July 1971–1975
Tâm took the bus back to Saigon from Tay Ninh; she didn’t know where else to go. Most of the trip was an eight-hour ride on bumpy, shelled-out dirt roads. She considered going back to the Saigon Café, but it was far too dangerous. If she ran into Dr. Hằng, or people who worked with her, she would be vulnerable. In fact, if she came across anyone she’d met while she fought for the Communists, it could mean her death. Unfortunately, the same was true if she came across any South Vietnamese fighters who knew her story.
During a sleepless night at a hotel in Cholon, she realized she’d made a foolish decision returning to Saigon. She would leave the next morning. She thought about trying to find Mai; she was family. Then she remembered how they’d parted. Tâm, full of self-righteous indignation, thought Mai was an opportunist taking the easy way out, and she’d let Mai know it. But the truth was that no one, whether North or South Vietnamese, had an easy way out. This country, torn apart by endless war, had made captives of them all, whether they were behind bars or not. Whether they lived in the North or the South, the Vietnamese people were controlled by the whims of greedy politicians and military commanders with grandiose plans but not much else.
Tâm felt abandoned and alone. The only person who’d loved her was dead. She recalled how Bảo had talked about the beauty of the Central Highlands where she grew up. How a morning mist curled around the mountains and a gentle sun warmed the plateaus. How she and her siblings would play hide-and-seek in the pine forests and collect cones. The temperate climate of the Highlands, compared to the rest of Vietnam, made it possible to grow a wide variety of flowers, vegetables, and fruit. Bảo’s family raised broccoli, asparagus, and artichokes, as well as elegant hydrangeas, marigolds, and petunias bursting with color.
Tâm wondered if Bảo’s family had been notified of her death. Chances were they didn’t know. She decided to take a train to the city of Da Lat, which was quite close to Bảo’s village. She would find them and deliver the sad news.
Da Lat rose 1,500 meters above sea level and because of its cooler temperatures was called “The City of Eternal Spring.” Originally developed by the French as an Alpine-style retreat for high-ranking government officials , it was replete with hotels, spas, and boarding schools for the offspring of the ruling class. Because of its French heritage, they sometimes called Da Lat “Little Paris.”
With the French now gone, stories about ghosts haunting abandoned Da Lat villas and homes circulated around Vietnam. Tâm wasn’t a believer. She had outgrown her mother’s fear that she would be kidnapped by evil spirits and barely remembered the nickname her mother had given her for protection. “Stinky Monkey.” That was it.
So far Da Lat had been spared the worst of the war’s carnage. Curiously, by tacit agreement, the city was a popular destination for R&R for soldiers on both sides of the war. Perhaps the spirits haunting the hills around the city were more benevolent than people imagined.
“Are you the mother of Diệp Hồng Bảo?” Tâm said two days later when a short, matronly woman came to the door of a small house in Lam Dong Province. She wasn’t old, but deep lines on her brow and cheeks told a story of hard work and sorrow.
The woman dipped her head and looked up at Tâm in fear. Tâm smiled. “I am Nguyễn Trang Tâm. I fought with your daughter in the war.”
“Is she still alive? We have heard nothing for over a year. Has she been wounded?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.” She opened the door wider and gestured for her to come in. Larger than Tâm’s family hut, the wooden structure had several rooms. Bảo’s mother led the way to a kitchen, where a young woman was cutting and shaping hydrangeas. The young woman had to be Bảo’s sister. She had the same wide, cheerful eyes, but her nose was larger and her chin not as chiseled.
Tâm swallowed before she spoke. “I am sorry to tell you that Bảo was stabbed and killed by the enemy in the Cu Chi tunnels in 1969.”
Her mother sucked in a long breath. Then she nodded and her lips tightened. “We were afraid of this. But it is kind of you to tell us officially. Are you an officer as well?”
Tâm shook her head. “She was a wonderful leader. Brave, smart, but cautious. The Long Hairs adored her.” Tâm swallowed. “So did I.”
Bảo’s mother inclined her head but said nothing.
“How long were you under Bảo’s command?” the sister asked, carefully packing the flowers in a box.
“Only about two months. I was there when she—she died.” Tâm bent her head and looked down. “I believe I killed the tunnel rat who killed her.”
Bảo’s sister straightened. “You believe? What do you mean?”
“It’s impossible to know with certainty that the man I killed was the one who stabbed Bao, but I suspect it was. There are few enemy soldiers brave enough to climb into the tunnels and attack us.”
“You risked your life, didn’t you?”
“Why? Why did you do this?”
Tâm hesitated. Then, “Because I was in love with her.”
Bảo’s mother crossed her arms and went rigid.
The sister glanced at her mother, then back at Tâm. “She does—did not approve of Bảo’s—how do you say it—attraction to other women. She thinks it is a sin,” she said apologetically.
Bảo’s mother started making brushing aside motions with her hands and pointed to the door. She was clearly telling Tâm to leave.
Tâm took the hint and headed for the door. She turned to face Bảo’s sister. “I am sorry to bring such sorrowful news. I thought you would want to know. I miss her every day.”
Bảo’s mother’s voice oozed a distinct undertone of contempt. “Dồng tính nữ. Lesbian. Get out of my home.”
Her sister shook her head and gave Tâm a sad smile.