Out of the Dragon's Mouth (18 page)

Mai peered at it. A light brown animal standing on its hind legs with a baby sticking its head out of its stomach? What kind of animals did they have in America? She had never thought to ask her uncle. “Thanks. It's beautiful,” she added politely.

Just then the boat started to slow down. The sound of the whining engine dimmed and the crowd became agitated. Standing up, Mai could see the mainland, boats of all sizes dotting the shore where several piers jutted into the ocean. After tying up to one of them, the passengers jammed the exit ramp, clutching children, carrying bags, calling to one another in high-pitched voices, their eyes hungry with hope.

A dingy yellow bus was parked across from the pier, a driver standing at its open door and beckoning to them. Mai followed the line that straggled across the parking lot and waited to board. When it was her turn, the driver, a dark-skinned man in a crumpled green uniform, extended his hand as she struggled up the steep steps. Inside, the smell of humanity, strong and musky, hit her nostrils. No salty sea air here. She inched down the narrow aisle, her bags close to her, searching for an empty seat. The young woman she'd met on the boat motioned to her.

“Sit here,” she invited, moving her little boy onto her lap next to her baby. Mai sank into the vinyl seat and pushed her bags under the seat in front of her.

“Here,” Mai said, “let me hold him. It's too hot to have two on your lap.”

The boy's body was warm against hers, and he let out a cry when his mother handed him to Mai. Through the open window, Mai could see the pier, and their boat, now being loaded with boxes of supplies to take back to the island for the evening meal. The workers called to one another, their voices echoing against the crashing waves.

“Attention everyone. I am your driver. I will be taking you to the airport in Kuala Lumpur,” announced the man in the crumpled green uniform. He adjusted his dust-coated cap, closed the bus doors, and grabbed the steering wheel. Mai settled into her seat, the gears on the bus grinding as the driver gunned the engine.

Too excited to sleep, she spent the next several hours transfixed by the verdant landscape rushing by her, the
tiny roadside stands, the dense rubber-tree plantations, the rice paddies, the towering mountains. It was so much like Vietnam.

When the rain started pinging on the bus's metal roof, Mai remembered the way it had tapped against the red tile roof of her village home, the sweetness of knowing that the rice paddies would be flooded, and that the farmers, after their hard work tilling the soil trudging behind a water buffalo, would be able to scatter the seeds that would eventually sprout into
ma
, the tiny seedlings that would then be tied in bundles and replanted in larger paddies. Closing her eyes, she could see the bent backs of the villagers and hear the splish-splash of their feet as they plodded in the paddies, placing the seedlings in straight, even rows like the lines in her composition book.

The boy in her lap had fallen asleep. She closed her arms around him so he wouldn't slip off. His mother was staring out the window, tears running down her face. The baby breathed slowly, tiny eyes closed, fingers curled around her thumb. The woman saw that she was looking and raised her hand to wipe her face. Mai reached over and touched her hand.

“Don't be sad,” Mai said. “We're leaving here. Everything's going to be better now.”

“I know, I know,” the woman replied. “It's just that …” The tears started to run down her face again. “My husband, the Thai pirates. What am I going to do without him?”

Mai had no answer. She drew the little boy closer, feeling the sweaty warmth of his body, the soft beating of his heart.

“Where is your family?” the woman asked, turning her head toward Mai, her eyes bright from crying.

“My parents are in Vietnam, I think.” Mai replied. “Unless they've been able to escape. I don't know if they're dead or alive.”

“Ah, you poor child. Who is going to take care of you?” the woman whispered.

“My uncle and aunt. They're waiting for me.” Mai tried to sound brave.

If only there were some water to drink, but there was nothing. Her mouth burned with thirst.

The hum of the wheels rolling along the road sang Mai
to sleep, and then the blare of the bus's horn and a shrill
screech of brakes woke her. Her blouse and pants were soaked with sweat. Across the field, a silver airplane soared into the sky, and a gleaming building appeared with large letters over it in a language Mai could not understand.

“We are now arriving at Subang International Airport,” the driver announced, turning left and driving down a long road lined with palms. It lead into the airport, where a throng of buses and cars jammed the narrow lanes.

After the bus had parked and the passengers had all filed off, they were separated into groups depending on their destinations. The young woman and her two children were whisked away by a uniformed airline attendant.

“Are you Miss Nguyen?” someone asked.

Mai looked up and saw the friendly eyes of a small pudgy man wearing a blue uniform. She nodded shyly, too excited to speak.

“Come with me. I'll take you to your airline. Going to the United States, I see?” He smiled, checking the paper in his hand and peering at her name tag.

Mai squeezed the handles of her bags tighter and followed the man into the building, to a ticket counter with the red letters
TWA
emblazoned on the wall behind it. The pudgy man talked to the woman behind the counter, who peered at Mai and then clacked her bright red nails across a keyboard. No other refugee was going to the United States on this flight. Only Mai. The hand with the long red nails handed a plane ticket to her.

Unable to read what it said, Mai held it tightly. This piece of paper with the tiny markings on it. Her pass to freedom.

The man led her to a seat in a boarding area; she could see the big number 5 on the wall. He sat next to her, explaining in Vietnamese that the plane would be leaving in less than an hour for America, stopping along the way to refuel in Narita Airport in Japan, and then on to San Francisco, USA. Strange sounding names. A woman's voice echoed over a microphone.

“Time to go,” the man said. Mai hopped up after him, her stomach feeling as if it were a basket of butterflies. He led her out the door, past the airline agent, who reached for her ticket, and across the tarmac to a huge silver plane. It gleamed in the sunlight, the three gigantic red letters on the tail:
TWA
.

“Goodbye,” the man said, bowing to her.

Bewildered, Mai reached for the handrail on the stairs. Shaking, she climbed the steps to the plane's entrance, where there was a stewardess in a dark blue suit and matching high heels, her hair pulled back from her carefully made-up face. Her prominent blue eyes made contact with Mai's eyes, welcoming her. Businessmen in dark suits and ties were settling into the rows of seats before her. The stewardess, seeing Mai's confusion, pointed her to a seat by the window. She slid into it, holding her bags tightly in her lap, and peered out. Below her, a long silver wing reached out from the side of the plane. On the runway, she could see a man driving a cart filled with bags alongside the plane, and in the distance, another plane rolling down the runway. Then, as if it had invisible strings on it that pulled it upward, that plane's nose went up, then its body, and finally its tail, until it was sailing through the air.

Mai's hand went to her throat and her nose pressed against the glass of the small window. Her other hand touched the buckle of the seat belt underneath her. She reached for the other end of it and buckled it around her. A young businessman in a double-breasted gray suit plopped down next to her. The sweet scent of aftershave accompanied him. In the aisle, the flight attendant was holding up a sign and making an announcement in English.

Mai waited, sitting upright in her seat, afraid to relax, as the doors closed and the airplane started to move away from the gate. She gripped the arm of her seat and held her breath, watching the ground disappear as the plane went up. There was a loud grinding sound. Then it was gone. The plane cut through the billowing clouds and climbed higher and higher while Mai clutched her mother's bracelet and prayed for the gods to give her good luck.

Don't stop now
, she said.
Get me to America. Keep this plane in the air. Don't let it fall.
She leaned against the plane's window and watched the low buildings surrounded by palm trees stretch out beneath her; next, the mountains; and then the plane ascended up through the clouds until the whole earth disappeared beneath the cloud layer.

At home, Mai had stretched out on her back on the rice paddy dyke and studied the clouds as they sailed by, so far away, so high, unreachable. And now, to look down upon them. Her head swirled.

Just then, the face with those round blue eyes poked in front of her, asking a question she didn't understand. Mai shrank back into the corner of her seat and shook her head. Whatever it was, no.
No. No. Just go away and leave me be.
The hand held a tray in front of her with a small box, filled with a piece of chicken, rice, and something green.
No.
She shook her head again,
no
. Even though she had not eaten for hours, she wasn't hungry. The pale white face with the blue eyes would not go away.

Then the mouth moved again, more strange-sounding words coming through those bright red lips. This time they were directed at the businessman next to her. He turned to Mai, smiled, and asked her in Mandarin if she would like something to drink or eat.

Surprised, she nodded. “Just water, please.”

Not satisfied, he spoke to her again. “Would you like a Coke?”

A Coke. How long had it been since she'd had a Coke? She remembered the sweet syrupy taste, the dark cola color. Father had bought her one when they were in Can Tho.

“Oh, yes, yes. Thank you,” she said as the man repeated her reply to the flight attendant in English. The blue eyes flashed, the red lips parted in a smile, and the woman returned with a cup of ice and a bottle of Coke. She poured it into the cup and handed it to the businessman, who passed it to Mai.

She held the cup in her hands, feeling the cold, staring at the bubbles on the surface of the dark liquid. She sipped the Coke slowly, savoring the feel of the liquid sliding down her throat. The plane leveled off. Mai finished her drink and struggled to keep her eyes open, but the effort was too much. Her shoulders sagged, her head listed to one side. A deep weariness overcame her, turning her arms and legs to limp noodles, and she was aware of nothing until the stewardess nudged her to put her seat back up. She heard a grinding sound, and felt the plane dropping from the sky.

Twenty

Did Mai's parents know she was alive? Would she ever see Kien again? What would life with Third Uncle be like? If only she knew the answers to these questions, but she didn't. And so the young girl in the red blouse with the lucky gold bracelet hidden in her pocket pressed her nose to the plane's window, her eyes searching the dark landscape for her new life. The Chinese businessman stood up, folded his newspaper on the seat, and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.

“Are we there?” Mai asked him, leaning on the armrest.

“No,” he replied, tapping a cigarette on the pack. “Japan. This is Tokyo, the capital. Just refueling. You can get off if you want to. I'm going to go have a smoke,” he added before he turned to go.

Mai cowered in her seat.
No. No getting off. Too scary.
She'd stay in the safety of her seat, listening to the murmurs behind her, the wail of a tired child, the shuffling of feet going past her. She pressed her nose to the window again.
Hard glass. Everything blurry. Night.
A sea of city lights sequined the darkness. Her first glimpse of a big city. What was its name? Oh yes, Tokyo. She saw dark silhouettes of buildings, taller than she had ever seen before. This airport was so vast. Shadows of uniformed men moved on the tarmac.

What was Kien doing now? Was it night on the island? Was he thinking of her? Was he missing her? The love song he had strummed on the beach that moonlit night, when the stars danced and the sand sparkled, played in her head.
“You asked me how much I love you, the brightness of the moon is a symbol of my love for you
.”
S
he hummed the melody low, under her breath, burying her face in the small blue airplane pillow until the tune turned into a wail, swallowed up by the softness of the pillow.

A tap on the shoulder. Fasten your seat belt.

The businessman turned to her. “Next stop San Francisco, the United States,” he said, his breath stinking of smoke. Mai shrank back from him and nodded. Father smelled like that. She buried her face in the pillow and felt the plane ascend once again. America. So far. And so big. Such strange sounding names. When would she get there? Would Third Uncle and Auntie be waiting for her? Would she recognize them? She tried to picture their faces, but all she could see was Kien, immobile on the pier, his eyes filled with sadness, his hands digging deep into the pockets of his faded blue shorts.

She dozed and dreamed that she was on the fishing trawler again, knees frozen to her chest, the stench of urine and vomit filling the hold while sea water sloshed around her, her stomach a hollow pit of hunger, the cries of frightened refugees calling out for mercy as the groaning ship rose and fell, beating its way through the white-capped waves, tossed like a child's top across the storm-filled sea, tumbling bodies, hands reaching into black nothingness for something to hold on to. A baby girl rolled from her mother's lap and fell onto her legs. She tried to save her from the water, but every time she stretched out her arms, the baby disappeared.

A cart rattled next to her. A hand touched her shoulder. The boat turned into an airplane and the tangled throng of refugees into rows of well-dressed people belted in cushioned seats. Mai rubbed her eyes and pointed to the can of Coke on the cart. The stewardess smiled, reached over and put her tray table down, and set a cup of ice and the Coke can on it. Oh, the pleasure of having a cold drink. The coolness slid down her parched desert throat, and she rolled an ice cube around on her tongue. Would the dryness in her throat every go away?

Oh no. After several sips, Mai felt pressure on her bladder, too strong to ignore. Embarrassed, she turned to the businessman next to her and asked him if the plane had a toilet. He nodded yes, pushed the small button on his arm rest, and a stewardess bustled down the aisle toward them. She smiled at Mai and motioned to her to step into the aisle. Unbuckling her seat belt, Mai brushed past the businessman, stretched out her arms to hold onto the seats, and followed the stewardess toward the back of the plane. Relie
f
! There was no one in line. The folding door was open, and she peered in at the silver bowl. A toilet like Grandfather had installed at their house. Before that, there'd been a hole in the ground.

A piece of glass covered the wall above the sink. Back in the Malaysian airport, Mai had caught a brief glimpse of a girl in the glass, a girl who might be her, but she had turned away. Now, in the close confines of the airplane toilet, she could no longer avoid this girl, the thin, tanned, straggly-haired girl staring back at her. Moving closer, she examined her eyes. Coal black, bright. Eyes that had seen so much. She moved, and the girl in the glass moved. Mai put her hand to her chin. The girl in the glass put her hand to her chin. She stuck out her tongue at the girl in the
glass. The girl in the glass stuck her tongue out at Mai.
Mai put her hand on the glass and tried to touch the girl. She couldn't. She and the girl in the glass, the same.

She touched her face. So dark. Light yellow skin turned to a dark golden tan beneath the searing island sun. She'd never been allowed out in the sun without being covered; dark skin was the sign of a peasant. She tried to rub the darkness out of her skin, but it was no use. How upset Mother would be. Raising her blouse, Mai examined the light skin beneath it, the growing bumps of breasts. Could the rest of her ever be light again? She took one last look in the glass. Even her lips were brown. A sigh. She pulled her shirt down and stepped out of the tiny cubicle.

The businessman had fallen asleep, a slight snore whistling through his nostrils. Oh no. How would she get into her seat? Mai stood in the aisle and chewed on her lip. The floor of the plane started to jiggle. The stewardess came bouncing down the aisle as English words came over the loudspeaker. She motioned Mai to her seat. The businessman, awakened by the announcement, unbuckled his seat belt and stood to let Mai by.

Anxiety began to creep into her mind. Voices started to speak to her. Ghost voices.
Do you know how high you are in the air? If this plane crashes, everyone will die.
You'll never see your uncle.
What, Mai wondered, was the matter with the other passengers? Why weren't they afraid? Her stomach started to seesaw. The gold bracelet. She still had it. She reached in her pocket. Her good luck charm. She clutched it and braced herself. Just then the plane leveled off, an announcement came over the speaker system, and the seat belt sign went off

Mai closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. She couldn't wait to get to Chicago. All of her troubles would be over then. Third Uncle was her smartest uncle, and the nicest. Mai's father had given up his own opportunity for college to run the rice mills so that Third Uncle could go to college in America.

If you were rich, you went to the United States or France to college. It was hard to believe they had been rich. Third Uncle had returned after college and flown a helicopter in the South Vietnamese Army, escaping on the last one out from the roof of the American Embassy when Saigon fell to the Communists. Father, in order to protect his family, had burned Third Uncle's picture and disowned him. After he had handed him a bag of diamonds to smuggle out.

“Don't worry, Mai,” Father had said. “Third Uncle will treat you like his own child. You will be walking on streets of gold.”

Starved for a sense of belonging, Mai envisioned life as it had been before the war and dreamed that it would be that way again, with the whole family reunited, like the pieces of a broken rice bowl glued back together again. She pushed that letter from Third Uncle into the back of her mind, not willing to believe the hardships he'd described.

Fishing, catching cicadas and butterflies … how happy she had been at home. And would be again. But she felt tired of it all. Tired. So tired. Her limbs went limp and the plane disappeared into the darkness of sleep.

She felt an arm brush across her as morning light streamed in the plane's window.

“Look. The Golden Gate Bridge.”

Raising the window shade, the businessman pointed to the longest bridge Mai had ever seen. Two bright orange, ladderlike towers reached to the blue sky, narrow strands stretching from them to the suspended roadway beneath, where lines of cars and trucks streamed in both directions, the sea swirling far beneath them. A boat, its white sails billowing in the wind, slipped beneath the bridge. Trees and mountains were one way. In the distance were tall buildings, the tallest she'd ever seen. Was everything giant-size in America?

“Skyscrapers,” the businessman said. “I don't know why they build them here. Lots of earthquakes.”

“Earthquakes?” said Mai, turning to him. “What are those?”

“Sometimes the ground shakes, and then the buildings fall down. Don't worry. No earthquakes now.”

Why hadn't someone warned her? She'd never go up in one of those buildings. Third Uncle hadn't told her about skyscrapers. What a strange name. Did they really touch the sky? The buildings below were smaller now, more like home with their red-tiled roofs,
but look at all the cars
, she thought. Where were the motorcycles? Only the rich had cars in Vietnam.

The fog-covered San Francisco Airport unveiled itself as Mai's plane taxied down the runway. When it had rolled to a stop, she exited the cabin, holding her breath, her shaking hands wrapped around her two bags, drops of perspiration trickling down her cheeks. Now she was breathing the air deeply, wanting to take it all in at once. The stewardess's words echoed something about TWA, and passengers brushed by her in a hurry to somewhere. Mai's eyes darted around the airport. She was dazzled by the large signs, and the shops filled with toys, books, clothing—anything you wanted was on display.

So many round white faces, blue eyes, blond hair. Black faces, dark eyes with curly hair. A stewardess hurried by, her high heels clicking against the walkway. How could she walk in those? Mai stared down at her dép.
Please don't make me wear shoes like tha
t.

“Miss Nguyen. Are you Miss Nguyen?” a white-skinned lady asked.

Yes, she was saying her name. Mai nodded. A voice booming over a loudspeaker echoed through the building and a buzz of voices accompanied it. Mai cringed and covered her ears.

Brown metal folding chairs, their battered seats staring at the low ceiling as if they'd been waiting forever, slouched in crooked rows in the airport room where Mai was led by the smiling, blue-uniformed woman with the blond frizzled hair. The woman reminded her of Cindy, the American English teacher. Mai tried her few words of English.

“Hello, how are you?” she said, emphasizing each syllable and doing her best to paste a wide smile across her face.

The woman, ignoring her efforts, pointed to a chair and motioned for her to sit. The metal legs creaked as Mai lowered herself onto its narrow seat while peering out of the corner of her eyes at the scene around her, listening to the scuffle of feet and the soft whispers of excitement floating like little islands. Folding her hands in her lap, her fingers tight around her bag of precious papers and the bag containing her few possessions, she glanced at her dirty toenails and her worn dép. If she curled her feet under the chair, maybe no one would notice them.

A tired Vietnamese mother, accompanied by three boys and a man Mai assumed to be her husband, sat in the chairs in front of her. The youngest child slept, his head cradled in the lap of his older brother, who did not stir. The oldest brother, who was probably about Minh's age, turned to gawk at her. When he realized she was aware of him, his head swiveled around and all Mai could see was the dark shaggy hairline on the back of his skinny neck. She lowered her eyes, trying not to stare at the family scene, the parents' heads whispering together, the boys huddled near them. How she envied them.

More refugees crept into the room until almost every chair was occupied. Several men, their eyes darting around the room, perched along the back wall. Everyone waiting for his name to be called.

A small wooden desk claimed the front center of the
scene, two folding chairs on either side. Behind the desk
sat a balding man with black-framed eyeglasses. Surveying the rows, he picked up a piece of paper and called out a name. Next to him, Mai could see an unsmiling Vietnamese woman, her eyebrows like upside-down Vs, her forehead filled
with long striped lines. What if Mai couldn't answer their questions?

Relieved her name hadn't been called, she watched as one of the men from the back wall jumped forward and hurried to sit in the chair in front of the desk. The balding man spoke to the Vietnamese woman, the woman spoke to the refugee man, the refugee man spoke back to her, and she translated to the bald white man.

Straining to hear what they were saying, Mai's hands trembled. This was going to take forever. Who were these people? Did they have the power to decide if she could live in America?

Her teeth tore at the hangnail on her right thumb. The skin parted and a tiny pool of blood oozed to the surface. A bad habit, but one she hadn't tried to break. She hesitated and then put her lips to her thumb to clean the wound.

The refugee man rose from his seat and, clutching a fistful of papers, departed through the back doorway. The metal edges of the skinny chair cut into Mai's thighs as she watched a trail of refugees called to the small wooden desk. Finally, it was her turn. She floated to the front of the room as if in a dream, touching her gold bracelet.

My moment.

Remember it always.

Beginning. Again.

She stood frozen before the desk, eyes cast down, afraid to look up. The man grunted something to the woman, who instructed her in Vietnamese to sit. Mai reached behind her and felt for the edge of the chair as she sat, her eyes still cast down.