The Headmaster's Wager (53 page)

Percival nodded, and went out. The light was fading fast. He hurried back to Cholon, struggled with his leg to get back before the curfew. A week later, Percival and Laing Jai slipped out of the house early in the morning and took a long and circuitous route to make sure that they were not followed. When they got to Mrs. Ling's house, she offered excellent
teet goon yum
tea for Percival and a cold Fanta with a straw for Laing Jai. His eyes lit up as he took the precious treat in both hands.

Mrs. Ling regarded Laing Jai. She said, “Do you remember me?”

“No,” said Laing Jai. Percival cringed. Laing Jai had met Mrs. Ling at the Cercle Sportif, of course, but that was a world away. The boy took a tiny sip of his soda, determined to make it last.

“Good,” said Mrs. Ling. “It's better that you don't remember me from before. I was a friend of your mother's.”

“I miss her so much,” said Laing Jai, his face now lit up. “If you are her friend, have you heard from her? Tell her I love her, and I wish she would write from America.”

“
Gwai jai
,” said Mrs. Ling, and then pursed her lips. She donned a syrupy smile. “Your English is good, for such a young boy.”

Laing Jai waited for her to say something more, and when she did not, he looked down. Percival thought Laing Jai might begin to cry, but instead he contained the emotion he was feeling and sipped his Fanta. He gave his attention to the drink, held it with two hands.

“Do you want cookies?” Mrs. Ling asked. Laing Jai nodded, and Mrs. Ling brought coconut biscuits from the kitchen—a luxury Percival had not even seen in the market since liberation, never mind being able to offer them to Laing Jai.

Mrs. Ling produced a thick envelope. She shook the contents out on the table. There was a set of American dog tags, photographs, and letters with American stamps.

“These are some mementoes of Lieutenant Michaels, U.S. Marines helicopter pilot. He had a lover, Pham, and they had a son, Truong. Lieutenant Michaels served from '67 to '69—two tours, highly decorated. Then he was back and forth between America and Saigon, working for an American bank. Soon after the Paris Peace Accord, he was killed in a car crash in Michigan. So sad, to be killed at home after so many dangerous missions in the jungle. It is doubly sad, for he had planned to bring Pham and Truong to America. He promised to do so, in the letters.”

She handed a photo to Percival. “This was taken a couple of years ago. This boy certainly could have grown to look like yours.”

“Yes,” said Percival, as he examined the image. Truong and Laing Jai both showed their foreign blood. Both had slightly wavy chestnut hair and soft, rounded eyes. He leafed through the stack of letters, little bundles of photos, documents in official envelopes. “What is all this for?”

“I even have love letters that Lieutenant Michaels wrote—very sweet and touching. I bought this, at a high price,” said Mrs. Ling, “from Pham's parents. She and Truong were killed in the last days of the liberation. These documents will not help them. You see, there are some Americans who do care about their bastard children. They have learned how bad things are for their soldiers' offspring, how the North
Vietnamese beat them to death. So they help their
métis
, whom they call Amerasians. To make themselves feel better. Children fathered by Americans can leave on airplanes, and so can their mothers.”

Mrs. Ling pointed out a photo, this with Truong in the arms of a burly American, Pham tiny beside him. “She is pretty, isn't she? She and I look alike, don't we?” The girl was younger than Mrs. Ling, but the bones of their faces had a strong resemblance. Mrs. Ling looked younger than she really was, and the war would have aged Pham. It could be pulled off.

Percival put his tea down. “You have everything, except a boy.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Ling. “I will be Pham, the child's mother. He will be Truong. I have been waiting for the right boy, and perhaps you have brought him to me.”

Percival thought of switching to Teochow, but then continued in Cantonese, which Laing Jai understood. “So then the price I would pay for Laing Jai to escape safely on an airplane … is Laing Jai.”

Mrs. Ling nodded. She turned to Laing Jai. She spoke to the boy in English, and asked him to describe Mr. Peters. Laing Jai did so—spoke of his blue eyes, his loud voice. She asked him what Peters liked to eat in the morning, and what he liked to drink at night. She asked him what kinds of things Peters said when he was happy, or upset. Laing Jai answered precisely in good English. Laing Jai chose one biscuit at a time, trying to be polite, and yet he had almost devoured the whole plate already.

Mrs. Ling turned to Percival. “There are thousands of
métis
boys, but I need a boy like yours, not some poor wretch from the street. They conduct interviews to make sure they are evacuating the right people. Even in charity, they are picky. I need a boy who can remember an American, describe an American, and speaks English as well as Truong would have. Most children who would be suitable have a mother here. Laing Jai is perfect.” She turned to Laing Jai. “Do you think you can play a game of pretend? ”

“What is it?” The plate sat empty.

“Pretend that everything you remember of Mr. Peters is what you remember of Lieutenant Michaels. He was an American who loved
me. You are our child. You pretend that I am your
mama
. If you can play this game, we can leave by airplane.”

“But I have a
mama
,” said Laing Jai, his voice fading at the end. Laing Jai looked at Percival to see if this was what he wished.

Percival nodded at Laing Jai with both sadness and hope. “If you can play the game well, we will go to America.”

Laing Jai said in English, “Just by playing this game?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Ling. “As long as we pass the tests. This game has tests, called interviews. But it is easy—you don't have to study. Just remember, until we are on the airplane, I am your
mama
. Lieutenant Michaels is your
baba
. Whatever you remember of Peters—”

“Is Michaels.” Laing Jai swirled the bottle of soda, in which he had rationed the last sip. The orange fluid spun around at the bottom, fizzing as it circled. “And what about my real
baba
?” said the boy, turning now to Percival. “How can he come with us, if
baba
Michaels is dead in America? ”

“He is very smart, isn't he?” Mrs. Ling drummed her nails on her chair. She said to the boy, “Would you like another soda? Go into the kitchen. Ask one of the girls for a Fanta. Cookies, too.” Obediently, Laing Jai went.

She looked at Percival. “If you agree, you will come to America later. By boat.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Do you have a better option?”

Laing Jai darted back into the room towards Percival with a fresh soda and a plate of biscuits, sucking on a straw. Percival clasped the boy to him. “You see, there are not so many seats on the plane,” said Percival. He must be as brave as the boy and hold back any tears. “I will come later, by boat, and you will go by airplane. I will meet you in America. It's a good game, a wonderful game. You will play it perfectly.”

Mrs. Ling held out her hand, beckoned. Laing Jai shrank back and hid behind Percival's chair. He said, “If that's how it is, I don't want to play that game,
baba
.”

“It's what
mama
wants you to do. It is what she wants, and what I want. It's the best thing, I promise,” said Percival desperately. He
pulled Laing Jai around and put him on his lap. “I will go on the boat, which is a little slower, but it goes to the same place.”

That night, as Percival put Laing Jai to bed, Laing Jai wept and pleaded that he didn't want to go without
baba
. Percival shushed him, and settled the sheets around him. He said, “Maybe you are scared to be alone?”

“Yes.”

“Here's a secret. Whenever you dream, I will be with you. If you go to sleep every night and think of me, I will see you in America every night.” Laing Jai gripped his hand tightly, and eventually it relaxed. Once the boy was asleep, it was Percival's turn to weep.

LAING JAI LEARNED THE ROLE OF
Lieutenant Michaels' son perfectly. Percival snuck him out to Saigon several times a week during the siesta, and when he was practising, Mrs. Ling fed them well. Percival was happy to see the boy gaining weight, and felt some of his own strength return. Laing Jai and Mrs. Ling underwent three rounds of interviews with the USAID officials, and each time Mrs. Ling reported with satisfaction that the boy had been clear and charming in describing Peters' quirks as those of Michaels. “An all-American boy,” she laughed, and tousled his hair.

After round three, the USAID officials were satisfied that they were dealing with Pham and Truong, the surviving family of Lieutenant Michaels of the U.S. Marines. American visas and air tickets were issued for Pham and Truong, complete with new identity papers that had officially stamped photos taken by the USAID photographer.

As she had promised, Mrs. Ling arranged and paid for Percival's escape by boat. She fixed it so that Percival would be smuggled out of Saigon on the night that he left Laing Jai with her. It was safest to do it this way, so that when the
can bo
thought to look for them, they would all be gone.

On the appointed day, when the afternoon classes of the Revolutionary School were in progress and Percival judged that the
can bo
was having his siesta, he roused Laing Jai from his afternoon nap.

“Let's go—quietly,” said Percival.

“Yes,
baba
,” said Laing Jai. “Are we going to an interview?”

Percival took Laing Jai's clean white shirt and blue cotton pants from the armoire and placed them in a rough sack. Laing Jai had dressed in plain clothes for the interviews, but Percival wanted him to arrive in America properly dressed.

Percival had not told Laing Jai that he and Mrs. Ling would be flying the next day—it was safer that he didn't know, in case they were stopped and questioned.

Sewn into Laing Jai's good pants was the letter Cecilia had sent from America. In a concealed pocket that he had sewn within his own trousers, Percival had the one true letter from Dai Jai and a photo of Jacqueline. In his jacket pocket, he had the residency permit for himself and Laing Jai, but that was just in case they were stopped on the way to Saigon. Soon the boy would become Truong, the child of Pham and Lieutenant Michaels, and Percival would be making an escape attempt from which no document could rescue him if he was discovered.

Percival closed the door of their room silently behind them. Pulled it tight. They slipped down the stairs, down the hallway, to the front door. They stepped out. Percival eased the front door shut, grasped Laing Jai's hand, and they walked along in the shadows of buildings, alongside the barren square. The church's doors were chained shut. None of the priests had returned from their re-education. A few monks stood on the steps, though people were wary of them now, for some said they informed to the
can bo
. Since the incident at the zoo, Percival had not seen the one-eyed monk of whom he had once been fond. On the site of the old post office, a drab cinder-block cube now stood as the neighbourhood food ration office, built without windows to prevent theft. There were no rations today, and it was quiet.

Percival kept his eyes ahead, did not look at the houses and shops that had all once belonged to people he knew. Now, many of the voices that came from within them were unfamiliar. The Chinese owners had been sent away and the houses given to Northern Vietnamese. The strangest absence was the lack of vendors and hawkers in the square. Something pulled at Percival and he had a peculiar thought,
that the Gold Mountain was behind them. At the corner, seeing that no one was nearby, Percival turned back once, saw Chen Hap Sing, already small from across the square. He looked at the house that his father had once built. It came as a surprise, this sharp ache, that he would miss the house, Cholon, even Vietnam. Then they turned the corner and walked away.

Laing Jai said, “Are we going on our trip,
baba
?”

“Shh … 
gum laik
.” So clever.

They went in the direction of the market, away from Saigon. Percival had planned a cautious detour. There was hardly anything for sale in the stalls, so he knew it would not appear suspicious that they did not buy anything. When Percival was satisfied that no one was following them, he and Laing Jai took a circuitous route to Mrs. Ling's house. It was dusk when they arrived.

She opened the door with relieved smile. “You are later than I thought you would be,” she said to Percival. She turned to the boy. “Tell me our game.”

“I am Truong Michaels,” said Laing Jai. “My father was Lieutenant Michaels, Marine helicopter pilot. He loved to dance the twist. After his tours in Vietnam, he worked in banking, here in Saigon. He went home to America and was arranging to send for my mother and me. He died in a tragic automobile crash. Now, my greatest wish is to go to the land of my father.”

Mrs. Ling clapped excitedly. “
Gwai jai!
” She showed them into the neat side room in the back of the house where they had practised Laing Jai's game and where he would sleep for a few hours. Their flight was early in the morning. She brought them big bowls of food—barbequed pork and vegetables on rice. When they had finished, Laing Jai said, “
Baba
, there is only one bed here.”

“I won't be sleeping here,” said Percival. “I have to set out tonight, to meet the boat. You will leave before dawn. I will see you in America.”

Laing Jai's face collapsed. “But
baba
, I don't want to go on the plane without you.”

“But that is the game. You remember.”