Finding a Needle at the Bottom of the Ocean

Bạc Liêu, 2016

“What do we type into the computer for the search?” Bình said, sitting squashed against Phong on a chair. Diễm stood behind them, her hands on Phong’s shoulders. Tài knelt on the floor.

They were in an internet café filled with young people renting computers by the hour. Each machine was shielded by flimsy wooden partitions, and Phong only needed to look to his left to see a young man scrolling through pictures of naked women. Women with skin as white as milk and breasts as big as pomelos. To his right, a boy, barely older than ten, was playing a game, his gun coughing out fire, cutting down figures of humans as if they were useless frogs. The victims’ screams tore into Phong’s temples.

“Let’s start with something simple.” Tài typed into the computer. “American father . . . searching . . . for . . . Amerasian . . . child.” He pressed a key and the screen was filled with images and words.

“So much information,” Diễm gasped. “We’re stupid not to know.”

“You call your parents stupid?” Bình glared at Diễm. “How could we have known without any internet, and without anyone telling us what to look for?”

“That’s why I’ve been saying we need a smartphone.” Diễm threw her hands high into the air.

“Hey!” Tài whistled. “This looks interesting.” He pointed at an image of a man with dark skin and curly hair. “It’s a movie about Amerasians finding their parents.”

Phong settled in to watch as the computer screen blanked, then revealed the curly-haired man. Wearing a thick, old jacket, he was standing on a street empty of people, lined by low brick houses and barren trees. The camera zoomed onto the man’s face. His nose was tall, his skin dark, and his eyes so sad, they looked like bottomless ponds.

The man told them that he’d been living in America for twenty-five years, and that he’d spent most of his free time searching for his parents. He’d spent thousands of hours on the internet and talking to people. He’d done DNA tests. He’d received help from kind people including other Amerasians, American veterans, and even strangers, but so far, no good news. He feared that his parents had either died or didn’t want him. Walking on a snowy street, shivering in the cold, the man joined a white Amerasian. Together, they rummaged through large metal trash cans. “I can’t speak much English and it’s been impossible to find a job,” the man said. “I’m still lucky, though, since I get to stay in a homeless shelter. The things that I gather from the trash, I sell to other Vietnamese. The money isn’t much, but it helps me buy the things I need, like a good meal, a beer, some cigarettes.”

“Enough!” Phong shut his eyes, covering his ears with his palms. He hadn’t imagined such a life for trẻ lai in the U.S. Somehow he’d been sure there were no poor people in this country he’d been dreaming about.

“This is a lie. It’s not possible,” Bình said, her voice quivering.

“It’s a documentary made by a famous TV channel,” Tài protested. “The story must be true.”

Phong leaned toward his son. “I’ll tell you what it is: propaganda from the Communists, who’ve always tried to stop us from leaving.”

“Whatever you say!” Tài punched the keyboard and the documentary disappeared. The computer screen was again filled with images and words.

“You take over now, Diễm,” Tài told his sister, standing up. “Whatever I do is wrong. Whatever I do isn’t good enough . . .”

Phong rose to his feet, reaching for Tài’s arm. “Son, my reactions . . . it’s just that . . . the story is just too shocking for me . . .”

“How about me, huh? You think I wasn’t upset watching it?” Tài’s voice rose above the sounds of gunfire from the computer next to them. “I actually dreamt about us finding your parents, that I had grandparents who loved me. Now I know it was just a stupid dream.” A tear rolled down Tài’s cheek.

“Haven’t you heard that dreams can come true sometimes?” said Diễm. She pointed at some words on the screen. “This article is about someone who found her father.”

“Read it to us, Daughter,” Bình said.

Diễm clicked. The computer screen changed and a picture of a middle-aged woman and an older man appeared. They both looked like white Americans. Diễm started reading. Tracy Trần, the woman, was adopted from an orphanage in Sài Gòn and brought to America when she was five. For the last ten years, she tried to find her father. She had nearly given up hope when her DNA test led her to her father’s brother. When her father heard about her, he didn’t even know he had a daughter in Việt Nam.

Phong had closed his eyes to avoid the words that filled the screen. But Diễm’s voice was too soft, almost drowned out by the noises around them. Unable to hear her, he opened his eyes. The sharp little points and barbs of the letters scraped across his vision.

The screen became blurry. The chair under him turned into the wooden chair of his first grade class high up in the mountains. Five boys, three of them older and from the third grade, were surrounding him. One pushed a piece of paper filled with words toward his face.

“Read these!” a tall boy said, tapping on the paper.

“I can’t.” He stared desperately at the corridor outside, searching for help. It was empty. All the teachers and other students had gone home. He wished to see Teacher Nương, who had been kind to him, but saw no one.

The boy ran his finger under some words. “Read this out loud. ‘Con lai mười hai lỗ đít.’ Read it now!”

He bit his lip, his head shaking. He would not call himself an Amerasian with twelve assholes.

A hard smack landed on his left cheek, another on his skull. Fire exploded in his vision. He screamed in agony.

“You stupid half-breed. Repeat after us! ‘Con lai mười hai lỗ đít.’ ”

He sobbed, clutching his head with his palms.

“You should learn how to read, Stupid. Now, repeat after me.” A boy yanked his hair, forcing him to stare into another piece of paper. “ ‘Phong’s mother was a prostitute. She spread her legs for the American imperialists.’ Read it!”

Phong bit his lip so hard he could taste blood.

The words were brought closer to his face, so close that they blurred.

“Read it!”

He closed his eyes.

“How stubborn you are! You filthy son of the enemy.”

Someone stamped on his foot. The pain was hot, running like an electric current to the top of his head. He screamed.

“If he doesn’t want to read these words, he must eat them,” a boy said and the others cheered.

“Eat them, eat them!” they chanted.

Phong faced the words. He refused to acknowledge their meaning. They were nothing unless he spoke them. Under his eyes, the words began to twist and turn. They turned into gaping mouths, cackling at him. They grew out of the paper, like snakes. They grasped his arms and legs, pulling him to the ground.

The floor was cold under his back. The boys towered above him. Hands forced his mouth open. The paper was rolled into a ball, pushed against his tongue. He tasted the bitterness of words. He gagged.

“Chew and swallow, or we’ll piss into your fucking mouth!”

With tears running down his face, he ground the words between his teeth. The words slithered into his stomach, spreading themselves onto his limbs. They were laughing, their shrill cries penetrating his brain.

“No!” he jerked back. The classroom ceiling spun into the computer screen in front of him.

Phong covered his eyes with his palms and shot to his feet. He ran for the door. People were blocking his way, their eyes glued to computer screens, their hands punching keyboards.

“Let me out!” he screamed.

Phong sat in the cool shade of a shop’s awning, his family around him.

“You okay, Ba? What happened?” Diễm knelt beside him.

“The ghosts . . . they haven’t released your father.” Bình fanned Phong with her hat. “We need to find a good shaman.”

Phong shook his head. Bình believed that shamans could drive away the evil spirits that possessed him. Over the years, she’d invited to their home three different shamans who performed ceremonies on Phong. They’d smoked his house to drive away the invisible ghosts. Nothing had helped. Phong knew there were no ghosts, just the bullies who continued to burrow deep inside his bone marrow. He wished he knew how to control his bad memories.

“You need a drink, Ba? Should we bring you home?” Tài asked, sitting on his haunches, worry carving deep lines into his young face.

Phong’s eyes teared. “Let us go home.” He reached out for Tài’s strong shoulder and let his son pull him up. As they started walking toward home, a strong wind gusted. A vendor cried out as the wind flung several of her newspapers across the street. Diễm and Tài ran, catching the pages, putting them together.

“Look, Ba, Má,” Diễm suddenly called, pointing at a page. “A search notice. From an American!”

Standing on the pavement, under a large phượng tree, away from shops and people, Tài and Diễm both held the newspaper. Red petals scattered around their feet and yellow leaves flittered through the air. From somewhere inside the rough tree trunk, cicadas vibrated their songs into the thick, hot air. There had been nights Phong stayed up with Bình and his children under moonlight, watching cicada nymphs emerge from under the earth, crawl up onto tree trunks, shed their nymph skin, and transform themselves into cicadas. He’d told his family Sister Nhã’s tales, tales that explained why only male cicadas could sing, and why only from their abdomens, not from their mouths or chests.

“What does the notice say?” Bình asked impatiently, fanning the children with her hat.

“Let me read it,” Tài tried to yank the newspaper away from Diễm.

“I can do it better than you.” Diễm tickled Tài under his armpit. Tài yelped, releasing his grip.

“Ready?” Diễm looked at Phong. As he nodded, she cleared her throat. “Đan, a helicopter pilot based at Tân Sơn Nhứt in 1969, is looking for Kim. Đan met Kim at the Hô-li-gút Bar on Trương Minh Ký Street. Kim told Đan she was from the Mekong Delta. If Kim would like to talk to Đan, please call Mr. Thiên.”

Phong couldn’t believe he was hearing Mr. Dan’s name and that crook Thiên’s number again.

“Is Mr. Thiên the same person helping Tôm Sờ-Mít?” asked Diễm, looking at Phong.

“Yes . . . that’s him. Please . . . read the notice once more.”

“My turn,” Tài tickled Diễm in the stomach until she dropped the paper. He laughed, picked it up, and started reading. Once Tài was done, Phong shook his head. Everything made sense now: Mr. Dan’s unusual behavior, his curiosity about Phong, his wife’s anger.

“This Mr. Thiên . . . his name and number keep appearing in front of us,” Bình said, turning to Phong. “The universe is trying to tell us something, anh. It’s no coincidence. We should call him.”

“Of course it’s a coincidence. He’s just an agent, a crook . . .”

“Why do you always think that people are out to get you?” Bình stood with her hands on her hip.

“Can you blame me, after everything that’s happened to us?” Phong said, then turned and headed for home.

“Ba.” Diễm ran after Phong. She took his arm and shook it, the way she always did when she begged for something. “I think we should call Mr. Thiên. This American . . . Mr. Đan . . . he could be your father.”

Phong almost laughed. Hope was a dangerous thing.

It’d taken him years but now Phong realized he had to be a cicada nymph. He must shed his past, to be free, to transform himself into a new person—someone calm and happy. His son had been right. They should forget about it all: the visa application, the search for his parents. It wasn’t worth it to relive the trauma of his past and drag his family down with him. He should accept life as it was, raise his children, take good care of Bình.

“Come on,” he smiled at his family. “Let’s go home. Throw away that paper. That American man is not related to us; he’s a white man. I know, because I met him last week in Sài Gòn. And I don’t want to see him ever again.”