Part 20 (2/2)
”I'll always be here. You just might not be able to see me.”
At sunset, Linh lay back on the long, cool gra.s.s of the bank and inhaled the back on the long, cool gra.s.s of the bank and inhaled the heavy scent of grapefruit blossoms in the evening air. He closed his eyes, remembering the smell of Mai's hair after she washed it, adding a few drops of citrus oil to the rinse so that at night the fragrance permeated their bed when she lay down, making the room a dark grove in which to find her.
He rationed himself only one thought of her each day; otherwise he would not be able to go on. He h.o.a.rded his memories like other men did cigarettes or chocolates.
Today was the third anniversary of her death, the period of official mourning over, but he felt he had lost her a hundred years ago and only yesterday. He panicked at times, unable to remember a detail of her face as clearly as before. Worried about the thousand small memories of body that had already vanished from his recollection. Time like a chemical pus.h.i.+ng a print too far, a fog overcoming the detail. It pained him that he relied on a few poor photographs of her more and more; everything that made him love her absent from the pictures. The images felt disloyal, as if he were dreaming over a stranger.
The next morning he rose at dawn, again washed in the river, then set off toward Can Tho, hoping to b.u.m rides there for his trip north.
Once he arrived, Linh went to a dirty outdoor cafe and sat at Mr. Bao's table. He went to a dirty outdoor cafe and sat at Mr. Bao's table. He had last seen Bao a little more than a month ago, yet he had put on the weight of a year.
”What took you so long?” Mr. Bao said.
”It took time to leave.”
”There hasn't been anything as good as the Captain Tong piece since last we talked.”
Linh lit a cigarette.
”Why aren't they with you?”
”Darrow is wounded. And they don't go where I direct; it's the other way around.”
”You are their friend. Lead with sugar.”
Linh hated Mr. Bao's stupid Confucian sayings, his peasant cunning. These were the kinds of drones the party was filling itself with.
Mr. Bao changed tack. ”How is your wife's family?”
”I don't know. I imagine not so good, since they got in touch with me.”
Mr. Bao nodded. ”You must go do your duty to them. The same as your duty to your country.”
Linh's anger flared. ”What does your duty have to do with selling opium?”
Mr. Bao cracked a thin smile. ”You forget your place.”
”Darrow and Helen are in the village. Learning of Vietnam. I think this is a good thing.”
”Agreed. Next time I see you, I have a shopping list: Wonder Bread, cigarettes, and maybe brandy this time.”
Linh skirted his family's village, or what remained of it, never having returned village, or what remained of it, never having returned since the night they were taken from him. His wife's sister, Thao, lived in a neighboring hamlet. As soon as they arrived in Saigon, her husband had been caught and inducted into the army; without an income she had been forced to return to the country. After she hadn't heard from her husband in more than a year, she had contacted Linh.
He didn't tell her that casualties among SVA soldiers were high. Officers threw poorly trained recruits into dangerous missions to please their American advisers while staying far away from any action themselves.
”Why does no one tell me if he's alive or dead?” she said. Always the practical one, not as beautiful or talented as her sister, Thao had made more out of less. ”How can I remarry otherwise?”
She said that her husband's company had been patrolling the Iron Triangle region when last seen. The joke was that the main harvest of the area was mines; Linh guessed the body had been overlooked. After the false peace of An Giang, where he had left Darrow and Helen, the destruction in this area depressed Linh. Paddies choked in weeds.
Starving water buffalo with washboard sides. He watched families bundling belongings, turning their backs on ancestral grounds. Clogged roads. Refugees formed an unrelenting river that poured into the coastal cities of Nha Trang, Danang, and Saigon. He was sorry he had acted so poorly with Mr. Bao.
Thao's village was in the process of being dismantled--huts torn down piece by the process of being dismantled--huts torn down piece by piece and carted away to someplace with more luck. Some villagers packing to leave; others squatting among the ruins of their homes. The week before they had been subjected to a cordon-and-search, uncovering a substantial weapons cache under one hut, a large supply of rice under another. The huts and bunkers with supplies had been blown up, destroying their livelihood but sparing the people.
Thao's hut was still standing. Inside, she sat on the ground, haggard, her eyes red.
She had two children, a girl of four, a boy still suckling at her breast. When Linh appeared in the doorway, Thao looked up at him, no surprise on her face.
”Good, you are here. We can still honor Mai's death anniversary.”
”Are you okay?”
”We are alive, but for what?”
He put his arm around her shoulders. The shape of her face, the way she placed her hand on his, brought back with an ache his wife's absence.
”I'm ashamed,” Thao cried. ”Here you are, and I have no rice, no vegetables, not even incense to honor my sister.”
”Get your things. We're leaving.”
”For where?”
”I'm going to get a place for you in Saigon. I can look after you and the children better there.”
She bowed her head. The baby had fallen away from the breast. Linh saw the nipple, raw and callused. From the thinness of the baby, he guessed she was going dry.
”How can you afford to take us in?”
”Americans pay well.”
Thao handed the baby to the girl but left her s.h.i.+rt open. ”You were always more practical than your brothers. Cling to the winners in war.”
”We'll get doctors and medicine in Saigon,” he continued. ”We can buy milk.”
She looked down at her breast, pressing it with a fingertip till a drop of milkyclear liquid formed. ”I've eaten nothing for days.”
This sudden contact with the world of women confused Linh; Thao's likeness to Mai inflaming him. He turned away so that she would not notice the heat in his face, as if she could sense the cramped, shaming tingle in his body. ”Things will get better now.”
She swayed as she got to her feet and spoke sharply to the girl, ordering her to ready the baby. She looked at Linh as she b.u.t.toned her blouse. ”So you think he's dead?”
”If he is alive, he will find us in Saigon.”
Thao gathered yellowed photographs of her and Mai's parents from the altar, a few chipped porcelain bowls, a jade hair comb, putting them in a basket.
”If he is dead,” she said, shoving in clothes, ”Mai would want us to marry.”
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