Only the Heart (14 page)

14

FORTUNE AND FLYING SOUTH

LINH'S STORY

By November of seventy-seven Phuong's leg was strong again, and the skin grafts on her back were healing nicely. The doctors had almost finished working their miracles, and she was back in the camp with us.

One thing Phuong's ordeal had meant for the family was that it made it easier for us to travel in and out of the camp. We had been given special permission to visit her while she was in hospital on the mainland, and even after she returned to Pulau Bisa, there were the regular trips back for treatment. And you couldn't expect the guards to keep track of every appointment, so it wasn't hard to slip in a few extra.

Of course, when you're onto a good thing sometimes it can misfire.

Which is exactly what happened in early November. The rumours were flying that the foreign governments were tightening up on the numbers of refugees they would accept; that the next round of acceptances might be the last for six months or more.

We were too young to understand what all that meant, and if I sound like I know what I'm talking about now, it's only because I've heard my uncle tell the story so many times in the past ten years that I can almost imagine remembering it.

What it meant was that there was an atmosphere of panic in the camp. That much I
do
remember. Tempers were short, and people whose turn was coming up watched the sea every day for any sign of a boat, so that they could have their family ready at the head of the line.

There was no guaranteeing when the officials might arrive, and it was hard to play your life around being ready.

So, of course, when it happened we weren't.

For once, my uncle had stayed behind when Aunt Hoa and Phuong went into Janganoon. He was fixing the roof on the new hut which leaked even worse than the old one had. It wasn't an easy job; it was hot and he was in a foul mood, but that was nothing compared to what happened at about ten-thirty, when the embassy officials from Australia arrived at the wharf, and the line formed outside the office.

As usual we crowded around, waiting for the names to be read out, not really expecting to hear our own; so when the official read out, “The family of Vo Van Minh”, I saw my uncle's eyes light up. But then a look of real concern replaced the excitement.

He sent me to round up the boys, and joined the line, which was already at least four hours long. And when we returned, breathless and chattering, the look on his face had darkened.

Today, of all days …

You could see him checking out the time, and trying to work out when the others would be back, all the while knowing that unless they arrived by the time we reached the front of the line, it was all over — maybe for months. No Aunt Hoa, no Phuong … no interview.

The guards you could fool with the medical-treatment story, but the officials you didn't dare lie to. Not on something that they could check so easily. The only thing of any value that you had to offer was your character, and lying at the interview wasn't the best way to start. Plenty of people did, of course, but they were the ones with something to hide anyway, and half the time they were caught out.

We had nothing to hide, and my uncle was in no mood to take risks when one lie could cruel the whole deal.

We stood or sat in line all afternoon, taking turns at resting in the shade. All except Uncle Minh. He didn't leave the line for a moment. The story had leaked down the line that, this time, one of the officials was none other than the ambassador himself. Logically, the identity of the interviewing officer shouldn't have made any difference, but when the outcome is of such importance to so many people, anything remotely unusual is regarded with almost superstitious relevance. Another reason why this chance seemed so much more important than the others. And why it would be back luck to fail.

It was just a story.

Normally, Aunt Hoa didn't like to get back much after four in the afternoon, so there was still a hope, but I could see my uncle getting more and more anxious as the line grew shorter, and he began letting people move ahead of him, hoping to delay the inevitable.

Our best chance in the months since we had arrived at the camp, and it was going out of the window because of a stupid shopping trip …

*

12 November 1977
Pulau Bisa

HOA

6 pm.
Minh sits cross-legged in the dirt, gazing out through the fence at the green of the forest. Slowly she approaches him and places a hand gently on his head. He does not look up, but continues staring out beyond the fence.

“We were not to know.” She speaks the words to the forest, watching a small brightly coloured bird as it flits from branch to branch singing its freedom to the empty sky. “Perhaps it is fate. Perhaps it was not our time. We don't —”

“It will never be our time! Not if we sit and wait for it to come to us.” He stands and turns slowly to face her. “Ever since the war began we have been waiting. Wait for the Americans to come, wait for the victory, wait for the war just to be over, wait to see what will happen to us … Well, we waited, and we saw what happened. And we didn't like it. In the last ten years the only decision we have made for ourselves was to escape. And to what? More waiting. I am so sick of fences.”

She reaches out to touch his face, and he returns the gesture. For a long time neither of them moves. Then he puts an arm around her shoulders and looks out towards the trees again.

“I lied to him. The Australian official … When I realised you wouldn't be back in time, I saw our chance slipping away, so when it was my turn, I told him that you had taken Phuong to the hospital.”

“And did he believe you?”

“I don't know. In the end, it made no difference. He was sorry, he said, but the rules … If we had all been there, he could have begun the process, but …” He trails off — the words are not important.

An idea begins to form in her mind, and she moves around to stand between her husband and the distant trees.

“And he will not be back for how long?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? What does it matter? Tomorrow he has business in Janganoon, and the next day he leaves for Kuala Lumpur. And we go back to waiting.”

“No!”
The force in her own voice surprises her. “No more waiting. You were right. And I am sick of fences too. Tomorrow, when the first boat leaves, we will be on it. He said he needed to see us all? Well, let's not disappoint him. How hard can it be to find an Australian consular official in a city like Janganoon? There can only be a few hotels good enough for such an important man.”

She waits, ready for his objections, but he just smiles.

“No more waiting.”

Reaching out she takes his hand. “No more waiting. Ten years is long enough.”

*

TOAN'S STORY

So the next morning found us on our way to Janganoon again, but this time it was no shopping expedition. My parents told us very little, but there was nothing unusual about that. Children obeyed, they didn't question. Questioning, I learned a few years later.

Bus trips usually excited me, but something about the way my parents were behaving took some of the excitement out of this particular journey.

Linh — as usual — didn't enjoy the trip at all, and Phuong — also as usual — was quiet, but it was the twins who really signalled that something out of the ordinary was going on. They seemed tense and didn't talk and joke around like they usually did. Instead they stared out of the window for long periods of time, and whispered seriously to each other, heads together, leaning forward in their seats.

And when we got down from the bus, in the centre of the city, there was no thought of stopping at any of the shops. At first I held onto the hope that we might be headed for the cinema again, but we passed by without slowing down.

After a few minutes my father disappeared, while we stood together outside a huge and expensive-looking hotel, but when he came out he shook his head. That was when I noticed the paper he was caring. It looked like a list, with five or six items on it, but I couldn't get close enough to see it properly.

The rest of the afternoon followed the same pattern. We seemed to walk forever, stopping every now and then outside one of the city's big hotels, while my father went inside, only to come out again a few minutes later shaking his head and dragging us on to the next one.

Then, at around four o'clock, things took a turn for the worse.

This hotel was bigger and fancier than any of the others, but the pattern was the same. The difference was that this time, when he came out, my father moved straight past us, and sat down on the kerb with his head in his hands. My mother motioned us to stay put and moved across to sit down next to him.

Looking at them sitting there, I knew something had changed. I just didn't know how much.

We'd found the right hotel, but we were a couple of hours too late. Some kind of minor emergency had come up, and the official had cut his trip short to return to the capital. All that effort for nothing. It's no wonder my father was sitting in the gutter with his head in his hands.

There's an old Chinese proverb that my grandmother loves to quote, and it goes something like this:
The road leads both ways, but a man's feet always point forward
. I guess that's one way of saying that you never go back, at least not until you've got to where you're headed.

We didn't. Go back, that is.

I was standing a little closer to them than any of the others, so I managed to catch what my mother said.

“We've come this far,” she said, and looked at him. “We can make it to Kuala Lumpur. You know we can. No more fences. And no more waiting. Remember?” I saw him studying her face for a second, then he seemed to understand.

My mother opened her small purse and took out what money they had left, which wasn't a whole lot. She looked at it, shrugged, then reached inside her shirt and unpinned a small cotton bag which she had hidden beneath her armpit. She loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents onto her hand. There was only one thing left in it. Her final treasure.

On the day my parents were married, my grandmother had given them each a gift. For my father, it was a statue for the family shrine, a statue that had remained behind in Rach Gia when we left.

For my mother, it was a jade and gold pendant, carved in the shape of Quan Yin.

I watched the frown grow on my father's face. He began to shake his head, but before he could speak she cut in.

“Metal and stone,” she said. “That's all it is. Yellow metal and green rock.”

Reaching out, she offered it to him. “She would understand …”

She
, Quan Yin, or
she
, Grandma?

I don't suppose it mattered. Desperate times require sacrifices. After a moment's hesitation my father nodded and they both stood up.

Ten minutes later they were haggling with the gold dealer, who wanted to rob them blind but settled for just ripping them off. The final link with the past was gone, but at least we had enough money for the bus fare to Kuala Lumpur.

We've come this far
… That was what she'd said.

We were about to go a lot further.

*

14 November 1977
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

MINH

6 am.
The old bus wheezes to a halt at the crowded terminus. Even early in the morning the street outside is crowded with automobiles, motorcycles and pushbikes. And thousands of people, all busily heading somewhere at the start of a long day.

Toan steps from the doorway first. He, at least, slept most of the night: first curled up on a bench at the Janganoon busstation, and later slumped against the window of the ancient bus as it crawled its way across the centre of the country towards the distant capital.

Linh looks green, as she stops at the entrance to take a deep breath of the morning air.

Outside on the footpath they stand in a group, while Minh tries to take some kind of bearings. In Janganoon, faced with the disappointment of the official's premature departure, the trip to the capital had seemed to be the only solution, but now, in the harsh light of a Kuala Lumpur morning, the extent of the risk they are taking begins to register.

Who can predict the reaction of a foreign diplomat to the arrival of seven fugitives on the doorstep of his embassy? What if he simply refuses to see them? Or reports them, even before they have a chance to return to Pulau Bisa and sneak back into the camp?

He looks at his wife and she smiles unconvincingly. The whole thing was her idea, and she feels the responsibility weighing down on her confidence. Reaching out, he takes her hand and squeezes gently, offering what support he can muster.

She nods in response to the unspoken communication, and they move off towards the centre of the city. Surely someone there will know the location of the diplomatic precinct.

The city comes to life around them as they walk, but Minh sees nothing, hears little. His mind is turned inwards, planning the words he will say if the man agrees to see them. And dreading what lies ahead for them all if the man will not …

The secretary is a man in his early fifties, with silver-grey hair and an immaculate suit which he brushes constantly with the tips of his fingers, as if he fears anything less than sartorial perfection. He motions for them to sit in the chairs which he has placed in a precise semicircle facing the exquisitely carved desk which dominates the centre of the large office.

As the man bustles out, Minh risks a glance around the ro. Bookshelves line two of the walls, floor to ceiling, loaded with all manner of books and finished in a dark, highly polished wood that speaks expense. On the wall behind the desk, a framed portrait of the English queen and two ornate wall-brackets dominate an array of photographs and plaques which he is too nervous to read.