The Headmaster's Wager (54 page)

“I don't want to go. I'll come on the boat with you.”

“But the plane is much better than the boat.” Percival felt his eyes begin to water. “Get to sleep now. Remember your game. You are the son of Pham and the late Lieutenant Michaels. You are an American.” Percival let down the mosquito net and sat by the side of the bed.

“I don't want to go without you,
baba
.”

“I will meet you there. Until then, I will see you in sleep. Think of our special story, our secret.”

“Yes,
baba
,” Laing Jai said. “Tell it to me.”

Percival reached into the mosquito net and found the gold charm around Laing Jai's neck. He rubbed it in one hand and took one of Laing Jai's hands in his other. Laing Jai began to recite, “Many generations ago, our venerable ancestor left Shantou to go searching for wealth in the land of the Gold Mountain.” Laing Jai yawned with the familiar words. “He went to make his fortune, and in that faraway land, he found this piece of gold. Whoever wears it will be safe wherever he wanders.”

“And there is no design on the charm because …”

“Because one never knows what form wealth will take.” Laing Jai touched the gold lump around his neck and grasped Percival's hand. “
Baba
, did he ever return home?”

“Who?”

“Our ancestor, who went to find this gold.” The boy's voice was already tiring.

“Well, of course he did. He brought this gold back to China. This is the proof.”

“
Baba
, if it is good luck, you take the charm.” Laing Jai's voice perked up. “I don't need it. The luck has rubbed off on me.”

“Shh … sleep now.”

“
Baba
, when will we return to Chen Hap Sing?” The boy's words were drifting off.

“Once you have left a place, you can never go back. I made that mistake. I thought it was possible. If you come back here one day, that house will be changed, or it may be gone. The place of your memories
will have vanished, and you will have new memories. They will make the old ones feel different.”

“I'll miss all the good things the cook made,” the boy yawned again. “The oyster omelettes and the
mee pok
noodles.”

Somehow, Percival realized, the boy recalled pleasures that were already years away in the past of Chen Hap Sing. He was glad. “But don't worry, it's inside you. Take the good luck with you, and go. The people who love you, and whom you love, remain always. Everything else vanishes. The gold lump doesn't even matter, except for what it helps you to remember.”

The boy resisted sleep and turned from side to side. Night grew until darkness was complete. Percival waited. Eventually, the boy's breathing became heavy and regular.

Chen Pie Sou was at the age of growing tall, but was still skinny as a reed. He was playing after school with friends, near the railway siding. That day, he bet the pickled duck egg in his pocket. His overseas father, Chen Kai, had not been home in years but sent enough money that his son could eat an egg every day. He wagered it against an older boy's triangle of bean cake that the train would pass through without stopping
.

The train had speed at first, when it appeared far away. It laboured towards them with the steady grumble and fire of an earthbound dragon. The boys stopped and watched it keenly. The odds were on his side, Chen Pie Sou reminded himself. The shelves in the town shop were well stocked, and mail had been delivered the day before. As it came near, grew large, its brakes squealed. Even as the brakes sounded, he counted on the beast to exhale its smoky trail of breath and speckle their skin with black soot as it passed through and continued onwards
.

It did seem to be slowing
.

The older boy, of similar height but with almost an adult's weight, said “Ha! Give me the egg.”

Raising his voice above the shriek of brakes, “It has not stopped.”

“You are trying to run away from your bet.” The older boy attempted to shove his hand in Chen Pie Sou's pocket to grab the egg, but he danced away. The train soon overwhelmed their voices as it ground to a stop. The older boy ran at Chen Pie Sou and tripped him before he could get away. Chen Pie Sou kept his hands up and tried to deflect the punches that came for his head. His mother would be upset if she saw more bruises. Everyone knew that Chen Kai
was far away. This allowed them to attack Chen Pie Sou, and it made him fight harder. The other boys envied his eggs and resented his bragging about being a landlord. Fortunately, he picked his bets and won more than he lost. The eggs were a tempting prize that allowed him to make profitable wagers. The older boy was fast, straddled him now, and had the upper hand. Chen Pie Sou was hardly able to land a blow, and struggled beneath the older boy, who pummelled him with both fists
.

An adult's voice yelled, “Stop!” The taunts of the gang of boys grew distant as they fled. A man walked from the train and stood sternly over the combatants. The older boy rifled Chen Pie Sou's pocket and snatched the crushed egg before he jumped to his feet and ran. The man who drew close wore a well-cut suit and a crisp felt hat
.

“Why are you fighting?” asked the man
.

“I lost a bet. For my egg.”

“If you lost a bet,” said the man, “then you must pay.”

From behind the man, the railway porter brought two handsome leather suitcases and placed them carefully beside the passenger. The Western-dressed man gave a tip that must have been generous, judging from the depth of the porter's bow. His shoes shone like the smokestack of the locomotive. He fished a gleaming watch from his pocket, checked the time, and replaced it. Chen Pie Sou had never seen such a watch, or such a man, glowing with wealth. Though the man had Chinese features and spoke Teochow, in clothing and manner he was exactly like a gwei lo. He must have come directly from the Gold Mountain. He stared inquisitively, softly
.

“Why did you bet your egg?” asked the man
.

“I wanted the piece of bean cake.”

“But you had the egg for a snack.”

“I wanted more.”

“Yes,” he nodded, “I understand.”

“I thought the train would pass through. I wanted to win, and I felt very lucky today. I was wrong.”

The man had not touched his baggage. He stared. What did he mean by this? Perhaps he would pay to have his bags carried. Perhaps he expected them to be carried, whether he paid or not. Chen Pie Sou went to pick up the suitcases, but then he did not know what to do with them. He waited for the man
to tell him where to take the bags. The man said, “You were wrong about the train,” his eyes twinkling, “but right about the luck.”

Chen Pie Sou stared at the man, at his clothes of a foreigner, at the soft cleanliness of his hands and the roundness of his well-fed face. It contained something familiar. Then he dropped the suitcases to kowtow at his father's feet
.

IT WAS A NIGHT WITH NO MOON
, chosen for darkness. Along with the others, Percival lay in the sharp, tough grass of the dunes above the beach. He guessed that they were somewhere a little north of Vung Tau.

After Laing Jai had gone to sleep, the smuggler collected Percival from Mrs. Ling's house. This man was a sergeant of the North Vietnamese Army, and he packed Percival into the back of an army truck crowded with other passengers. Over the days that followed, they took a meandering route through the countryside, heading east from Saigon. The smuggler knew the soldiers at the checkpoints, told them casually that he was deporting counter-revolutionaries to be re-educated, and pressed bills into their hands. There was a new currency, the dong, and this sergeant had plenty of them. Mrs. Ling had been good at the exit business, because she had found soldiers to do the smuggling. For several sweltering days in the back of the truck, babies nursed lethargically at the breasts of dozing women, and men kept silent as they bounced along small roads. Laing Jai would be in a new world already. Percival was glad that his grandson was not in this truck that stank of people and fear. The passengers survived on the little food and water that the sergeant provided, and finally they reached the coast.

“Not to worry,” the smuggler had said, as they all climbed out of the truck. “Wait patiently. The boat will come tonight. Don't let yourselves get caught by the coastal patrol, because then you will not see morning.” The man got in his truck and drove away. They hid for hours in the dunes of the desolate beach, pressed against the sand, grateful for the cover of night. Darkness shielded them, but they still kept low. The hushing noise of the ocean was the only comfort. It reminded him of his luck.

Now, beneath the open black sky, surrounded by sand grasses and low dunes falling into the sea, Percival and the others waited. The
signal would come only once—three flashes. When they saw the light, they must run across the beach into the water. They were to go out into the ocean as far as possible. A small launch would pluck them out and take them to a ship.

In the starlight, Percival could barely make out the ghostly shapes of his fellow travellers crouched around him. He stared out on the water and saw nothing, heard the chop of waves. What if the signal never flashed? What if morning cracked the horizon, if the sun shone down and exposed them before the boat came? The night must be half gone. Occasionally, soldiers patrolled the beach, swung dim flashlights, their radios squawked. If daylight came before the little boat, if they were caught, the soldiers would not bother loading them into trucks. The sand was easily dug. They'd be given shovels to prepare their own graves—the smuggler had explained this.

And if the signal did come? What if, by then, the wind had whipped the waves up? Percival could not swim. Even once they were at sea, there were navy boats and pirates. Engines failed and captains became lost. But there was no point thinking any further than this moment—the one thing was to watch for the signal. Percival prayed to the ghost of his father and all his ancestors for the boat to come, for a chance to see his grandson again.

He imagined entering the water, the waves welcoming him, licking up around his legs. He would plunge ahead up to his waist and listen for the boat, for any directions that were yelled. When it was close, he would go as deep as he could, up to his neck. He could not be left behind. He must not panic, even if the waves submerged him. If the launch was yet farther out, he would rise to the surface and swim. If the fish could do it, so could he.

Then they came fast as three winks—the three flashes of light. Darkness again. There were no patrols nearby. Around him, he heard the others in the grass rising, uttering words of relief and fear, gathering and shushing children, running for the water. He ran too. He ran headlong down the dunes, legs slashed by the stinging grass, forward across the beach. His feet pushed through the soft sand, his lungs aching, the wind everywhere, guided only by the noise of the sea.

My deepest gratitude is to my wife, Margarita, who always encouraged, sometimes consoled, and often cheered me during my journey writing this novel. In so many important ways, she made this book possible. My parents helped me with generous recollections of their childhoods in Vietnam. The specific details and anecdotes that they shared with me were invaluable in my understanding of life's rhythms in that era. My late grandfather, William Lin, inspired the fictional protagonist of this novel. A number of former teachers and students of his school shared their memories with me. Portions of the story pay homage to episodes in the lives of my relatives. In particular, this book remembers my late Aunt Sophie. Echoes of history are to be found in this narrative and yet it is a work of fiction.

I am immensely appreciative of my editors in this project. Martha Kanya-Forstner believed in this book and nurtured it, even during its most impressionistic and fragile beginnings. She entered the lives of its characters with compassion, wisdom, and editorial rigor. In doing so, she helped me to carry the project through to completion, and challenged me to bring it to life on the page. Nita Pronovost peered deeply into the shadows of this book, and those of its author, to help both find their way through some difficult times. Alexis Washam asked essential questions of the characters, and her insightful editorial work helped bring clarity to the text.

Thank you to Alex Schultz for a superlative copyedit, and Shaun
Oakey for his exceptional proofread. Rachel Brown was very helpful with early manuscript preparation. A special thank you to my friends and publishers: Maya Mavjee, Kristin Cochrane, Brad Martin, Nick Pearson, and Molly Stern, all of whom gave me the opportunity to publish this book. My agents, Anne McDermid and Christy Fletcher, navigated some tricky waters with their calm hands, and I am grateful to them for that. A great debt is owed to my elegant and steadfast friend, Judy Hottensen.

Along the way, I benefitted from encouragements, mutual commiserations, shared perspectives on the life of writing, and an extensive range of kindnesses from many people, including: Margaret Atwood, Joseph Boyden, Cathy Buchanan, Wayson Choy, Adrienne Clarkson, David Davidar, Junot Díaz, Katie Finch Rinella, Richard Florest, Graeme Gibson, Rawi Hage, Elizabeth Hay, Lynn Henry, Adria Iwasutiak, Joshua Knelman, Martha Magor Webb, Richard Munter, Michael Ondaatje, Monica Pacheco, Paul Quarrington, John Ralston Saul, Robert Rotenberg, Madeleine Thien, Miriam Toews, Jane Urquhart, M.G. Vassanji, Alyssa Wolff, Rob Weisbach, and a vast array of other professional colleagues, fellow writers, and readers.