and blue skies. “Where are we?”
“Vietnam,” Phan says proudly. “I was going to come back but I thought, Sabine should really see this.”
“Vietnam,” Sabine says. Who would have thought it could be such a beautiful place? All the times that Sabine had heard about Vietnam, thought about it, no one had mentioned it as beautiful. “I can’t believe it.”
“My father came here from France in 1946. Did I ever tell you that?” Phan takes her arm and walks her down the long wet path through the limitless fields. “He was a contractor. He was supposed to come here for two years and build roads but he stayed and stayed. He married my mother, they had a family. In his soul, my father is Vietnamese. He loves it here.”
“Your father still lives here?” Sabine says, her toes tracing through the soft muck.
Phan laughs. “Good Lord, Father has been dead forever.”
Sabine nods. Clearly condolences are not in order. “When did you leave?”
“My parents sent me to study in Paris in 1965. It was a difficult year. 65. I never came back until now.” He stops and looks out at the landscape. “I had a little white dog,” he says. “The dog had a red leather collar.” When he turns to her there are tears in his eyes and he touches her hair with the very tips of his fingers. “Isn’t it funny, the things we miss the most, the things that really can break our hearts?”
“What was the dog’s name?” she asks.
“Con Chuot. Mouse. My father said I couldn’t take the dog and so he gave me the mouse, a tin mouse to remember my Mouse at home. Do you still have it?”
“Of course,” she says.
“I was very loyal to that mouse,” he tells her. “I took it everywhere with me. All the time I wanted my dog.” He sighs and then smiles. “I’m happy in Vietnam, Sabine. I find it relaxing. We keep saying once things settle down we’re going to spend more time here.”
Sabine looks behind her. Nothing could hide in this field. “Is Parsifal here?”
Phan reaches up, rubs her neck in the exact place it has been bothering her. “Not this time. He’s back in L.A. He stays very close to you. It’s just that he’s so—well, so embarrassed about all of this.”
“But he shouldn’t be. My God, with all that happened to him.”
“Ah,” Phan says, “things happened to you, to me. He shouldn’t have kept this to himself. I understand, but still, he should have thought it through.”
“You may be underestimating things,” Sabine says, but her voice is kind. It is very important not to frighten Phan off, never to hurt him. For one thing, she has no idea how she would get home from Vietnam.
Phan smiles at her. “Death gives a person a lot of perspective.”
“Well then, Parsifal should know that he can talk to me, that he should come to see me.”
“He will,” Phan says, “he’s getting there.”
Sabine reaches down and brushes the top of the rice with the flat of her palm. The bottom of her nightgown is soaked and it clings to her legs. “But now you want to talk to me about his mother.”
“It comes back to perspective,” Phan says, “the larger picture. There is a woman with, a good heart. A woman who maybe didn’t make all the right choices, a woman who’s told a few lies, but really, when did any of us get everything right?”
“But if Parsifal didn’t want to have anything to do with her, why should I? I like her fine, I do, but when I think about all of it...” She can hardly make herself think about it. Parsifal not in heaven, not in Vietnam, but in hell.
“In his life Parsifal, like his mother, probably did the best he could. But in his death he wants better. He looks back and sees where there could have been reconciliation, forgiveness. These are the things you think about. But what can he do?” Phan looks away, as if he is looking for Parsifal to walk up out of the field, and Sabine looks, too. “What he can do, Sabine, is ask you to do that for him, and even though
“Vietnam,” Phan says proudly. “I was going to come back but I thought, Sabine should really see this.”
“Vietnam,” Sabine says. Who would have thought it could be such a beautiful place? All the times that Sabine had heard about Vietnam, thought about it, no one had mentioned it as beautiful. “I can’t believe it.”
“My father came here from France in 1946. Did I ever tell you that?” Phan takes her arm and walks her down the long wet path through the limitless fields. “He was a contractor. He was supposed to come here for two years and build roads but he stayed and stayed. He married my mother, they had a family. In his soul, my father is Vietnamese. He loves it here.”
“Your father still lives here?” Sabine says, her toes tracing through the soft muck.
Phan laughs. “Good Lord, Father has been dead forever.”
Sabine nods. Clearly condolences are not in order. “When did you leave?”
“My parents sent me to study in Paris in 1965. It was a difficult year. 65. I never came back until now.” He stops and looks out at the landscape. “I had a little white dog,” he says. “The dog had a red leather collar.” When he turns to her there are tears in his eyes and he touches her hair with the very tips of his fingers. “Isn’t it funny, the things we miss the most, the things that really can break our hearts?”
“What was the dog’s name?” she asks.
“Con Chuot. Mouse. My father said I couldn’t take the dog and so he gave me the mouse, a tin mouse to remember my Mouse at home. Do you still have it?”
“Of course,” she says.
“I was very loyal to that mouse,” he tells her. “I took it everywhere with me. All the time I wanted my dog.” He sighs and then smiles. “I’m happy in Vietnam, Sabine. I find it relaxing. We keep saying once things settle down we’re going to spend more time here.”
Sabine looks behind her. Nothing could hide in this field. “Is Parsifal here?”
Phan reaches up, rubs her neck in the exact place it has been bothering her. “Not this time. He’s back in L.A. He stays very close to you. It’s just that he’s so—well, so embarrassed about all of this.”
“But he shouldn’t be. My God, with all that happened to him.”
“Ah,” Phan says, “things happened to you, to me. He shouldn’t have kept this to himself. I understand, but still, he should have thought it through.”
“You may be underestimating things,” Sabine says, but her voice is kind. It is very important not to frighten Phan off, never to hurt him. For one thing, she has no idea how she would get home from Vietnam.
Phan smiles at her. “Death gives a person a lot of perspective.”
“Well then, Parsifal should know that he can talk to me, that he should come to see me.”
“He will,” Phan says, “he’s getting there.”
Sabine reaches down and brushes the top of the rice with the flat of her palm. The bottom of her nightgown is soaked and it clings to her legs. “But now you want to talk to me about his mother.”
“It comes back to perspective,” Phan says, “the larger picture. There is a woman with, a good heart. A woman who maybe didn’t make all the right choices, a woman who’s told a few lies, but really, when did any of us get everything right?”
“But if Parsifal didn’t want to have anything to do with her, why should I? I like her fine, I do, but when I think about all of it...” She can hardly make herself think about it. Parsifal not in heaven, not in Vietnam, but in hell.
“In his life Parsifal, like his mother, probably did the best he could. But in his death he wants better. He looks back and sees where there could have been reconciliation, forgiveness. These are the things you think about. But what can he do?” Phan looks away, as if he is looking for Parsifal to walk up out of the field, and Sabine looks, too. “What he can do, Sabine, is ask you to do that for him, and even though
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