The Beauty of Humanity Movement (47 page)

“So your mother never told you,” he said. “I suppose you were too young. The fact is, your father and I waited too long to leave.”

“But why did you wait?” Maggie asked. “It was important to continue getting the stories out. I think we assumed that as long as there were still Americans in Saigon we would be okay. But then the city was surrounded, under attack from all sides.

“Your father and I fled to the American Embassy. There were thousands of people already there, desperate, crawling over the walls. The embassy was getting people out as quickly as it could. When it was our turn, your father and I waited up on the roof in a terrible thunderstorm. But the next helicopter never came. We waited for hours and I remember your father finally saying, ‘It’s over.’

“I knew he was right,” said Paul, throwing the twisted piece of paper into the trash can. “We went and hid in the bomb shelter.
Hundreds of us crammed into this hot, dark tunnel. We had no plan, Maggie, just prayers. Within a few hours the soldiers stormed in and shone their lights into our faces. When they reached your father and put a gun to his head, he just held up his hands and said, ‘I’m done. I’m old and you have already taken my hands. My wife and daughter are safe in America.’”

Why had her father given up when he had so much left to fight for? Paul Nguy
n had survived; he even had his hands despite being taken from that bomb shelter to a re-education camp where he’d been imprisoned for four years.

Maggie slid off the stool and reached for her knapsack.

“Listen, he’d been through a camp once before,” Paul pleaded. “I just don’t think he could face it again. You have to understand, Maggie, re-education makes it sound so much more benign than it was—it’s the remaking of the individual, destroying him in order to rebuild.”

But Maggie didn’t understand, she was angry. She couldn’t imagine what could be so bad that he would give up his life, his family, a future. But then perhaps this was why he had ensured their passage to America. So that she could be spared ever having to know.

I
n the absence of Old Man H
ng this morning, T
and his father are forced to settle for an inferior bowl. The broth at Ph
Hong Vi
t on Mã Mây Street is passable and the beef should be good because it is supplied by T
s mother, but still, they would feel disloyal if they said this ph
was anywhere close in quality to Old Man H
ng’s. Whenever they are forced to come here then, they make a point of complaining.

“Not enough pepper, eh, T
?”

“And he can’t have trimmed the fat, do you see this oily film on the surface?”

“I think it’s because he’s buying the cheap cuts again. It’s not Anh’s fault he’s cheap.”

“Can you taste any star anise? I think he’s reusing the pods, because I don’t taste it at all.”

“There’s hardly any heat in this chili paste.”

“He cooked the noodles for too long. They’re like glue now.”

“Dad? What is this?” T
says, pinching a bean sprout between his thumb and forefinger. “Some kind of Saigon invasion!”

“Thank you, Bình and son,” the proprietor interrupts. “I’ll be happy to charge you double today for your enjoyment of so many insults.”

T
is slurping his broth and watching a cockroach dart across the wall when his cellphone rings. The cockroach skips over the lip of the skirting board and falls to the floor. Friends in high places, he thinks, looking at the phone number as he lifts his feet.