The Unwanted (11 page)
“Hey, Kien, remember me?” he asked. I recognized his voice the moment he spoke. “It's me, Lam, silly boy. Where is your mother?”
C
an I come in?” Lam asked, standing at the doorway. I stepped back. He walked in, turning around with curiosity to examine the disheveled garden behind him and the debris that littered the living room. A look of disbelief showed on his face.
“Dear God, what happened to this place?” he asked, but then the answer came to him. “They really wrecked the house, didn't they? Where is your —”
He stopped in the middle of the sentence, as he caught a glimpse of my mother from across the room. A hint of shame washed his dirty face with crimson. He stammered, “Hi, there. How are you?”
My mother stared at Lam through her narrowing lashes. Silently, she folded her arms in front of her chest and leaned back against the wall, unmoved by his discomfort.
He scratched his head with embarrassment. “Thought you would never see me again, didn't you? Well, what can I say? I didn't get away. As a matter of fact, you probably will be very happy to learn about my mishaps, one right after another since that day I left all of you behind.” He chuckled. “Damn, what a horrible nightmare. Twice at the airport I almost got killed. But thank heaven I didn't. Sometimes I wonder how a bastard like me could get so lucky. Anyway, I came here today for a reason. I was just wondering to myself if you would find it in your heart to take me back. Maybe in some way, I was hoping that you would be needing me.”
My mother's silence was deafening.
Lam's voice trailed off dejectedly. “Or maybe not.”
“Get out,” my mother said. Her voice was calm, but the hatred was clear in her face.
“Look!” Lam pleaded. “I know you are mad, and I don't blame you. But please try not to brush me away without listening to me first. In the last month, I have been to Hell and back many times over. I don't think I can take much more, not from you or anyone else. But believe me, madam, when I tell you this: I've learned my lesson the hard way. And whatever wrongdoings I did to you, I've been paid back, plus interest. I was robbed. I was beaten. And those sons of the backward Commie whores jailed me for two weeks because I was sleeping in the park. Except for them I don't think anybody else cares whether I live or die. And to top it all off, I spent all of my money, and sold my identification and my passport. I haven't eaten in the last three days and I am very tired. Please let me stay here, at least just for a couple of days.”
There was more silence from my mother, and Lam continued. “If you are really going to kick me out, at least feed me something and let me take a shower first. Please?”
My mother did not have time to answer. From outside, we heard the loud noise of trucks, indicating the arrival of Mr. Tran and the policemen. Through the windows, we watched them park their vehicles carelessly on the sidewalk and hurry toward the house on the long and dirty path through the garden. As soon as he saw my mother standing inside, Mr. Tran smiled broadly. His hair was dripping wet and neatly combed to the back of his head like a duck tail, and he was carrying a black nylon backpack across his right shoulder—the Vietcong's style. He gestured for his men to keep up with him as he neared the house.
My mother turned to Lam. “You want to stay here, Lam? Here is a news flash for you: I am no longer the person who could make such a decision. You will need to ask him first.”
“Him? Who?” Lam looked confused.
“See for yourself.” She shrugged.
Lam eyed the newcomers with puzzlement.
“What is going on?” he asked. “Why are the police at your house? What have you done to this place, Khuon?”
My mother greeted Mr. Tran as soon as his feet touched the edge of the marble floor. “Good morning, Mr. Tran. You are right on time. We just finished packing everything. Do you remember Lam?” Turning to Lam, she continued, “And you, Lam, I don't think you need a proper introduction to Mr. Tran here, but there is something I think you deserve to know. As of today, Mr. Tran, our community leader, is the new owner of this house. So, if I were you, I would be careful in paying my respects to him.”
Lam raised his eyebrows as if he wanted to ask more questions, but nothing came.
Finally noticing Lam, Mr. Tran broke out laughing. He walked over to take a hold of Lam's right hand and shook it.
“Oh, don't look so shocked,” he said. “I haven't changed that much. Or maybe I have, judging from the look on your face. But you, too, have changed. Good heavens, I almost didn't recognize you. Well, what can I say?” He shrugged, then turned serious. “You have good eyesight, you can see that I am still the same old gardener who watered your orchids and slept behind your kitchen door. The difference is that I am the new owner. Just like the old proverb said, the rivers have their own segments; men have their own moments. I guess now is my moment.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued, “Come on you two, don't look so gloomy. Are you still with her?” Pointing at my mother, he winked at Lam. “Now that she is no longer the mighty Madame Nguyen, the smoke-spitting, fire-puffing banker?”
Lam struggled for composure. However, Mr. Tran paid no more attention to him. Turning to my mother, he reached inside his backpack to pull out a stack of paper.
“As for you, Khuon, I took the liberty of withdrawing the deed to your house from the Department of Real Estate. And I want you to know it was not by any means an easy task—just like looking for a pin in an ocean bed. Anyhow, I found it, and there are a few places that I need you to sign and fingerprint, which we can do now. The rest of the legal nonsense I can take care of later. Come on over here by my side, so that I can show you.”
My mother walked closer to him. “I'll sign anything you want, but what about my family's proof of registration? I would like to have that before we leave here.”
He nodded. “Sure, I understand your worry—nobody is legal until I say so. But fear no more, I got all the papers right here. We'll go through everything by the end of this morning.”
He pulled out a thick blue folder. On the top page, the words were typed in bold black letters: “Proof of Existence, Community #4, Unit #125091, Head of Unit: Nguyen, Khuon T”
“This number, 125091,” he explained to my mother as his thick finger ran across the cover page, “is your family's number. We don't like to use the
word family.
It's too personal, too alienated from the whole. We refer to each family as a
unit,
like in biology—the single cells that make up the body. A word of advice: you should guard this paper with your life. For the time being, this is your identification. You'll have to carry it with you wherever you go, until our leaders come up with a better system. All of your names will be contained in here, so you need to stay together at all times. When you check into your new community, do not take anyone else in, or allow anyone to leave your unit. Every day after six p.m., curfew time, everybody will have to stay inside, because several nights a week, your house will be searched without any warning. That is the law. When it happens, the police will ask to see this paper and count heads. If they find anyone that doesn't belong, the head of the unit and the extra person will be taken away to death camp. Did you get all that? All right, now I need you to read your new address slowly to me.”
As my mother spelled out the new address to Mr. Tran, Loan and the rest of my family walked into the room, watching the scene in silence.
“How many people in your unit?” Mr. Tran asked my mother.
“Sir, am I counting my prenatal baby as one individual?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Don't be stupid. How many people are there in your unit, counting seniors, adults, and children? Forget your belly. You will register that baby at the hospital when it is time.”
“Six people. Two seniors, two female adults, and two male children,” my mother answered.
From the corner where he stood forgotten, Lam spoke up abruptly. “Seven, including one male adult. Don't forget me!”
Mr. Tran threw a threatening look at Lam, then barked at him, “Do I look like I am talking to you?”
Lam turned bright red, yet he said nothing.
Mr. Tran continued, “The head of this household didn't mention anything to me about any male adult. So I assume that you are taking the liberty of adding yourself into her unit. Is that true?”
Lam forced a smile. “Sir, you know I have been living here for more than half a decade. I am as much a part of this family as anyone else, except you, in this room.”
“Are you married to her?”
“No, but I am the father of that child in her womb.”
It was my mother's turn to blush when Mr. Tran turned to face her. “Listen, Khuon,” he said, “I can't argue with paid boy here, so I'll let it be up to you. What is it going to be? Six or seven?”
“There are six members in my unit,” my mother answered firmly.
She wanted to say something else, but Mr. Tran waved his callused finger to quiet her. His eyebrows remained knitted together in thought.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “This half-wit may have a point here. There are no males in this unit except for your old father, who may end up in a concentration camp for his past crimes. Even if the government spared him due to his disability, you would not have enough work force for this unit. If I add the gigolo to your group, it will increase your family's strength to almost double. A good idea, don't you think? Oh, well, even if you don't agree with me, someday soon you'll thank me.”
And that was his decision. Without giving my mother a chance to object, he jotted down in my family's file the seven names. Soon after my mother signed over the deed of her house, Mr. Tran handed her the folder. Putting the rest of his papers into his backpack, he shifted his attention to Loan. Like a farmer examining a young cow, he gave her a long look of contemplation. When he spoke, there was no hatred in his voice.
“Loan,” he said, “you are eighteen years old now, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Loan answered.
“Good, good. Here is a pamphlet I want you to read. It is about a group called The Young Volunteers, a party of young people like you, and I recommend you take a look at it. You can read more about it and at some point if you decide to join, or even if you just want more information, look for your new community leader or me. Either one of us will be happy to assist you with any questions that you might have. The truth is, I've watched you grow up in this house, and I think you have turned into a very smart young lady. With the new change in this country, you can really go far, because it's time for poor folks like us to take charge of our destinies. Promise me that you will read the brochure and do something for yourself and for your country, instead of hanging around here with this sinking ship. There is no law that condemns you to die with these capitalists you once worked for. The days that these people could take advantage of you are over, you understand?”
And he stuffed the pamphlet in her hand. On the way past my mother, he whistled a fast, catchy tune and bobbed his shining head up and down to the music. In the next room, the policemen started to carry our belongings outside. Less than an hour later, we settled inside the truck and it drove away.
I sat back in my seat and stared out the window to take one last look at the place. Through the broken wall and the fallen vines, the house stood empty and ruined under the bright sun. In my mind the snapshots of memory paraded as in a dream. I saw myself running from room to room, laughing as Loan chased after me, her freshly washed hair floating beside us like clouds, smelling like a sea breeze. I relived my mother's endless parties, where people danced by the pool under beautiful lights, and perfumes mixed in the air. My mother's ghost still seemed to be sitting in front of the mirror powdering her hands, with her river of hair cascading down her shoulders.
While these thoughts distracted me, next to me in the truck, my mother held her stomach in her arms, and followed her own thoughts. Were her emotions similar to mine? On the other side of her, Jimmy showed no sign of understanding what was going on. He smiled at everyone, showing his two missing front teeth and watching the streets with thoughtless fascination.
T
he truck bumped along for half an hour. When it stopped, Jimmy and I saw our new home for the first time. My aunt's house faced the dusty street from across a large garden. Built twenty years before, it had a red tile roof and white columns, an odd mix of Asian and European architecture. The windows were trimmed with green shutters, opening outward, on which the paint was so old that it had cracked into thousands of tiny creases, showing the decayed wood within. Only a story high, the house contained six small rooms with white paint and faded red molding on every wall.
The house had been built to shelter a few members of my aunt's family. But as the family grew, it had become too crowded. My uncle asked my mother for help, so that he could build another flat behind the main house. Because of the eternal guilt my mother felt toward her sister for being so poor, she put up the money.
The new bungalow, situated between the kitchen and the bathroom, provided three extra rooms. The two older girls, Moonlight and Snow, lived next to the kitchen, and the three oldest boys, Le, Than, and Nghia, were settled in the two other rooms.
On the left side of my aunt's house stood my new home. At first glance, it seemed impossibly small and primitive. It struck me that the entire place could fit in my mother's old garage and still leave plenty of room for a car. This house, too, was painted white, but it was newer than the others in the compound. At first sight, it looked like a gigantic matchbox, rectangular, covered with a corrugated tin roof, and without columns. Behind it, on the other side of the well, was my aunt's kitchen.
My aunt, her husband, and all of their children ran out to greet us at the gates. Everybody smiled and exchanged greetings as they helped my grandparents carry their belongings inside. Not much furniture had escaped damage at the Nguyen mansion, but my grandparents and my mother had packed as much as they could salvage. Among our reclaimed possessions, the last valuable piece was an ebony altar for my deceased uncle, hand-carved and weighing over one hundred kilograms.
