The Eaves of Heaven (3 page)

A
LETTER
came from Tan one afternoon. My landlady gave it to me when I returned from my classes. I took it down to the beach, where I now swam daily. The evening fishermen hadn’t stirred from their naps to prepare their boats. A group of children played on a wrecked skiff far to the south. I sat on the sand and opened the letter. There was a photograph of Tan, grinning, the Eiffel Tower in the background. Tan said he wasn’t tall enough to be a pilot so they transferred him to Morocco for aircraft mechanic training. It was the time of his life. A virgin when he left home, Tan was now drinking whisky, dancing in clubs, and sleeping with bar girls. Women were fantastic, he wrote; not all of them were like the working girls we had seen up north. He urged me to start dating. He said life was passing me by. It made me chuckle to imagine Tan carousing in the bars, wrist-deep in cards, a girl on his arm, behaving like one of the drunken French soldiers we had had to deal with at our inn in Hanoi.

I often thought of him when I came down to the beach. Before coming to Phan Thiet, I had seen the sea only once. Tan and I were fifteen then and had ridden a bus all the way from Hanoi to Do Son on the shore of Ha Long Bay. A gray, blustery day of needling rain, we stood on the wind-teased beach and compared the churning, frothing ocean before us against what we had read in
Moby-Dick
and we were deeply impressed.

“There is much ugliness, but there is also much beauty in this world,” my mother had once said, she who spent most of her days in her garden reading poetry written worlds away.

Mother had taught me that the eaves of heaven had a way of turning in cycles, of dealing both blows and recompenses. For every devastating flood, there followed a bountiful crop. For every long stretch of flawless days, there waited a mighty storm just below the horizon. For every great sorrow, there was a great happiness to come.

I stripped down to my shorts and walked into the tickling surf. Floating in the calm sea, a vast blue above me, I was filled with a cozy, billowy warmth. It was the same sensation I had as a boy whenever Mother looked at me. She had smiling eyes; it was a pleasure to be within her sight. It seemed like only last week. It had been seven years since she passed away after childbirth.

She was still watching over me. This I knew. I had the feeling that I hadn’t stumbled upon this place and this peace at all, but rather it was something Mother had guided me to, something good to help me hold the course against what would come; like giving a traveler a drink of water before a long, difficult passage.

THE NORTH
1942

4. M
OTHER

M
y mother was born one province over to the west. She came from a more prestigious and even wealthier line than my father. Her uncle was a county chief. Her cousin was a senator, and her parents were both scholars. She had a mandarin upbringing, but she was uniquely modern in a time when most girls were limited to a primary education. She was fluent in French and the classic Vietnamese Nom script. Her passions were Vietnamese and French literature, poetry, and theater. When she came of age, her parents were certain that she needed to marry a modern, educated nobleman who wasn’t a political fanatic—it could have meant disaster and death in even that relatively peaceful colonial period.

In his early dashing days, Father was very much a man of the city, fluent in French and passionate about French poetry, French cuisine, French wine, Western theaters, Charlie Chaplin movies, and motorcycles. He was a devoted enthusiast of various European pleasures the colonial French made accessible to their supporters and the rich Vietnamese ruling class. His parents hoped that a wife and family would force their youngest son into maturity and wean him from the city’s seductive pleasures. When they told him firmly that it was time for him to marry or have his allowance curtailed, he yielded, but vowed that he would never marry a girl with blackened teeth. It was the one modicum of modernity he required of a wife. His father looked to his mother, who, like most women of her generation, had lacquered her teeth at fifteen with calcium oxide—black onyx-like teeth had long been a vanity of the local women. His mother simply nodded and said, “If he prefers a white rotting smile, so be it.”

They were introduced by a professional matchmaker and blessed by monks. The initial contacts between the families went well, and when they actually met, neither found the other repulsive. In fact, they found each other to be intelligent and pleasant. They weren’t in love, but as the popular wisdom said, love would come in time. After a few auspicious meetings, they wedded. A year later, I was born. My two brothers followed a few years behind. Having fulfilled his filial obligations of marriage and siring male heirs, Father strayed back to Hanoi and the high life he had enjoyed as a bachelor. Mother was left to raise three boys and manage the estate alone.

For years, Father divided his time between Hanoi and the country estate. Every time he left, Mother was very sad. His return was always an occasion to celebrate. Father always brought gifts for everyone, Mother, aunts, and cousins included. There were French biscuits, cloth, chocolates, and magazines for the women. Father gave my brothers and cousins toys, but he gave me three books that turned me into an avid reader:
Gulliver’s Travels, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,
and
Voyage to the Moon.

Once he brought Mother a beautiful phonograph. It was a compact, well-crafted machine, housed in a polished wooden box. The lid was embossed with golden letters and had a picture of a dog sitting in front of a phonograph, head canted to the flaring flower-shaped speaker. Inside, the hand-cranked turntable was covered with dark blue felt. It had a chrome-plated arm with a diamond-tipped needle.

The first day he brought it home, Mother invited all the Aunties, nieces, nephews, and staff to the house for after-dinner tea. Father and Uncle Thuan were considered too serious for such fun. Mother didn’t invite them, so everyone else could relax and enjoy the party. We sat on mats on the porch and in the garden. Gardener Cam lit some paper lanterns and hung them on the trees. We stuffed ourselves with cookies, candies, and cakes, and listened to the phonograph. Mother played Vietnamese ballads and French songs one after another. It was one of the finest nights because I remembered Mother smiling and laughing a lot.

Mother was happy whenever Father came home, and she tried her best to make his stay pleasant, hoping that it might keep him there longer. During one of his visits, I overheard them talking in the sitting room. It was right after supper, when Father liked to have his tea.

Mother said, “Things are chaotic all over the country. You should be home helping your big brother.”

“He has been governing the domain fine without my help.”

“It’s not the same anymore. There are robberies everywhere. The roads have become very dangerous since the Japanese invasion. When the soldiers come, it’s to requisition our rice and conscript men for the Japanese. Law and order are the least of their concerns. They only care about conquering Asia.”

“I know, but Big Brother Thuan hasn’t asked for my help.”

“He expects you to volunteer. Don’t you know the villagers sound the temple bell in the middle of the night, once or twice a week? Big Brother Thuan has to take his gun and guards into the villages to chase off the robbers. Some days, he gets so exhausted he has to cancel half the arbitration cases.”

“He should teach the villagers how to fight for themselves.”

“They’re farmers. They’re peaceful people. It’s not in them to fight, and Big Brother Thuan can’t hold off all the bad elements alone. It would be good to have you here to assist him.”

“Why should I? He always treats me as though I’m incompetent.”

“He’s ten years older than you. You shouldn’t feel offended about it.”

“I don’t like working under him.”

“You could stay home and help me manage our own estate.”

“What will I do here? You’re managing very well, and everybody likes you. You don’t need my help.”

“Just having a husband at home makes all the difference,” she said softly. “It’s very hard seeing you only once every other month. The highway is getting more dangerous too. I get very worried thinking about you traveling back and forth like this.”

“As you said, this is a time of turmoil. I think it’s better if I stayed in the city where I can blend in with the crowd. Here I stand out like a big fish in a small pond. If things turn bad, the big fish will be the first target. Besides, it’s not good to leave our villa in Hanoi empty in this unsettled time.”

“Cousin Chinh is there; he can look after our villa for us.”

“I can’t trust that playboy to manage anything.”

“Then the children and I will come live with you in the city. We had some good times there, didn’t we? Remember our dinner parties?”

“Yes, yes, but it’s not a good idea now. You’re the manager of our estate. Your sisters-in-law need you.”

“Not as much as I need you.”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore. I want to look into some businesses in Hanoi in case things become too unstable in the countryside. There are many opportunities in Hanoi now that the Germans control the French in Europe, and the Japanese control the French here.”

“You prefer the city. There’s nothing at home to amuse you.”

Father did not reply. He left the following day. There were rumors, of course, that he had a mistress in Hanoi.

THE SOUTH
1959

5. D
ALAT
D
AYS

M
orning mist smothered the trees. The sky was overcast, threatening rain. I came to bid her farewell at the Dalat train station. It was perched on a wooded hillside at the edge of town—a two-room brick cottage with a concrete platform. Higher up the slope, the stationmaster’s shack listed to one side like a doting guard. At the far end of the landing, a pair of traders unloaded burlap sacks from an oxen-drawn wagon. The train was nowhere in sight, its empty track stretching off into the still, white haze.

Anh waited for me at the long bench under the eaves of the station house. In her hands, the ticket that would take her back to school in Saigon. She sat on a handkerchief, the rear hem of her lavender
ao dai
folded over her lap. When I stepped onto the platform, she rose and extended both her hands. Anh was slender, quite tall for a Vietnamese girl, and had sharp cat-eyes. She didn’t say hello, or ask how I was—she never did. Instead, Anh took my hands in greeting, dipped a little curtsy, and smiled the smile that won me from the first moment. It was the sort of smile that glittered as if she had something precious to share, that coming upon me was a well-anticipated encounter, the most pleasant part of her day. It was entirely unguarded. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a smile like that. Perhaps, I thought, it was because I was a northerner, and I knew northerners were incapable of such unrestrained expressions.

“Your dress fits you beautifully,” I said, careful not to compliment her directly. That would have been too forward. I didn’t know how she managed to wear a different dress every time we met.

“Thank you,” she said. “And you look good in your uniform.”

Last year, after my summer in Phan Thiet, I had returned to Saigon and enrolled in the Institute of Administration. Students who passed their freshman exams were sent to the military academy in Dalat for basic training. It was a simple summer program aimed at providing future graduates of the Institute of Administration an excuse from military service.

“I just came from the morning session. I don’t think I’ll have time to change when I get back this afternoon. Sergeant doesn’t like us summer-cadets running around town in uniform. People might credit the
real
cadets with our bad behaviors.” I grinned and reached for her waist.

She hugged me, giggling.

“Where’s your valise?”

“I left it with the stationmaster.”

“Is that safe?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

I shrugged. She was far more trusting than I.

It seemed tragic that this was only our seventh date. There was so much I didn’t know about her, though what I had fathomed fascinated me immensely. She was a romantic girl who knew poems by heart and could reconstruct whole movie scenes with manic gestures and a breathless voice. A mystic, she read palms, interpreted dreams, and traveled fearlessly when the stars were favorable. We had one thing in common. She had grown up without a father, I without a mother. We were matched by our needs. I came from a rigid world of order, form, class division, nobility, and peasantry. My parents did not marry for love. It was an act of obedience and filial obligation, one that they honored their whole lives. And here before me was this wild child of sand and sea, a fatherless girl who did not know how to mask herself. She lived on her instincts, willfully and zealously; beneath sun or rain, it mattered not.

I had asked her for this early rendezvous. The station, I knew, would be deserted. I took a camera out of its case and she twirled into a playful pose. Life was still a game to her. This, I would learn, was one state of happiness.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” I framed her against the tracks.

“Carven by Elizabeth Arden.” She knew to look away from the lens.

“French?” In my viewfinder, her long hair was as dark as steel.

“From Paris.” She turned her face, suddenly mysterious.

“It’s lovely.”

At the time, most college girls hadn’t considered accentuating their beauty, but Anh knew enough to choose one of the most expensive and subtle fragrances on the market. It seemed amazing to me that she came from Phan Thiet, the same backwater fishing town where I had spent last summer teaching.

“Why do you ask?”

“I might buy a bottle for myself since I’ll miss the scent.”

She gave an un-ladylike snort and pinched me.

I never told her it was this perfume that had first caught my attention.

It was a Sunday, three weeks prior. I had a day’s leave from the army camp. My barracks buddies tramped around town on their usual weekend routine, looking for girls to escort to their afternoon coffee by the lake and, hopefully, an evening dance at the clubs as well. I begged off to go hiking with plans of taking a series of photographs of Dalat’s waterfalls. I was fiddling with my camera on the side of the trail when I caught the scent of her as she walked past with a little girl. They held hands and hummed a folksy tune. What happened next was an impulsive move, quite out of character for me. I trotted back down the trail, oddly compelled by a need to see her face.
Pardon me, Miss. Could you tell me the way to Cam Ly Waterfall?
I used my friendliest tone. But then she smiled her smile, the smile that bloomed like wonder itself. It was as simple and elegant as that. It rendered me speechless. Before she uttered a word, I was already consumed with a singular desire, a wanton need, to win this girl for myself.

T
HERE
was time for an early lunch, so we caught a ride with an army truck back toward town. It left us on the shore of the Lake of the Fragrance of Spring. We walked as we had for all our outings. We leaned close, held hands, pecked each other on the cheek, allowing ourselves, as tourists, small public displays of affection. Bend after bend, the road was hazy and quiet, save for housewives walking to market with woven satchels tucked under their arms. Bicyclists pedaled sleepily down the center of the unmarked road, undisturbed by the occasional three-wheeled Lambretta taxis grunting past, crammed with up to eight passengers. Once in a long while, a local bus, a truck with benches, came through on its rounds. When a real car came down the road, people turned to look.

Dalat was still a quaint resort town, tucked high in the cool mountains at the end of the rail line, surrounded by conifer forests, trout streams, waterfalls, and lakes. Earlier, it had been a retreat for the French, who regularly fled the stifling heat of the lowlands. These days it was a vacation destination for rich Vietnamese and top-level government officials. European-style villas dotted the hills, and tiny bungalows hid in the woods, joined by meandering gravel paths. Three asphalt streets flanked with little shops and two-story buildings coiled around two hills, forming the town’s business district. It was small and rustic enough to permit visitors a proprietary sense of belonging.

We paused and took a picture beneath the big pine tree by the ice cream parlor where we had spent the entire afternoon of our first date. I took another photo of her standing at the trailhead where we had embarked three times to a creekside clearing where we picnicked on roasted chicken, baguettes, fruits, and lotus-scented tea. Then another snapshot at the cozy alcove of rocks that sheltered us from a storm. I clicked through the entire roll, feeling helpless that I couldn’t possibly capture her in all the places that needed to be preserved—the tree-lined walks that seduced us away into the hills, the park benches, the mimosa trees, the moonlit lanes on which I had walked her home, the long good-night kisses by the hedge. She was leaving, and I was afraid.

I wondered if she would forget the intimate, nameless places where we had talked through the lazy hours. I wondered if, like me, she felt as if we had lived a whole, though tiny, life here.

We paused at a few boutiques and peered through the glass store-fronts, but she wouldn’t let me buy her anything. She knew I was poor. We strolled through our usual window-shopping circuit, down the one avenue then up the other, weaving back and forth around vendors crowding the brick sidewalk. The streets curved and sloped in such a way that the town appeared laid out like an old-fashioned vertical painting, buildings and trees in the distance rising to the sky or falling off toward the valley. Climbing the hill to the town center, you saw the narrow, cranky buildings edged against mountain and sky. Turning around, you saw rooftops layered against the lake and the dale below. I was fond of Dalat for its crooked intersections, its uneven buildings, its sweeps and jags that made the light changes captivating.

Anh wanted a baguette and bananas for her trip, so we stopped at the main market. It clung halfway up the hill, a quilt-work of multicolored tarps strung up at different angles, overlapping and flapping in the wind. Beneath, aglow in the filtered light, was a congested world of colors, aromas, odors, and noise, all ruled by women. Sellers sat snugly behind their counters, arranging and rearranging their wares. Shoppers stomped about on thick clogs, holding their hems away from the mush of trampled banana leaves and mud. They haggled, gossiped, laughed, yelled, napped, cackled, and sang over baskets of fruits, bins of produce, sides of raw meat, coils of sausage ropes, silvery fish laid out like steel blades, great bags of spices, barrels of rice in a dozen varieties, toy-like plastic wares, and every conceivable household item, short of furniture.

I waited for her on the market fringe amid peanut roasters, pork-bun steamers, fruit-women with baskets of tiny peaches and blood-dark plums, flower-maids with packs of incense sticks and altar bundles of carnations and daffodils. Wrapped in sweaters and scarves, schoolgirls with rosy cheeks gathered around a vendor who sold fried dough fritters, hot from a bubbling oil vat. People bantered, rattling off quick words with a lilt that reminded me of the central highlanders.

When we topped the hill, it began to drizzle. Anh steered me to a kiosk tucked in an alley barely three paces wide, next to Thien Nhien Bookstore. It was one of those foldable tin-and-wood assemblies that at the end of the day could be carted home. The cook, a woman in her mid-forties, sat like a barrel of flesh behind the counter, flanked on three sides by six woks, each set on a coal stove no bigger than a flowerpot. Despite the chill, she sweated through her white peasant blouse, her face flushed and jovial. Equally good-humored, the thin husband, a chain-smoking man with huge hands, made coffee and served the customers while their teenage daughter prepped the food and washed dishes at the back end of the alley. It was a bustling operation of six tables sheltered under a green army tarp.

“This is my favorite place. They make the best
banh xeo
in Dalat,” she announced and waited for my reply as was proper.

“Then I insist we eat here before you leave.” I grinned.

Anh gossiped with the woman, touched her forearm, laughed, talked about catching the afternoon train, and somewhere in between special-ordered our
banh xeo
with all her favorite fillings. She had a way with common folks that was beyond me. Even though my family had become miserably poor, our lot no better than any cyclo driver’s, a big part of me was still rooted within my family ancestral estate, in its orders and values. I always felt more at ease going to the market or to new eateries with Anh. Everywhere we went, folks welcomed her like kin. She had a natural confidence entirely different from any girl I had met. The way she moved, how her long-fingered hands danced when she talked. I never got tired of looking at her. I especially liked the way she smiled whenever she caught my eyes.

We shared a tiny wooden bench, our backs to the mildewed wall. The man brought us a pot of tea and two tin espresso presses set atop small glasses with a finger’s worth of condensed milk.

Anh said, “I know you don’t usually drink coffee, but it’s a real treat in this weather. Try it, for me.”

Caffeine made my heart race. “It’ll probably give me a heart attack, but, for you, why not?”

She smiled, the whole of her canted toward me, a bundle of warmth in the dancing wind, in her hair a scent of lily.

She said, “You won’t forget my address in Saigon, will you?”

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve got a photographic memory?”

Anh looked dubious. “Then tell me again, how you’d get to my uncle’s house.”

We had made no promises to each other. It would have been improper to speak of our feelings. Before any of that, I must tell her about my family, our history, and my father, who spent most of his days sprawled on the floor with his opium pipes, smoking away the final vestiges of our ancestral rice fortune. I must tell her of the squalor of our lives, of my crushing study loads at two schools, of my struggle to help support my family on a meager tutoring salary. There was another whole troublesome world out there that I did not want to let invade this moment. I wanted our hours encapsulated until the sweetness of these days had become an unimpeachable part of the past.