Beauty Rising (8 page)

“How many times did that drunkard tell me about the beautiful girl he had his way with under the banana trees. The biggest piece of BS in the world. So just drop this whole ridiculous thing. Just drop it. I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

But Mom wasn’t there on his deathbed the night before he passed. Mom didn’t hear the sincerity, didn’t see the tears, didn’t hear the pleading. I felt bad for her that he would have ever told her that story. She didn’t deserve that nor did she deserve what Vietnam did to her husband. But I couldn’t change any of it. I couldn’t change his drinking rage, his belittling nature, or his crass talk about women. But I could fulfill his dying wish, which I intended to do even if it upset my mother. I had to do it.

“Mom, I know you aren’t going to like this. But listen to me. Honestly, I hated Dad. I loathed being around him. I hated everything about him – how he treated me – how he treated you. But on his deathbed, he was a different person. He talked to me for the first time like I was a man, like I was his son. And for the first time ever, he asked something of me. He wasn’t asking it out of his overwhelming need to belittle me and dominate me. He asked me out of humility because he needed my help. And I promised him that I would do it for him.”

“Promise,” my Mom said with disgust. “He never kept a promise in his life. Why should you care about a promise to him?”

“Because I’m not like him,” I said bluntly. “I refuse to be like him.”

I looked down at the tile for a minute. I had tears in my eyes. I just wanted to scream; I felt like the house was condemned and ready to collapse in around me. I never felt so smothered in all my life, but I was also never this determined.

“I will keep my promise. I leave for Vietnam on Friday.”

I turned and walked out of the kitchen.

“Do whatever the hell you want,” she yelled after me.

I would. I designated Thursday as the day to pack, and the first order of business was to figure out how to transport the ashes. I didn’t want to be separated from dad, so I thought I would need to carry it onto the plane. I got a two quart Rubbermaid container from the kitchen and thought that it would have to do. I hoped beyond anything that dad was no more than two quarts, even though that seemed like a very morbid thought. I put the plastic container on my bed and went into my closet, peered through my shirts to the small shelf hidden in the back where I had hid the urn. I carried it to my bed, opened the lid and stared intently at the grey fine ash. Then I poured the contents into the Rubbermaid; it filled up the whole container with just a little left over, which I left in the urn and put back on the shelf. Careful not to spill any ashes, I put the lid back on the container, sealed the whole thing with grey duct tape and placed it in my backpack. My carry-on was set.

Hanoi

“Excuse me, sir. Congratulations on eating the whole rack of ribs. For doing so, you get a free pint of beer,” said the thin Vietnamese waitress holding a glazed over mug topped with a frothy head.

“Oh, that’s nice. But I’m sorry, I don’t drink beer,” I said and looked over at Jason. “Jason?”

“Oh, no. Not me. My teaching organization forbids it, though I’m sure Tan can help us out and make sure it doesn’t go to waste.”

Tan grinned widely and reached out his hand.

“I’m happy to help,” he said as he took the beer and immediately began guzzling.

Jason and Tan were phenomenal friends to me. Maybe it was the rumbling of my stomach or my eyes which constantly wandered over to Jason’s stash of snacks, but one way or another they knew they needed to feed me. And that they did. They took me to one of Hanoi’s popular western restaurants and ordered me a whole rack of ribs. I must admit it hit the spot more than the green leafy grass and soup Tan got for me after we had left the police station in Thai Nguyen. After I downed the massive ribs, the heaping fries and four Cokes, my stomach purred beautifully. First time I felt full in three days due to travel and my country-side escapades. I didn’t know how to thank my gracious, accidental hosts. I felt indebted, but when I tried to thank them, they seemed almost embarrassed by my flattery.

After Tan finished the beer, we walked into the busy, broad avenue and the street lights greeted us as dusk closed in. Cars and motorbikes whizzed by at dizzying speeds, but Tan and Jason helped me dodge them effortlessly as we walked north for a block towards the glittering lights which illuminated the trees around Hanoi’s most famous lake.

“This is Hoan Kiem Lake,” Tan continued his history lesson. “It means Returned Sword Lake. There is a famous story about a giant turtle that lives in lake. One day the emperor…”

Tan talked as he always did. Jason asked clarifying questions about the story, and as I listened half-heartedly, I came to realize that I had been in Vietnam for nearly twelve hours but I had yet to experience or see Vietnam. My whole focus had been on fulfilling my dad’s wish, of which I had failed miserably. But now, for the first time, I began to look at Vietnam around me. This was certainly not the Vietnam that my dad experienced. But there was something vibrant about it. It had something that Lyndora did not – life. We crossed the street and started walking around the edge of the lake. People were everywhere doing everything. A group of old men sat under a lamp post playing Chinese chess. A steady stream of joggers weaved their way through the commotion. A group of boys carrying wooden boxes approached every foreigner asking if they wanted a shoe shine. Couples snuggled close on benches gazing at the lake, perhaps hoping for a turtle sighting. Sellers balanced a scale-like bamboo contraption over their shoulders hawking exotic fruit and fresh baked baguettes while others sold toothbrushes, toiletries, and toothpicks. One small boy tagged along with our threesome halfway around the lake imploring us to buy a pack of Wrigley’s gum off of him. The chaos overwhelmed my senses, and I became entranced by the ceaseless action and the unrelenting flow of people. Every few seconds I saw that girl, the one I had clung on to, the one who stole from me, the one with the innocent face and the smooth skin. The one that nearly smiled at me. There she went again, and again. Every thin face, every curved body, every long haired girl looked identical to her. I wished the girl, whom I had held in my tight grip, had smiled at me. What would I have done? My dad knew what to do when a girl smiled at him. I was not like my dad.

Magical. My heart stood squarely in a magical place. I could feel the swelling of my hands and the lump in my throat.
This is Vietnam. This is where my dad left his soul. This is where the girl smiled at him. This is where my dad will remain forever.

“Martin, you gotta try this place out. Best ice cream in the world. Come on.”

We crossed over the double lane, tree lined avenue and entered a small French ice cream shop tastefully decorated with black metal, curved chairs and small round, wooden tables. We chatted about nothing in particular as Jason ordered several different flavors for us to sample. I was particularly interested in the young women who sat mainly in small groups sharing a common sundae. They all looked so familiar. The raspberry sorbet lit up my mouth with such a bright, smooth and cold flavor that I quickly admitted that it was the best I had ever had. I had never thought about what I would find when I came to Vietnam because I treated this trip as my mission – nothing more. But in the matter of a few short hours, I had met some of my best friends, sampled some of the best ribs, licked some of the smoothest ice cream, and watched some of the prettiest girls. As we left the ice cream shop, the lights in the trees and from the buildings danced on the water.

“How you like Hanoi the capital?” asked Tan.

“It’s amazing,” I concluded.

“Tomorrow, I take you to some places in Hanoi, so you can see more, okay?”

“Sure. Anything you like.”

I had one more day to experience everything my dad never did.

American Soldiers in the North

The policemen at the station in Thai Nguyen did not tell the precise truth. They laughed at the prospect of American troops in the north during the war, and I played the part of the ignoramus for even suggesting my dad had served around Thai Nguyen. However, I learned that there were some American soldiers in the north during the war, just not in the capacity that I had envisioned.

Early the next morning, Tan picked me up at Jason’s university to take me around Hanoi on my last day in Vietnam. We first stopped for some breakfast when I sheepishly reminded him that I still didn’t have any money. He ordered two large bowls of “pho” with that same raw beef that I stared in horror at the day before. But this time, the onions, spices, and subtle chili flavor brought my taste buds alive. I dunked the raw pieces of beef in the piping hot soup and managed to slurp down my noodles using the ceramic spoon with quite a bit of enthusiasm. Life was different now compared with yesterday and so were the noodles.

Our first stop after breakfast was the flower village, which he excitedly told me had the wreckage of a B52 bomber. Sure enough, as he pulled off to the side of a small square lake surrounded by typical two and three story Vietnamese homes, rising out of the water stood the metal wreckage of a B52.

“Everyone calls this B52 Lake. We shot down the Americans and the plane crashed here, but the pilots all survived. Parachuted out. All of them captured and taken to Hoa Lo prison. We go there later,” said Tan. “You have camera? I can take picture for you.”

I didn’t even have a camera. I came here in such a rush that I really hadn’t thought through anything. I only wanted to comfort dad, which I hadn’t. I still felt sick about the ashes under the wrong banana tree.

I walked around the small pond looking intently at the three airplane tires still halfway jutting out of the water. They must have been sitting that way for more than forty years. The irony of it all seemed palpable. A B52 bomber is swallowed up by a lake, yet all the airmen survive. A single soldier jumps into a rice paddy only to be drowned in a hole left by a B52. I wondered if Johnson floated to the top after a while; perhaps his backpack stuck straight out of the water like the B52 wreckage. Perhaps the sole of his boots glimpsed the light of day like the airplane’s tires sat suspended over the murky water. I envisioned my dad hanging on to the side of the rice paddy thinking about his dead friend just feet away.

“Lots of American pilots shot down around here,” Tan woke me out of my trance. “You don’t have a camera?”

“No.”

“That stolen too?”

“No.”

“How come you spend so much money to come to Vietnam but only spend two days and don’t bring a camera?”

“There was something I had to do.”

“I know. You had to find banana trees by a lake in Tay Nguyen,” Tan laughed. I didn’t think it was particularly funny. “I never understand Americans. I like Americans. I do. Mr. Jason, he’s a good friend of mine. But sometimes I don’t understand him. On Tet New Year, he comes to my house for a meal, but he shows up wearing short pants and shirt with no sleeve. Very strange. That’s clothes for sleeping not for visiting. How come you don’t wear short pants? All Americans wear short pants. Maybe you are too fat,” he answered his own question.

I had to keep reminding myself how grateful I was for Tan.

“Let’s go. Nothing more to see here. We will go to Ba Dinh Square. Only one kilometer from here.”