Fire Summer. Thuy Da Lam
What did they see? Could they see inside?
Bone white particles like sea coral and gray sand, ashes of a southern soldier escaped after the fall of Saigon, a daughter in his arms, now he in hers.
The muffled exchange stopped, and the men signaled her to step aside.
JP Boyden followed her. “How’s your Vietnamese?”
She read aloud the VIỆT KIỀU sign that hung above the checkpoint and then switched to English. “Foreigners, the line is on the other side.”
“You know,” he said, “I’m looking for an interpreter.”
She saw a bureaucrat in a crisp olive-green uniform approaching. Quickly assessing the American beside her, she asked, “Can you hold this?” as she passed the handbag to him. She placed a hand on his arm as if to keep her balance and bent down to fuss with the strap of her sandal.
“I’m here to write a travel feature,” JP Boyden said, gripping her bag awkwardly, “and I need a local translator. You see, I’ve studied Viet at UH Mānoa, but it’s still very basic. Chao co. Co dep lam! Bao nhieu tien?” He grinned with boyish satisfaction. “And I can count to ten: mot, hai, ba, bon, nam, sau, bay, tam—”
The customs agent interrupted him at eight. “Mời cô đi theo tôi!”
She stood up, a hand still on JP Boyden. “I can translate for you.” Turning to the Vietnamese, she asked in a soft Saigon lilt, “Hàng này cho người ngoại quốc, phải không anh?”
The Vietnamese gripped her arm and ordered her to follow.
“What does he want?” JP looked at the official. “I’m an American journalist.” He pulled out a glossy June 1991 issue of USA News and waved it in the official’s face, on its cover—Sex, Lies, and Politics.
“You, American!” The official jabbed his bony index finger into JP’s chest. “You go customs table.”
“Where is he taking you?” JP turned to her, the handbag now dangling from his shoulder.
The official led her toward the glass doors at the far end of the terminal.
Her reflection belied what she felt inside. Dark eyes, a plain moon face, and straight hair gave her a child’s mien. The white schoolgirl blouse and loose violet pants made her appear as fragile and benign as a morning glory.
When the door closed, the official released his grip and pushed her along the narrow corridor lit by dim florescent light. They turned corners and ascended steps. They passed closed doors spaced ten feet apart. The silence and stale air reminded her of the carpet hallway she had followed to the viewing room in South Philly five years earlier.
She had cried then and avoided her father’s impassive face, staring instead at the bare cardboard casket. Chết là sướng, her father had said, his way of throwing up his hands, greeting life and death, his advice to his eighteen-year-old daughter to live bravely. Your father fought with courage against the Communists. The expatriates’ homage rang in her ears. For his service and sacrifice, he will be remembered. In that last hour, before his body became ashes, bravery dripped from her eyes, each teardrop her inner voice calling across the border to the dead.
She was left at an open door.
The room had a wall mirror and a high window, through which sunlight cast a shadow on the man at the desk. “Sit down,” he said, a faint northern accent. Brown sinewy hands opened a manila folder. “Triệu Hoàng Mai,” he read her full name, reverting it to its native tones and order, “like the yellow flower that blooms on Lunar New Year in the South.” He leaned forward, a compact man with intense eyes. “Twenty-three years old.”
“Yes.” She eased back into her chair. “Yes.” She confirmed his next statement. “I was born on the Central Highlands in 1968.”
“You left Vietnam with your father. Why did you leave?”
“I was ten years old.”
“Who is your father?”
“He passed away.”
“His rank in the U.S. puppet army?”
“He was a second lieutenant.”
“Your mother’s occupation?”
“We lost contact.”
“What is the purpose of your visit to Vietnam?”
“I’m here to research Hòn Vọng Phu.”
“Who’s your sponsor?”
“The Museum of Folklore & Rocks.”
“Will you be visiting relatives?”
“I hope to see my maternal grandmother.”
“What do you know about anti-Vietnam groups—the GFVN, the FVO, the IVC?”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“On Tết this year, an overseas Vietnamese male was caught trying to return with terroristic intentions. To protect our country’s independence, social order, safety, and territorial integrity, he was executed. What do you know about Huỳnh văn Vinh, a.k.a. Vinnie Huynh?”
“I don’t know him.”
The interrogator paused and sat back in the shadow. He asked about Little Saigon, Orange County. “Tell me about your daily activities there. Why did overseas Vietnamese in California vote Reagan-Bush and now Bush-Quayle? Explain your view on the recent fall of the Berlin Wall. What’s your relationship with Jon Pōki‘i Boyden? And who’s the man in US Army fatigues in the picture he carries?”
JP Boyden had her bag when she left the interrogation. Along with a few selected visitors, they were herded onto an old Russian bus, whose black Cyrillic script remained visible under fresh layers of yellow paint. The bus left the airport for their temporary accommodation in downtown Saigon until their travel papers were cleared. After the midday sleep, the streets overflowed with people on bicycles, Vespa scooters, and three-wheeled xích lô.
“What’s your relationship with Jon Poki’i Boyden?” she mimicked the interrogator.
“You should have said something.”
“Of course, I should have said something. What should I have said?”
“I’m writing a travel article on post-war Vietnam, and you’re accompanying me as my interpreter. That’s our story.” The bus passed an ancient redbrick pagoda with a bell tower and twin pillars. JP released the cap of his camera, peered through the lens, and snapped several pictures of glass-shard dragons in flight.
“What’s the story with the strawberry?” She studied the insignia-like tattoo on his upper left arm.
She wanted to ask about the photograph of the GI in his wallet that the interrogator also questioned her about, but JP leaned over and whispered, “Our tour guide is watching.”
The tour guide in the front seat next to the driver was her interrogator, who shifted his focus to the traffic when she caught his eye.
“Xuan is a People’s Army veteran who knows the terrain,” JP said. “Interesting fellow. He clearly believes that you’re my girlfriend.”
“I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t need a tour guide in my country. This is my country.” She lowered her voice. “I’m here on research—”
“To collect oral folk stories on . . .” He pulled out an embossed leather notebook, flipped through several pages, and read, “hon vong phu.” He looked at her. “What’s that?”
“How do you know this?”
“Customs personnel suspected that you might be a member of an insurgency. Are you?”
She