Dust Child

by Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

During the next many years, Phong would often reflect on this moment and wish he had walked away. What happened next would change his entire life.

How ridiculous of him to not have anticipated that the old Sài Gòn was gone. The Vietnamese had built themselves a new city. A city that no longer needed to suckle from America.

But were his feelings for Kim love or lust? He wasn’t sure, but he was certain it wasn’t pure sex. Kim had enabled him to see that Vietnamese people were just like Americans, neither barbaric nor pitiful as his training had taught him.

Her friends sang, too, but the girl’s response stirred something deep inside of Phong. In her voice he could see the rice plants bloom their first flowers; the storks stretching their wings, riding on a sunset; a school of fish dashing through a gushing stream. She breathed hope and life into an ordinary song.

Bình would behave better. If they had a problem, she’d talk to him behind closed doors. She wouldn’t vạch áo cho người xem lưng—lift her husband’s shirt so others could look at his naked back.

Hiếu’s father had sold their buffaloes and cows to pay for the bribes required to help his son escape the draft. But she’d heard that no young man could stay away from the army forever. With the fire of war burning, it needed more men as firewood.

Quỳnh’s words echoed in her mind like a curse. They’re all like that at the start, but once they own you, they’ll drop their masks.

Sitting there, surrounded by locals, listening to them chat in their own language, Dan recognized something unique about Sài Gòn that had survived the war: the charm of its people, their incredible energy and resourcefulness. In his nightmares, the city was war-torn, ravaged with violence like the day he’d left it. Now, seeing it thrive brought him a sense of peace and consolation. He was starting to understand why other vets had said the return trip had helped them.

Mỹ Lai court-martials.

Those in power feared free minds, and nothing unlocked thinking like literature.

Phú Mỹ,

All his life, he’d expected people from around the world to know English, to translate their life experiences to serve people like him. Why should they?

Quỳnh had despised him so much, she had thought that seeing him in pain would bring her satisfaction. But now she knew the suffering of someone else could not possibly be the source of delight for another, and that revenge, however successful, would not be able to resurrect the dead.

Now she could see Heaven had blessed people with their different skin colors, and regardless of their differences, they were beautiful in their own ways.