. She talked about movies and about the food Linh should eat once she got to Saigon. She talked about Linh’s brother in Saigon and how he one day wanted to go live in Paris. She said that he had no idea what family and home meant. Linh hugged her mother and said, You’re my home. And Linh said, You can go now. Her mother said, OK, and then turned around and walked quickly into the crowd. Linh watched her mother go, expecting her to look back at least once, but she didn’t. The bus station was frantic. People carrying large sacks and crates. It seemed counterintuitive to Linh that during a war everyone would be running around outside instead of hiding indoors. I would be home, she thought. I would hide on the estate on which I know every room, every secret safe, every tree. Making her way through the chaos, she saw a cluster of soldiers, men or boys who carried rifles but didn’t seem to be in uniform. She was stopped by a boy who was probably about eighteen years old. He was a soldier, and he spoke politely to her and asked her where she lived. He had only a pistol on him, and he checked her papers so quickly it didn’t seem like he could read. He just nodded at the documents and then looked at Linh, who was carrying nothing but a tiny satchel. He asked to see what was inside it, and she opened the pouch to show him half a baguette, a thermos, and a wallet. He asked her to unscrew the top of the thermos. She showed him the contents, still steaming. It’s soy milk, she said. He looked at her once more, and she could almost see a smile on his face, and then he handed her papers back to her. She found that she was unafraid of the soldiers. Cute, she thought. She walked into the bus station and checked the timetable and map and then went back outside. The soldiers were leisurely making rounds. It was almost as if there were no war. She thought for brief second about the pouches tied to her body. She guessed they held money, because she wasn’t stupid (but was money always so heavy?), and thought that the soldiers didn’t really believe a woman could play a role in war or the economy.
It was late afternoon as the passengers filed onto the mint-green bus. Linh heard a distant rumbling that could be a storm or fighting. She took a seat next to a window on the left side of the bus. She remembered the map at the station. The bus would take a route along the water. She knew from her schooling, however, that the ocean she would see would not be open ocean. Beyond what she could see would be more islands, and after that would be open ocean. She didn’t think of what lay beyond that. A man who appeared to be in his twenties tapped her on the shoulder to alert her to the fact that he would be sitting next to her. Linh looked him in the face. His mother would probably call him handsome, she thought. He came in carrying a long duffel bag, which he placed on the overhead rack. He was thin, like most of the travelers she had come across. And he simply sat in his seat, slouched down, and closed his eyes.
… …
For the first three hours of the bus ride, the open windows letting in humid ocean air and the scent of gas, Linh thought about her mother and then she thought about her father. She remembered her mother’s stories about being a poor seamstress who married a rich tea merchant, and she wondered what kind of men she would meet in her life and whether or not they would care for her. She wondered about her father’s business dealings and remembered that he once told her, “There are some people who will never betray you.” He also told her, “One day you might forget me and you might forget your home. That’s OK. I’ll still love you.” She thought about her many siblings and realized she was close to only one: her sister Carina, who had taken an English name because she was obsessed with foreign cultures. Carina had told Linh about rock music and ballroom dance, and they planned to sneak to theaters together to watch imported films. Then Linh thought about her house and her room. She thought about the chickens clucking through the courtyard and a comb that she had wanted to bring with her to Saigon. Her mother had told her in a sharp voice that that would be an idiotic move because anyone could see that the comb was ornate and special. “Sometimes you have to leave things behind,” her mother had said. Then she thought about the war and the American soldiers she had seen at the beach. They seemed enormous, and she couldn’t imagine how the thin young soldier she had seen at the bus station could fight against them. She had heard that there were bombs that fell from the sky and bombs that were hidden in the ground. She wondered if even her mother knew where her father was. This was war, she supposed. She didn’t feel fear, but she didn’t feel happy either. And she never considered the fact that she might never see her home again until she would be in her late fifties. Her reveries were interrupted by the man who had brought in the long duffel bag. He had jerked awake and accidentally bumped her shoulder. He apologized and asked her how long he had been asleep, and she replied that she didn’t even know he had been asleep. He asked if she knew where they were, and she said, No, but the bus hasn’t stopped yet. They both looked outside to see trees gliding by and a few wooden boats on the water. He told her his name, which translated roughly to Hero. Linh remembered what her mother said about not talking to anyone, but she didn’t want to seem rude. When the man asked, Did you hear the radio last night? They said soldiers would come through, Linh replied, I don’t have a radio. He looked at her carefully and then asked her, Do you think the soldiers are scary? And she said, Not really. As if he hadn’t heard her, he said, Don’t worry. I have a knife. He pulled out a switchblade, held it close to his thigh so no one around them could see it, and flipped open the blade.
… …
The man named Hero put away his knife and leaned back in his seat. He looked up at the ceiling. Linh felt nervous, but the bus was busy and it was still light. She looked at an older couple across the aisle. The man was in slacks, a button-up, and a jacket. The woman was wearing a long dress. They were speaking in low voices. How elegant. How educated, she thought. They probably always have something to talk about. The man named Hero next to Linh started talking about property that belongs to everyone and no one, family members who disappear and reappear, and the whole country starting anew together. He sounded like her father. She thought that it was strange that a countrywide crisis meant that everyone was talking about the same things. As if everyone had become a single entity that struggled with itself.
“Are you a guerilla?” she asked him.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you keep talking about politics.”
“We should be talking about politics. We’re in a war. Do I look like a guerilla?”
“No,” Linh said. “You look like a pirate.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t shave properly. And you look poor.”
… …
When they arrived at the scheduled overnight stop, Linh quickly got off the bus and began looking for a place to sleep. She was afraid she had offended the man named Hero and wished to avoid him. She went into the bus station, but there were already people crowding the benches. The station was claustrophobic and smelled of sweat. She went outside and walked around. Nearby was a park with benches. Street vendors had set up and were hawking night foods. She weaved through the crowd. By the smell of food alone, she could sense that she was heading farther and farther from her home. To an observer, she could’ve been a kid on an errand, a student heading home for a family visit, or an orphan. There was a baker selling croissants out of a tiny shop with a faded green canopy. She had only heard of croissants and had never eaten one. She instinctively opened one of the pouches strapped to her body and discovered the money that she knew to be in there. Without counting or even guessing how much money she had, she pulled out a few bills, more than she needed to buy a croissant, and paid the baker. The croissant was crispy and delicate and smelled of butter. Then she turned around to see the man who had been sitting next to her on the bus staring directly at her, and she wondered, with a sinking feeling in her chest, how long he had been watching her.
… …
Linh turned down an alleyway and began to walk very quickly, looking behind her only out of the corners of her eyes. She wasn’t sure if the man was following her, but she heard footsteps. She thought she heard breathing. She passed a long line of restaurants and then she cut into a residential area a few blocks from the bus station and slowed her pace. She came across a temple complex overgrown with weeds and vines and moss, surrounded by a low wall. She stepped onto the temple grounds. Wind blew water off leaves left by an earlier rain. A few toys were scattered at the entrance of the temple, left there by the children of the caretaker, whose laughter she overheard somewhere deeper in the compound. There were a few overgrown graves to one side of the temple, and a little wooden bench outside a small building where visitors left donations and prayed. Linh sat on the bench and put the bag next to her. She saw that the croissant she had bought had been crushed into crumbs, and she made up her mind to save the croissant until the morning.
The temple reminded her of a memory that she wasn’t sure she had ever really experienced. When she was a child, her mother had told her a story of a ship of six fishermen who were lost at sea in a storm. A leviathan rose up out of the bottom of the ocean and swallowed the boat and the fishermen. The leviathan swam to shore and spat the fishermen and the boat back up onto the sandy beach before it died. The fishermen cried over the self-sacrifice of the leviathan and wondered what its motives were. They enlisted their neighbors to carry the body of the leviathan up into their village, an hour outside my mother’s town. To house the preserved bones of the leviathan, the fishermen built a temple, where subsequent fishermen went before long journeys to pray for a safe return. Linh’s father took her to the temple once, and she marveled at the size of the leviathan and its shape, which was unlike that of any fish she had ever seen. The world is always bigger than you imagine it, her father said. She wondered about the leviathan and its home. Once it traveled to shore, how would it ever find its way home? Night came, purple and dark. She felt for a second that she was inside the belly of a leviathan, and she felt the leviathan heave a sigh that was both calming and full of sorrow. Linh fell asleep sitting upright on the bench. The summer air was moist and cool enough for her to sleep peacefully. The name of the city where she stayed that night was Phan Rang or Phan Thiet. She would never be certain of the name of the city she slept in that night, which was odd since she remembered the name of the man who sat next to her on the bus. The name of the city will most likely never change, but chance encounters are always ephemeral, and already-countless people had disappeared into the chaos of the war.
… …
Linh was up with the roosters that crowed in the dark even before dawn broke effortlessly over the temple. In the morning light, she saw that she had received a few red welts from mosquitoes in the night. She needed to get back to the bus, which she knew would leave early, but she didn’t know what time. She looked into the temple and knelt for a prayer. Then she stood and made the sign of the cross. There was already movement in the streets as she retraced her steps to the bus station. She cast furtive glances at the openings of alleyways and across the street. There was no sign of the man who had sat next to her on the bus. Once she had settled into her seat, she looked at the croissant she had clutched through the night. She took out a few of the larger pieces and ate them. She thought of the French she had learned in school but couldn’t remember any. The bus operator was taking count of the passengers. At the very last moment, the man who had sat next to her stepped onto the bus. He made his way toward her seat, and she leaned her head against the window and purposefully avoided looking at him. He put his long duffel bag back onto the overhead rack and carefully sat down.
“It’s you again,” he said in voice like a robot’s. “Where did you stay last night?”
“Just at the station.”
“I slept at the station. I didn’t see you.”
“I don’t know why.”
“I looked for you. I saw you buying bread.”
“It was a croissant.”
“Right. A croissant.”
“Where are you going again?”
Linh hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me.” He finally smiled. “Either you’re going to Saigon, or you’re going farther. But probably Saigon.”
Linh shrugged, and he chuckled.
“Did I ask you how old you are?” he asked Linh.
Linh shrugged again, and again he chuckled. He looked at her for a few more seconds, his eyes running over her thin arms and light clothing. Then he sat back in his seat, and even through the ambient sound of the bus driving over the bad roads, she felt that she could hear him humming.
… …
The bus had gone not an hour outside the city before the first fighting of the day started. Without warning, the bus lurched to the side of the road. The road had jungle on one side and beach on the other. The driver, Linh noticed at just that moment, was a balding middle-aged man. He calmly switched off the engine and yelled for everyone to be quiet. Linh strained her ears in the silence. She heard a few gunshots and some shouting. The driver stood at the front of the bus and made a gesture with open palms as if to say, Stay in your seats. The elderly couple across the aisle gripped each other’s hands and turned toward each other. The man named Hero suddenly pulled Linh from the window as if shielding her from possible stray bullets and looked outside, whispering, Who is it? Where are they? Linh said, I don’t know. She felt like every part of her skin was exposed and that the bus itself wouldn’t protect her from anything. She couldn’t see into the jungle, and there was no one on the street. She wasn’t scared of dying, exactly, but she thought that she might never see her family again. She closed her eyes and just listened. Again Linh listened to the shooting and shouting. She imagined faceless soldiers running through the jungle and aiming at their enemies, but she couldn’t see any movement in the foliage.
The bus was hushed for what could have been five minutes or five hours. The man named Hero kept looking out into the jungle and straight ahead into the street, and sometimes he looked behind the bus as if to judge whether or not he could go back the way they had come. He never looked toward the ocean. Once he decided the fighting was over, the driver stood up, turned to face the passengers, and asked for volunteers. The man named Hero and the elderly man across the aisle both volunteered themselves, and they stepped off the bus together with the driver and a few other men. Linh leaned over and asked the elderly lady what they had volunteered for, and the elderly lady said that there were probably bodies in the road and that they had to be moved before the bus could continue on its way. Linh craned her neck, trying to look over the seats and into the road, but the elderly lady warned her not to do it. Linh saw that the elderly lady held tightly on to the handkerchief her husband had had earlier, and she reached over to touch the elderly lady and told her, It’ll be fine. The elderly lady said, What do you know? You are a child. Linh sat deeper into her seat and waited. The men returned. The man named Hero and the elderly man both had sweat stains on their shirts and something darker that Linh thought might have been blood. The bus driver, who wore a white button-up, looked untouched, as if he had told everyone else what to do while standing to the side and keeping his hands clean.
The man named Hero sat down next to her and took long, deep breaths. Linh asked him, Were there bodies? Did you move them? And he said, Don’t think about it too much. Then the bus started moving again, rumbling down the dusty road as if nothing had happened. There were no signs of any bodies on the street. Linh calculated how long she had left before the bus got to Saigon. She also wondered how the driver had decided that the fighting was over. Just that first incident was enough to create a superstitious feeling in Linh, and she felt that the bus was her version of the leviathan who had saved the fishermen in the story that her mother had told her long ago and that since she had prayed at the temple where the bus had stopped overnight, she would escape the journey unscathed. The bus was the strange leviathan that could never go home, but the bus was also the strange leviathan that would be her savior.
… …
Two hours later, the fighting resumed. The bus pulled to the side of the road, and the driver cut the engine. This time, the gunshots sounded much closer. There was movement in the jungle. The man named Hero began looking around again. He pushed Linh’s head down and hissed, Stay still. She could no longer see outside the bus. She could see only bolts, and the dirt and dust that had collected on the floor. She could also see a large scar on the man’s leg, just below his knee. Linh heard a sound like thunder that was both quieter than actual thunder and closer than actual thunder. The man named Hero said it was a grenade. She thought she heard the tinkle of broken glass, and she was unsure if it came from inside the bus or just outside the bus. She heard a motorbike passing the bus, and she wondered if the rider was a civilian or a soldier and why they were not hiding. She sat bent over and unable to see anything for a few minutes, and then again the fighting stopped.
… …
There was silence after the last few shots. Linh heard the people inside the bus stirring. Then there were a few gasps. The bus driver called out, Don’t shout. Linh looked through the bus’s windshield. A single man was standing in the middle of the street. As if he were a cowboy in the American West, a few clouds of dust rolled across the road in front of him. He was in dark shorts and sandals, and he carried a little pistol, which he held against his thigh. It felt like the first time Linh had seen a gun. She was sure the gun had just been fired and was probably hot to the touch. The man let out a loud whistle and began walking toward the bus. To Linh, he looked very tall from afar, a soldier from a race of giants, thin with abnormally long legs, ghostly and menacing, but as he came closer, he seemed to shrink until he was only an average-sized or even a small man.
The man named Hero looked out the side of the bus and then the back. There didn’t seem to be anything behind them. The man named Hero turned to Linh and said, I have to go. She just looked at him. He pointed to his duffel bag on the overhead rack and said, That’s yours now. What is it? Linh asked. Nothing important, he said. Just can you promise to take it somewhere and leave it? Don’t look inside. What is it? Linh asked again. The man named Hero didn’t respond. Instead, he was furiously writing something on a crumpled sheet of paper he had pulled out of his pocket. He handed the slip of paper to Linh and said, Take the bag to this address. Linh said, I’m just a kid. The long-legged soldier was getting closer to the bus. The man named Hero looked at her and said, Do whatever you like. The man named Hero sprang from his seat and ran to the back of the bus. He jumped out of the bus and ran into the jungle. The long-legged soldier looked startled for a second, and then he held up his gun and shot three lazy shots into the jungle. He turned his attention back to the bus and began climbing the steps. Linh could hear he was singing a song. She was only a little surprised when she realized she knew the lyrics of the song, which talked about a gaunt and pale love, students who will never forget, and the punishment of the emperor.
… …
The long-legged soldier stood at the front of the bus. Who was that? he asked no one in particular. No one spoke. He began walking down the aisle of the bus very slowly. He stopped at Linh’s seat. He touched the seat back with his left hand as if he could feel the body heat of the man named Hero. He asked Linh softly, Who was that? And she said, I don’t know. Are you sure? And she said, Yes. The long-legged soldier bent down and looked at her and said, I believe you. Then he turned away and walked back to the front of the bus.
He talked to the bus driver, and at first Linh could hear that it was about where they were going and whether or not there was any fighting back the way they had come. The driver and the soldier laughed about something. Linh looked at the duffel bag on the overhead rack, and she wondered if she should do what the man named Hero had asked her to do. She made up her mind to open the bag as soon as she arrived in Saigon. She wondered how much longer it would take to get to Saigon and whether or not there would be any more fighting. She didn’t feel too scared, but she didn’t know that the end of the bus ride would be only the beginning of a life in which she was constantly fleeing.
The driver and the long-legged soldier spoke for no more than five minutes. Linh realized the long-legged soldier had an accent she didn’t recognize. She wondered if he was from the far north, the mountains, or even another country. The driver and the long-legged soldier seemed to be leaning very close to each other. Then the long-legged soldier stepped off the bus without looking back. He walked into the middle of the street and started heading north.
She stood up and took the duffel bag off the rack. To her surprise, it was lighter than the money that was strapped to her body. The contents were soft, like clothes or very light paper. The old couple was staring at her. She checked the address that the man named Hero had written down for her. The name on the slip of paper was a female name. She realized she knew the particular district in Saigon where she was supposed to take his bag, because she was heading to the very same district. She remembered a photograph her mother had shown her of a gray apartment block where her brother lived and where he was waiting for her. Her brother lived on the fourth floor of a five-story building with a breezeway, where residents parked their bikes. The inner courtyard was full of vegetables and vines raised by the residents. That apartment was to be her home while war raged across the country. She looked out into the ocean. The boats she saw on the water were larger than the boats she was used to seeing in her hometown. The trees at the edge of the beach seemed strange and unfamiliar, maybe even beautiful. She looked behind her. The long-legged soldier was still in the street. He must have stopped walking, because he didn’t seem that far away. She wondered if he was by himself or not. He actually seemed very handsome. If he had been fighting earlier, he didn’t seem fatigued. His clothes were clean and looked almost as if he had ironed them. He continued to walk away from the bus, and as he walked farther down the street, Linh felt again that he was a giant.
