Dust Child

DUST CHILDa novelNGUYỄN PHAN QUẾ MAI Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill 2023 For Amerasians and their family members who shared with me their personal stories and who inspire me with their courage. For the millions of men, women, and children who were pulled into the vortex of the Việt Nam War. For anyone whose life has been touched by violence. May our world see more compassion and peace. CONTENTS Child of the EnemyReturning to the Land of FearAn Impossible ChoiceA Bird Finding Its NestThe Heat of Sài GònSài Gòn TeaA Flash of HopeFacing the ConsequencesBehind the Dark RoomThe Tree of LoveThe SecretThe Danger of FireThe Cost of HopeThe Laughing BuddhaWar and PeaceHow to Be a MotherFinding a Needle at the Bottom of the OceanThe Past and the FutureRevenge and ForgivenessSweetness and BitternessLove and HonorAuthor’s NoteAcknowledgments During the Việt Nam War, tens of thousands of children were born into relationships between American soldiers and Vietnamese women. Tragic circumstances separated most of these Amerasian children from their fathers and, later, their mothers. Many have not found each other again. This book is a work of fiction. Though major historical events are real, the names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Child of the EnemyHồ Chí Minh City, 2016“Life is a boat,” Sister Nhã, the Catholic nun who had raised Phong, once told him. “When you depart from your first anchor—your mother’s womb—you will be pulled away by unexpected currents. If you can fill your boat with enough hope, enough self-belief, enough compassion, and enough curiosity, you will be ready to weather all the storms of life.”As Phong sat waiting at the American Consulate, he felt the weight of hope in his hands—his visa application, and those of his wife Bình, his son Tài, and his daughter Diễm.Around him, many Vietnamese were waiting in chairs or in lines for their turn to speak with one of the visa officers who sat at counters behind glass windows. Some Vietnamese cast curious glances toward Phong and he felt the heat of their eyes. “Half-breed,” he imagined them whispering. Throughout his life, he had been called the dust of life, bastard, Black American imperialist, child of the enemy. These labels had been flung at him when he was younger with such ferocity that they had burrowed deep within him, refusing to let go. When he was a child living in the Lâm Đồng New Economic Zone with Sister Nhã, he once filled a large bucket with water and soap, climbed inside, and rubbed his skin with a sponge gourd to scrub the black off it. He was bleeding by the time Sister Nhã found him. He wondered why he had to be born an Amerasian.“Don’t worry, be confident and you’ll do well, anh,” Bình whispered, reaching for him, the calluses on her palm brushing against his arm. Phong nodded, smiled nervously, and took his wife’s hand into his. This hand had cooked for him, washed his clothes, and helped to mend the broken patches of his life. This hand had held him and his children, danced with them, yielded new seasons on their rice field. He loved this hand and its calluses, as he did every part of Bình. He had to fulfill his promise to bring Bình to America. Away from the rubbish dumps where she worked, collecting plastic, paper, and metals.Sitting next to Bình, Tài and Diễm waved at him. At fourteen and twelve years old, they were nearly as tall as their mother. They’d both inherited Bình’s large eyes and her radiant smile. Their skin color and curly hair had come from him. “Remember that you are beautiful,” he’d told them as they got ready for the five-hour bus ride here. He’d often said that to them, knowing how they were often looked at with disdain by the Vietnamese, who almost always preferred fair skin.Tài returned to his book, his crooked glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, the metal frame held together by pieces of tape. Phong reminded himself to talk with his neighbors again and offer a higher price to rent their paddy field. He would grow mung beans for the New Year, the harvest of which would enable him to buy new glasses for Tài and a dress for Diễm. Diễm was wearing Tài’s old clothes; the pants were too short, revealing her ankles.At a counter in front of Phong, an American visa officer was giving a young woman a blue sheet of paper. Phong knew the color well. Blue meant non-approval. As the woman left the counter, something like panic rose up in Phong.He tried to recall the interview practice sessions he’d had with his family. He had carved the right answers into his memory the way carpenters carved birds and flowers into wood, but now his mind was blank.“Number forty-five, counter three,” the loudspeaker called.“That’s us,” Bình said. As Phong made his way toward the counter together with his wife and children, he told himself to be calm. As long as he had his family, he would not let himself be intimidated. He would fight for the chance to give Bình, Tài, and Diễm a better life.Phong nodded his greeting at the visa officer, who looked just like the American women in movies he’d seen: blonde hair, white skin, high-bridged nose. The woman didn’t acknowledge him, her eyes on the computer. Phong studied the machine, wondering what mysteries it held. When he got to America, he would work hard and buy a computer for Tài and Diễm. His children had taken him to town, to an Internet café, to show him how computers worked. They said perhaps one day he could send words to his parents via the Internet. But would he ever have that chance? He didn’t even know if his parents were dead or alive.The visa officer turned to him.“Gút mó-ninh,” Phong said, hoping he’d pronounced “good morning” correctly. Years ago,