Then he asked another hick to take him across the river. Not needing his car anymore, he didn’t have to hire anyone to look after it. Sitting on the sampan, he looked back at his black 1965 Citroën le Dandy with annoyance and sadness. He also thought of Kim Lan, of how he had almost managed to snatch her from fate.
The ride home on the pebbly dirt road with multiplying potholes, their stagnant rainwater reflecting clouds and sky, so beautiful, required all the stamina Sen had and he nearly fell off his bike several times. He only reached the outlying fields of Vinh Chau at sunset. Serenaded and mocked by the monotonous heavy metal riffs of a million cicadas, his eyes blurred by rivulets of sweat, his muscles breaking down, it was pitch-dark when he nearly crashed into the gate of his old house. His father’s villa boasted the only wroughtiron gate in the village. There were cacti outside the high walls, which were topped with colorful shards of glass, and German shepherds inside them. He didn’t hear the dogs barking that day for some reason. He draped himself against the gate and thought he would die soon if no one came out to carry him inside immediately. Seeing light shining through the wooden slats of the second-floor windows, Sen shouted for his three sisters. “First sister! Second sister! Third sister!” It took forever, but someone finally came out. At first Sen thought that it was a new servant, but no, too well dressed to be a servant, she was actually the lady of the house. “What do you want?!” she snapped at him in a thick northern accent.
Understanding everything immediately, Sen mumbled, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I must have the wrong house.” He quickly got on his cheap bike and blundered away.
Not everything was lost; there was a second house Sen could go to. He willed his bike another mile to reach his wife’s house. Yes, Sen was married. Back in 1948, during the feast to celebrate his birth, that month-long bacchanal of grilled meat and wine, his father’s best friend promised his next daughter to Sen when the boy grew up. Flushed with wine and gratitude, Sen’s father readily accepted the offer. “We are best friends! So our children should also be best friends when we’re gone!” With three wives, the other man had no problems turning out daughters. At seventeen, Sen was married to fulfill his father’s pledge. The couple lived together as polite strangers for a year before Sen disappeared to Saigon for good. They tried to have sex a few times and found the experience absurd and humiliating, but the outcome was a son. Now, having come full circle, dumped by destiny in front of his old roost, his rejected wife and forgotten son just on the other side of a broken-down, warped door, Sen shouted, “Open up! It’s me!”
“Who is that?”
“It’s me!”
“Is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She opened the door a crack and saw that it was really her husband. His face hadn’t changed after six years, unlike hers. “What are you doing with that bicycle?”
“I just bought it. Open up so I can come in!”
“It’s been so long.” Mrs. Sen suddenly started to sob. “How come you never returned from that trip to Saigon?”
“It’s a long story. I joined the army. I fought and almost died several times. In any case, there’s no more Saigon so let’s not talk about it. Let’s just forget the past. Open the door so I can come in!”
Over dinner, Sen was told by his wife that the Vietcong had taken over Vinh Chau five days earlier. His family had escaped by boat apparently. During the war, the ARVN controlled little of Vinh Chau beyond the post office—it was more or less VC country.
Sen stayed home for seven days. On his first night, yearning for Kim Lan, he decided to give sex with his wife another try. It was really Kim Lan, beautiful, glorious Kim Lan, who lay under, over and next to him in the dark, the scent of coconut oil and rapid, breathless Chinese
The ride home on the pebbly dirt road with multiplying potholes, their stagnant rainwater reflecting clouds and sky, so beautiful, required all the stamina Sen had and he nearly fell off his bike several times. He only reached the outlying fields of Vinh Chau at sunset. Serenaded and mocked by the monotonous heavy metal riffs of a million cicadas, his eyes blurred by rivulets of sweat, his muscles breaking down, it was pitch-dark when he nearly crashed into the gate of his old house. His father’s villa boasted the only wroughtiron gate in the village. There were cacti outside the high walls, which were topped with colorful shards of glass, and German shepherds inside them. He didn’t hear the dogs barking that day for some reason. He draped himself against the gate and thought he would die soon if no one came out to carry him inside immediately. Seeing light shining through the wooden slats of the second-floor windows, Sen shouted for his three sisters. “First sister! Second sister! Third sister!” It took forever, but someone finally came out. At first Sen thought that it was a new servant, but no, too well dressed to be a servant, she was actually the lady of the house. “What do you want?!” she snapped at him in a thick northern accent.
Understanding everything immediately, Sen mumbled, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I must have the wrong house.” He quickly got on his cheap bike and blundered away.
Not everything was lost; there was a second house Sen could go to. He willed his bike another mile to reach his wife’s house. Yes, Sen was married. Back in 1948, during the feast to celebrate his birth, that month-long bacchanal of grilled meat and wine, his father’s best friend promised his next daughter to Sen when the boy grew up. Flushed with wine and gratitude, Sen’s father readily accepted the offer. “We are best friends! So our children should also be best friends when we’re gone!” With three wives, the other man had no problems turning out daughters. At seventeen, Sen was married to fulfill his father’s pledge. The couple lived together as polite strangers for a year before Sen disappeared to Saigon for good. They tried to have sex a few times and found the experience absurd and humiliating, but the outcome was a son. Now, having come full circle, dumped by destiny in front of his old roost, his rejected wife and forgotten son just on the other side of a broken-down, warped door, Sen shouted, “Open up! It’s me!”
“Who is that?”
“It’s me!”
“Is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She opened the door a crack and saw that it was really her husband. His face hadn’t changed after six years, unlike hers. “What are you doing with that bicycle?”
“I just bought it. Open up so I can come in!”
“It’s been so long.” Mrs. Sen suddenly started to sob. “How come you never returned from that trip to Saigon?”
“It’s a long story. I joined the army. I fought and almost died several times. In any case, there’s no more Saigon so let’s not talk about it. Let’s just forget the past. Open the door so I can come in!”
Over dinner, Sen was told by his wife that the Vietcong had taken over Vinh Chau five days earlier. His family had escaped by boat apparently. During the war, the ARVN controlled little of Vinh Chau beyond the post office—it was more or less VC country.
Sen stayed home for seven days. On his first night, yearning for Kim Lan, he decided to give sex with his wife another try. It was really Kim Lan, beautiful, glorious Kim Lan, who lay under, over and next to him in the dark, the scent of coconut oil and rapid, breathless Chinese
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