Hwang Sok-Yong - The Shadow of Arms

“The education won’t be like what I’ve been getting at school.”

Shoan knew what he meant. There had been many students who suddenly disappeared from home or school after receiving their draft notices. Some were later discovered as corpses in some small village or down in the Mekong Delta, their bodies sent back to their parents. She had also heard of students who’d climbed walls to sneak into their friends’ houses in the middle of the night only to vanish. Others were said to have become hawkers around the foreign army bases.

“I’m going to Uncle Trinh’s tonight. I’ll see you there.”

Shoan shook her head and said, “No, I’m not going back to school today.”

“There’s some place I have go alone,” Minh said coldly. But he did not move. It was Shoan who rose first.

“Aren’t you going to see your family at least?”

“I already told Lei everything. And I don’t want to fight with my brother.”

The two walked side by side, crossed Ivory Road and continued all the way to the intersection where Le Loi Boulevard began. As they approached the side street leading to Shoan’s house, she paused and turned to Pham Minh, as if to ask his destination.

“I’m heading for the marketplace. . be at Uncle Trinh’s at around seven o’clock, okay?”

Lowering her head, Shoan was quiet a moment before speaking.

“You haven’t heard about the curfew, have you?”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Civilians on the street after eight p.m. are to be arrested and anyone trying to run away can be shot.”

Minh glared at Shoan. What she meant was that with an air strip and US Marine checkpoints on the way to Dong Dao there would be no way for her to return home at sundown, let alone by eight o’clock in the evening.

As for Pham Minh, not knowing what the future would bring made returning to Da Nang unthinkable. Starting that day and for the next three months, he would have to survive at the center of Vietnam’s wretched reality, in the swamps and marshes. The organization might send him back to Da Nang as a civilian agent or part of the urban staff organization. But they also might keep him in the jungle. Minh saw Shoan’s big eyes moistening. He wanted to wrap his arm around her slender waist and kiss her. Instead, he shyly held out his hand.

“ Chào co , Shoan. See you soon.”

“ Chào ong . .”

She didn’t take his hand but ran, all the way across Le Loi Boulevard, her long hair and the skirt of her white ao dai swaying from side to side. Minh dropped his hand. As he walked toward the marketplace, he began to regret having seen her at all.

The market quarters were divided into an old and a new section. The nice shops on Le Loi Boulevard ran from the pier to the front of City Hall. The traditional open market, held daily and just for Vietnamese, extended from the bus terminal area to the outskirts of the city. There, the population of Da Nang and its surrounding area could trade in artisan and agricultural products, from every kind of vegetable and grain to coarsely woven clothing. It was a modest market. Most transactions took place in the narrow back alleys between Le Loi and Doc Lap Boulevards, a bustling area where the goods that had leaked out from the American PX4 and other military supply warehouses got traded.

The old market was where Pham Minh was heading. It was in disarray, its stalls cluttered with mangos, bananas, and coconuts; salt fish and dried shrimp; noodle dishes, bánh mì , sausages, and fried pork. All laid out in small wooden baskets or on military ponchos. Minh walked into the market and looked around.

“Chrysanthemum Pub. .”

There was a lot of confusion in the parking lot of the bus terminal. The incoming and outgoing buses all were overloaded with packages strapped high on their rooftops. Minh saw a round signboard with a chrysanthemum painted on it. The small bus had been crammed so full of chairs and its ceiling was so low that travelers would suffer the painful effects of a long journey days after it had ended. National Route 1 heading down to Saigon was the busiest. Occasionally there were buses that made round trips inland. Cutting through the bedlam of the crowd, Minh approached Chrysanthemum Pub. It was filled with passengers and soldiers. As Minh hunted for a place to sit, he stopped a man carrying a big tray full of nuoc mam noodles.

“When’s the next bus to Quang Tri?”

“Oh, there happens to be one tomorrow. Leaves at six in the morning. After that, you’d have to wait three days till the next one. You can spend the night here.”

“But I’ve got to meet my uncle from Khe Sanh. .”

It was the first part of the message Minh had been instructed to deliver. The man pretended not to have heard him.

“His name is Nguyen Thach, has he been here yet?” Minh added.

The man scanned Minh from head to toe and then pointed to the interior of the restaurant behind a screen of beads.

“Go ask in there.”

Pham Minh drew the beads apart and went in to find the inside partitioned into dark windowless rooms. It seemed the exterior was for eating and the inside for drinking tea or liquor. He hesitated and somebody nudged him from behind, saying, “Keep going.”

Minh looked back and saw that the waiter had followed him in. In the last partition, Minh found a middle-aged man in a white shirt and black pants with a cup of tea before him and his face buried in his hands.

“This man here says he came to meet Uncle Nguyen Thach, sir.”

The middle-aged man slowly looked up. His gentle face and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes reminded Minh of the principal of his primary school.

“Are you Mr. Pham Minh who’s been attending Hue University?”

“I am, yes.”

“Sit down, please.”

The man behind him left and Minh took a seat facing the middle-aged man.

“Pardon me for asking, but did you bring your ID?”

Minh took out his ID card and showed the man the yellow sticker authorizing travel issued by the Vietnamese government. It was an ID no less valuable than his own life. The man took it from Minh, examined it, and rose from his seat.

“Come with me.”

Minh followed him out through the back door of the pub to a filthy alley behind the market. Naked children were swarming all over the place and the air was rank from the garbage and dishwater tossed out into the street. They entered the back door of a shop that appeared to deal in medicinal herbs. Like everywhere in Asia, an old Westinghouse fan turned slowly on the ceiling overhead with the steady sound of metal rubbing on metal. An old man who had been dozing looked up at them and exchanged nods with the man. They went upstairs. Before the door opened, Minh recognized the voice of one of his friends.

“The National Liberation Front is the only democratic force in Vietnam. We will be the ones to achieve unification. The peace conference accords must be abrogated.”

As the door opened the voice fell silent. A young man in black who’d had his back to the door turned around.

“Pham Minh, so you’ve come.”

“Thanh.”

Minh shook Thanh’s hand. It was hard and rough. Minh examined his friend’s bony face and shining eyes.

“I heard at school that you were coming. Where have you been?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Let’s start here. .”

Thanh introduced Minh to the seven young men in the room: two middle school teachers, three young draftees, and two AWOL soldiers. The middle-aged man who had escorted Minh there was the last to hold out his hand, saying, “I’m the Uncle Nguyen Thach you’ve been looking for.” He silently counted all those present and said, “Everyone’s here, apparently. Or is someone missing?”