Vera Lam The Lonely American 1 - Amazon S3 Lam The Lonely American ... developing the Vietnam...

Vera Lam The Lonely American 1


PRAISE FOR THE LONELY AMERICAN:

“The book delves deep into existential questions. How much do we control our own destiny?

Why do we make wrong decisions about the most critical aspects of our lives? About love,

career, family. Why does dropping bombs from 30,000 feet look and feel so beautiful? How

does one separate the beauty from the destruction? When the characters take the stage they are

compelling, first in what they do, and finally in realizing who they are and what they want.

Vera Lam was there, she saw it, she lived it, and she writes it with a passion that penetrates

deeply into the souls of her characters.

The setting might be decades ago, but it captures the emotions of today. If you want to

understand the deepest feelings of people who get caught up in wars most definitely not of their

choosing, and know La Condition Humaine, then this book leads you there from a perspective

we Americans rarely think about.”

– Sydney Goldsmith, retired American Diplomat, retired Director of American Insitute in

Taiwan Gaoxiong

" A story that had to be told and one that must be read. The Lonely American" is one of

those rare books that grips you with a fast-moving story and also changes you in ways

unimagined. Vera Lam takes on questions about commitment, responsibility, compassion, and

forgiveness, and she does so on two levels—the interpersonal and the international. Her moving,

unflinching novel belongs in the growing genre of stories that while grounded in one culture

prepare us to inhabit the emerging global culture. You will marvel at her broad knowledge of

Asian, European, and American cultures. As she shows in this début novel, the prerequisite for

transcending nationalistic perspectives is two-fold: speaking your truth and hearing others’

truths—with an open mind and a forgiving heart…”

- Dr, Robert W. Fuller, Physicist, Retired Professor of Columbia University.

“This book makes me reflect on my own life and teaches me to become better parent. I can

certainly relate to the characters’ experiences in war and in peaceful times. I cannot forget the

characters!.”

- Camia Shen, Group Manager of Pharmacy , Chang Geng Memorial Hospital.

“Winning or losing is no longer important. What matters is to reconcile with the people we love.

This is a powerful story about the relationship between father and daughter, and about love that

never quits. The characters will stay with you for a long, long time”

. – Esther Chen, editor, U.S. World Journal.

“Lam's personal history as a child of the Vietnam War, combined with her facility with

languages, cultures, and the emotional and behavioral characteristics of the people around her,

enable her to share with us this beautiful story.”

– Illysa Perry, Lecturer, Johns Hopkins University

“Besides the affecting story and the lovely writing, this book makes us look at family, love, and

life in a completely new light. We’ll find ourselves grateful for what we have. Powerful! “

– Adam Wu, M.D. Ph. D. , President of Jia-An Convalescent Hospital.


“Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice . . .Vera Lam beings her debut novel

with this quote, a powerful story of love, war, missed chances, family, and forgiveness.

Lam does a marvelous job in developing the Vietnam setting as almost a secondary character in

the book, giving the reader a real sense of how the city of Saigon changes from the opening

scenes in 1962, when Vietnam was still a faraway place to many Americans, to the crowded city

and slums affected by the influx of nearly 500,000 GIs with all of their virtues and vices by

1967. … “

- Jerry D. Lenaburg is a Project Manager and Senior Military Analyst with Northrop Grumman.

A 1987 graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, he served as a Naval Flight Officer from 1987–

1998 and has published in the Journal of Military History.

“Lam’s memories, her eyewitness accounts of war, give the characters’ experiences and their

reflections on those experiences the sure touch of authenticity. She also manages to hint at world

events, such as the impact of the China-Taiwan split, as well as to describe in fascinating detail

the “ordinary” social and cultural continuity attempted by South Vietnamese families in the face

of war. I enjoyed learning about the “big picture” in a way that did not detract from the very

personal story unfolding. The excellent use of close third person, with alternating viewpoints,

drew me into the characters’ feelings and resulting actions – often inviting me to contrast the two.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in the Vietnam history and a global

culture. “ – Elise Francis Miller, Author of “A Time to Cast Away Stones”

A gripping story about love and reconciliation against the backdrop of the great Vietnam era.

Everyone of us can learn from this powerful book!

- Fred Li, President of Yuanta Capital Group ,Author of The Practice of Confuciusm in Modern

Daily Life.

“Riveting story, wonderful writing, memorable characters, powerful message. I was just could

not put the book down!” – XiaoPing Lu, retired Director of Consumer Banking, Bank of

Communications.

“I am completely surprised at how wonderful this book is. I cannot believe this is a debut novel

from Vera Lam. The story, the writing, the setting and above all, the emotions are extremely

well written. First class! Just as good as Steven Hawkins or JK Rowling’s books.” - Sam Diec,

Poet and Author, Sydney Australia


The English and Chinese versions of The Lonely American are first published in Taiwan by Vista

Publishing. Both versions are distributed in Hong Kong, Singapore, Malaysia and China by Vista

Publishing.

Vista Publishing

5F. No..65, Songbo St., Banqiao Dist., New Taipei City 220, Taiwan (R.O.C.)

Telephone: (02)2254-2899

Fax:(02)2254-2136

Edition: February 2014

ISBN 978-957-39-0911-8

Copyright © 2014 by Vera Lam. All rights reserved.


About the Author Vera Lam was born in Vietnam and grew up there during the American war. As a teenager she

emigrated to France, where she attended high school and music conservatory. Moving to the

U.S., Vera earned degrees from the University of Southern California and an M.B.A. from

Harvard. She has been an entrepreneur and executive in Silicon Valley for twenty years. The

Lonely American, her début novel, is among other things the fulfillment of a promise to tell the

story of places and experiences she has known, and of people whose destinies she has shared.

Acknowledgments My deepest gratitude to the anonymous donor for his or her cornea, and to Dr. YF Chen and

his team who performed my corneal transplant. They played a great part in making The Lonely

American possible. Many thanks for the relentless support from my family and friends during

the long recovery.

I am grateful for the help and support from David Landau, my editor.

I thank my nephew, Victor Ngo, whose performance of Chopin’s Piano Concerto No.2 in F

Minor kept me inspired when I got stuck and discouraged .

My sincere appreciation for support and encouragement from: Pat Hill, Niki Santo, Diane

Jacobson, Joel Gile, Prof. Tom Kosnik, Dr. Roberta Reynolds, Patricia Teal, Elizabeth Souw,

Florence Hongo, Aileen Fisher, Syd Goldsmith, Jane Clemens, Lynn Lu, Jessica Chen, Aline

Sim,, Paco Fernado, Joyce Rosenstiel, Ruth Waldhauer and GNO.


For Papa, a soldier, a spy who loyally served his country for 35 years

and

For all the soldiers and civilians who died in the Vietnam War.


THE

LONELY AMERICAN


Table of Contents

Part One: Family California, France

1 Happy Sixteenth

2 The Dream

Part Two: War Vietnam

3 The Ambassador’s Party

4 Surprise Rendezvous

5 Tempest in Dalat

6. Black Sheep

7 “Do you love her?”

8 Cape of Hope

9 Immolation and Birth

10 Collateral Damage

11 The Girl and the Monster

12 Indissoluble Bond

13 Double Happiness

14 Colorful Chocolate Buttons

15 Beethoven, Bach and Bombs

16 Looking For Emma

Part Three: Liberty France

17 Sweet Taste of Freedom

18 Telephone Calls

19 Uncle David

20 Letter from Taiwan

21 Reunion

22 Sunshine in Cold Water

23 Belonging

24 “Spread your wings and fly!”

Part Four: Awakening California, France

25 Devil in the Heart

26 Sleeping Angel

27 Identity

28 The Dignity of duty

29 “Au revoir, Willy. I love you!”

30 The Belated Declaration

31 Embodiment of Fate

32 Requiem

33 “Don’t lose hope.”


34 Connection of the Minds

35 A New Life

Guide for Discussions


PART ONE

FAMILY


CHAPTER 1

Happy Sixteenth California, May 1979

Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice.

Lieutenant Colonel David Emerson woke up at dawn, went downstairs to the garage and

loaded the trunk of the family wagon with snacks, sodas and water. He opened the hood, checked

the coolant and motor oil, and then crouched down to inspect the tires. If all was satisfactory, as

it always was, he would go back upstairs and wake his wife and son to get ready for the six-hour

road trip from Pasadena to Monterey.

Emerson was very fond of Monterey. It was his favorite place for short trips and weekend

getaways, and nearly every year he took his family there to celebrate the wedding anniversary.

When people asked why he had such an affinity for Monterey, he would respond with a laugh.

“What’s not to like? It’s quaint, quiet, surrounded on one side by trees, on three sides by water,

and the weather is always pleasant.”

Yet, somewhere deep in his heart, Monterey was much more than the few pretty words he

quickly strung together. It was a secret garden where he could find a refuge for his regret, and

relive the delightful, blissful moments of his first tour in Vietnam. Those moments, short as they

had been, were thick with memories and interwoven with a young woman with whom he would

spend the rest of his life if he could start all over again.

This year, on his 16th

anniversary, Emerson again took his wife Laura and twelve-year-old

son Willy to Monterey for a long weekend.

The weather was unusually warm that weekend. The first day, he took the family to Point

Lobos State Park. They had a leisurely picnic, enjoying the coastal scenery. Willy was thrilled

when he spotted sea lions swimming in the clear turquoise-blue water and sunbathing on the

rocks. Next morning they strolled around historic Cannery Row. In the afternoon, Emerson

dropped his wife and son at the downtown Carmel shopping district and drove away to visit an

old convent in the hills.

Stepping on the fallen pine cones amidst the gigantic Monterey pines, cypress and tall

California Douglas firs, Emerson strolled through the forest around the convent. Large branches

of the hundred-year-old trees stretched out in all directions, forming a canopy that covered most

of the sky. Sunlight peeked through openings in the canopy, adding a glow to the wrinkled red

barks. Every now and then a gentle breeze passed by, making the young leafy branches sway

side to side. He continued his solitary roam, thinking on the lost delight of his life.

On Sunday, Willy woke up early and asked Mom and Dad to go the beach and play Frisbee

with him. He was a good kid, and his dad almost always let him have his way.

In glittering morning sunlight the family walked a narrow pathway down to the beach.

Along the pathway, clusters of tall yellow mustard flowers were arching over little purple lupins

and wild white irises. Here and there, patches of bright orange nasturtiums garnished the green

moss and brown soil.

Laura slowed down and told her son: “Willy, look at these colorful nasturtiums! Do you

know they are edible?”


Willy turned and stared at his mother. “Yuk! I’ll never eat flowers. I don’t even like

veggies. Roast beef is my favorite kind of food.”

“You’re just like your dad!” Laura smiled as she leaned forward to brush back the band of

fair hair on Willy’s forehead.

“Willy! Here it comes!” Emerson yelled out as he ran and spun the colorful frisbee.

“I got it, Dad!” Willy jumped up, trying to catch the disc.

“Good catch! Pass it to Mom!”

“Okay! Mom, are you ready?”

“Yeah – this way!” Laura cried, running after the frisbee.

After some twenty minutes, Emerson wanted a pause.

“Willy, I’m going to take a break and read my book. You play with Mom,” he said with a

grin.

Sinking into the beach chair, he pulled a book out of the bag. It was The Stranger by Albert

Camus. He opened the old, yellowed book, stained with coffee front and back, and plunged into

reading. As he turned the pages, he saw the woman appear between the words.

A flock of California brown pelicans flew in V-formation across the sky. Every now and

then a pelican, gliding high above the sea with its seven-foot wingspan, made a sudden dive into

the water to catch its meal.

Emerson raised his head and gazed into the glittering waves coming and going under the

unclouded sunlight. The waves formed a white line of foam at the shore. In the distance, Laura

and Willy were running, laughing, and chasing after the colorful disc.

“Ah, Saigon and all those things are past. They are just dreams. This is the reality, my wife

and son. Didn’t someone say happy memories are the worst kind of memory?” he thought.

Lieutenant Colonel Emerson had served his country. He was a faithful husband and a good

father. Yet something was missing. His 16 years with Laura had been a sound, efficient

relationship. It had not been the passionate, tender connection that he had wanted with a wife.

“Dad!” Willy cried, running towards his father.

At the sound of “Dad” his reverie ended, and he was back to reality. “What, son?”

“Can we go eat? I am really hungry.”

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”

“Can we go to the place we went last year, the buffet place?”

“It’s the buffet inside the Country Inn,” Laura chimed in.

“I like that place too. Let’s go,” Emerson said as he stood up and packed his bag.

Willy picked up the white napkin on his lap and wiped away the roast-beef juice on his

upper lip.

“Dad, this is the best roast beef in the world!”

“I think I can tell. How many times have you gone back for more?” Emerson smiled at his

son, narrowing his soft blue eyes, then leaned over with his napkin and wiped away a tiny piece

of meat left on his son’s right cheek.

“At least three times! I just love this juicy roast beef. It’s so good!”

“Willy, you have an enormous appetite this morning!” Laura said. “It must be all the

running around on the beach. Well, you’re a growing boy. You can eat to your heart’s delight.

But Honey,” she turned to her husband, “you need to watch your diet. Didn’t the doctor tell you

to cut down on sugar and red meat?”


“Umm . . . did he say that? I don’t remember. Okay, I’ll start tomorrow. Today is our

anniversary. I think I should get a free pass and indulge myself. You agree with Dad, Willy?”

Emerson winked at his son.

“Of course!” Willy rejoiced, looking at his mother with soft pleading eyes. “Mom, you

should give Dad a free pass. I want him to go and check out the desserts with me. Can he just

start the diet tomorrow? Please.”

“Hey! Don’t you boys gang up on me.” Laura screwed up her lips and made a grimace,

then smiled at her son. “Okay, a free pass for Dad today. Now, let’s go and take a look at the

desserts.”

“Yippee!” Emerson raised his champagne glass to his wife. “Happy sixteenth!”

“Happy sixteenth!” Laura echoed, raising her glass.

“Happy sixteenth!” Willy said in a loud, happy voice.

David Emerson slowly lifted his eyelids and scanned the room. The walls were sharp white.

A colorful painting hung on the left side of the wall. A mini blind was half-open, with sunlight

shining through thin white strips. A bottle with clear fluid dangled upside-down near the bed,

with a long, transparent tube attached to the bottle.

He traced the tube and realized its end was fixed to his right wrist.

“Where am I? Laura! Willy!” he cried, trying to sit up and lift his legs; but a sharp pain in

his right knee prevented him from moving. “Hey! Is anyone here? Laura! Willy!”

The door swung open. An older woman, dressed in a white nurse’s uniform, hurried in.

“Mr. Emerson, you’re finally awake! You had us quite worried.”

Emerson glanced up. His eyes met a wrinkled, tart face.

“Where am I? What happened? Where are my wife and son?” Emerson said rapidly.

“You are in the ICU of the Monterey Community Hospital. I’m glad you’re awake.” The

nurse stepped in front of Emerson and bent her back. “Now, sit up straight. I need to check your

blood pressure and heart rate.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Where are my wife and son?”

“Mr. Emerson, I need to check your blood pressure and heart rate.”

“No. You’re not going to do anything to me. I want to see my wife and my son now,”

Emerson said more calmly, trying to conceal his irritation.

The nurse retreated two steps and forced a brief smile. “Okay. I’ll speak to the doctor.”

A moment later the door swung open again. A lanky, middle-aged man wearing a white

coat came in.

“Mr. Emerson, I’m Doctor Alan Segal. I’m happy to see you awake.” The doctor gave a

gentle smile, pushing up his black-rimmed glasses.

“Doctor, I must have been unconscious. How long did I sleep?”

The doctor raised his hand and consulted his watch. “Seventeen hours.”

“Seventeen hours!” Emerson echoed, widening his clear blue eyes.

The doctor pulled a chair from the corner and sat down beside the bed.

“Mr. Emerson, do you have any recollection of what happened?”

Emerson’s brows clung together, his eyes half closed.

“It was our 16th anniversary. I took my family to Monterey for a long weekend. We had a

nice Sunday brunch. I was feeling tired. It must have been the sun, the champagne; I had three or

four glasses. I asked my wife if she could take over the driving. She said I should sit in the back

seat so she could talk with my son. I went to the back seat and fell asleep.”


The doctor looked at Emerson, scratching the back of his neck. “Did your wife have much

to drink?”

“Laura? No! She didn’t even finish one glass of champagne. She’s a light drinker.”

“I see.”

“Where are my wife and my son?”

“Sir, we need to have you rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

“Doctor, just answer my question. Where are my wife and son?”

“Let’s first have the nurse check your vital signs.”

Emerson’s instinct told him something was not right. “No, Doctor, I want to know now! I

can handle it. Tell me! Are they injured? ”

A gloomy shadow fell on the doctor’s face. He paused, sighed and stared at Emerson.

“I am sorry. Mrs. Emerson sustained a fatal head injury.”

Emerson felt his heart jerk, his face stiffen, his lips turn white–like a person who has

received a stunning blow without warning, and who, in the moment of shock, does not realize

what has happened.

For a long time he remained still. Gradually his breathing recovered. He had a hundred

questions. He wanted to know the details about Laura’s head injury; how, when and why the

accident had occurred. But as he fumbled through his aching brain for sentences and phrases that

would make some sense to him and the doctor, all he could manage were three words.

“Laura—is—dead,” he said, as if the last were a word in a foreign language.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where is Willy? Can I see him?”

“He’s here. But I think we should let him rest for now.”

“No! I want to see him!”

“Willy is not yet awake. He’s alive, but he’s not responding.”

“What do you mean he’s not responding? Tell me when – when is he going to wake up and

talk to his dad?”

“It’s hard to say. Could be tomorrow, could be longer.”

“Could be tomorrow, could be longer,” Emerson echoed, looking perplexed, then blurted

out: “He’s in a coma!”

“You may say so. Do you still want to see him?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll ask the nurse to bring a wheelchair.”

“A wheelchair! What for? I have my legs. I am not an invalid!” His anger overflowed as

images of wounded Vietnam veterans in wheelchairs with nothing below their hips whirled

around in his head.

For a moment the change of color on the doctor’s face was his only response. Then the

doctor stood up, leaned forward and detached the IV from the patient’s wrist.

Emerson moved to the edge of the bed, trying to put his legs on the floor, but the feeling of

dizziness and the acute pain in his knee stopped him. He turned to the doctor. “Give me a hand,

doc!”

The doctor stooped and extended his arms to his patient.

Emerson slipped his right arm into the doctor’s, pressed his lips together, turned his body

and gingerly put his legs on the floor.

“I think a pair of crutches would help,” Emerson said as he tried to steady himself. “I can’t

be holding your arm for the rest of the day.”


“We can get you a pair of crutches.”

Slowly they trod out of the room and across the corridor. Doctor Segal stopped in front of

the room three doors down. Emerson’s heart was pounding as the doctor turned the knob.

It was a picture he had seen many times in the course of his army service: sharp white

walls, a bed with clean white sheets, medical equipment beside the bed, bottles hanging upside-

down, dangling tubes to the body on the bed.

Only this time, the body on the bed was not a pilot or G.I. or U.S. Marine. It was his

twelve-year-old son, his only son.

Willy’s head was wrapped thickly in a white cloth that covered most of his forehead. There

were two bandages on each side of his face. The room was dead quiet, broken only by Willy’s

soft breathing and the intermittent beep from the heart-monitoring machine. Emerson looked up

at the screen and saw the steady pulse showing his son’s heartbeat. It looked normal and regular.

“Yes, my son is still alive, very much so. He’s sleeping, that’s all,” Emerson said as if to

himself.

He released the doctor’s hand, hopped to the bed and sat down beside his son.

“Willy, it’s Dad. I’m here. Can you hear me?” he said in the most gentle and tender voice.

Willy’s face remained still, his eyes closed.

Emerson lifted the white sheet and tried to hold his son’s hand. But the small wrist was

attached to a long tube. He gently stroked his son’s palm a few times.

Leaning forward, he extended his trembling hand to touch Willy’s face, the part that was

not covered by the bandage. He wanted to see if he could still feel the warmth, the blood flowing

underneath the young, smooth skin.

He only felt coldness.

A sharp pain slashed through his heart as he sensed the chill in his son’s body. Willy was

very much a daddy’s boy. Emerson remembered how Willy had told him he wanted to be like his

dad, to serve in the military when he grew up. Emerson swallowed hard, trying to choke down

his tears.

“Doctor, I need a few minutes with my son,” he said, his voice scratchy and muffled, his

eyes still resting on Willy’s face.

The doctor nodded. “Mr. Emerson, you can pick up the phone and dial extension 110 when

you are ready to go back to your room. Someone will be here to help you. One more thing: the

police will be here tomorrow morning to talk to you. This is a fatal accident. You will need to be

interviewed.”

Emerson remained silent.

As Doctor Segal closed the door, Emerson dropped his head in his hands and began to sob.

“It’s my fault. I’m the one to blame, and yet I am the survivor. Why? Oh, God! Why did

you take my family? I should be the one to be punished—not my wife, not my son! I am the one.

I’ve taken so many lives. Willy, wake up! Dad is right next to you, son. Please wake up! Dad is

here.”

But he was only talking to himself.


CHAPTER 2

The Dream Cagnes-sur-Mer, France, May, 1979

“As we think, so we become.” - Dhammapada

He sat still in a meditative lotus position, thumbing a string of wooden prayer-beads in his

hands, his mouth half open and his lips moving. Then he struck a match and dropped it on

himself. Flames burst out and consumed his yellow robe and flesh. Black smoke emanated from

his burning body. People formed a circle around him – some praying, some wailing, some

prostrating themselves. Auntie Be’s face emerged from the crowd. She was waving at her.

Suddenly a tall man in uniform appeared right next to Auntie Be. He was waving at her too.

“Emma, come to me!” he cried out.

“Uncle David!” Emma replied.

“My child, don’t go to him! He’s dangerous. Stay away from him!” said Auntie Be. Then,

in the twinkling of an eye, she disappeared.

The radio alarm-clock clicked, airing a wave of symphonic sound throughout the room for

nearly ten seconds before Emma Garreau rolled over in her bed and hit the snooze button. The

clock read 6:31. She wiped the sweat off her forehead. Her heart was pounding fast. She drew a

long breath, then buried her face back in the pillow, still feeling the dream. The image and the

surroundings were familiar. The monk had appeared in her dream every now and then, ever since

she had been nine or ten. But it was the first time Uncle David had come into her dream, and his

face looked so sad.

Pushing aside the blanket, Emma switched on the lamp on the night stand and got out of

bed.

The room, painted in a light olive tone, was small but warm – a twin-size bed, a desk made

of oak wood, a matching chair, an armoire, a poster of Renoir’s “Young Girls at the Piano”

above the bed, and framed photos of different sizes and shapes on the armoire. Emma fixed her

eyes on one of the photos taken with Auntie Be when she was six. In it she was wearing a blue

floral dress, leaning on her nanny whose face was visibly disfigured, the two of them grinning

from ear to ear.

“I miss you, Auntie Be. I hope you’re happy and healthy,” she murmured.

Emma opened the window and gazed out. A thin crescent moon was hanging high in the

sky, accompanied by several stars. A row of birch trees lay under the muffled sky, thin layers of

mist drifting between the tree trunks. She leaned against the window and breathed in the fresh,

sweet air. The morning was quiet enough for her to hear the soft twittering of the birds hidden in

the trees.

“Why did Uncle David suddenly appear in my dream? Why did he want me to go to him?

Why did Auntie Be say he is dangerous? But he is Grandpa’s friend! Surely he’s not dangerous,”

she said to herself.

The sky was slowly turning from mother-of-pearl to pale blue. The first ray of sunlight

shone through the window and onto Emma’s face. As she stretched her neck out the window to

take in the sun, Emma heard a knock on her bedroom door. She turned and saw her mother

walking in.


“Good morning, Mama,” Emma said in a low tone.

“Good morning!”

Emma kept silent, looking at her mother with subdued eyes.

“Emma, are you not feeling well?” Madame Garreau stepped forward and brushed back the

hair on Emma’s forehead.

“I—I had that dream again.”

Madame Garreau nudged a little closer to her daughter, stroking her long hair. “It’s okay,

my child. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

“But this time I saw someone else,” Emma said.

“Someone else? Do I know this person?” Madame Garreau’s lips wavered into a smile.

“Yes, you do. But you don’t like him very much, and you never want to talk about him.”

“Really? Who can that be?”

“He’s grandpa’s friend—the American—I mean Uncle David.”

“Uncle David?” Madame Garreau’s eyes grew wide. A slight tremor crossed her face,

which quickly returned to its usual calmness.

“Yes.”

“Emma, are you sure it was Uncle David? You only met him twice, and that was many

years ago.”

“Mama, I know it’s strange, but it’s him. I am one-hundred-percent certain it was him. I

still remember his face, his blond hair and his blue eyes. The image was so vivid. He asked me to

go to see him. I don’t understand. Why do I have these strange dreams?”

Madame Garreau rested her hand on Emma’s shoulder and looked directly into her eyes.

“Oh, my child, it’s because you are special and you have excellent memory. Remember Auntie

Be said you were born in a very special time?” Her voice was full of gentleness.

“Why can’t you tell me more about Uncle David?”

“I don’t really know much about him.”

“Didn’t you say he was your friend?”

“He’s really more your grandpa’s friend. They spoke about politics,” Madame Garreau

smiled again. “You know how much your grandpa loves to talk about politics.”

“Then why did you call him your friend?”

“You know Grandpa’s English is limited, so he asked me to translate some words for him.

We chatted for a long while. In a way we became friends.”

Madame Garreau stood up and tightened the belt of her white robe. “It’s getting late. I’d

better go make breakfast. You go take a shower and get ready. We have a busy day ahead of us. I

have to deliver a big order this afternoon, and I need your help.” She gave Emma a peck on the

cheek, then left the room.

As Emma watched her mother’s thin figure walking out the door, she wondered again why

Mama didn’t want to talk about Uncle David. She reckoned that Mama didn’t like him. But she

didn’t understand why.

Emma walked down the hallway into the bathroom. She flipped on the light-switch next to

the mirror, then pinned up her long, chestnut hair to the back of her neck and looked at her own

reflection in the mirror. Her mother always said the colors of her eyes were rare – brown with a

tint of blue around the circumference. Emma knew the brown color was from her Eurasian

mother and the blue from her French father. Like most girls at sixteen, Emma often lingered in

front of the mirror and observed the changes in her face and her body. She would dawdle over


what to wear on weekends. But today she was not in such a mood, for her mind was occupied by

the dream.

Emma turned on the faucet and dipped the washcloth in the basin. “It’s been four years

since we left Saigon and we haven’t heard a word from Auntie Be. I miss her. I miss her so much!

If she were here, I would tell her about my dream and she would interpret it for me. She’s good

in this kind of thing. Why did Uncle David suddenly appear? What did that mean?” Emma said

to herself as she slowly drew the washcloth over her face.

After showering, Emma slowly paced back to her room, the images still floating in her

head. She opened the first drawer of the armoire, which stood at the corner diagonal to her bed,

and drew out a small carton. Inside was a music-box. She lifted the cover and a ballerina in pink

tutu popped up. She turned the key several times and set the box on the armoire. A chiming

sound of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” flowed out of the glass box as the little ballerina whirled

around on one leg. Emma stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the spinning ballerina, humming

along with the music. Then she opened the second drawer, reached for her diary hidden

underneath the sweaters, took it to her desk and sat down. She fingered through its pages, paused

and read some, then flipped to the first blank one and began to write.

I saw him again this morning. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen him. Perhaps eight or

nine months. It’s been so long that I almost don’t remember the sequence. I used to know it by

heart. But I actually got scared this time. This is bizarre! I know I shouldn’t get scared. Auntie

Be told me so many times that I have a special connection with him. Even Grandma said that. I

know Grandma is spiritual and she is almost always right about this sort of thing. I believe her.

Wait! But maybe the reason I got scared is not because of him. It’s something else.

Why did I see Uncle David? Why was he so sad? And why did he want me to go to him? I

haven’t seen him for so many years. He came to the kindergarten when I was four, so that’s

twelve years ago. I know it’s weird, but I feel I have some sort of connection with him. I cannot

explain it, but I can feel it.

But then Auntie Be said he is dangerous. Now, that’s completely illogical. Surely he is not

dangerous. He is Grandpa’s friend, Mama’s friend, and he was so sweet and so kind to me. I

know that – although I only saw him twice in my whole life. I am sure of it.

“Emma, are you coming down? Breakfast is ready!” Madame Garreau called out from

downstairs.

At the sound of her mother’s voice, Emma put down the pen and closed her diary. “Yes.

I’m coming!”


PART TWO

WAR


CHAPTER 3

The Ambassador’s Party Saigon, Vietnam, January 1962

Lieutenant Emerson closed the heavy wooden door of the U.S. ambassador’s office and

hurried down the long corridor to the security checkpoint. A military policeman by the scanning

machine raised his hand and saluted the young Air Force officer, who passed the security

scanning, gathered his keys and identification card, and returned a quick salute.

The late afternoon sun was still warm and glaring when he stepped out of the building. He

walked in his usual light, quick and resolute steps towards the gate with dense barbed wires at

the top, his fair hair glittering in the sun. Before exiting the gate, the lieutenant turned back and

paused for a long moment. Fixing his intense blue eyes on the large Stars and Stripes flowing in

the wind, he felt a renewed pride and confidence rise in his heart. The embassy was a big

building, impressive and modern, a powerful concrete structure shielded by shatter-proof

windows and steel-reinforced walls. It stood proudly in the neighborhood of nostalgic, vintage

pastel buildings left by the French.

“Lieutenant Emerson!”

Emerson looked up and saw Winston Clifford walking across the large lawn, sidestepping

a few brown-skinned Vietnamese laborers who were kneeling down and clipping the lawn.

Winston Clifford, born and raised in Newport, Rhode Island, and a graduate of Yale in

Southeast Asian studies, was an aide to the ambassador.

“Winston! How is it going? Good to see you!” Emerson said in a cheery tone, then

extended his arm and gave Clifford a strong handshake.

“Things are pretty good—can’t complain. Did you have a good meeting with my boss?”

”Pretty good. I gave him some impressions from my trip to the interior.”

“I heard you just flew in from Da Nang this morning. How is it going up there?” Clifford

said in a low voice.

“I think they’re going well,” Lieutenant Emerson said, a smile of satisfaction on his

handsome face.

“You think we can do a better job than the French?”

“We won’t make the mistakes they made.” He paused, then added: ”Of course we have a

more positive attitude.”

“Said with the confidence of a self-made man!” Clifford grinned, brushing back the hair on

his forehead. “By the way, are you busy this evening?”

“I was planning to finish my report.”

“How would you like to go to a party?”

“What kind of party?”

“One of the best parties in town—a once-a-year affair. You really should come.”

“Girls?”

“In quantity, and of the highest quality.”

Emerson hesitated, resting his eyes on Clifford’s animated expression. He was curious, and

tempted by Clifford’s persuasive words. The report was an excuse. The truth was that few things


displeased him more than large, formal, superficial parties where he knew no one and could

neither speak nor understand the language.

Clifford leaned forward and whispered: “It’s the Taiwanese ambassador’s lunar new year’s

party. I’m not even on the invitation list. I only get to go because my boss doesn’t want to go.”

Emerson raised his eyebrows. “Your boss isn’t going? Isn’t it pretty impolite to turn down

the Chinese?”

“Taiwan is only little China. Big China is the People’s Republic. My boss is too busy to

take an invitation from little China. If big China only sneezed at him, he would drop everything

and listen closely. But big China won’t even sneeze at us these days because they don’t like our

being here. So instead we get little China with its lunar new year’s party, and the boss is sending

me—I mean, us. But believe me, we’ll have a load of fun.”

“Okay, I’m convinced. Maybe I’ll even dig out some good information while I’m having

all that fun,” the lieutenant said with a smile.

At nightfall a line of cars entered the gate of the Taiwan ambassador’s residence. Men in

business dress, and women in elegant tunics, qipao and evening gowns, emerged from the back

seats of their cars and walked with measured steps towards the house where the ambassador and

his wife stood at the threshold, greeting their guests.

Following Clifford, Emerson took a long stride on the shiny marble floor into a reception

room cheerfully decorated in red and gold to greet the Year of the Tiger. Along the entrance,

pots of water-narcissus, mandarins and gigantic chrysanthemums tied with bright red ribbons

were stacked up high, in pyramids. Tall branches of plum and peach blossoms stood gracefully

in large cloisonné vases. The sweet scent from the blooms permeated the room.

Men in white shirts and black trousers were busy serving Chinese dim-sum, Vietnamese

spring rolls and French hors d’oeuvres. At the far end of the room, a band was playing some

Chinese pop song, sung by an attractive woman with bob-cut dark hair, dressed in a shimmering

red evening gown, gently swaying her body.

As Emerson gazed at the singer, the food, the waiters and crystal chandelier, he could only

recall the naked village outside of Da Nang where a bunch of bony kids had come running after

him, asking for money and candy; where old men and women in ragged clothe waded through

the rice-paddies, whipping water buffaloes that were so thin that they could barely move.

“My God! Do these people in here even know we have a war?” he thought.

The music stopped. A man went up to the microphone and made an announcement. The

crowd cleared in two, making a path for the host of the evening.

Ambassador Chen walked up to the improvised stage. Standing in front of the microphone,

he humbly bowed to the guests. He paused for a moment to take in the crowd of officials and

dignitaries, then said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for joining me to send off the

Year of the Ox and celebrate the arrival of the Tiger. On behalf of President Chiang Kai-shek

and the people of the Republic of China, I sincerely send our best wishes to President Diem and

the people of South Vietnam.” He spoke slowly in English with a Chinese accent. “I want you to

know that the Republic of China stands together with the people of South Vietnam and we give

our full support to President Diem. On this joyous occasion, let us not forget the brave and the

patriotic soldiers who are fighting for freedom and democracy on the front lines. We thank them

for their courage and sacrifice for the people of South Vietnam.”


The speech was interrupted by applause. Ambassador Chen slightly bent his head, waited

for a few seconds and said with ceremony: “Now let me introduce to you our guest of honor,

Madame Ngo Dinh Nhu.”

A loud applause erupted. Madame Nhu emerged from the crowd and slowly walked up to

the stage.

It was customary for female public figures to dress conservatively on formal occasions—a

traditional high-collar Vietnamese tunic and loose pantaloons. But Madame Nhu chose to wear a

low-cut collarless red tunic and black shimmering pantaloons. The tunic was so form-fitting that

it looked molded into her round bosoms and thin waist; while the low-cut collar revealed her fair

skin and collar-bones. Her hair was pulled back and dressed up high in a chignon; her face was

perfectly made-up. She looked radiant and alluring.

“So this is the dragon lady?” Emerson uttered into Clifford’s ears.

“The most powerful lady in Vietnam,” Clifford said in an undertone.

In a soft voice Madame Nhu greeted the guests in Vietnamese and then switched to French.

It was apparent that she was more comfortable speaking in French, at least for this formal

occasion, rather than in her native tongue. She politely thanked the ambassador for his invitation

and regretted that President Diem could not be present because of a prior engagement. She ended

by saying confidently that the day of victory was close and she looked forward to a unified

Republic of Vietnam. More applause greeted that statement. She slightly bowed her head,

showing a triumphant smile on her attractive face.

“I am surprised her French is so good,” said Emerson.

“Oh, yes, she, her husband, and the president all speak perfect French, maybe even better

than they speak Vietnamese,” Clifford whispered, still looking at the First Lady on the stage.

“Why do we pick individuals like that to run the country? They seem distant from the

people.”

“They’re strong anticommunists. That’s what counts,” Clifford said with a raised chin and

an air of confidence.

Emerson gazed into his glass of beer, pondering Clifford’s words. Then he turned gravely

to Clifford. “But don’t you think—”

“I just saw a lady friend of mine over there. Let me go and say hello to her,” Clifford said,

projecting his eyes to the far left side of the room. “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your own. If you

need a cab, they’ll call one for you. I’ll see you later!”

With that, Clifford disappeared into the crowd.

Standing tall among the diminutive Asians who were chatting in a language he could

barely understood, Emerson felt a little out of place. He lingered for a moment, attempting to put

himself at ease in the midst of laughter and loud noise, but soon gave up. He wandered across the

room to the long table where large plates of food were displayed: deep-fried crunchy spring rolls,

translucent shrimp dumplings, hot chicken wings, sesame balls, brown rice cakes, ham, pâté,

cheese and bread.

An American who stuck to American fare, Emerson scanned the table for foods he knew.

He filled his plate with two pieces of bread, three pieces of ham and cheese, and some fruits.

Then he turned and walked out to the terrace.

It was a mild evening. A gentle breeze blew across the blossoming midnight jasmine vines,

sending a sweet scent into the air. Emerson put his plate on one of the round tables alongside the

vines, sat down on a rattan chair and took a deep breath.

As he was enjoying his ham-and-cheese sandwich, a man’s voice came up beside him.


“May I sit down?”

Emerson lifted his head and saw an Asian man standing two steps from his table, smiling

politely to him.

The man, of medium height and build, was dressed in a well-pressed grey suit, white shirt

and red tie, his dark hair combed back from a broad forehead. Something about this man drew

the American’s interest; perhaps it was the thick, bushy eyebrows and intense dark eyes, which

reminded Emerson of Chou En-Lai.

“Please,” said the lieutenant, gesturing the man to sit down.

“Thank you. My name is Hong Minh Ly. Hong is my last name,” the man spoke slowly in

Chinese-accented English, rather like the ambassador’s. He pulled out the chair facing

Emerson’s.

“My name is David Emerson—pleased to meet you.”

The two men shook hands.

“My pleasure, Mr. Emerson. I am a Chinese businessman from Cholon. Do you know

Cholon?”

“I do. Mr. Hong, your English is quite good.”

“Thank you. I can speak a little. It is important for my business. Mr. Emerson, I can see

from your uniform that you are in the United States Air Force—a lieutenant, I believe?”

“Yes. I’m a pilot. I see you are knowledgeable about our armed forces,” Emerson said. He

was surprised that a Chinese businessman would recognize the U.S. Air Force insignias.

“Just a little,” Hong gave a faint smile. “I have friends in the military. How long have you

been in Vietnam?”

“Two months.”

“I see. How long you have been in the U.S. Air Force, Lieutenant Emerson?”

“Three years. Ever since I graduated from the Air Force Academy,” Emerson answered

proudly.

Hong’s question brought back happy memories. Emerson recalled the day he had received

the acceptance letter from the Air Force Academy—undoubtedly the happiest day in his life.

“Ah, it’s my first time meeting a U.S. Air Force lieutenant. I am honored,” Hong said,

raising his glass of beer. “To you, lieutenant!”

Emerson raised his glass and emptied it as the Chinese businessman did the same.

“I would be curious to hear what you think of the current situation in Indochina,” Hong

said.

For a moment Emerson wondered why a businessman would be interested in war and

politics. He drew a pack of Winstons from his pocket and extended it to Hong. “Smoke?” he

asked.

“No, thank you. I still like my old pipe.”

The lieutenant drew a cigarette from the pack, tapped its tip on the table a few times, lit it

and inhaled deeply, all the while thinking how to give a proper answer to this seemingly

complicated Chinese man. “President Kennedy is committed to help your leaders bring freedom

and democracy to South Vietnam,” he said.

“Bring freedom and democracy to Vietnam,” Hong repeated, as his vivid, dark eyes under

those bushy eyebrows kept fixed on the lieutenant. “I think your President Kennedy believes in

the domino theory, which is why he wants to make sure Vietnam will never become communist.

How about you, Lieutenant Emerson? Do you believe in the domino theory?”


“Ha-ha! That’s an amusing question,” Emerson smiled. “Maybe I should ask if you believe

in the domino theory!”

“No, I do not.”

Hong’s quick and resolute answer surprised the lieutenant. “You seem very sure of that,”

Emerson said.

“I am willing to bet my business and my house that it is incorrect,” Hong said in a resolute

tone, his eyes squarely on the lieutenant’s face.

Emerson chuckled, showing his strong, white teeth. Just two weeks ago, he had been told

that the Chinese were very fond of gambling and there were hundreds of gambling houses and

betting businesses, both legal and illegal, in Cholon. They bet money on everything—from horse

and dog races to cricket and cock fights, to the amount of rainfall in a monsoon season.

“That’s quite a statement,” Emerson said.

“I am a businessman. Betting is my nature,” Hong said with a quiet smile. “Lieutenant

Emerson, I have another question. Do you think you can win in Vietnam?”

“We are not trying to win anything for ourselves. We are trying to help your government

and your people.”

“But it will be hard for us to win this war. And I am not sure that you can win it either.

Maybe you can win in the air, but not on the land.”

Emerson was ticked at the confidence in Hong’s voice and thought him cheeky. He was no

mood to hear the unsolicited views of a Chinese businessman who was apparently very fond of

gambling. Neither did he want to waste his time discussing military tactics with the man.

As he was thinking of how to fend him off or slip away, he heard a female voice coming at

them. “Papa!”

Emerson turned and saw a young woman approaching. She wore a crimson-colored dress,

narrow in the waist and wide in the skirt, which flared out to her knees. As she walked, the skirt

swayed gently, following the contour of her body.

“Papa, here you are!” said the young woman, walking towards their table. “I’ve been

looking for you. I saw Monsieur Loc earlier. He asked about you.”

Hong stood up from his chair to greet her, then turned to Emerson. “Lieutenant Emerson,

let me introduce my daughter Lucie. She is the youngest of my four children.”

Emerson felt the sudden blush on his clean-shaven face. He stood up and bowed, without

extending his hand.

As he raised his head, his eyes met hers, and for a moment their eyes clung together. There

was something especially calming and peaceful in her eyes and facial expressions. Emerson did

not want to stop looking at her.

“How do you do, Miss Hong,” he said.

“How do you do, Lieutenant Emerson,” she said, her voice soothing and pleasant, with a

trailing French accent. “You can call me Lucie.”

“Please call me David.”

Hong Minh Ly moved beside his daughter and said something to her, and she nodded.

They were conversing in a language Emerson could not understand.

“Lieutenant Emerson, I tell my daughter about our conversation. She can help me with my

English,” Hong said.

“Yes—my father said he had a good conversation with you on the situation in Vietnam. He

would like to hear your response to his point of view,” Lucie said.


“My response?” Emerson fixed his blue eyes on Lucie’s sweet-looking face. “I think there

is merit in his viewpoint. But now we have the New Year. I suggest we go fill our glasses and

celebrate the Year of the Tiger!”

As he rose, the lieutenant saw a plump Asian man wearing a blue suit and tie approaching;

his short arms swayed side to side as he walked.

“Monsieur Hong! How nice to see you here,” the man said in Vietnamese.

“Monsieur Loc, very nice to see you!” Hong replied in Vietnamese, extending his hand.

The man leaned to Lucie, turning his narrow eyes on her. “Mademoiselle Lucie, c’est un

plaisir de vous voir. Mais vous êtes toujours charmante et élégante ! If my sons were still single,

I’d love for you to be my daughter-in-law. Ha-ha!” the plump little man said in a mixture and

French and Vietnamese.

Emerson could not understand Vietnamese, but did understand his compliment to Lucie.

Everything about this man bothered him—his arrogant attitude, his well-fed face, his loud, high-

pitched laugh, and especially the way he stared at Lucie.

Hong rose and said, “Monsieur Loc, please have a seat. I do want to talk to you.”

The two men immediately plunged into animated conversation. .

Sighing inwardly with relief, Emerson asked Lucie to walk back to the reception room.

They strolled to the table filled with food and drinks. He poured two glasses of champagne and

handed one to her.

“Cheers!” said Emerson, then added. “May I ask who is that man?”

“His name is Le Duc Loc.”

“He was very friendly to you.”

“Oh, he’s friendly to all the ladies and gets along well with them—with one exception, his

wife,” Lucie said, grinning.

Emerson chuckled. “He looks important. Is he an official?”

“Monsieur Loc is a relative of Madame Nhu’s. Were you here when the ambassador

introduced her earlier? I believe he is her distant cousin. He holds a high position in the Ministry

of the Interior and Taxation. We have a nickname for him, Mr. Ten-percent,” Lucie looked at the

American Lieutenant, still smiling.

“Mr. Ten-percent?” Emerson raised his eyebrows.

“Hs is known to require a ten-percent commission for anything that needs his approval.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Lots of things! A permit to import a car or motorcycle, a permit to renew a business

license, to export . . .”

“But that’s corruption!” he exclaimed.

“It’s like saying ‘bonjour’ to a government official or a policeman. It is a way to make sure

things will go smoothly for you, a way to keep you out of trouble.”

Emerson was taken aback by the young woman’s blasé attitude. He was very curious and

wanted to get a real picture of the South Vietnam government whose president was picked by the

Americans; but Emerson did not quite know how to approach the matter in a correct way. He

sighed inwardly.

The band began playing some cheerful foxtrot music. Couples were already gliding on the

floor. In the light projected by the crystal chandelier, the women’s colorful silk tunics and

glittery gowns were flowing in the air as they swayed their hips and tramped their feet in rhythm

with the music.

“Do you like dancing?” Emerson asked.


“Yes, very much.”

“May I?” Emerson smiled into her radiant eyes, holding out his hand.

Lucie’s face grew rosy as dawn. She paused for a moment, then slowly held out her

delicate hand to him. He slipped his hand into hers and they glided to the dance floor.

“Thank you for keeping me company,” he said with a tender voice, looking curiously at the

silver Chinese lanterns dangling on her earlobes.

She responded with a deep smile. He pressed her waist to his body with his strong hand

and floated her undulating body on the waves of the melodious foxtrot music.

As the foxtrot came to an end, the attractive young female singer came back, picked up the

microphone and started singing “La Vie En Rose” with her low, seductive voice.

Quand il me prend dans ses bras,

Il me parle tout bas,

Je vois la vie en rose . . .

Lucie stood motionless, craned her neck and stared at the singer, who looked completely

overcome by the lyrics.

“Shall we go back?” Lucie asked, her lips quavering to an uneasy smile.

“No–let’s continue,” he said in a dreamy voice. His eyes half-closed, still clasping her

hands in his, he gently pulled her closer, her breasts touching his muscular torso. For some

moments their legs intertwined. Their bodies were so close that he could feel her heart beat and

smell the fresh scent of jasmine from her long shiny hair.

He felt warm and peaceful. He kept his eyes closed, as if to prolong his happiness. He

wanted to fly away with her to a place where there were no hostilities, no missions.

The applause woke him up. He opened his eyes and returned to earth.

The singer disappeared and the band switched into “The Blue Danube”. Several men led

their female partners to the parquet floor and began whirling, now on their toes, now on their

heels. Lucie looked at the waltzing couples with eager eyes.

Emerson could tell Lucie was longing to waltz with him, but he did not know the dance.

“Shall we go to the garden to catch some fresh air?” he whispered into her ear, leading her away

from the dance floor.

For a long moment they sat in silence on a bamboo bench under the trellis full of green

climbing vines, keeping just enough space between them so that their shoulders would not touch.

He glanced at her. She was looking at the clear, starry sky with meditative eyes.

“Your English is quite good. Where did you learn it?” he finally said.

“Thank you,” she said as a smile passed from her eyes to her lips. “I took English for four

years in lycée. I love learning foreign languages.”

“I am sure your English is better than my French. I took French for three years in high

school.”

“Three years! You must speak French. Can we speak French instead? It’s easier on my

brain!”

He gave a shy laugh. “Well, you can speak French, and I’ll reply in English. It’s been a

long time since I spoke French. I like to read French novels, though.”

“Ah bon? Lesquels?” Lucie blurted out in French.

“The Stranger by Camus. It’s one of my favorites.”

“L’Étranger.”

“Yes. Have you read it?”

She nodded. “It was an assigned reading during lycée.”


“Do you like it?”

“It is not my kind of novel. It’s a little too sad for me, too abstract. And I don’t like the

main character.”

“You are not supposed to like him. But it’s important to understand him. And each time I

read the book I understand him a little bit better.”

“Does the book remind you of the war here?”

“Good question!” he said, lifting his head, looking straight into her eyes. “What’s your

favorite book?”

She thought about it and said, “Madame Bovary.”

“Talk about unlikable characters!” he laughed. “What’s so nice about a bored, selfish,

desperate housewife?”

Lucie leaned forward, her full lips curved upward to a charming smile.

“It’s not her fault. She was born a romantic. But she married the wrong person and lived in

the wrong place. So you can’t blame her when she finally meets someone who rouses her

passions.” Lucie paused, casting her eyes at the jasmine vines, still smiling. “She wants true love

and she has the courage to follow her heart.”

“Are you a romantic?”

“Je ne sais pas,” she said and lowered her head, her face red.

He saw her uneasiness and didn’t press for an answer. At that moment he thought about

Hong Minh Ly. His instinct told him that Hong was more than he presented; surely not just a

simple businessman in Cholon.

“May I ask something about your father?”

“About Papa? What?”

“What kind of business is he in?”

“He owns a factory that produces peanut oil and vegetable oil. He also does import-export

of seafood.”

“Why is a man in the food business so interested in politics?”

Lucie shrugged her shoulders. “I think the situation of the war can affect his business. He

likes to read books and newspapers. We have three newspapers delivered to our house every day.

Reading is his hobby. I know many people like him, very interested in the political situation here

because of the war. Do people in America not care about world politics?”

Emerson felt caught out, and didn’t want to linger on the subject.

“Some people do, but mostly it’s for politicians. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?

Are you in high school or college?”

“I finished lycée three years ago.”

“Here in Saigon?”

“No. In Dalat.” Lucie turned and looked at Emerson with gentle eyes. “Have you been to

Dalat?”

“No, but I would like to see it. I’ve heard it’s a nice place.”

“It is a beautiful place! I miss Dalat and I miss my friends, but not the convent boarding

school or the nuns.” She smiled and made a grimace.

“Why did your parents send you to a convent school? Is your family Catholic?”

“No, we are Buddhists, like most of the people we know.”

“Then why did you go to a boarding school run by nuns?” Emerson was curious and

pushed for an answer.


Lucie’s eyebrows clung together momentarily. She rose from the bench, let out a short sigh

and looked into the darkness.

“What do you do now?” he asked.

“I am working at the Air France office on Tu Do Street.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It gives me a chance to practice my English,” Lucie replied, sweeping back her long

dark hair back with her fingers.

As she did that, he had a strong desire to see her again, just the two of them, in a quiet little

place.

“Lucie, here you are! We’ve been looking for you,” a woman’s voice came up from behind

them.

Emerson turned to see a middle-aged Eurasian woman and a European man approaching.

“Mama, I am glad you found me. It was very warm inside, so I came out here for some

fresh air,” Lucie said to her mother in a language Emerson couldn’t understand. Then she turned

to the man standing beside her mother and said in French, “Bonsoir, Pierre! You’ve just arrived?”

From the corner of his eye the American lieutenant saw Lucie’s happy expression as she

smiled to the Frenchman. It melted his heart.

“Bonsoir, Lucie. Yes, I just finished a meeting at the office,” the Frenchman stepped

forward and kissed Lucie on the cheeks.

“Ah, let me introduce you. This is Lieutenant David Emerson. This is Monsieur Pierre

Garreau, and my mother,” said Lucie, switching to English.

The lieutenant, feeling a bit uneasy at their sudden appearance, extended his hand and said,

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hong, Mr. Gar-ROE. Did I pronounce it correctly?”

“The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant David Emerson. Yes, your pronunciation is very good,”

the Frenchman said in English with a strong accent as he extended his arm and gave Emerson an

amiable handshake.

The American and the French had similar colors – fair hair and blue eyes. Pierre Garreau

had a pair of silver-rimmed glasses on his rather prominent nose; he was a little heavier and two

or three inches shorter than Emerson.

The three of them began to speak joyously in French. Lucie’s face became more and more

animated as she spoke with Garreau. Her French sounded deliciously soothing to Emerson.

The Frenchman apparently said something very entertaining, as the two women fell into

cascades of laughter.

A strange agitation rose in Emerson’s heart. He did not want to compete with the

Frenchman for Lucie’s attention.

“I’d better go look for my colleague before he thinks I’ve disappeared,” Emerson said,

standing up from his chair. “Again, very nice meeting you, Miss Lucie, Mrs. Hong, Mr. Gar-

ROE.”

Before leaving Lieutenant Emerson felt the need to glance at Lucie once more. In a

glimpse he caught her disappointed eyes asking him to stay.

He turned and headed for the reception room.


CHAPTER 4

Surprise Rendezvous

After the new year, Lieutenant David Emerson continued with his travels to Central

Vietnam, spending most of his time in Da Nang and Nha Trang. His daily schedule was packed

with meeting military officials, training the Vietnamese Air Force and writing reports.

Toward the end of April, having received a three-day leave, he boarded a military aircraft

and arrived in Saigon. That evening, after checking in at the Continental Hotel on Tu Do Street,

he strolled around the area and passed by the Air France office. He was thinking of Lucie.

“I wonder if she’ll be working tomorrow,” he said to himself.

The next morning, after breakfast, Emerson walked a few blocks down the street in the

direction of the Saigon River. When he reached the Air France office, he leaned forward and

looked through the glass window.

Sitting at her desk, Lucie stretched her arms and glanced up at the clock on the wall, then

took out a book from the drawer and began reading.

Emerson marched in. He was in civilian clothes, short-sleeved white shirt and khaki pants.

He looked relaxed, his face glowing, his arms tanned, tiny drops of sweat on the tip of his nose,

his short hair so blonde that it almost looked bleached, his body exhaling a fragrance of men’s

after-shave cologne mixed with perspiration.

At the sound of the door, Lucie closed her book and sprang up from her chair. “Bonjour,

welcome to Air France. How may I help you?”

She was wearing the Air France uniform, dark blue fitted skirt, elbow-length white shirt

with a tri-color scarf around her neck.

“It’s nice and cool in here. No wonder you’re falling asleep!” Emerson grinned as he

positioned himself in front of Lucie.

“Lieutenant Emerson! I almost didn’t recognize you. You look so –”

“So nice and relaxed?” He smiled at Lucie.

“That was not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say you look so – so different when you’re

not in uniform.”

“I was only joking,” he said, still smiling. “You’re open all day on Saturday?”

“We are open till one on Saturday.” Lucie tipped her head and brushed back the band of

dark hair which was covering part of her face.

He kept gazing at her.

“Can I help you? Do you need information on airplane tickets, schedules?”

“Ah yes, air tickets,” Emerson raised his head and looked at the large Air France poster on

the wall – the illuminated Eiffel Tower standing brilliantly against a dark background,

surrounded by shimmering water-fountains. “Paris, I’d love to go there. How much would it cost

for two tickets to Paris?”

“From Saigon?”

“Yes.”

“It depends on the day and time you fly. You can give me some dates and I’ll check for

you.”

“I don’t have my schedules with me. Next time then,” Emerson said as he walked to the

corner, smiling and whistling under his breath. He stopped to look at an Air France model plane


displayed on a wooden stand. “The office is closing in fifteen minutes. What are you doing this

afternoon?”

“I’ll go to the market, eat lunch, buy some flowers and visit the temple.”

“Buddhist temple?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been to a Buddhist temple or a market in Saigon.”

“You don’t prepare you own food, do you?”

“I make myself peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.”

“Peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich? Peanut butter is salty and jelly is sweet. You mix salty

and sweet things together and put them in a sandwich?” Lucie wrinkled her nose. “That must

taste terrible!”

“It tastes very good! You should try it.”

“I don’t think they sell peanut butter in the market. Besides, I don’t like to mix salty and

sweet things in my sandwich.”

“What do you put in your sandwich?”

“We put ham, pâté, shredded chicken, roast pork, pickles and mayonnaise in the baguette.”

“May I come along?”

“To the market?”

“And the temple too.”

“Are you sure you want to go to the market with me?” she raised her head and twinkled at

him. “It’s very crowded on Saturday and people will stare at you. Children will follow you.”

“Stare at me? Follow me? Why?” Emerson raised his eyebrows and put on an innocent

smile.

“Don’t pretend. You know what I mean.”

“Okay, I can’t fool you. I don’t mind being stared at. I am used to it by now. But do you

mind being together with me?”

“Umm—do you eat fish sauce?” she said, changing the subject.

“You mean with my peanut butter and jelly?”

“Are you open to trying new things?”

“I’ll try anything at least once.”

“Ah, that’s a good start for our friendship. I need to clean up the counter and close the

office. Come back and meet me here in thirty minutes.”

“I can do that,” he said calmly, trying to conceal his excitement as he opened the glass door.

“By the way, you can call me David or Dave, but please not Lieutenant Emerson.”

The blazing afternoon sun was directly above their heads when they left the Air France

office. Lieutenant Emerson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his dark sunglasses while

Lucie opened her light blue, floral-pattern parasol.

“Do you want to share the parasol?” she asked.

“No, thank you. You go ahead, I’ll follow you,” he replied, drawing a handkerchief from

his pocket and wiping the sweat on his forehead.

She lifted the parasol above her and strolled on gingerly. As she walked, her long dark hair,

which hung loosely on her slender figure, swayed side to side. Her pale complexion was turning

a little red, but she looked calm and cool; there was no perspiration on her face.

They passed by the Parliament House, an impressive structure with a white dome-shaped

top. Two policemen in white uniform were guarding the entrance, standing still as statues. As


they strolled along the business district, the American lieutenant noticed that most shops were

closed for the afternoon siesta.

Every now and then he slowed his long stride to match hers. At the corner of an uneven

pavement, Lucie tripped when she took a step down. Emerson quickly held out his hand to her;

she took it and gently said, “Thank you.”

Her hand was warm and soft. He continued holding it so she would not fall again. And she

let him.

They crossed a small park lined with tall tamarind trees and benches made from stone. The

park was empty at this hour, when the heat peaked to thirty-one degrees Celsius. Then, as they

were exiting the park, a group of young girls in student uniforms – white top and black pleated

skirts – was entering the park. Seeing a Western man and a local girl holding hands, they stared,

covering their mouths and giggled. Lucie blushed and quickly withdrew her hand.

Farther on, they reached a busy traffic intersection. The lieutenant, bothered by the

cacophony of the blaring horns and the rowdy noise of motorcycles, asked, “Are we almost

there?”

”One more block. See the big clock tower across the street?” she replied, pointing to the

left.

They went into the hurly-burly of the market, pushing and elbowing their way through the

narrow alleyways seething with people from all walks of life. He did not see a single Westerner,

and he had never felt so conspicuous. People stared at him as if they had never seen a tall, fair-

haired, blue-eyed foreigner. Several children followed him, and one even tried to touch him.

They jostled along several shops full of colorful birds in cages. The noise was like a

roaring waterfall—merchants calling out the promotions of the day and clients bargaining at the

top of their lungs amid the screeching sounds of caged birds. When they reached the end of the

alleyway, Emerson saw some ten meters ahead of them a blind man, hunchbacked, with long

grey hair that covered nearly half his face, roaming around with his walking stick, an empty bowl

in his left hand. In a deep, low voice, the man was singing some melancholy tune in Vietnamese.

“Stay here and wait for me,” Lucie turned and said to him. She drew some coins from her

purse, walked to the beggar and dropped the money in his bowl.

He followed her into the flower section of the market. People continued to gaze at the

American. But Lucie seemed undisturbed by the constant stares as she gingerly went about her

ways—checking the prices of the chrysanthemums and lilies, smelling the blooms, touching and

squeezing the bulbs.

Watching her talk to the flower merchants, Emerson was amused at the young woman’s

animated facial expressions and at the musical tones of the language she was speaking. Though

he had no knowledge of Vietnamese, he could more or less guess the meaning from her

expressions and gestures.

At once Lucie cried out to him: “This is ridiculous! They’re asking such a high price for

three bouquets. I think it’s because of you!”

“Do I have that much power?” Emerson met the complaint with an easy smile.

“Because I am with an American, they immediately think I am rich. They never asked for

such high prices when I came alone. I’m tired of bargaining with them!”

“It gives you a chance to practice your negotiating skills.”

“Really? Maybe I should thank you,” she fluttered her dark eyelashes and smiled back at

him. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat.”


They walked to the end of the passage and into a large space covered by tents. Under the

tents were a dozen or more food stalls, with small tables and chairs. The place was noisy and

crowded. Almost all the tables were occupied. Aromas of lemon grass, grilled meat, fried cakes

and steam buns permeated the warm air. Lucie again elbowed her way through the crowd while

Emerson followed closely behind her. They found an empty table in the corner and sat down.

The table was so low that Emerson had to bend his back to rest his elbows. Lucie sighed with

relief, then drew out her handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from her face. “I’m glad we

found a table. I’m hungry. Are you?”

“Yes, and thirsty for a beer.”

“Good. I’ll order for the two of us.”

Emerson watched as Lucie’s slender figure disappeared into the sea of black-haired men

and women. Ten minutes later, she came back with a beer and a drink in her hands. She placed

the drink on the table, then handed the bottle of beer to Emerson.

Emerson took the bottle and gulped down a mouthful. “So good!” he exclaimed.” Then he

noticed the colorful water in the glass Lucie was holding. “What are you drinking?”

“This is a popular Vietnamese drink, called tri-colored shaved ice. Do you want to have a

taste?” Lucie said, stirring her glass.

“What’s in it?”

“Red beans, monk beans, yam, tapioca and coconut juice.”

“Monk beans?”

A dark-skinned girl, about twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in a white top and black

pantaloons, carrying a tray on her shoulder, came to their table. She set down the tray and put

four plates of food on the table.

“It smells so good! Now I’m really hungry.” Lucie’s eyes rested on the still-warm, crunchy

spring rolls. “These are Vietnamese spring rolls.”

“What’s inside?”

“I thought you said you have an open mind when it comes to food. Do I need to explain

everything?” Lucie said, rolling her eyes.

Emerson leaned forward, watching as she carefully laid a large piece of leafy green on her

plate, sprinkled some mint, cilantro, and purple leaves on top, put one spring roll over it, then

wrapped it all up nicely into a roll.

“We don’t use fork or knife. We eat with our fingers.” said Lucie. She dipped the roll in a

small bowl of fish sauce and took a big bite. Then she half closed her eyes and said, “Hmm, it’s

so, so good!”

“Let me try.”

Emerson grabbed a piece of lettuce, put some mint leaves, cucumbers, and a spring roll

onto it, then tried to wrap it all up as neatly as Lucie had done. But his large hand and big fingers

seemed to be inept for such a delicate task. The lettuce broke into two pieces, and the mint leaves

and chopped cucumbers fell on his lap. The spring roll slipped to the ground.

“Ugh—it looks so easy when you do it,” Emerson said in a frustrated tone. “Forget the

wrapping, I’ll just eat the roll.” He grabbed a spring roll with his hand, dipped it in the fish sauce

and put it in his mouth.

“You’re right. It’s very good!”

Another little girl came and put a plate of food on the table. It was something wrapped with

banana leaves.

“What’s inside?” asked Emerson.


“This is banh chung, also very good.”

“What’s inside?” he repeated.

“You really want to know? You may not have an appetite if I tell you.”

“I’ll try anything at least once, remember?”

“After so many years of war, we have a habit to be frugal and make good use of everything.

The stuffing inside the banana leaves is rice and – something from the fields – grasshoppers,

crickets, tree roots.”

“Yuk! I’m not touching this thing.”

“But you just said you’ll try anything at least once,” said Lucie, her eyes dancing with

mischief.

He paused for a moment, and then said, “Okay. If you can eat it, I can too. After you.”

“No problem.”

Lucie opened the banana leaf wrapping, cut a small piece of the steamed rice cake with her

chopsticks and put it in her mouth.

“Ah, superbe!” she blurted out in French.

Watching Lucie’s contented expression, Emerson cut himself a small piece. After

swallowing the rice cake, he looked straight at her and said: “I think your grasshopper tastes

pretty good—exactly like pork!”

“Lieutenant Emerson, you’re very smart!”

They both laughed. Lucie laughed so hard that tears filled her eyes. When the laughter

stopped, Emerson fixed his eyes on the young woman and said in a tender voice, “Thank you. I

haven’t laughed so hard since I arrived in Vietnam.”

Standing outside the market, Lucie flagged down a driver, then turned and said to Emerson,

“I’ll pay him now and ask him to take you back to the Continental Hotel. Since you don’t speak

the language, it’s easier that way.”

Emerson was reluctant to say goodbye. The hotel bar would not be much fun after this.

“Where are you going?” asked the lieutenant, a bit jealously.

“I still need to buy flowers for my mother. I promised her I would be home for dinner.”

“Oh,” Emerson paused for a moment, then said, “Do you think you could be my tour guide

in Dalat?”

“Dalat – you’re going to Dalat?”

“I have one week off next month, and I am thinking about going. I found out more about it.

It sounds like a beautiful place. Can I convince you to be my tour guide?” He stared at her with

eager eyes.

She seemed surprised at the sudden question. She lowered her eyelids and said in a low

tone, “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“When?”

“Next week. You can call me at the Air France office.”

“One week? You have to think about it for a whole week?” he blurted out like a child.

“If you insist on having an answer now, then it’ll be a ‘no’. Now get on the cyclo before he

takes another customer.”

Lucie walked a few steps to talk to the cyclo driver, who had been waiting patiently at the

curbside. After paying him, she turned to Emerson. “Goodbye, David. Have a good evening!”

“Wait!” Emerson moved in front of her, seized her right hand and kissed it.


CHAPTER 5

Tempest in Dalat

“But what is happiness except for the simple

harmony between a man and the life he leads?”

- Albert Camus

The blue and white taxi advanced slowly along the shore of Lake Xuan Huong for half a

mile before turning left onto a small road uphill. The taxi driver groaned at the poor condition of

the road as he wove around the undulating hills, twisting and turning. Lucie and Emerson were in

the back seat. When the driver made a sharp right turn, she lost her balance and fell onto him, her

bosom brushing his lap.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, her face red, trying to get up.

“That’s all right,” he smiled, holding out his hand to help her.

She moved back to her side of the seat, her left hand now holding the door handle, her head

pressed against the window pane. When the road was a little smoother and the ride a bit calmer,

Emerson rolled down the window and his eyes met a lush forest thick with pine trees, bright

yellow wildflowers growing here and there amidst the dark greens. He took a deep breath,

inhaling the sweet, cool air.

The taxi stopped along the curb next to a row of plum trees. Behind the pine tree stood a

two-story villa with a red tile roof.

“Beautiful place!” said Emerson, glancing up at the villa on the hill.

“The French officers loved Dalat. They built many charming villas here. This place used to

be a retreat for French only. After Dien Bien Phu, it became a guest house,” said Lucie.

“Dien Bien Phu! We’ll never get caught in a trap like that!” he murmured.

After paying the driver and unloading their bags from the trunk, they walked up to the red

gate. She stepped forward and rang the bell. A Vietnamese man with thinning grey hair and a

slight hunchback came out to greet them.

“Bonjour Madame, Monsieur. Welcome to the city of a thousand pine trees. My name is

Thanh,” the old man said in French, smiling to them.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Thanh,” said Lucie.

Emerson bent down and extended his hand to the old man, who barely came up to the

lieutenant’s shoulders.

The gate opened to a long, narrow garden. Bushes of yellow and red roses of unequal

height lined the pathway. Lucie stooped to smell a large rose. “It’s so nice! We cannot grow this

type of rose in Saigon.”

The old man nodded in agreement. “Saigon weather is not good for roses. It’s too hot.”

He walked up to the house and opened the double-sided wooden door. The living room was

spacious and sparsely furnished: a brown sofa, two matching armchairs and an oval-shaped glass

coffee table. Opposite the sofa was the fireplace with a marble mantle. An oil painting of water

lilies hung on the dark wall-paneling above the fireplace.

After they all sat down, the old man said, “First I need your passports and travel permits for

registration. How many days will you stay?”


“Five days,” Lucie replied.

“We have two rooms available, upstairs and adjacent to each other.” Monsieur Thanh

removed his glasses and looked at his guests. “The bigger room has one bed and a bathroom

inside. The smaller one has two beds with a nice view of the lake, but no bathroom. They are

both the same price.”

Lucie glanced up at Emerson. “You take the one with the nice lake view. I take the one

with the bathroom inside. Is that okay?”

“Fine with me.”

She smiled and turned to the host. “Monsieur Thanh, we’ll take both rooms. He’ll stay in

the one with the lake view.”

“I want to remind you that curfew in Dalat is from 11 p.m. till 5 a.m. and is strictly

enforced. I suggest you come back no later than 10 o’clock. ”

The host handed Lucie a set of keys. “Breakfast is from seven to nine o’clock in the dining

room. Dinner is at half past seven. If you want to eat dinner here, you let me know before you go

out in the morning and I’ll tell my wife. I think you’ll enjoy her cooking.” He turned and glanced

at clock on the wall. “Ah, I was thinking it’s almost six o’clock. If you don’t plan to go out,

please join me and my wife for dinner at seven.”

Lucie conveyed the invitation to Emerson and asked his thoughts, then said, “Thank you

Monsieur Thanh. We’ll join you for dinner.”

They climbed up the dark wood staircase, which made a faint squeaky sound as they

stepped on it. Carrying his bag with one hand and her small suitcase with the other, the lieutenant

followed Lucie into her room.

The room was spacious and sparsely furnished – a double bed, a wooden night stand, a

small table with two armchairs on each side. On the nightstand sat an antique lamp, its large

shade trimmed with dangling glass beads. Behind a see-through muslin curtain, the window was

half open. The soft evening light was spreading a glow on the cream-colored walls.

“Nice big room!” said Lucie. She tossed her handbag on the bed and walked into the

bathroom. “A bathtub! We don’t have a bathtub in our house.”

Emerson set the luggage on the floor and walked to the window. “Let’s see what’s outside,”

he said.

Like a child eager to unwrap his birthday present, he hastily pushed open the green shutters,

stretched his neck out and scanned the view. The sun was beginning to set and the sky was red

between the tree branches. The hills were fading against a golden backdrop, a flock of swallows

flying beneath the orange-purple clouds. Leaning against the window, he half-closed his eyes

and drew a deep breath. Meanwhile, Lucie came up quietly and stood by his side. He felt the

movement, opened his eyes and saw her profile. She was gazing ahead. The skin on her cheeks

looked translucent in the evening light, and the tips of her white teeth showed between her lips.

A gentle breeze was blowing through the opened shutters, and he could smell the jasmine scent

from her hair.

The war was very far from his mind. He felt his eyes go soft; all he wanted was to draw her

in his arms and press his lips on hers.

She turned to him and smiled. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I—I guess I should go to my room and drop off my things. I’ll come and get you in a few

minutes,” he stammered.

She took his room-key from her handbag and handed it to him.


At the dinner table, Lieutenant Emerson and Lucie fully enjoyed the four dishes Madame

Thanh had prepared for them: papaya salad with mint leaves and cilantros; grilled prawns; stir-

fried chicken with lemon grass; and marinated fish in a clay pot. Her husband did not exaggerate.

She indeed was a good cook.

After a beer and a glass of wine, Emerson had the gumption to try a little French with the

Vietnamese couple.

“J’aime bien—cuisines vietnamiennes. C’est très bon. Merci beaucoup!” he said.

Lucie beamed at her companion as he put together the French phrase. “Excellent! Your

pronunciation is very good!” She said with a smile.

“Je vous en prie, monsieur,” replied the host.

After a mouth-watering crème caramel and strong coffee from Ba Me Thuoc, the guests

rose, thanked their hosts one more time and retired upstairs.

At Lucie’s room, Emerson asked, “May I come in and talk for a few minutes?”

She nodded, walked in, pushed the switch of the lamp on the nightstand and sank down in

the armchair. A gentle wind came through the opened shutter, sending the muslin curtain

fluttering in the air.

“Are you cold? Do you want me to close the window?” he asked.

“It’s okay. I like the fresh, cool air here. We don’t have this in Saigon,” she said, then rose

and took the smaller of the two blankets from the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders and sank

back down in the chair.

Emerson pulled over the other armchair and sat facing her. “What’s the plan tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it when I wake up tomorrow.”

“You don’t have a plan?”

She shook her head.

“I’m the opposite. I have a plan for everything. It amazes me that people can live their lives

without plans.”

“I don’t have the habit of planning ahead. You know, Vietnam has been at war for so many

years. It’s hard to predict what will happen, tomorrow, next week or next month. My goal is to

live happily each day.” She brushed back the band of hair on her forehead, keeping her eyes

fixed on him. “Life in Vietnam is more fragile than in America. Don’t you think?”

Her words sent a ripple through his heart. How different was her outlook on life! He

wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her she would live to a hundred. Lost in that thought,

he made no answer.

“David,” – her soothing voice brought him back – “tell me about America.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

“America is a free country, a great country. We believe in human rights, in freedom and

democracy. Live free or die.”

There was an interval of silence. The room was quiet, bathed in the amber light reflected

from the antique lamp and the moonlight beaming through the window.

“Umm, I heard America is very big. I heard it takes two weeks to drive from New York to

San Francisco. Is that true?”

“It can take two weeks if you stop in a lot of places. Which places would you like to see?”

“I want to see the Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge. They look beautiful in the

postcards.”


“I haven’t seen the Golden Gate Bridge myself. Maybe someday we can see it together.”

“That would be wonderful. Tell me about your home town.”

“I was born and raised in Salem, Michigan.”

“Where is Salem, Michigan?”

“Salem is in the southeastern part of Michigan, and Michigan is right in the middle of the

United States.”

“Does it snow there? I’ve never seen snow before.”

“It’s very cold there in winter and it can get quite snowy, but spring is very pleasant—cool

weather and lots of flowers, just like Dalat. People are nice and friendly. It’s very safe. We

almost never lock our doors and cars.”

“Really? That is so nice! We have two locks and chains for the front door at our house in

Saigon!” Lucie ‘s eyebrows went up.

Emerson smiled. “But Salem is a lot smaller than Saigon or even Dalat. Saigon is a big

city.”

“Do you like big cities?”

“Not really. I try to stay away from crowded places.”

“But we went to the Saigon market last time. That is probably the most crowded place in

all Vietnam!”

Her animated expression again put a broad smile on his face. “That was indeed quite an

experience—especially the delicious grasshopper rice-cake.”

“Ha, ha! You have a good memory. So your parents still live there?”

“My mother does. My father died when I was fourteen.”

“I am sorry. Do you have a big family?”

“I am the only child. After my father died, I lived with my mother and grandmother until I

finished high school. “

“Tell me—why did you want to be a pilot?”

”I’ve always loved airplanes. I’ve wanted to learn how to fly ever since I was a kid. I

remember I used to go to my father’s car shop and make model planes. I’ve probably made a

hundred planes. I told myself that someday I would fly the best and the most advanced airplanes

in the world,” he said in a gentle tone, his blue eyes glittering with childlike happiness.

“Your dream has come true.”

“Yes, I am lucky.”

Lucie stood up from the chair, covering her mouth with her hand. “Thank you for sharing

your story. I am a little tired. I should go to bed. Good night.”

“Can I kiss you good night?”

She remained silent, her dark eyes languorously glancing about him.

“It’s okay. I don’t want to force you,” he said.

“I think – you can kiss me goodnight, but only in one place.”

“Where?”

“Here,” she said, her finger pointing to her forehead.

“Your forehead! I’m not your father. How about this? You can kiss me. Anywhere you

want, I’m not picky.” He gave her an impish smile.

“Umm, all right. Close your eyes and put your hands behind your back.”

At her words he moved beside her, put his hands behind his back and his face close to her

lips. “Okay, I’m ready.”


As he closed his eyes, Emerson felt something soft touching his lips. Though it was only

for half a second, the unexpected kiss was enough to send a tremor throughout his body.

“Bonne nuit!” he heard her whispering in his ear.

The next day they visited the convent boarding school where Lucie had spent five years.

Built by the French in the early 1940s, the convent had a red tile roof and white wash paint. Like

the guest house, it was located on a hilltop amid rows of pine trees.

As they strolled across the serene cloister, Emerson listened quietly to her stories. She told

him how she and her roommate had smuggled a bottle of wine and cigarettes into their room,

how much fun they had had drinking red wine and smoking cigarettes for the first time in their

lives, until they got tipsy and burned holes in the bed-sheets. The following day they were

punished by the nuns. Their punishment was to clean their classrooms and mop the dormitory

floors for one week.

“Wow! That was a big punishment for just a little bit of fun,” he chuckled.

“I agree.”

“I bet you didn’t dare to smuggle wine and cigarettes in your dorm after that.”

She glanced at him and gave a mysterious smile. “Hmm – that was a good exercise. We

were more careful after the first time and didn’t get caught later.”

“What? You did it again and didn’t get caught?”

The lieutenant paused, bowed his head and saluted as if he were saluting a superior. “Brave

woman!”

They burst out laughing.

“You spent five years here?”

“It should have been four years, but I doubled my last year.”

“Why?”

“I failed my math exams. I only took two compulsory math classes, but I still didn’t pass

the first time, so I had to double and stay for another year. Are you good in math?”

“I like math. I did okay in my math classes. What’s your favorite subject?”

“I like foreign languages and literature, especially French literature.”

“You said before you liked Madame Bovary. I asked you if you’re a romantic, remember?

You never answered my question, though.” Emerson stopped and fixed his blue eyes on Lucie.

“Are you a romantic?”

She tipped her head back, looking beyond the church steeple. “I am—that’s why I’m here

with you after only going out twice. I had to lie to my parents to come to Dalat with you.”

“Why did you have to lie? Can’t you just tell them the truth?” He looked at her with

curious eyes.

She shook her head. “No, it’s not possible, and it’s too complicated to explain. You

wouldn’t understand . . .”

“Try me. You have the whole day,” he said with great enthusiasm.

Lucie strolled forward, then turned her head and said in a cheery tone, “Come! I want to

show you the dining hall and the chapel.”

They crossed the forest of pine trees and paced through the long corridor of the dining hall

leading to the chapel. Inside, the nuns were praying, their crucifixes dangling from their rosaries,

their faces calm and peaceful, gleaming in the soft candle-light. He could smell the incense from

the altar. The young lieutenant walked to the front of the chapel and knelt down. He thanked the


Lord for the happy time he had spent with Lucie and prayed that his country could help bring

peace and democracy to her homeland.

That night he had a restful sleep, with no thoughts to his plans, his missions or the war.

The following morning, Emerson opened his eyes to find Lucie sitting by his bed, already

dressed.

“Good morning, lieutenant! Go take your shower and get ready,” she said in a cheery tone,

her face beaming with excitement, like a child waiting to go on a fun excursion.

“Where are we going?” he asked, stretching his long arms into the air.

“I have a plan today.”

“A plan?” He sat up immediately. His eyes widened.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Yippee! Lucie’s got a plan!”

After breakfast, Lucie took Emerson to visit an orphanage near the convent, where they

were greeted warmly by nuns who spoke in fluent French. They visited a music class where they

saw some twenty children, aged 6 to 8, singing and clapping hands. The American lieutenant was

completely charmed by their angelic voices and facial expressions.

“They sing so well. You know I can’t sing—I have terrible pitch,” he said, smiling.

The children were wearing white shirts and blue trousers. The uniforms were clean but well

worn. The boys had army-like haircuts; the girls had short bobs. Emerson noticed that most of

them had dark brown skin and crimson-red cheeks, with facial features somewhat different from

most Vietnamese.

“Are these children from the ethnic minority groups?” he asked.

“Yes. They are from the high mountains near here. We call them les montagnards.”

The bell rang. The children stood up and bowed to the teacher before running out of the

classroom.

Lucie followed the children to the playground. She touched their red cheeks, asked their

names and ages, and gave them biscuits and candies that she had brought along. The children

bowed and thanked her. Several ran to Emerson and touched his hands, gazing curiously at him.

Then they whispered to each other, giggled and ran away.

After crossing a vegetable garden, Lucie and Emerson reached a small gift shop where a

variety of handicrafts made by the children and the nuns were on display. She bought several

souvenirs and postcards, and encouraged him to help out the orphanage by making some

purchases.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with the handicrafts. Can I just make some donations?” he

asked.

“Thank you. You are so kind,” she said, her eyes full of enthusiasm.

He pulled out a stack of Vietnamese money and handed it to her. She took it and put in the

small donation box by the cashier.

The lieutenant was touched by his companion’s acts of charity and her small gestures

towards the underprivileged children. Being around her made him so happy that he forgot the

stress of work and military duties. He felt he was a little boy again – one who was on a field-trip

in a wonderland with a beautiful guide – and he cherished that feeling. At times he would act

silly, say a few French phrases or Vietnamese words, or hum his favorite childhood tunes. He

laughed at all the jokes she told him, even the ones he didn’t think were funny.


In the afternoon they took a taxi outside the city to see the waterfalls. As they hiked up the

mountain, Lucie asked him, “Do you know why these mountains, rivers and waterfalls are

spiritual to us?”

He shook his head.

“It has something to do with the origin of Vietnam.”

Before coming to Vietnam, Emerson had briefly read the country’s history. But he didn’t

quite know the “origin” of Vietnam and wanted to hear from her. “Tell me!” he said.

“It is a long story, very long.”

“We’ve got time.” He sat down on a rock and motioned his companion to sit next to him.

Looking ahead, Emerson saw layers of pine trees in different hues of green across the

ravines. To his right and beyond the lush greens were two very tall waterfalls. The water was

cascading down from a few hundred meters above. The falls swayed back and forth in the wind,

like long white silk curtains hanging from the sky. Beneath him the rapids flowed swiftly

downstream. In the presence of the majestic scenery, he felt his soul elevated, his mind

completely free of duties.

Lucie found a small, flat surface and sat down beside him. He turned and observed the

tranquil gaiety on her face, her long hair flowing in the breeze.

“My grandmother told me this story when I was little. Thousands of years ago, King Lac

Long Quan, the Dragon Lord of the Seas, married Princess Au Co who was a Chinese immortal

descended from the High Mountains. The King loved boys and wished to have many, many sons.

The Princess loved her Dragon Lord so much that she decided to give him one hundred sons.”

“One hundred sons? No daughter?” He made a grimace.

“No. Shall I continue?” She stared at him with her eyebrows raised.

“Of course!” he grinned.

She went on in her melodious, soft voice. “All the sons grew up to be strong warriors. King

Lac Long Quan and his sons invaded his neighbors and conquered them. He built a kingdom that

stretched from South China Sea to Northern Indonesia. One day the Dragon Lord told his

Princess, “You are from the High Mountains and I am from the Seas. Though we have lived

harmoniously since our marriage, I foresee that our different origins will eventually lead us to

conflict and sorrow. I believe we should part ways so that we may remain happy.”

“Well, all good things will eventually come to an end, I guess,” he remarked.

“And so the Dragon Lord had convinced Princess Au Co and she agreed to part ways. She

took fifty of their sons with her and went across the northern mountains and settled down there.

They became the ancestors of the Hmong. Meanwhile, King Lac Long Quan and his other fifty

sons continued to rule the lowlands. After the king died, his eldest son Hung Vuong established

the nation of Van Lang and inaugurated himself as the emperor of the first dynasty, the Hung

Dynasty. Van Lang later changed its name to Vietnam.”

Emerson cast his eyes on the distant waterfalls, now glittering like little diamonds in the

afternoon sunlight. “It’s a beautiful story. Thanks.”

“Come! Let’s climb up to see the waterfalls.”

That evening they dined with Monsieur and Madame Thanh again. The host opened a

bottle of red wine to pair with the coq-au-vin his wife had prepared.

When Madame Thanh finally took off her apron and sat down next to her husband,

Emerson glanced at the table full of plates, then raised his glass and said, “I propose a toast to

our host and hostess. Thank you!”


“Thank you, Monsieur Emerson. I hope you will come back to visit us again,” said the host.

Everyone drank and laughed. Lucie had a full glass of wine and Emerson had two.

After they had all finished their desserts and coffee, Lucie and Emerson again thanked and

bade goodnight to the host and his wife, then mounted the stairs to their rooms.

“Thank you for a wonderful day.” he said, following her in to her room, closing the door

behind him. “Can I come in for a few minutes?”

“Yes.”

She tipped her head back, looking at him, and her face grew rosy. For some moments their

eyes clung together. He was feeling the effect of the wine. His intense desire made his dry lips

quaver. He swallowed twice. They were standing so close that he could almost hear her heart

beat. He saw her lips, half open, were flushing with desire for him, and he had an inevitable

longing to seal them with his.

She turned her head and walked towards the bed. He quickly stepped forward and seized

her hands, bending over to kiss the back of her neck. She was wearing a white blouse with lace

stitched around the collar and opening at the back. He unfastened the buttons as he continued to

press his lips on her back. He put his nose on her band of hair and her lower back and sniffed

around for that faint jasmine scent she gave out. Then he turned her and took her in his arms,

pressing her closer and smoothing away the hair on her forehead. His lips moved slowly from

her forehead to her eyes, her nose, her nostril, then rested on her lips. He wanted to savor every

part of her face, her neck, her body, and experience the inexpressible feminine sensuality in her.

“Oh, David!” she cried between short bursts of laughter as he kissed her again and again.

Her cries stirred him into turbulence of passion. He carried her and put her on the bed. He

took time to explore her, her lips, the texture of her hair, the undulations of her body, the soft

skin in the most hidden spots, placing his lips on every inch of her body. She continued to

whisper his name as he desired her, at times with great tenderness, at times with wild excitement,

leading her into the most secret and most ancient of sciences. He had crossed the last frontier and

met her in another world where he was entirely defenseless, naked in body and mind. That

feeling of intimacy was something which until then he had not known to exist.

For the first time, he lost control; he set free his soul and his hidden emotions, letting them

blend with hers. The journey lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to set him on fire.

When he returned to his own body, he was satisfied, happy and exhausted.


CHAPTER 6

Black Sheep

“He loves me—he loves me not—he loves me!” Seated on the edge of her bed, Lucie

murmured as she peeled off the last petal from the third daisy. “Finally a good one!” she said,

looking down at the petals scattered on the floor.

She rose and walked to the wooden chest, which had a phonograph turntable on top. She

lifted the arm of the turntable and carefully placed its needle on the 45 rpm record. A wave of

gentle music filled the air, followed by a seductive female singing voice.

She stood by the window, gazing up at the grey sky. Clouds were gathering from afar; it

looked like rain coming. Singing softly along with La Vie en Rose, she recalled the moments

when they danced together. How sweet those times had been!

“When will he come to see me?” she asked herself.

She would invent beautiful and convincing arguments as to why he had not come back to

see her. David was a U.S. Air Force pilot, a capable military officer, and he had to perform

important duties to assist the government of her country. With all his duties, surely, he would not

have time for himself, let alone for coming to see her. Didn’t Papa always say that capable men

were always occupied?

It had been seven weeks since she had returned from Dalat, and she had not heard a word

from the American lieutenant. She remembered when he had kissed her goodbye and said in his

tender voice that he would call and come to see her. But he did not.

After the doctor’s visit three days ago, she had gone to the temple to pray that David was

safe and healthy. She believed that she had fallen in love—deeply in love—with him, but she did

not know why she loved him.

“Why do I need a reason to love? Life is so short in this war-ridden country. Death can be

just around the corner wherever I go. What else is there if I can’t even follow my heart and take a

chance with love?” she thought.

Lucie had watched too many romantic movies, read too many romantic novels and had

envisioned herself as one of those women swept away by a handsome, charming man.

There had been days and nights when the memory of his kiss had burned and burned on her

lips. She would sit daydreaming, turning over and over the thoughts of him and how he had

made love to her, at times with great tenderness, at times with turbulent passion.

“Lulu! Dinner’s been ready for five minutes. Come down before the soup gets cold!” Her

mother called out from downstairs.

“I’m coming, Mama!”

Seated beside her mother, she slowly picked up a piece of fish from the clay pot and put it

on her bowl of rice, all the while contemplating how to talk to her mother about her trouble.

“Are you not feeling well? You’ve lost your appetite the last few days. I specially made

your favorite tamarind soup today and you had only half a bowl. Normally you would gulp down

at least two,” Mrs. Hong said, looking a little concerned.

“Mama, I’m fine – just a little tired,” Lucie put on a smile. “When is Papa coming back?

He’s been gone for four days. Is he still at Ba Me Thuoc looking at the coffee plantation?”

“No. He went to Nha Trang yesterday. He called this morning and said he’ll be home for

dinner tomorrow.”


“Are you going to make your famous ginger chicken tomorrow?”

“I haven’t thought about it, but it’s a good idea. I know you like it too, and I’m sure you’ll

get back your appetite for my ginger chicken,” Mrs. Hong smiled.

“I better talk to her before Papa comes back,” Lucie thought. She put down her chopsticks,

glanced up and said in a low tone, “Mama, I want to ask you a question.”

“I’m listening.” Mrs. Hong raised her eyebrows.

“Do you love me?”

“Ah—that’s all? I thought you were going to ask me something urgent. Your face looks so

serious,” Mrs. Hong let out a short sigh of relief. “Of course, I love you, my child. But you also

worry me. . . .”

“I know. I don’t do as well in school as Older Brothers, and I am not as obedient as Older

Sister; I guess that’s why I had to go to school in Dalat – but Mama, I know you love me! I know

you’ll forgive me if I make mistakes.”

“Now I’m really curious. What happened? Did you do something bad at work? Did you get

fired?”

“No. Work is good. My boss likes me. It’s something else. I want to tell you a little secret.

I – I fell in love with someone,” she stuttered and a flush rose on her cheek.

Her mother burst into a laugh. “Falling in love is a good thing! You don’t need to keep a

secret. You will be twenty-two after the New Year. When I was at your age, I already gave birth

to your sister. Now, tell Mama. Who is this young man that has stolen your heart and made you

lose your appetite? Have I met him?”

“Yes. You met him at Ambassador Chen’s New Year party.”

“Let me think. I did meet several people at the New Year party. Ah, is he the nice polite

Chinese young man, Mr. Quan’s son?”

“No.”

“Not him? Tell me, how does look? Tall? Short?”

“He’s tall, very tall.”

“I don’t think I met a very tall young man there.” Mrs. Hong’s thin eyebrows clung

together.

“He’s an American,” Lucie said in a low tone.

“American?”

“His name is David Emerson, Lieutenant Emerson. I introduced him to you and Pierre,

remember?”

“Ah, that American lieutenant with blond hair and blue eyes, I remember now.” Mrs. Hong

leaned back on her chair and said in a calm voice, without visible astonishment. She paused for

moment, then asked: “So—you fell in love with him?”

“Yes,” Lucie replied resolutely, her eyes sparkling with joy.

“Is he in love with you, too?”

“I am sure he is.”

“Did he say he loves you?”

Lucie made no answer. Her eyes wandered about the room, avoiding her mother’s

penetrating gaze.

“How could you fall in love with him if you only met him once? It must be love at first

sight, huh?”

“No, Mama. We went out a few times and—we went to Dalat for five days. . . I fell in love

with him when we were in Dalat.”


“You went to Dalat with him for five days!” Mrs. Hong exclaimed. “But you told me it was

a reunion with your friends from the convent. You even asked Suzanne to come and talk to me

about the trip!”

“I lied. Please forgive me, Mama. But I’m twenty-one now, I’m an adult. I want to be able

to make my own decisions and live my own life. After I came back from Dalat, I thought about

him all the time and I decided I love him. I do.” Lucie’s dark eyes now gleamed with the fire of

love.

“You decided that you love him after Dalat?”

“Yes. I love him and I want to marry him,” Lucie looked directly into her mother’s eyes

and said in a firm tone.

“You want to marry him, after you’ve gone out with him only a few times? Did he propose

to you? Did he say he would marry you and take you back to America?” Mrs. Hong held her

daughter’s gaze and said in a placid tone: “My child, he’s a military man. He is on duty here for

only one year. After that, he will return to his country.”

Her mother’s questions lay on her with a weight so heavy that she felt suffocated. Those

words, though spoken with great gentleness, were the cold, naked truth that pierced into her heart.

Deep in her soul she was well aware of the transient nature of an American military man; but she

convinced herself that Lieutenant Emerson would be different and that he was madly in love

with her, for she was with him. Wasn’t it true that love would conquer everything? Didn’t all the

novels she had read attest to that theory? David would marry her and take her back to America,

especially now that she was pregnant with his child. He was a sincere and honest man. She could

not shrug away his tender gaze, his deep kisses, his gentle touch. Yet, with all the loving

tenderness he had shown, never once had he uttered the three words ‘I love you’. She hung for a

long moment on the memories of Dalat, but she could not recall he had said that, even in the

most passionate time they had shared. “Was he not serious? Was it no more than a quick

romance for him? Was I wrong about him?” she asked herself.

A chill crept up on her spine. She covered her face with her hands and said in a trembling

voice, “Oh, Mama, I don’t know! He never said he loves me. He never asked me to marry him. I

have not heard from him since Dalat. But I know he loves me and he is going to marry me—

because—I am—pregnant.”

“You’re what?” Mrs. Hong cried out, her eyes wide.

“I’m pregnant, Mama,” she uttered in a faint voice.

Mrs. Hong paused for a few seconds to take in her daughter’s words. Then she rose from

her chair, walked across the dining table and sat beside her daughter. “Did you go to see the

doctor?”

“Yes—I went to see the doctor after I—missed my monthly cycle,” she stuttered, a worried

look on her face.

“And he confirmed?”

“Yes.”

“My child, how could you be so careless?” Mrs. Hong shook her head, looking visibly

shaken. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you go to Dalat. I shouldn’t have trusted Suzanne

when she told me about your reunion. ”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t expect this. It—just—happened so fast,” she stammered.

“I worry about your father. You know his temper. He would be very upset if he found out.”

“Yes, I know. You can’t tell Papa—it’s a secret between us. You can’t tell anyone!

Promise me.”


“But we can’t hold it for long! Sooner or later he’ll find out.” Mrs. Hong sighed again, then

suddenly her eyes lit up. “Do you know how many weeks?”

“I think it’s six or seven weeks.”

“In that case, it’s still safe for the procedure.”

“What procedure? Mama, what are you talking about?”

“My child, I’m thinking about abortion,” Mrs. Hong leaned forward and held up her

daughter’s hand. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Lucie lifted her head, gazing at her mother with imploring eyes. “No. I don’t want the

abortion! I want to keep the baby! Please, Mama.”

Mrs. Hong looked stupefied at her daughter’s words. “You want to be an unmarried single

mother? Can you imagine what your father will say about that? He’ll disown you and throw you

out of the house. He will not tolerate things like that, especially with an American military man.

You know your Papa wants to keep his face among his friends and relatives.”

“I understand Papa’s temper. You have to help me to persuade him. Please, Mama. I beg

you! It’s not—the baby’s fault.” There was a break in her voice, and tears sprang out of her dark

eyes. She sank to her knees, buried her face in her mother’s lap and sobbed.

“Oh, don’t cry, my child,” Mrs. Hong said, stroking her daughter’s hair. Tears rolled down

her cheeks.

Her pleadings still reached her mother between short sobs.“Mama, forgive me. I always

make you worry. I do stupid things. I am not like Older Sister. She’s a perfect daughter—but I—

I disgrace you and Papa . . .”

Mrs. Hong drew a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “Don’t be silly, my

child. You have a kind and gentle heart, It’s all that matters. Everyone makes mistakes, even the

saints like Confucius. Perhaps it was my fault. I should have taught you all about women’s bed

business after you came back from the convent.” She paused and let out a long sigh. “But I

thought I was going to wait until the day before you got married. The convent certainly didn’t

prepare you for this kind of thing.”

Neither one finished her bowl of rice. The large pot of tamarind soup, the fish and shredded

chicken cabbage salad were left nearly untouched on the dinner table as Lucie continued to weep.

It was after midnight and Mrs. Hong still couldn’t fall asleep. She got out of her bed and

walked down the hallway to Lucie’s room. She opened the door and tip-toed in. The lamp on the

nightstand was still on. Lucie was asleep, a wet handkerchief in her hand. Mrs. Hong sighed and

her heart gave a twist when she saw her daughter’s eyelids were swollen like little balloons.

“Oh, my poor child! She must have cried herself to sleep,” she murmured, shaking her

head.

For a long moment she lingered by the bed, gazing tenderly at her daughter’s calm face

under the warm light. When tears began pooling in her eyes, she turned off the light and walked

out of the room.

She went downstairs to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of Black Cat dessert wine and

carried it to the living room. The windows were open and dim light was coming in through the

white lace curtains. The furniture, each piece in its own place, seemed to be sinking into a sea of

shadows. The old wooden clock on the wall struck one and the brass pendulum ticked on. The

stillness of the night was a sheer contrast with the turbulence in her heart. She sank into the

armchair, took a sip of the wine and let her mind wander back to the times when Lucie was a

toddler.


Lucie seemed to be the embodiment of fate. She had not been a full-term baby and had

arrived nearly six weeks early, weighing only 2.2 kilos at birth. Her lung and heart had been

weak, and she would get sick easily. Mrs. Hong had taken her to many doctors, both Western

and Chinese. At her friends’ suggestion, Mrs. Hong had gone to see the most popular and

revered fortune-teller in Saigon—waiting in line for one hour to speak to the sacred man—but

the words from him had been gloomy. According to his calculations, the hour, date and year of

Lucie’s birth had clashed with the Earth Star, so it would be a miracle if she lived to see her

eighteenth birthday.

Mrs. Hong had refused to accept the fortune-teller’s prediction and vowed that that she

would find a way to help her baby girl live a healthy life. She would go to the Buddhist temple

and pray to Guanyin for her daughter, and give her word that she would give up part of her own

life in exchange for the baby’s good health. She would provide donations to the temples as good

will for her little girl. As Lucie gradually became stronger and grew to be a healthy girl, it

seemed her mother’s prayers had been answered.

“I have to do something,” Mrs. Hong murmured to herself, sipping her wine. “My daughter

is young, pretty and kind-hearted. Her life will be completely ruined if I don’t take some decisive

action. Abortion is the easiest, but would she agree to do it? Even if she agreed, word might

eventually get out, and her whole future would be ruined.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Then

again, abortion is not a hundred-percent safe. What if something happened to her during the

procedure? My poor child, I am going to find a way to fix this! Who can help me? Whom can I

trust?”

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