The Unwanted (38 page)
I ran down the searing road. The motorcycle moved slowly in front of me, screeching like a sickly old person. Then, the engine crackled, expelling a cloud of dark gas in my face. Suddenly, the vehicle slipped from my fingers and shot ahead in a red cloud of dust. I stopped, watching it go in disbelief. Feeling like a complete fool, I looked around for the policeman.
However, before I could do anything, the bike returned. It raced past me, made a sharp turn, then slowed down. Bouncing impatiently on his seat, the young man called out to me, “Hey, what is the matter with you? Why didn't you hop on? Hurry, we don't have much time.”
I made a flying leap onto the seat. The back of my khaki pants split open, but I didn't care. I grabbed his waist, ducked my head, and held on for all I was worth. He drove me to the front entrance of the compound and screeched to a halt. I glanced at my watch. Eleven o'clock. Did I make it on time? A hundred yards away, the glass doors to the departure area moved slowly on their hinges in the hands of two guards.
The motorcycle driver turned around. His face was filled with warmth. “Good luck,” he said. “You better run now.”
I waved my visa in the air and screamed to the guards, “Wait for me, please.”
Behind the glass, the guards stopped, looking at one another. I rushed through the crack between the doors, forgetting to thank the driver. His motorcycle roared down the street triumphantly. Then I heard the gates close behind me.
T
he departure area was deserted, except for a few civilians and policemen. Evidence of a busy morning registered on everybody's face and in the scattered piles of garbage littering the floor. The only furniture was a row of aluminum desks in the center of the room. Behind each desk stood a policeman. My family was nowhere in sight. Neither were the three hundred other passengers. In fact, I seemed to be the only Amerasian in the room.
A female guard approached me. The curious look on her face dissipated the moment I presented to her my passport.
“Where in hell have you been?” she snapped and ushered me to the first desk. There, I was searched quickly for hidden weapons. At the second table I got my passport stamped. Next I had to sign a release form. In the paper they offered to me I immediately recognized my family's signatures, scribbled beside their printed names. Relieved, I scanned the room. Closed doors led to mysterious and unidentified areas. However, somewhere in that building, my family was waiting for me. I took a deep breath and stepped to the last table, praying silently for a miracle.
The policeman looked up. “Where are your documents?” he asked.
I stared at him, petrified. “In my knapsack, sir.”
“Take them out.”
I fumbled in my bag, and pulled out the thick stack of papers. Years of hard work had culminated in a two-foot heap of paperwork. Cautiously, I slid the unsigned real estate form into the middle of the pile before I handed everything to him. I tried to maintain a poker face, but inside, I felt about to faint.
The policeman seized the pile of papers. In one swift movement, he tossed everything in the air without glancing at it. Sheets of papers flew into the open space, flapping around me like white butterflies before they landed on the floor. I uttered a small cry. My pictures, my family's pictures, and every other document that I had worked so hard to prepare in the last three years all lay on the ground, facing upward among other anonymous, forgotten families.
“You're all done,” the policeman said. “Go in there and join your family.” He pointed toward a small doorway at the end of the room.
“What is the point of making us get these documents together if they are insignificant to you?” I protested, unable to believe what had just happened.
He shrugged, pushing me toward the exit. “Get out of here and stop wasting my time. Nobody wants to keep trash like you in this country.”
I grabbed my knapsack and straightened my clothes. His cruel words could no longer hurt my feelings. In fact, my anger gave me new strength to move forward.
From the entrance, a voice called my name. I turned around, and time seemed to stop. Kim stood between the two guards, wearing the same sleeveless red blouse that had made me tremble the first day we met. Her jet-black hair was shiny like the midnight sky, and her teeth were perfect like porcelain. I dropped my knapsack on the floor, feeling my knees weaken as emotion rushed through me like the crash of the waves against the sandy beach.
She ran to me. One of the guards seized her arm, pulling her away through the room. Struggling free, she turned to face me. Her hand reached out in my direction, waving.
I ran after them and yelled, “Please stop. Let me say good-bye to her.”
They let her go. We ran toward each other. I squeezed her with all my strength.
“I am so sorry,” I stammered. “I am sorry for hurting you. I shouldn't have done what I did. Please forgive me.”
She looked up at me. “It's quite all right, Kien. I am glad that my first time was with you.”
“I—I didn't mean that. It was my first time as well. What I want to say is that I am sorry for treating you badly. Because of who you are, my intention was not pure when I befriended you.”
“Do not think too much about that, Kien.” She smiled, tapping her temple with her forefinger. “I have only beautiful memories of you right here.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, I am glad that you do. By the way, how did you get here? And who brought you?”
She nestled her head on my chest. “I am here with your aunt,” she said. “She is upstairs, waiting for your family on the balcony. You'll see us again when you walk out on the runway. My parents don't know yet that I am in Saigon. I came because I just cannot let you leave my life on that awful note. If there is nothing else between us, at least I want your friendship.”
I smothered her face with kisses. “I have thought about us a great deal,” I whispered in her ear. “I will never forget you as long as I am still alive.”
“Thank you,” she said. A mischievous smile brightened her face. “There is still hope for you after all, Kien.”
A guard nudged my back. “Let's go,” he urged, pushing the knapsack into my hand.
We broke apart. I touched her face, trying to memorize her delicate neck, her unblemished skin, and the distinctive freckles on her cheeks. “I'll write to you,” I called. “I'll tell you what happens to us every week. No, every day, until we'll meet again.”
She grabbed her shoulders, as if she were cold. Her eyelashes were beaded with tears, but she smiled, watching me disappear behind a door.
“Good-bye, Kim,” I said to her one last time.
THE ROOM WAS PACKED
with hundreds of children, screaming and chasing each other between rows of chairs like the inside of a giant classroom. Two of the walls, made out of glass, overlooked the landing strips. Outside on the cement, three airplanes were parked within a hundred feet of each other, reflecting the sunlight. I searched for my family. On the floor near the exit, they huddled together, preparing lunch. Jimmy jumped up and down, waving his hands to get my attention. I waved back, pushing past a group of children. The adults stared at me, yet no one made any attempt to let me get across.
Sitting alone on a bench at my right was the blond girl I had met at the interview site. Her overweight mother and fourteen pretentious siblings were nowhere in sight. One of her hands clutched a basket. The other held a heavy sack that was slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
“Hey,” I said to the girl. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, avoiding my stare.
“I saw you at the interview a few months ago. Where is your family?”
“Those people are not my real family,” she replied. “My mother sold me to that lady last year so that I could take her entire family to America. But when we came in for the interview, the Americans figured out the scam. They issued only one ticket for me after turning everybody else down.” She began to sob bitterly.
“Don't cry,” I consoled her. “When you get to America, you can sponsor your real family. It only takes another year before you can see them again.”
“I don't know where they are,” she cried. “My mother moved away soon after I was sold.”
I patted her thin shoulder. “I'm sorry,” I said. “But don't worry. You are not alone. I read somewhere that once you get to America, a good family will adopt you. Would you like to come over and sit with my family and me? We'll keep you company in the meantime.”
She nodded, wiping her tears and gathering her belongings. Together, we stepped over rows of people, approaching my mother.
BeTi sat on the floor. Banana cake crumbs covered her hands. She winked at me and smiled.
“I made it here in one piece, Mother,” I said over the loud noises.
My mother put a hand over her chest. Her face was pale from anxiety. “I was so worried,” she said. “I don't know what I would have done if you'd gotten stuck behind. I've been praying all morning.” Her eyes shifted curiously to the girl who stood behind me.
“It's a long story,” I explained. “She will be needing our company for a while.”
My mother leaned back against the glass door. She looked tired. “In that case, sit your friend down,” she said. “I saved you some lunch.”
A
t two o'clock in the afternoon the airplanes started to move slowly on the runway. Behind the wall of glass, people bustled about, dividing their belongings among their families. Nervous smiles masked the apprehension everybody was feeling. Outside, the clear blue summer sky seemed to expand like the inside of a hot-air balloon, reaching for the distant, untouchable whiterimmed horizon.
My mother sat on the floor with her knees drawn up against her chest. Her hands were pushed together at the wrists to form a stand, supporting her chin. Most of her fingernails were deformed, thickened from the years of hard labor she had endured. Her wrinkled skin, cracked at each knuckle from excessive dryness, was covered with calluses and leathery from the sun. In the span of ten years, the Communists had successfully stripped away from my mother the ultimate pride in her life—the gracefulness of her hands. No longer would they execute their charming dance on the stem of a champagne glass or pose daintily for a photograph. These hands belonged to a much older, hopelessly crushed spirit that bore little resemblance to the mother I once knew.
Somewhere above us a bell rang, sending a wave of apprehension through the crowded room. We leaped onto our feet and rushed toward the entrance. Soon the doors opened, and I was the first one that stepped out onto the airfield.
On a second-floor balcony overlooking the landing field, relatives of those departing lined the railing. People craned their necks and shaded their eyes, trying to make out the faces of their loved ones. I could hear my aunt's distinct voice, braying over the others.
I looked up. My aunt stood among the strangers, waving her arms to get my attention. Behind her, harsh rays of light shone through her salt-and-pepper hair. The sun and its torrid temperature made her look as if she were on fire.
“Hi, Kien—your auntie is over here,” she yelled. “Forgive me. I never could imagine that they would let you out of this country. I want to apologize. Go to America, make it big and don't forget us.” Her words were lost as other families shouted their farewells.
I looked straight ahead, ignoring her. The aircraft door opened in front of me, and a tall staircase dropped into position. I climbed the steps eagerly. Inside, a blast of air conditioning welcomed me in its chilly embrace.
In the dense air, a gong reverberated. I wondered if it was to announce the end of my journey or the beginning of a new one.
If you want to ever achieve happiness, don't dwell on the past. Instead, start living. What is the point of obsessing over something that has already happened, and that you cannot change? Live! And be merry.
M
y grandfather said these words to me during our last conversation, the night I left our home in Nhatrang for Saigon in 1984. For years I thought about his wisdom and tried to live by his advice. But as much as I tried, I couldn't forget my past. The events that had shaped me continued to weigh on my soul.
In June of 1998, more than fourteen years after I came to America, I graduated from the New York University College of Dentistry. That summer, as I waited to receive my license to practice, the nightmares I had kept at bay during the hectic years of my education returned to plague me with renewed intensity. The dreams came in waves, once or twice a week. Sometimes they came in groups of two or three. Often, I dreamed that I was still on the streets of Saigon, trying to get the last of my documents signed. And across the city, the plane was leaving without me. Other times, I saw myself drowning in the middle of a vast ocean. Above my head, pale corpses wrapped their limbs together to form a shield of flesh, preventing me from reaching the surface. I would awake, unable to shake my terror. Even during the daytime, the frightening images haunted me. I came to dread going to bed at night.
Desperate to free myself from a deep depression, I decided to keep a diary of the dreams. Day after day, I sat in front of a computer, staring at its blank screen, and toying with Loan's jade, which I wore on a chain around my neck. So many conflicting thoughts raced through my head: the early memories of my childhood, the years of hardship after the fall of Saigon, and the desperate preparations to leave the country. From the window of the library in the house in SoHo where I now live, the Old St. Patrick's Cathedral across the street became an austere companion. Somewhere in the church's attic, a bell tolled according to a preset timer. Its relentless noise penetrated my sanctuary, making it difficult to focus.
One late night while I sat at my computer, something strange happened. In the stillness of the room, the world around me seemed to disappear into the distance, and time, too, faded away. As a silkworm transforms into a caterpillar, so the furniture around me changed shape. The walls of the library slowly vanished, giving way to a noisy, crowded street. Beneath my feet, the wooden floor shifted into a burning pavement. Light bulbs grew into an enormous sun. And the church bell from outside sounded more like a series of explosions, assaulting my ears with the familiar sound of bombs and gunshots. I looked around the room, and as if in a dream, I was standing on a street corner in Saigon, watching a little boy among the faces of people from my past. I knew then I was looking at myself. And through the eyes of this boy, I saw the events of my life unfold before me. I began to write.