The Sorrow of War (19 page)

That was as far as he got. Kien had sprayed his face with boiling coffee and sat waiting quiedy for Leather Jacket's response. An awkward silence fell on the room, broken only by a snort and a snore from Vuong, who had fallen asleep at his table.

"Why tomorrow, you stinking shit? Now will do," said Kien.

Leather Jacket started to waver. "Right, right. Just ask Phuong. I'm Hung. She knows me. I taught her some good modern music, and how to really enjoy screwing," he said.

Kien moved in on him, punching first, then crunching Leather Jacket's head with a chair. As he fell Kien grabbed him and violendy shredded his clothes, pounding his head repeatedly on the floor. When Leather Jacket had had enough, Kien dragged him outside on the pavement. He was ramming Leather Jacket's bloody head into a sewer outlet when the police arrived and tried to pull him off. Kien turned on them in a blind rage and began shaping up to fight them, thinking they were Leather Jacket's buddies.

The police released him the next morning. They said they had no wish to charge him.They'd seen enough of the veterans.

Kien had just returned from the station and stepped inside his room when Phuong came in. He asked how she knew about it so quickly.

"His friends told me," she said.

Drunk. What a night that had been. Now, many years later, he was welcomed by the owner. That disastrous, bloody fight had been forgotten.The prosperous-looking host now embraced him, shouting for everyone to hear, "Kien, Kien, the famous writer!"

His war buddies were proud of him now, too.

He looked over at the prostitute who'd started drinking Maxim and pretended to be so worldly. She was out to the world, her head on the table. He dropped some money on the table and left her there.

His watch had stopped, but he guessed a tram was due and would ratde along soon enough. Sure enough, one came into view in the distance, its bell clanging and its wheels throwing sparks. It was the tram old Huynh had driven before he retired. The old man had lived in the same building, and by sheer coincidence one of his three sons killed in the war had been with Kien when he died. Kien had edged away from this memory as much as he could, for he felt so deeply sorry for the old man. But riding the same tram, it was inevitable that at times the memories would return.

Huynh sometimes left at first light, sometimes after lunch. His driving shifts were irregular, but he was as regular as clockwork. He looked down when he walked, as though he was afraid of treading on his shadow. His only children, three sons, were all drafted into the army, and they had all been killed in action.The middle one,Toan, had died in front of Kien's eyes, but he'd never told father Huynh that terrible story. When news of the third son's death arrived Huynh's wife had fallen sick and become paralyzed, and now the old couple lived miserably, in silence.

He had chatted with Kien sometimes, speaking as though Toan were still alive. Phuong would have been their daughter-in-law, said the old man. When you were both children, the old man confided, Toan's mother chose Phuong to be her son's wife because she was so lovely. Kien let this news slip by without challenge.They apparently had not known how close Kien and Phuong were in their school days.Toan had never stood a chance with Phuong.

When he was driving, Huynh had let all the children ride free. In those times the trams had been clean and kept in good condition. Not tattered and rusted, like now. The children would crowd up front, and sometimes the old man would let them ring the bell or push a pedal.

Kien sat on the rattling tram slowly taking him home after his coffee-shop evening, remembering those days. Kien, Phuong,Toan, and Sinh were all in the same class and had become close friends, often riding the tram for fun. Once they'd gone to the old terminus in the suburbs, an area not yet built over.

In a paddock near the terminus there was an old tram-car they used to play in. During one game Phuong and Kien had hidden in one of the compartments and she had embraced him, kissing him on his cheeks and his eyes with childish, thirteen-year-old passion.

They were interrupted by a sobbing voice: Toan had seen them and had blocked their way. "What are you doing?" he challenged.

"Go and hide!" responded Phuong, thinking quickly. "We're playing hide-and-seek."

"Liar!" he said to her. "I saw you."

"Don't carry on,Toan.We'll play husband and wife, just don't tell anyone if you want to play," Phuong replied.

"Can't. Not with three people."

"Idiot. Sure you can. I'm warning you, don't tell on us," she repeated.

On the tram back Phuong and Kien sat together, but Toan stood near his father, blubbering. Huynh asked,"Have you been fighting?"

"No, Daddy."

"Why are you crying, then?" Toan didn't answer.

Phuong sighed. "Don't worry," she said, "he won't tell."

Half a lifetime later Toan and Kien had been together, almost by accident, on the final day of fighting just before the attack on Saigon airport on 30 April 1975.

They were at Gate 5, Tan Son Nhat. Toan was on the machine gun mounted on an armored car. Kien, an infantry scout, stayed under cover by tracking behind a T54 tank. Fifteen minutes into the action they saw each other and wildly shouted to each other in greeting.

As they finished waving, an antitank rocket fired by the defenders missed the tank Kien was using for protection and whistled past him, scoring a direct hit on Toan's armored car, blowing it into pieces, incinerating Toan and his entire crew.

The tram turned into Kien's street, ending both his physical journey and his journey into the past with Toan, and with Phuong. As he alighted from the tram he automaticaDy looked up to her window, hoping to see the teenage Phuong there, repeating those urgent little love cries she used to utter. But she was not there, of course. She'd long gone, from that teenage world and from the adult world. She had now departed from both of his worlds.

Nothing would ever bring her back. He had exhausted his tears on her. He had suffered through the nights when she had openly tormented him or brought in other lovers. Storming into her room could never have helped things. Drinking until dead drunk to remove traces of her was equally futile. It was over.

Kien had volunteered for the army in the spring of 1965 and got his call-up papers in the autumn. After three months training, he had been ordered to go south with the 36th

Battalion.There had been ten recruits from Hanoi, so when they arrived at Hanoi station on their way through to South Vietnam, the commander gave the ten Hanoi boys a three-hour break to go home and see their families. In those days no special-leave passes were issued and progress south was usually made between bombing raids. When President Johnson halted his bombing from time to time, the army would seize the opportunity and ship soldiers south.

The commander, who had brought his new troops from Yen The, ordered the ten Hanoi boys to return by 6:30 P.M. to catch the troop train. That gave them two and a half hours to visit their families. Any man one minute late back to the station would be considered a deserter, he said. The boys shouted their thanks and departed.

Kien rushed into the street with his group and hitched a ride on a flatbed truck, whose driver hardly slowed when any of the boys needed to jump off. Going into Kien's street he showed even less concern for his cargo, forcing Kien to leap clear onto the road from the moving vehicle. He landed heavily and rolled, twisting his ankle. By the time he reached his front gate he was limping, and in pain.

Taking a breath, he held on to the front gate and stared around. His street was deserted. All the houses looked empty and there was no sign of life in his own building.The population appeared to have been evacuated.

Most of the windows of his building had been boarded up.The front yard, where children were usually playing, was deserted and there was not a soul at the community water tap, which was truly unusual. There were a few old rags hanging on clothespoles, giving the entire place an even more forlorn look.

Few families had remained in Hanoi. Most buildings had been locked. Notes were left pinned on doors, others

written in chalk out front. These public messages, from wives to husbands, mothers to children, served as public notice boards. But there were no lines, no notes from Phuong for him. Nor had he received a letter from her while he'd been in training camp. The front door was unlocked, so he quietly stepped in and began climbing the stairs to his apartment on the third floor. He stood outside the blue door, looking at the huge brass padlock. Of course! Phuong had his key on a string around her neck. She wore it like a necklace. He looked around for a pen and paper or chalk to write a line for her, but saw none, so turned and began trudging downstairs.

"Hello, fighter," said a man's voice, startling Kien. It was Huan, Sinh's brother, a worker at the Yen Phu power station. Kien, pressed for time, apologized to Huan for not coming to his apartment and asked where everyone was. His school friend Sinh had been admitted to the university, said Huan. Everyone else had been evacuated, he said, but they were all safe.

"I wonder if they'll bomb Hanoi," Huan asked. But Kien did not respond, realizing then that he had come only to see Phuong and that no one else mattered. He turned and waved good-bye in the same movement, not even telling Huan he was off to the front. Huan ran after him. "Kien, I forgot. Did you want to find Phuong? I know you're close to her."

"Yes. Where is she? And her mother?"

"Her mother died—about a month ago.They're evacuating students from the university, and Phuong's had to drop everything and go. I think she's at the station. I saw her heading that way with her school satchel."

"Are you sure it's the station?" asked Kien, grabbing him.

"All she said was,'Look after the apartment. I've got to go.' That's all I know."

Kien made his way to the station on foot, ignoring the pain in his ankle.The platforms were crowded, with soldiers and civilians intermingling. People rushed helter-skelter, brushing past with luggage, climbing on trains that were departing in quick succession. Hundreds of people could be seen in each passenger car and on roofs, on steps, blocking all possible entrances, forcing new arrivals to climb in through windows. It seemed hopeless.

Panic began to set in. Kien pushed angrily through the crowds, asking himself: Which line? The train to Highway 5? North to Lao Cai? Which damned compartment, in which car, on which train?

He struggled from platform to platform for another ten minutes before stopping, exhausted, letting himself be buffeted around as he rested.

He found himself standing on Platform i, near the Thai Nguyen train, which was about to leave.The university was evacuating students and studies would continue in a rural area. The long train looked like a multisectioned python covered with aggressive forest ants.

From the last compartment of the final car there appeared the face of a handsome young man who seemed to be looking at Kien. No, he was looking past him and shouting,"Come on! What are you waiting for? No one can get seats."

The young man continued looking in Kien's direction. "What the hell are you staring at, Phuong? Get a move on!" he shouted angrily.

A sudden pain stabbed at Kien. He looked slowly to his right, and there she was. "Phuong!"

Suddenly she seemed to be the only person on the platform. She was standing perfectly still, staring at him with

her lovely big eyes wide open in surprise. Her long hair flowed over her forehead and cheek and twined in the shoulder strap of her satchel. Suddenly the young man reached out and pulled at her arm."Are you crazy? Get in!"

She shook him free and stepped out of his reach. The train began to move off, bearing him with it. He was still shouting angrily as the train took him away.

When the train had gone Phuong seemed to snap out of her reverie and broke into a big smile. "What incredible luck!" she exclaimed, taking his hand and moving away from the lines. "Let's go. We were lucky to catch each other."

The small disquiet that arose as he saw the young man staring fiercely at him as the train pulled away stopped Kien for a moment. But the importance of the occasion was too great, and he damped down the feeling and was soon immersed in the wondrous company of his beautiful Phuong. She was speaking to him as they pushed their way through the crowd, but he could hardly hear a word. He took her school satchel and held her hand, leading her outside.

"Let's go back home," she said, "have dinner together, then go for a walk. You look terrific in that uniform." She babbled on happily. "Don't think they'll cut the power tonight. Most people are away.What's wrong with you?" she asked in the same breath, suddenly noticing his anxiety.

"I'm going to the front," he said quickly, getting the bad news out. As he said it he realized that for the first time he was experiencing a little of what was to come in being apart from Phuong. He grew hoarse, more words would not come. It meant being hundreds of miles away down south; he would be completely powerless to return to her.

She stood still, taking it all in. "Can't be helped," she said quietly. "Look, we can go home and get back here by six-thirty. We'll burn an incense stick and say a prayer for your dad and my mother. Let's get a cyclo, we'll make it."

Phuong called a pedicab and quickly bargained. "Twenty minutes," she told the driver. "Do it faster and I'll pay extra."