Catfish and Mandala (20 page)
Read Catfish and Mandala Online
Authors: Andrew X. Pham
“Here it is,”
Truong announces.
“This is Minh Luong Village.”
Truong announces.
“This is Minh Luong Village.”
“I don't remember any village. Brick houses, markets. Where did all this come from? Where are the farms, the rice paddies?”
Twenty years have sprouted a village around Minh Luong. The compound itself has changed, too. None of the old structures survived. New blocky buildings and new fences everywhere. All gone, says Truong. The incarceration ended in the late eighties. I make him drive around the village and approach the compound from every direction, trying to look inside. Armed guards are posted around the institution. I make him do another circuit. And another. Nothing looks familiar. I feel stupid. Not knowing what else to do, I whip out my camera. Truong goes ballistic:
“What in the hell do you think you're doing? You want to get me killed? They'll jail and beat us both. What are you thinking? They're police. POLICE! Don't you understand? Anything, they can do anything they want. I don't want to spend another two goddamn years of my life in jail. Why are you so stupid!”
“What in the hell do you think you're doing? You want to get me killed? They'll jail and beat us both. What are you thinking? They're police. POLICE! Don't you understand? Anything, they can do anything they want. I don't want to spend another two goddamn years of my life in jail. Why are you so stupid!”
He wrestles the camera from me and puts it in his pocket. I can tell he wants to give me a taste of his knuckles. He glares at me, then mounts his bike and revs up the engine. 1 hop on before he can change his mind. We pull away fast.
He parks us at a café far down the street, still within sight of the compound. I apologize and make it up to him with a round of beer and lunch. Truong drinks his beer in two long pulls. Stripped of his joviality, he looks like an old man, shriveled up, charred from too much punishment in the sun. Worn like an old leather bag. Empty now. Here is a man, the very sort, perhaps, the very
one
that my father had recruited when he was the Province Director of Propaganda. A sense of remorse opens my eyes to the old soldierâtaxi driver, this remnant of my father's world looking back at me with tired eyes.
one
that my father had recruited when he was the Province Director of Propaganda. A sense of remorse opens my eyes to the old soldierâtaxi driver, this remnant of my father's world looking back at me with tired eyes.
“Forget this place. Go see the world,”
Truong urges me.
“Everything has changed. Your roots here have turned to dust. Nothing here to bind you.”
Truong urges me.
“Everything has changed. Your roots here have turned to dust. Nothing here to bind you.”
Baptizing-Buddha
Grandpa Pham smelled of plum candy and Chinese medicine.
It was an odor that made me nauseous and hungry all at once.
His opium smoke.
I served as the footman of Grandpa's opiate dreams. As his family went through the process of closing doors, shutting windows, keeping the confidence, I knelt at the door of Grandpa Pham's study, a servant awaiting his wishes, witnessing the rite that came to be the center of his existence. In the seasons before Saigon fell, Grandpa was many years into his pipes, his grown children's wages keeping him in the habit. I brought him the accoutrements of his ceremony and he arranged them on the straw mat: an oil lamp, matches, crisp unwrinkled newspaper, a bowl with a spoonful of steamed rice, a kettle of lotus tea, porcelain cups, a water-smoke pot, and old-fashioned Chinese brick pillows. He produced a cough-drop tin rattling with loose nuggets of black opium.
He smoked with an old friend, both of them Hanoi expatriates so wizened and emaciated it was difficult to tell them apart in the gloom of their conspiracyâhovering over their opium, their instrument of sedition from the world. Those Nationalist bastards, one cheroot figure said to the other, sold nine American bullets out of ten, no wonder we
are still fighting this war. The other figure protested, though without much passion, It's good for the economy, all the foreign money pouring in. Impotent to the world, they were still supreme patriarchs of their extended families. This, their War Room: two ancients sipping tea in cement air. Saigon is too hot, too corrupt, nothing but barbarians, said one. Yes, yes, Hanoi is the true soul of Vietnam, agreed the other. Shirtless in the heat, they sat on a handwoven straw mat, propping themselves with one arm locked at the elbow like a tent pole, a knee up near their chins. The room was bolted tight against ill winds. Their liver-spotted hide, the texture of week-old tofu-skin, did not sweat but drooped, flaccid on their chests and bellies, stretched taut over the ridges of their spines. The Americans are generous with their aid, but the French, they knew how to live well, one observed. True, the other nodded, true, they built the most beautiful mansions in Hanoi. The two jurors reached into a bowl, clawed a few grains of leftover rice, and wedged these between their gum and cheek like chewing tobacco. The newspaper was smoothed out, folded, and torn into two perfect squares. Starting with one corner, they rolled the papers into tapered pipes, overlapping the layers tightly. They took the moistened rice out of their mouths, pressed it into a paste, and glued the pipes. With tinker deftness, they fit the pipes to the water-smoke pot. Every practiced motion carried the serene precision of a ritual even as they talked. The Japanese were the true bastards, weren't they? All that killing and the famines. Yes, yes, but that was war and so is this. No, for the Northerners, it is war. For the Americans, it is politics. For the Southerners, it is business. A precious opium nugget was placed on the pot they shared. Ah, but wasn't Hanoi beautiful in winter? Yes, persimmon winters. They lay their bones down on the mat, on their sides facing each other, heads on brick pillows, the opium between them. Don't you remember that one hot summer, so hot catfish died and floated in the creek? Yes, but wasn't the monsoon wind blowing off Ha Long Bay magical? They worked themselves back through the years to the good memories, and when they were ready, they touched the flame to the opium and, with great sighs, began to feed from their paper pipes. They perfumed the air with opium sweetness, making it wet and soft, filling it with the watery gurgle of two old men drowning.
are still fighting this war. The other figure protested, though without much passion, It's good for the economy, all the foreign money pouring in. Impotent to the world, they were still supreme patriarchs of their extended families. This, their War Room: two ancients sipping tea in cement air. Saigon is too hot, too corrupt, nothing but barbarians, said one. Yes, yes, Hanoi is the true soul of Vietnam, agreed the other. Shirtless in the heat, they sat on a handwoven straw mat, propping themselves with one arm locked at the elbow like a tent pole, a knee up near their chins. The room was bolted tight against ill winds. Their liver-spotted hide, the texture of week-old tofu-skin, did not sweat but drooped, flaccid on their chests and bellies, stretched taut over the ridges of their spines. The Americans are generous with their aid, but the French, they knew how to live well, one observed. True, the other nodded, true, they built the most beautiful mansions in Hanoi. The two jurors reached into a bowl, clawed a few grains of leftover rice, and wedged these between their gum and cheek like chewing tobacco. The newspaper was smoothed out, folded, and torn into two perfect squares. Starting with one corner, they rolled the papers into tapered pipes, overlapping the layers tightly. They took the moistened rice out of their mouths, pressed it into a paste, and glued the pipes. With tinker deftness, they fit the pipes to the water-smoke pot. Every practiced motion carried the serene precision of a ritual even as they talked. The Japanese were the true bastards, weren't they? All that killing and the famines. Yes, yes, but that was war and so is this. No, for the Northerners, it is war. For the Americans, it is politics. For the Southerners, it is business. A precious opium nugget was placed on the pot they shared. Ah, but wasn't Hanoi beautiful in winter? Yes, persimmon winters. They lay their bones down on the mat, on their sides facing each other, heads on brick pillows, the opium between them. Don't you remember that one hot summer, so hot catfish died and floated in the creek? Yes, but wasn't the monsoon wind blowing off Ha Long Bay magical? They worked themselves back through the years to the good memories, and when they were ready, they touched the flame to the opium and, with great sighs, began to feed from their paper pipes. They perfumed the air with opium sweetness, making it wet and soft, filling it with the watery gurgle of two old men drowning.
Once they slipped far into their refuge, a pair of goldfish dying on the floor, I moved the oil lamp out of the reach of their limbs and left them to their slumber. Their smoke swarmed the house, announcing that their spirits were temporarily on a journey, yet everyone tiptoed past the room as though fearful of waking a baby.
The First Baptist Church of Shreveport, Louisiana, was our bridge to America. They loaned us the airfares. They rented us one of the church properties, found Dad work, and generally took care of the family, making sure our transition to America was comfortable. We went to church three times a week: all morning Sunday, Wednesday night for Bible study and bowling, and Saturday night for church youth-group activities. Except for two trips to the movies, we never went anywhere in our nine Shreveport months except to church. It was the most magnificent place we had ever seen. It had huge white Roman columns, lofty marbled halls, great diamond chandeliers, walls of stained glass, miles upon miles of cardinal carpets, and velvet drapes that went almost to heaven.
When we boys weren't in church, we were in school. It was dull, particularly because we didn't speak English. The teachers couldn't talk to us and, not knowing what to do, they left us alone. A college student was sent down to work with us. He did flash cards and taught us how to tackle a guy carrying a football. I got into scrapes regularly with kids calling me Viet Cong. I fought with every boy who wanted to try kung fu with Bruce Lee. The teachers called home. Dad just shrugged and said I'd better keep up my grades. He had too much on his mind.
A few months into our immigrant lives, Uncle Hong in California called about a telegram from Vietnam: Grandpa Pham had passed away.
Dad hung up the phone and sat at the table, staring out the dark window unable to finish his dinner. We children, keen to his temper, knew something was wrong even before he told Mom. Without a word, she stood up, turned on the stove, and boiled a chicken. The glutinous rice was steamed. The expensive sheet of red silk was
brought out and spread over the bookcase to let spirits know that this was the family altar. A framed photo of Grandpa, in black and white looking severely into the camera, was placed on the altar. Mom served the freshly cooked food to Grandpa's picture. Dad bowed before the altar, incense cupped in hands, and said his prayers, planting the sticks in a bowl of uncooked rice. While Dad went to their bedroom to sit alone, Mom started fashioning mourning bands, six-inch-wide pieces of black cloth, for the entire family. Wear them over your sleeve, and when someone asks, she instructed us, tell them you're grieving a death in the family. But I'm not grieving, I protested, I didn't even like him. Shhhhh! She put a finger over her lips. Don't let your dad hear you say that. You must wear this band for a month. Now go to the altar and pray!
brought out and spread over the bookcase to let spirits know that this was the family altar. A framed photo of Grandpa, in black and white looking severely into the camera, was placed on the altar. Mom served the freshly cooked food to Grandpa's picture. Dad bowed before the altar, incense cupped in hands, and said his prayers, planting the sticks in a bowl of uncooked rice. While Dad went to their bedroom to sit alone, Mom started fashioning mourning bands, six-inch-wide pieces of black cloth, for the entire family. Wear them over your sleeve, and when someone asks, she instructed us, tell them you're grieving a death in the family. But I'm not grieving, I protested, I didn't even like him. Shhhhh! She put a finger over her lips. Don't let your dad hear you say that. You must wear this band for a month. Now go to the altar and pray!
During the night, it snowed a thin layer. Dad rose at his usual 5 a.m., made his lunch of ham and cheese on whiteâhe preferred rice but wanted to fit in at workâand went to his janitorial job. I found his small, black footsteps mincing over fresh snow in the wintry stillness. I felt very sorry for him. He was so utterly alone in a foreign land, poor with the weight of the entire family to bear. There was no wake here for him to make his peace with Grandpa. No brother, sister, or friend to partake of his grief.
For Dad, life in America wasn't easy. In Vietnam, he was a teacher and an officer with two thousand men under his command. In Shreveport, he was a janitor in an industrial plant. It was physically demanding. His back was killing him. He'd injured it in the labor camp. And for Mom, America was a lonely, scary place. After she delivered Kay, Mom rarely left the house. She didn't know anyone and she didn't speak a word of English. The supermarket used to be her favorite destination. Dad got mad at her because she could never make up her mind. The choices were stupefying. After they stripsearched her for sampling a grape at the supermarket, she did her shopping only once a week, making Dad drive her to a different grocery store across town every Saturday.
Her fears of America abated significantly when Christmas came around. During that season of giving, the kindness and hospitality that the Southern folks showed our familyâthe only Asian family in
townâwarmed us to America. People started showing up at our door with presents, wishing us a merry Christmas. There were so many visitors Mom had us wear our good clothes all day. Mom fretted that she might run out of tea and sweets before she ran out of guests. Dad busied himself with taking names and addresses for thank-you cards. The doorbell kept ringing. Strangers, neighbors, and friends brought us presents, food, clothes, little things, big things to help us make a life in their town. The glittering piles of gifts grew steadily until it dwarfed the Christmas tree. Mom, wanting to make the Christmas spirit last as long as possible, suggested that each person open only one present a day, every day until the entire hoard of goodies was gone. This would have seen us through February. Fortunately, our sponsors, the Harrises and the Johnsons, stopped by and convinced her that all presents should be opened on Christmas Day.
townâwarmed us to America. People started showing up at our door with presents, wishing us a merry Christmas. There were so many visitors Mom had us wear our good clothes all day. Mom fretted that she might run out of tea and sweets before she ran out of guests. Dad busied himself with taking names and addresses for thank-you cards. The doorbell kept ringing. Strangers, neighbors, and friends brought us presents, food, clothes, little things, big things to help us make a life in their town. The glittering piles of gifts grew steadily until it dwarfed the Christmas tree. Mom, wanting to make the Christmas spirit last as long as possible, suggested that each person open only one present a day, every day until the entire hoard of goodies was gone. This would have seen us through February. Fortunately, our sponsors, the Harrises and the Johnsons, stopped by and convinced her that all presents should be opened on Christmas Day.
Dad invited them to stay for dinner, but they were well aware that it was our very first turkey. The church ladies gave it to us for our holiday feast. Mom said it was the biggest and funniest-looking chicken she had ever seen. Everything in America is big, she said, marveling how she couldn't even hold up the “chicken” with one hand. For days, Mom and Dad had plotted the cooking of our Christmas dinner. Dad, a serious foodie, had saved a newspaper recipe. An excellent cook, Mom considered the “fat chicken” one of the greatest challenges of her kitchen life. On Christmas day, they orchestrated Operation Turkey. Dad translated the recipes and helped with the preparations. Convinced that nothing could taste good without fishsauce, Mom liberally basted the turkey with it, adding a bit of soy sauce for coloring. When he wasn't looking, she gave the turkey stuffing a dose of oyster sauce. Dad quoted the recipe: five hours in the oven. Mom said that was ridiculous. They quibbled and Mom covertly fiddled with the oven when Dad took a nap. Between his interpretations and her improvisations, they produced a frightful thing that resembled a boiled hen dipped in honey. Dad, an atheist, said a prayer for form and started carving. In sections, the meat was raw.
Glances darted back and forth across the table. We boys were uncertain whether we wanted to eat this bloated yellow carcass with the strange brown stuffing oozing out its bottom. Huy asked Dad if
he could just eat the candied yams and the cranberry sauce. Tien murmured that he was full. Auntie Dung, Chi, and I knew better and kept our mouths shut.
he could just eat the candied yams and the cranberry sauce. Tien murmured that he was full. Auntie Dung, Chi, and I knew better and kept our mouths shut.
Pointing at the turkey, Hien shrilled, “It's bleeding!”
“Quiet!” Dad ordered. “Don't you know how lucky you are to have food to eat?”
We poked and nibbled the turkey. Our gushing enthusiasm riled Dad. He whacked the table with a yardstick and snarled, “EAT.” We plowed into our food, keeping a close eye on the switch guarding the turkey. Mom mixed a side of chili-garlic fishsauce, hoping to make her bird more palatable. Dad launched into a lecture about the warfamine he had endured as a boy in Hanoi. I'm too lenient with you, Dad said. Your grandfather was strict. He would have whipped you and let you starve. By the time Dad went on to talk about the poor and unfortunate people back in Vietnam, we managed to sneak most of the turkey into our napkins. Dinner over, Dad reminded us to thank the church people the next time we saw them.
So when the minister inquired about saving our souls, we replied with a resounding Yes!
It was rude otherwise. And we wanted to thank them, to show our gratitude for everything, though, of course, we had no idea what baptism was. We didn't even know it involved water. In good Vietnamese etiquette, we smiled and bowed and were beckoned to the gates of heaven. The church folks made a special date. Our souls would be saved on a Sunday, before the entire congregation.
On the big day, we went to church without our jade Buddha pendants. They dressed us in white gowns and dimmed the lamps. We were lined up behind the spotlight trained on the baptismal pool set up high behind the pulpit. With the kind-faced minister leading, the congregation of maybe a thousand sang hymns, then prayed for us. The smiling men and women guided us one by one, barefoot, over the white marble to the holy water. They started with Dad and worked downward according to age. The minister prayed, pinched Dad's nose, and dipped him backward in the water. When it was my turn, I went without incident. I got wet but didn't feel any different. Huy came out coughing, water up his nose. They dragged Tien into
the pool. Too cold, too cold, he spat in Vietnamese. The nice folks smiled, lifted Tien by his armpits, and delivered him to the minister.
the pool. Too cold, too cold, he spat in Vietnamese. The nice folks smiled, lifted Tien by his armpits, and delivered him to the minister.
I was thinking Grandpa Pham must be looking down on us and smashing his opium pot in fury. I told Huy and Tien this meant all our sins were forgiven, but they were jumping up and down, yelling, We're Americans! We're Americans! I was confused about the whole religion argument. I asked Auntie Dung why Americans go either up or down when they die, but Vietnamese go in a circle. We go up to the sky and stay there awhileâlike Grandpa Phamâto watch over our children, then come back down again for another go on earth. Auntie said you have to believe in one or the other, not both. I said, Huh? But what about this sin thing? Now that we're Christians, can we really sin and all we have to do is pray for forgiveness and we're forgiven, just like that? Over and over? But if we were just Vietnamese, Mom said we collect our sins like stones in a bucket to be counted when we come full turn on earth again. Auntie said you have to pick one or the other, not both. I said I hope my bucket doesn't get too full because I don't want to be reincarnated as a pig and end up skewered on a spit. Auntie said, Don't be stupid. Still, I felt very lucky to be baptized because it seemed a really good deal.
After the splendid ceremony, the good folks shed tears of joy and lined up to embrace us. Dad was smiling broadly, shaking hands with everyone. He looked so congenial you'd never guess he was grieving for his father. The church ladies held a great feast to celebrate our salvation. The minister presented the whole family with new Bibles, big gilded tomes for Mom and Dad, lovely blue leather ones with gold tassels for Chi and Auntie, and sturdy picture Bibles for us boys. We shook hands, smiled, said thank you, took pictures with the important church people. They were ecstatic and we were very happy, glad that we could give them this token of gratitude for all their kindness.
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