Listen, Slowly (23 page)

I can tell he’s insulted the guard has not confided in him. The more upset he gets, the clearer his words. It’s mean to wish the detective would remain upset, but that’s what I’m wishing.

We inch forward and stop, inch forward and stop. The bigger the vehicle the more you’re disadvantaged in this traffic. Compared to Hà Nội, Sài Gòn has more of everything. More drivers, more pedestrians, more shops, more noises, more telephone lines, more police, more stoplights, more girls in the tight, short cocktail dresses. Actually, no one dressed like this up north. The few who do here really pop out. Are they wearing thongs? They all wear masks and elbow gloves, of course, then it’s all about exposed legs and arms. I notice Bà tries to not look at them. In Laguna, she had warned Mom to pack baggy pants for me, as not to show the shape of my butt, something no girl in her day would ever do. Now her old world has Las Vegas influences.

The same architect who designed up north must have come south because stacked rectangular houses rule here too. The bottom levels are used as shops. We just passed one house that somehow inserted rows of houseplants between the brick layers on the sides of the house, creating long, airy windows. It looks like it might even be cool inside. Maybe with a ceiling fan and a glass of lemonade, I could see myself living there.

We ride long enough for me and the detective to fall asleep. It’s obvious he didn’t sleep much last night either. We wake when the van stops. From the alarm in Bà’s eyes, she recognizes this area.

“Here is Củ Chị?”

“I agree this region stirs deep emotions, but he left his message nowhere else
.”

I hold Bà’s hand. It’s sweaty, a first. I’ve never seen Bà sweat. Her eyes scan a land green again with bushes and vines. I wonder what Bà is thinking, but her eyes seem so far away I don’t dare speak. We step into mud from the recent rain, and Bà squeezes my hand.

“Ông đã đi trên đất này,”
Ông had touched this same earth, Bà says, adding that the ground would have been dusty and worn, but Ông was indeed here during a dry season all those years ago.

A man in uniform comes out and bows to Bà. She barely nods. I sense she has paused her mind and her heart, holding in emotions, until she understands enough to release them. I don’t know what to think or feel either.

Right then, another van pulls up, honking so much I’m embarrassed. The door opens and . . . Dad. I run over, slipping on mud, all my resentment evaporating. We throw ourselves into the tightest hug ever.

“Mai Mai, I’m so sorry. I never meant for you to shoulder this much on your own.” Dad looks at me, really looks at me, with such intense eyes that to release the overwhelming emotions, I laugh. He hugs me again. “It’s all right, everything is okay.”

I believe him. We don’t have time for my hundreds of questions because the man in uniform is waiting for us. We join Bà and the detective and the guard, whom I’m just now noticing. I wave; he waves back. Bà and I, on each side of Dad, lean into him.

Dozens of boys and men, each holding a shovel, watch us, nodding as if in approval. The man in uniform steps up to Dad.

“I apologize for the primitive nature of our operation, but I only received permission to widen the passage by twenty-five centimeters on each side, just enough to fit one pulley. We added two ventilating fans to aid in breathing. Otherwise, we have left this obscure part of the tunnels intact
.
This is not where our tours are conducted. I can report no one has been in this part since the war’s end.”

I’m sure when he said “tunnels,” Bà flinched. I’m so anxious I feel sick.

He brings us to a round hole in the ground, barely big enough for one person. Yet fresh dirt surrounds the mouth, meaning it was even smaller before being enlarged for us.

Addressing Bà, he says,
“I shall crawl in first, then assist you down. Don’t worry, it’s not a deep hole. Once in, I ask you to sit on a plank with your head as low as possible. Another staffer will crawl behind you to push while I pull. Prepared?”

Bà seems to be in a dream. I have to yank the tail of her blouse, hard.

“Con đi,”
am going, I say it firmly to convey it’s not an option. Did she not realize he did not mention me?

Bà finally is alarmed.
“Cháu phải đi,”
she must go, meaning me.

The man scowls and calls the detective over. They negotiate with the detective’s hands permanently held in a pleading gesture. It’s not going well.

I raise my hand like in class. They stop talking.

“Con xin theo Bà của con để được gặp Ông.”
I don’t know where the words came from, but I think I said please allow me to go with Bà so I can meet Ông. I don’t look away from the uniformed man like I’m supposed to but smile at him with the same sadness I’ve seen on Bà thousands of times.

The man blinks. He must have relatives who went missing during the war and I bet he’s still wondering what happened to them.

“Speak to no one of this
.
Permission was granted for the wife, that was all.”

I stand close to Bà before he can change his mind. Dad steps up behind me, while the detective squeezes in behind him. The guard comes running over to make the tail. Good for him! The officer throws up his hands and scrunches his face. Dad approaches him, and after a tense talk and an offering of a white envelope, the officer walks away.

The guard climbs down first. Then Dad, who supports Bà into the tunnel as the detective and I help her from above. I see her on a wooden plank just wide and long enough for her to sit and pull up her knees. The plank has wheels and a cushion and can be pulled by a rope. To be old in this country! They pull her into the tunnel, making room for me. I jump down and suck in a breath from the shock of the heat. I hear fans blowing, but it’s still really really hot, smelling of mold and rot and the earth and a strange floral scent, just sprayed. Once down, I get on my hands and knees to fit through the crawl space. I’ve never been so grateful for pants that cover my knees. Maybe I won’t throw them away, after all. The detective comes in after me.

We move up when Dad pulls and I push Bà’s plank, its wheels creaking and cracking in the semidarkness. I barely push because Dad is superstrong, pulling and crawling while following the guard holding a flashlight. A long and narrow passage stretches out ahead of us. I can hear sighs from the detective, holding his own flashlight.

The damp and lumpy earth has ragged roots that poke through the soil, puncturing my knees. I ignore the pain. A few extra inches have been newly scraped on each side and above me. How narrow was it before? I try to breathe evenly, sucking in hot air each time I push the plank forward. It’s not a smooth ride. The wheels bump over jagged clay, but Bà does not utter a single sigh. Once, I placed a palm on Bà’s back, but her breathing sped up at my touch so I yanked my hand back. Our breaths and the
crick-crack
of the wheels mingle in the echo of the tunnel. I wish I could see Bà’s face or hold her hand. She must be thinking of Ông crawling through this same passage. I think she just sucked in a sad breath.

We crawl and the guard calls out, “One meter.” I push, breathe, crawl. “Two meters.” Push, breathe, crawl. A meter equals 3.28 feet. After what seems like a long long time, my palms ached and knees scraped, the guard announces, “One more meter.” Eleven in all, thirty-six feet, over six times my height. I’m exhausted.

The guard jumps down into a bigger space where he can stand, then Dad, who helps Bà. I hand him her plank. I jump down, grateful to stretch my frame upward, fully. How do you live for years where the ordinary act of standing becomes a luxury? And yet an entire army did.

Bà stands between me and Dad, each of us cradling one of her arms to keep her strong. I reach up and touch the ceiling, clay, roots, twisting together into nature’s cement. I yank free a clump of clay and press it into Bà’s hand. Something Ông might have touched. Bà leans into me, a warm, welcome weight.

Inside the earth, the darkness is so dark it feels suffocating. I open my mouth to suck in stale, scorching air. Still, it’s precious circulated air, something Ông did not have. I force myself to stop thinking about what Ông thought or did or said to pass the many many hours in the putrid darkness. It’s too much.

The detective comes down the hole with his own flashlight.

“What message could possibly have survived here?”
Dad asks.

The guard answers by gliding his light along the dirt wall closest to us, then to a corner, keeps going, another corner, a wall, a corner, back to us. We’re in a square.

“What is your light seeking?”
Bà asks.

“It’s here. I saw it when we tested the passageway and I alone reached this storage chamber.”

The guard swivels his light faster and higher along the walls. The detective’s light follows his.

“Ah, here,”
they both say.

Both lights now shine directly on the wall farthest from us. Marks have been scraped into the wall, leaving ragged holes. Bà sees something and stands taller.

The guard directs,
“Come at it from an angle. We need shadows to read it
.”

Both lights now beam from the right, illuminating the holes to be alphabet letters scraped into the dirt by a shaky hand. A lot of letters. Each one stands on its own and for a second I think it’s a code to be read only by Bà. But the more I stare the more obviously the letters are grouped together with upper cases and those tiny marks:
aưM tạH gnừT . . 
.

“No, shine from the left to the right.”

The two beams glide along the wall in unison and point from the opposite angle.

I hear Bà suck in a breath.

She mumbles as she follows the beams of light,
“Mong Nhớ Em Ðếm Từng Hạt Mưa.”

I hear a wondrous “ah” as she reaches out a hand in the near darkness toward the writing.

I try not to breathe too hard, wishing that myself and the others could disappear so Bà can reread her letter in private. Read from the left, no one can mistake the familiar line Ông had written in every letter home, the line that came alive each time he called their children’s names, the line that ached with longing for his wife as he counted his last years, months, weeks, and days.

Bà walks toward the words with Dad and me supporting her on each side. One light shows us where to step, the other illuminates our destination. Bà first, then I, then Dad, reach up and combine our hands and retrace each letter, imagining Ông scraping each line into the earth. It must have taken a long, long time, each letter and tiny mark chiseled into the rocklike clay with a stump of wood and a piece of metal.

While I stand there, nothing else matters, not the heat, the air, or the stench rising above a floral spray. Nothing matters as long as I can hear Bà’s breathing elongate into full, satisfied breaths.

The crawl back doesn’t seem half as long. Once out, I want to hug the natural air. Clean, fresh, and real. Bà thanks the detective and guard with words I don’t understand and hands them each a white envelope. When they resist, she points to her heart.

Next, she and Dad approach the dozens of hired laborers nearby and hand twenty dollars to each. She bows, and every laborer returns the gesture.

The guard waits for us at the van. Before I can tell him thank you, Bà takes him aside for private words. It’s pointless to spy because the detective can see me and he has no problems yelling at nosy children. He looks lighter, taller, the way I feel when I finish a long, difficult science project.

The guard walks away. His thin frame recedes from me and suddenly I see his wrinkly face twist back with a slight smile, aimed at me. We wave our final farewell.

An exhausted Dad falls asleep on the ride back. He looks like he hasn’t been taking care of himself, cheeks sunken in, hair matted to his forehead. I’ll have to help him clean up before Mom sees him.

During the long ride, Bà stares straight ahead. I know better than to disturb her. But once Bà reaches for my hand and pats it.

“Mãn nguyện, mãn nguyện.”

I’ve never heard her use such words but from the serene look in her eyes she has been waiting to say these two words for a long long time.

A
fter one night of rest, I realize we could fly home right now. We’re done. Dad doesn’t say much but waits for Bà and me to decide. Bà doesn’t say much but waits for me. Finally, all the planets and stars have aligned so that I get to name my ticket.

Dad even hands me his laptop to check for return flights. There are lots of flights to LAX, any time we’re ready we can go. I’m ready! While on the internet, I email Mom the longest, drippiest letter. I know she’s going to print it out and keep it. I write her even though Dad has told her everything. I write because I want to.

Then I can’t help it, I click open my FB page. Yep, more butt bows and more Montana and HIM. But my heart doesn’t jump. It could be the distance but I can’t seem to get worked up about a triangle that, like so many other triangles, will eventually solve itself and life goes on.

I have friend requests. I click and can’t believe it, one is from HIM, weeks ago. OMG, I’ve been here for thirty-one days. That’s like a record. Of course, I confirm HIS request. I also have messages. I click and can’t believe it, one is from HIM: “C U whn U get bk, Kevin.”

I take back every mature, philosophical thought I just had about triangles. I’m still so interested in mine. Wow, a message from Kevin. His name in print. Whoever thought to put those five letters together in that order is a genius.

I’m about to read out the flight options.

And yet.

Bà has not let go of the clump of clay from the tunnel. It has stained her hand red, flaking into tiny bits. She doesn’t say, but I see a wish in her eyes.

“Bà muốn gì,”
I ask her what she wants.

She takes a long time to think, debating whether to tell me.

I ask her to tell me.

“I would like to bring Ông to a final peace in his village, where his ancestors can watch over him as he drifts toward his next life. He has been unable to part from us as I have in selfishness been claiming him. Given a proper resting place, he will be able to bid farewell and resume the journeys of his being.”