Angel in the Full Moon (2 page)

Bien had not always lived in Hanoi. As a child, he was raised in the South. Saigon. Bien still preferred the city by its old name, but while working in Hanoi, he was careful to
refer to it as Ho Chi Minh City.

Bien's father had served with the South Vietnamese army and fought alongside the Americans until the Communists achieved victory in 1975. His father had learned English and taught it to Bien, who in turn, taught it to both his daughters. After the war, Bien's father was placed in a re-education camp, where he died thirteen years later. Bien scoffed at the term
reeducation
. It was a camp of forced labour and brutality.

Bien's wife, formerly from Dong Ha, had been exposed to heavy concentrations of Agent Orange during the war. Their daughter, Hang, like many second generation children, was born with an abnormality. She had an extra thumb protruding off the thumb of one hand. This was only a minor imperfection, Bien decided, when so many other families had children who were born without feet or arms.

Hang's extra thumb was not something that had been hidden from the American family. Bien was told that Pops would have an American doctor fix it, but only if Hang wished. Bien knew that Hang would wish it to be so. She wanted to be perfect.
She does not understand that she already is.

Linh was born without any abnormalities. Something that was cause for extreme joy. A sign that the future would improve, thought Bien. He had received a teaching degree just days after Linh was born. He felt like their lives were complete and that their future would be good. But it was not good.

Bien's wife died six months later of organ failure brought on by the dioxin in her body. The closest Bien ever came to being a teacher was doing janitorial work at a school. The Communist party was only too aware of his family's sympathy to the South during the war. He would not be allowed to teach.

It was not until recently that the government recognized the benefit of tourism and knew that Bien's ability to speak
English could be an asset. He was sent to Hanoi to act as a tour guide at Uncle Ho's Mausoleum.

Bien lived in a one-room apartment facing an alley that he shared with his daughters and his own mother. His kitchen, like others in his neighbourhood, was a small plastic table and chairs set out on the sidewalk at the front of the building. The rest of his kitchen consisted of a hot plate set up on wooden boxes in the alley. The boxes were on their sides and a piece of cloth wired to the boxes acted as a curtain to keep the dust off the dishes. All this was enclosed with a wrought-iron grate bolted to the alley wall, which protruded just over an arm's length away from the boxes. Entry was through a padlocked door.

For the first few months, he was paid barely enough to buy rice and noodles. Later, he learned to become a little shrewder about accepting tips from the tourists. Soon he would be able to afford a bigger apartment. One that would give his mother her own room to snore in.

It was midnight when Bien pedalled back through the Ba Dinh district of Hanoi and quietly carried his bicycle into his apartment. Tomorrow he would face questions. He did not like the fact that he had to deal with smugglers. Lying to friends about where his daughter went made him feel guilty—but he understood the need for secrecy.

Hang sat quietly on the floor as the van continued through the streets of Hanoi, occasionally stopping to pick up more women. Hang figured they were all about six or seven years older than her. She caught the friendly smile of a younger woman who had been in the van when Hang got in. Hang forced a quick smile back before turning away—directing her attention to the floor of the van. She remembered her vow to stay strong
and did not want anyone to see the tears on her face.

“
Em tê;n là gì
?” the young woman asked her.

“Hang,” she answered, continuing to stare at the floor.

“You ... talk ... English,” she noted, slowly enunciating the words of this foreign language.

“A little,” replied Hang.

She smiled again. “Yes, me talk a ... small ... English,” she said, holding her thumb and finger close together to emphasize her point. “My name Ngoc Bích. You, me, we teach English each other, okay?”

“Okay,” replied Hang, looking down at the van floor.

“You cold?” asked Ngoc Bích.

Hang shook her head.

“Very cold in America. I think you cold now,” said Ngoc Bích, while changing positions and sitting beside Hang. “You be okay,” said Ngoc Bích. “Okay to be afraid,” she added, while putting her arm around Hang's shoulders.

“I'm not afraid,” said Hang, glancing up defiantly at the other women in the van.

Ngoc Bích caught Hang's expression and said, “That okay. They no speak English. They no understand what me say with you. I see you cry. I am sorry with you.”

Hang paused for a moment, and said, “I'm not afraid. I only miss my family.”

“My family live in Nha Trang,” said Ngoc Bích, pulling Hang closer. “My father dies two years before. I cries. The day last, my mother say goodbye to me in Nha Trang. I am oldest five kids. Two brothers. Two sisters,” she said, holding up two fingers on each hand. “It is good I send money from America—but yesterday I cry the same as you. You father and mother many kids?”

“One sister. No mother,” replied Hang.

Ngoc Bích paused briefly and said, “It okay to cry.”

Hang solemnly studied Ngoc Bích's face but did not respond.

“I cry for my brothers and sisters today. You want, you ... me ... be sister now,” added Ngoc Bích.

Hang reflected upon this briefly, before nodding. They each smiled and hugged each other.

Eventually the van came to a stop and everyone got out. The driver warned them to be quiet and to follow him. Hang slung her bag of belongings over her shoulder and, along with everyone else, obediently followed. They entered an apartment building, trudged up four flights of stairs, were led to a room halfway down the hall, and ushered inside.

Hang and Ngoc Bích quietly sat on the apartment floor with a dozen others. The driver left but two other Vietnamese men remained in the room. The men told everyone to sit quietly and not to speak.

Later, there were more soft knocks on the apartment door as several more groups of young women arrived. Hang counted thirty-five women but lost count when the room became too crowded.

An hour passed, and the silence in the room made Hang more conscious of the humidity and the sticky feeling from the heat generated by their cramped quarters. Eventually there was another knock at the door.

Another Vietnamese man entered the room, followed by two other men who were both foreigners and appeared to be about fifty years old. One foreigner was lean and tall, with a thin, grey moustache that matched the colour of his brush cut. His face was pointed with sharp cheek bones and large dark eyes peered out from a nose that reminded Hang of a beak on a bird.
Like a long-billed vulture
... She heard the Vietnamese man call him
Petya
.

The other foreigner took off his jacket and Hang saw that
he was wearing a golf shirt and slacks. His head was shaved bald and he had a large pot belly ... but it was his arms that caught Hang's attention. She had never seen arms covered in so much thick, black hair. More black hair unleashed itself from the open neck on his golf shirt. It made Hang think of a bald ape and she quickly looked away so as not to be seen as being rude.

The two foreigners spoke to each other in a language that Hang did not understand. After, the bald ape turned to the Vietnamese man.

“Tell them all to stand,” said the bald ape, speaking English.

“Yes,
Styopa,
” replied the Vietnamese man. He then gave the command in Vietnamese and everyone got to their feet.

For Hang, the names
Petya
and
Styopa
were too foreign to pronounce. She would just think of them as the vulture and the bald ape.

The vulture and the bald ape approached each woman and pointed for them to stand on one side of the room or the other. As this happened, the Vietnamese man wrote everyone's names down on two lists.

It is the Vietnamese custom not to look into a person's face. To do so could imply a lack of respect. In this case, Hang sensed it was an uncomfortable shame the women felt as they stared down at the floor, wondering what the selection was all about. When the men reached Hang, the bald ape lifted her chin to face him, but she continued to avert her eyes.

“You are the young one,” he said. “You speak English?” he asked.

Hang nodded, but the man still gripped her chin, making nodding difficult.

“Let me hear you talk,” he commanded.

Hang swallowed and said, “Yes, I speak English. My
father taught me.”

“Good. And you are going to the States to live with an American family, correct?”

“Yes, to live in the house of Mister Pops.”

“
Mister
Pops!” The bald ape glanced at the vulture and they both chuckled before turning back to Hang. “Your English is good,” he said, releasing her chin. “Your sister was supposed to come. Why didn't she?”

“My father wanted me to go first. To make sure it would be good for my sister.”

“That is very prudent,” said the vulture. “Your father is a wise man, but you will see that you are very happy there.”

The bald ape grabbed Hang's hand and held it up to show the vulture her extra thumb. Hang felt her face flush with embarrassment. The vulture spoke harshly to the bald ape in his own language and the ape dropped her hand. Hang felt his eyes upon her for a moment before they moved on.

When the men finished dividing the women into two groups, the bald ape walked back to one young woman and poked her in the ribs with his finger and turned to his Vietnamese colleague and said, “This one is too fat. Nobody will want her.”

The Vietnamese colleague said, “She is fat now, but she will be much thinner in six weeks when she arrives.”

The bald ape blurted out a laugh.

Hang had been warned that the voyage on the ship would be cramped, with little time on deck. It would be a tough journey, but one they were told they would forget completely once they arrived in America.
Still, his cruel laugh—he is like the rats who live in the sewer. The sewer I must cross to America.

She risked glancing at the vulture. His face was cold, without expression. A slit under his beak cracked open and he said, “They are all okay. Get them to the ship.”

Moments later, Hang found herself crammed into the back of a large cube van. There was standing room only and she was glad that Ngoc Bích had remained by her side.

It was three hours later when they hurried up a wooden gangplank in the dark to the deck of a ship. The women were told to remain in the two groups they had been divided in. Each group was directed to a separate cargo hold.

They were told to climb down a ladder leading below deck and a man stood at the top of each ladder to help. Hang stooped to get on the ladder and felt the man grab the cheek of her buttock and squeeze tight while emitting a laugh.

Hang gasped but before she could respond, Ngoc Bích slapped the man hard across his face. He released his grip immediately and pulled back a fist to punch Ngoc Bích in the face. At the same time, another man's voice uttered a command from the darkness for them to be quiet.

The man who had grabbed Hang scowled and lowered his fist. He grabbed Hang by the arm and made her go with the second group of women. She quickly made her way down the ladder into the cargo hold and, along with the others, stood waiting for further instructions.

An hour passed and, following the shouts and commands from above, the diesel engines coughed and rumbled to life, causing the ship to shake before it slipped away from its moorage.

A crew member eventually came down the ladder and told them the cargo space they were in was their home for the next six weeks. He pointed to a plastic pail that they could use for a toilet and pieces of cardboard on the floor for them to lie on. Nobody would be allowed up on deck for two weeks, after which they may be allowed up on deck at night only. The passengers looked at each other in shock as the crew member climbed back up the ladder and closed the
cargo doors behind him.

Three of the young women started crying. Hang stared at them blankly for a moment before picking up a piece of cardboard and selecting a spot near the hull of the ship to lay it down. She was cold, even with her new coat, and brought her knees up close to her chest. She lay with her back to the hull, but felt the vibration of the ship's engines and readjusted the cardboard.

When she was settled once more, she stared at a black cord with a yellow light bulb that hung from above, swinging with the movement of the ship. The dim light did not hide the fear she saw in some of the faces around her. She wished Ngoc Bích had not slapped the crew member. She felt exhausted. Maybe later they would be allowed to be together ...

Hang suddenly awakened to the sound of someone vomiting beside her. She felt nauseous, too, and moaned, grabbing her head as a piercing pain reduced her vision to flashes of light. The smell of diesel was overwhelming and water had leaked in, turning much of the cardboard mattresses into soggy masses.

The woman who vomited faced a string of obscenities from another neighbour, which only brought more angry voices and commotion from others. Another woman climbed to the top of the ladder and yelled and pounded on the cargo door. From somewhere in the ship, Hang heard Ngoc Bích yelling and the pounding clang of metal being struck with a pipe.

The cargo doors were opened and the women rushed to stand beneath as fresh air and rain came in from above. The crew member took only the first few steps down the ladder before cursing and going back up. He returned a few minutes later and tossed down a mop while ordering another woman to bring up the plastic pail so that it could be dumped overboard.