Inheriting the War Read online

  When I was fourteen, I discovered that he had been involved in a massacre. Later, I would come across photos and transcripts and books; but that night, at a family friend’s party in suburban Melbourne, it was just another story in a circle of drunken men. They sat cross-legged on newspapers around a large blue tarpaulin, getting smashed on cheap beer. It was that time of night when things started to break up against other things. Red faces, raised voices, spilled drinks. We arrived late and the men shuffled around, making room for my father.

  “Thanh! Fuck your mother! What took you so long—scared, no? Sit down, sit down—”

  “Give him five bottles.” The speaker swung around ferociously. “We’re letting you off easy, everyone here’s had eight, nine already.”

  For the first time, my father let me stay. I sat on the perimeter of the circle, watching in fascination. A thicket of Vietnamese voices, cursing, toasting, braying about their children, making fun of one man who kept stuttering, “It has the power of f-f-five hundred horses!” Through it all my father laughed good-naturedly, his face so red with drink he looked sunburned. Bowl and chopsticks in his hands, he appeared somewhat childish squashed between two men trading war stories. I watched him as he picked sparingly at the enormous spread of dishes in the middle of the circle. The food was known as do nhau: alcohol food. Massive fatty oysters dipped in salt-pepper-lemon paste. Boiled sea snails the size of pool balls. Southern-style shredded chicken salad, soaked in vinegar and eaten with spotty brown rice crackers. Someone called out my father’s name; he had set his chopsticks down and was speaking in a low voice.

  “Heavens, the gunships came first, rockets and M60s. You remember that sound, no? Like you were deaf. We were hiding in the bunker underneath the temple, my mother and four sisters and Mrs. Tran, the baker, and some other people. You couldn’t hear anything. Then the gunfire stopped and Mrs. Tran told my mother we had to go up to the street. If we stayed there, the Americans would think we were Viet Cong. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ my mother said. ‘They have grenades,’ Mrs. Tran said. I was scared and excited. I had never seen an American before.”

  It took me a while to reconcile my father with the story he was telling. He caught my eye and held it a moment, as though he were sharing a secret with me. He was drunk.

  “So we went up. Everywhere there was dust and smoke, and all you could hear was the sound of helicopters and M16s. Houses on fire. Then through the smoke I saw an American. I almost laughed. He wore his uniform so untidily—it was too big for him—and he had a beaded necklace and a baseball cap. He held an M16 over his shoulder like a spade. Heavens, he looked nothing like the Viet Cong, with their shirts buttoned up to their chins—and tucked in—even after crawling through mud tunnels all day.”

  He picked up his chopsticks and reached for the tiet canh—a specialty—mincemeat soaked in fresh congealed duck blood. Some of the other men were listening now, smiling knowingly. I saw his teeth, stained red, as he chewed through the rest of his words.

  “They made us walk to the east side of the village. There were about ten of them, about fifty of us. Mrs. Tran was saying, ‘No VC no VC.’ They didn’t hear her, not over the sound of machine guns and the M79 grenade launchers. Remember those? Only I heard her. I saw pieces of animals all over the paddy fields, a water buffalo with its side missing—like it was scooped out by a spoon. Then, through the smoke, I saw Grandpa Long bowing to a GI in the traditional greeting. I wanted to call out to him. His wife and daughter and granddaughters, My and Kim, stood shyly behind him. The GI stepped forward, tapped the top of his head with the rifle butt and then twirled the gun around and slid the bayonet into his throat. No one said anything. My mother tried to cover my eyes, but I saw him switch the fire selector on his gun was automatic to single-shot before he shot Grandma Long. Then he and a friend pulled the daughter into a shack, the two little girls dragged along, clinging to her legs.

  “They stopped us at the drainage ditch, near the bridge. There were bodies on the road, a baby with only the bottom half of its head, a monk, his robe turning pink. I saw two bodies with the ace of spades carved into the chests. I didn’t understand it. My sisters didn’t even cry. People were now shouting, ‘No VC no VC,’ but the Americans just frowned and spat and laughed. One of them said something, then some of them started pushing us into the ditch. It was half full of muddy water. My mother jumped in and lifted my sisters down, one by one. I remember looking up and seeing helicopters everywhere, some bigger than others, some higher up. They made us kneel in the water. They set up their guns on tripods. They made us stand up again. One of the Americans, a boy with a fat face, was crying and moaning softly as he reloaded his magazine. ‘No VC no VC.’ They didn’t look at us. They made us turn back around. They made us kneel back down in the water. When they started shooting, I felt my mother’s body jumping on top of mine; it kept jumping for a long time, and then everywhere was the sound of helicopters, louder and louder like they were all coming down to land, and everything was dark and wet and warm and sweet.”

  The circle had gone quiet. My mother came out from the kitchen, squatted behind my father, and looped her arms around his neck. This was a minor breach of the rules. “Heavens,” she said, “don’t you men have anything better to talk about?”

  After a short silence, someone snorted, saying loudly “You win, Thanh. You really did have it bad!” and then everyone, including my father, burst out laughing. I joined in unsurely. They clinked glasses and made toasts using words I didn’t understand.

  Maybe he didn’t tell it exactly that way. Maybe I’m filling in the gaps. But you’re not under oath when writing a eulogy, and this is close enough. My father grew up in the province of Quang Ngai, in the village of Son My, in the hamlet of Tu Cung, later known to the Americans as My Lai. He was fourteen years old.

  Late that night, I plugged in the Smith Corona. It hummed with promise. I grabbed the bottle of Scotch from under the desk and poured myself a double. Fuck it, I thought. I had two and a half days left. I would write the ethnic story of my Vietnamese father. It was a good story. It was a fucking great story.

  I fed in a sheet of blank paper. At the top of the page, I typed “ETHNIC STORY” in capital letters. I pushed the carriage return and scrolled to the next line. The sound of helicopters in a dark sky. The keys hammered the page.

  I woke up late the next day. At the coffee shop, I sat with my typed pages and watched people come and go. They laughed and sat and sipped and talked and, listening to them, I was reminded again that I was in a small town in a foreign country.

  I thought of my father in my dusky bedroom. He had kept the door closed as I left. I thought of how he had looked when I checked on him before going to bed: his body engulfed by blankets and his head so small among my pillows. He’d aged in those last three years. His skin glassy in the blue glow of dawn. He was here now, with me, and already making the rest of my life seem unreal. I read over what I had typed: thinking of him at that age, still a boy, and who he would become. At a nearby table, a guy held out one of his iPod earbuds and beckoned his date to come around and sit beside him. The door opened and a cold wind blew in. I tried to concentrate.

  “Hey.” It was Linda, wearing a large orange hiking jacket and bringing with her the crisp, bracing scent of all the places she had been. Her face was unmaking a smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “Working on my story.”

  “Is your dad here?”

  “No.”

  Her friends were waiting by the counter. She nodded to them, holding up one finger, then came behind me, resting her hands on my shoulders. “Is this it?” She leaned over me, her hair grazing my face, cold and silken against my cheek. She picked up a couple of pages and read them soundlessly. “I don’t get it,” she said, returning them to the table. “What are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never told me any of this.”

  I shrugged.

  “Did he tell you th
is? Now he’s talking to you?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Not really?”

  I turned around to face her. Her eyes reflected no light.

  “You know what I think?” She looked back down at the pages. “I think you’re making excuses for him.”

  “Excuses?”

  “You’re romanticizing his past,” she went on quietly, “to make sense of the things he did to you.”

  “It’s a story,” I said. “What things did I say?”

  “You said he abused you.”

  It was too much, these words, and what connected to them. I looked at her serious, beautifully lined face, her light-trapping eyes, and already I felt them taxing me. “I never said that.”

  She took half a step back. “Just tell me this,” she said, her voice flattening. “You’ve never introduced him to any of your exes, right?” The question was tight on her face.

  I didn’t say anything and after a while she nodded, biting one corner of her upper lip. I knew that gesture. I knew, even then, that I was supposed to stand up, pull her orange-jacketed body toward mine, speak words into her ear, but all I could do was think about my father and his excuses. Those tattered bodies on top of him. The ten hours he’d waited, mud filling his lungs, until nightfall. I felt myself falling back into old habits.

  She stepped forward and kissed the top of my head. It was one of her rules: not to walk away from an argument without some sign of affection. I didn’t look at her. My mother liked to tell the story of how, when our family first arrived in Australia, we lived in a hostel on an outer-suburb street where the locals—whenever they met or parted—hugged and kissed each other warmly. How my father—baffled, charmed—had named it “the street of lovers.”

  I turned to the window: it was dark now, the evening settling thick and deep. A man and woman sat across from each other at a high table. The woman leaned in, smiling, her breasts squat on the wood, elbows forward, her hands mere inches away from the man’s shirtfront. Throughout their conversation her teeth glinted. Behind them, a mother sat with her son. “I’m not playing,” she murmured, flipped through her magazine.

  “L,” said the boy.

  “I said I’m not playing.”

  Here is what I believe: We forgive any sacrifice by our parents, so long as it is not made in our name. To my father there was no other name—only mine, and he had named me after the homeland he had given up. His sacrifice was complete and compelled him to everything that happened. To all that, I was inadequate.

  At sixteen I left home. There was a girl, and crystal meth, and the possibility of greater loss than I had imagined possible. She embodied everything prohibited by my father and plainly worthwhile. Of course he was right about her: she taught me hurt—but promise too. We were two animals in the dark, hacking at one another, and never since have I felt that way—that sense of consecration. When my father found out my mother was supporting me, he gave her an ultimatum. She moved into a family friend’s textile factory and learned to use an overlock machine and continued sending me money.

  “Of course I want to live with him,” she told me when I visited her, months later. “But I want you to come home too.”

  “Ba doesn’t want that.”

  “You’re his son,” she said simply. “He wants you with him.”

  I laundered my school uniform and asked a friend to cut my hair and waited for school hours to finish before catching the train home. My father excused himself upon seeing me. When he returned to the living room he had changed his shirt and there was water in his hair. I felt sick and fully awake—as if all the previous months had been a single sleep and now my face was wet again, burning cold. The room smelled of peppermint. He asked me if I was well, and I told him I was, and then he asked me if my female friend was well, and at that moment I realized he was speaking to me not as a father—not as he would to his only son—but as he would speak to a friend, to anyone, and it undid me. I had learned what it was to attenuate my blood but that was nothing compared to this. I forced myself to look at him and I asked him to bring Ma back home.

  “And Child?”

  “Child will not take any more money from Ma.”

  “Come home,” he said finally. His voice was strangled, half swallowed.

  Even then, my emotions operated like a system of levers and pulleys; just seeing him had set them irreversibly into motion. “No,” I said. The word just shot out of me.

  “Come home, and Ma will come home, and Ba promises Child to never speak of any of this again.” He looked away, smiling heavily, and took out a handkerchief. His forehead was moist with sweat. He had been buried alive in the warm, wet clinch of his family, crushed by their lives. I wanted to know how he climbed out of that pit. I wanted to know how there could ever be any correspondence between us. I wanted to know all this but an internal momentum moved me, further and further from him as time went on.

  “The world is hard,” he said. For a moment I was uncertain whether he was speaking in proverbs. He looked at me, his face a gleaming mask. “Just say yes, and we can forget everything. That’s all. Just say it: Yes.”

  But I didn’t say it. Not that day, not the next, not any day for almost a year. When I did, though, rehabilitated and fixed in new privacies, he was true to his word and never spoke of the matter. In fact, after I came back home he never spoke of anything much at all, and it was under this learned silence that the three of us—my father, my mother, and I, living again under a single roof—were conducted irreparably into our separate lives.

  The apartment smelled of fried garlic and sesame oil when I returned. My father was sitting on the living room floor, on the special mattress he had brought over with him. It was made of white foam. He told me it was for his back. “There’s some stir-fry in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I read your story this morning,” he said, “while you were still sleeping.” Something in my stomach folded over. I hadn’t thought to hide the pages. “There are mistakes in it.”

  “You read it?”

  “There were mistakes in your last story too.”

  My last story. I remembered my mother’s phone call at the time: my father, unemployed and living alone in Sydney, had started sending long emails to friends from his past—friends from thirty, forty years ago. I should talk to him more often, she’d said. I’d sent him my refugee story. He hadn’t responded. Now, as I came out of the kitchen with a heaped plate of stir-fry, I tried to recall those selections where I’d been sloppy with research. Maybe the scene in Rach Gia—before they reached the boat. I scooped up a forkful of marinated tofu, cashews, and chickpeas. He’d gone shopping. “They’re stories,” I said, chewing casually. “Fiction.”

  He paused for a moment, then said, “Okay, Son.”

  For so long my diet had consisted of chips and noodles and pizzas I’d forgotten how much I missed home cooking. As I ate, he stretched on his white mat.

  “How’s your back?”

  “I had a CAT scan,” he said. “There’s nerve fluid leaking between my vertebrae.” He smiled his long-suffering smile, right leg twisted across his left hip. “I brought the scans to show you.”

  “Does it hurt, Ba?”

  “It hurts.” He chuckled briefly, as though the whole matter were a joke. “But what can I do? I can only accept it.”

  “Can’t they operate?”

  I felt myself losing interest. I was a bad son. He’d separated from my mother when I started law school and ever since then he’d brought up his back pains so often—always couched in Buddhist tenets of suffering and acceptance—that the cold, hard part of me suspected he was exaggerating, to solicit and then gently rebuke my concern. He did this. He’d forced me to take karate lessons until I was sixteen; then, during one of our final arguments, he came at me and I found myself in fighting stance. He had smiled at my horror. “That’s right,” he’d said. We were locked in all the intricate ways of guilt. It took all the time we had
to realize that everything we face, we faced for the other as well.

  “I want to talk with you,” I said.

  “You grow old, your body breaks down,” he said.

  “No, I mean for the story.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?” He seemed amused.

  “About my mistakes,” I said.

  If you ask me why I came to Iowa, I would say that I was a lawyer and I was no lawyer. Every twenty-four hours I woke up at the smoggiest time of morning and commuted—bus, tram, elevator, without saying a single word, wearing clothes that chafed and holding a flat white in a white cup—to my windowless office in the tallest, most glass-covered building in Melbourne. Time was broken down into six-minute units, friends allotted eight-minute lunch breaks. I hated what I was doing and I hated that I was good at it. Mostly, I hated knowing it was my job that made my father proud of me. When I told him I was quitting and going to Iowa to be a writer, he said, “Trau buoc ghet trau an.” The captive buffalo hates the free buffalo. But by that time he had no more control over my life. I was twenty-five years old.

  The thing is not to write what no one else could have written, but to write what only you could have written. I recently found this fragment in one of my old notebooks. The person who wrote that couldn’t have known what would happen: how time can hold itself against you, how a voice hollows, how words you once loved can wither on the page.

  “Why do you want to write this story?” my father asked me.

  “It’s a good story.”

  “But there are so many things you could write about.”