The Price of Home - short story

Straddling time and truth, the narrator moves through a Vietnam both familiar and foreign, feeling both connected to and betrayed by it. He observes with resentment and tenderness—especially toward those still struggling in its streets. Longing for home, yet unable to trust it, he remains a man caught in the shadow of memory, never fully arriving.

Forty Years

"Forty years ago today Saigon fell.

I wonder what my 60,000

fallen brothers would think

of the country they died for

if they could see the prison

it is becoming now.”  

2015

We decided to visit a local coffee shop, to indulge in the famed cà phê sữa đá . The cafe, which was also a phone repair shop, was located just at the rim of the streets packed with motorcycles and people threading through the traffic. The snarled traffic had a charm of its own. It was amusing to watch. The road system was terrible, however the river of motorbikes found a way to maneuver around the pedestrians, delicately brushing past them. 

I was met with a loud chorus of snorts and riotous banter crescendoing and descrescendoing, as masses amount of people walked by us. Tourists shuffled around with their cheap Communist slogan t-shirts, while obnoxious store owners tried to entice, more like pressure their customers to buy their exotic fruit. Two store owners debated over the sweetness of their produce, when in all honesty, they were likely getting their fruit from the same farmer. A comical scene really. I often wondered why foreigners found Vietnam an attractive holiday destination; the humid lick from Vietnamese weather, the rugged aesthetics of food stalls, the nauseating sound of motorbikes honking and people squawking. It took me ten years for my wife to convince me to come back here. 

Whilst we were observing the chaos on the streets, and Điệp and I finished joking about how insurance worked, a shrivelled lady humbly meandered into the café, shuffling at the freshly glossed lottery tickets in her hands. Some well dressed men turned their backs towards her, finding something else in the café to fixate their gaze on. Women pulled their children closer, so that they wouldn’t get into contact with  Others hastily gave her money so that she would leave them alone.

She made her way towards Điệp and I, not making eye contact with either of us. 

“Lottery tickets for ­­­1000 đồng”.

I stared at her sparse white hair, in hopes for some sign of human connection. However, she had already begun to shift towards the next table. 

“How many do you have there?”

“18”

“How many did you start with?”

“20”

She was still looking at my shoes. 

“I’ll take them all”.

Finally, she looked up at me and her eyes formed two mountains filled with jubilation. Her stiff, grainy hands counted the crinkled money, making sure that there weren’t any notes missing, because that meant that there would be one person who wouldn’t be able to eat at home. The crevice between her untamed eyebrows sunk deeper. 

“Sir, you gave me too much.” 

I was taken aback by her address. Sir? She looked as though she could have been the same age as my mother. 

“No, it wasn’t a mistake. Please keep it.”

She placed the tickets down with both hands on the table, crossed her arms and bowed, as a child does when an elder gives them red pocket money. Then she quietly left, making sure she hadn’t caused any more burden for the customers. 

 “Why did you buy all of them?” Điệp questioned.

“It’s only a few dollars.”

“We’re leaving in a few days. Do you even know how to claim your lottery ticket if you win? And what if she’s part of a larger corporation who use old people to attract sympathy from tourists?”

I love my wife, I really do. But sometimes I am convinced that she just picks on the most unnecessary things, just for the sake of spicing up our marriage. If that be true, I am truly appreciative. But I don’t think she realises that her nagging is no longer charming, rather it sounds like a broken radio wedged inside my ear drum. And so I looked at my wife and grabbed her by the hand. 

“Because that’s less money for you to spend, which means less kilos we have to buy at the airport.”

Điệp rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, while I flicked through the lottery tickets. 

She was right. I didn’t know what to do with them. 

The Vegetable Lady

1977

On the way home from secretly collecting vegetables on the unused farm, I swung by the black market that operated on a train track. It was a modest place. When the Việt Cộng had 

cut off all transport to the countryside, the market gradually took over the space. The word “market” didn’t quite do the place justice. It wasn’t pitiful enough to be called a charity, but it wasn’t established enough to be called a business. It was what it was, and it worked. Thương, a young woman who had the mouth of a nagging grandma, made bowls of canh chua from a large pot, in exchange for half of any green vegetable. I made sure to be on good terms with her. She was the only one who would take my bitter melon, and the only one who knew how to cook it properly. Sometimes she would sneak some into the soup, masking the bitterness.

The stall owner, a frail relic, handed me the bundle of water spinach. However, I was looking less at the vegetables she was counting out, than at the flesh of her enveloped palms, which were scored and encrusted with dried blood and blistered. So many cuts and nicks. I realised that I was staring too intently and quickly put the leafy vegetable in my basket. When her gaze met mine she appeared wounded. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I can take this. I have nothing to exchange” I said.

“You go ahead and take as much as you want. The old lady’s going to die soon anyway. Better the spinach fall into your hands than the hands of the Communists.” At that moment, I could not help seeing in her eyes, the warmth and helplessness. Her small composition was much like a child’s, but the folds in her skin clearly proclaimed her years on this earth. 

I gave her a smile of gratitude and quickly gathered my things and headed off. One thing to note, is to never acknowledge somebody else’s weakness. Or at least, don’t let them see it. Vietnamese people like to convince themselves that everything is okay. Denial is what runs the nation now.

Deafening sirens invaded the humble market. Distorted voices of men overwhelmed the languid space. A flurry of heads turned towards the obnoxious police cars shoving themselves through and claiming their place in our space. Within half a minute after the third loud bang, it had turned the square into a warzone. We were like rats, scurrying around with no way of escaping. 

The guards came and raised their hands at the old lady. The communists were, what they claimed, here to protect the poor. And these people were the poorest of the poor. 

‘Oi!’ came a muffled voice, projected by a sort of broken microphone. 

I turned around and found a man dressed in a flimsy pickled green uniform with a sour frown on his face, storming toward me, as though he was ready to walk right through me. He wasn’t tall or particularly handsome either. He looked malnourished as we were, except he didn’t seem to mind much. Instead, he seemed to be wearing his hollow cheekbones and dark skin with pride. He wore it with too much pride. 

“Hey, brother! Writer! Maybe you can write a poem about my time with a prostitute. Only your gentle words will capture my intimate time. Hey! You!” 

I felt the breath of his words in my face; caught the smell of fish sauce from his lunch.

“What do you have there?”

“Water spinach”, I said, knowing that I committed a Communist crime.

They gave a family of four the same amount as a family of ten. I don’t know how rations were meant to work, but this was surely not humane. Surely they expected something like this to happen sooner or later. 

It wasn’t until I was tackled into the vehicle, that I thought of slinging some slogans at him. I remembered what I had all too often shouted out with people at protests, “Don’t let them scare you into forgetting why you’re here. The voice of the people! Don’t let them make you forget that.”

Instead, as the hands clamped down on my shoulders, I remained silent. 

My arms were twisted sharply behind my back, first my right one, then my left. The impossibly cold metal cinched tighter and tighter around my wrists, making the skin around my wrist more and more raw. The sore watermelon flesh beneath the handcuffs, slowly and steadily bled into the metallic knife cutting. I could feel the warm juice flowing down my hands. In my state of famine, it almost felt appetising. 

I cried. 

And this time I didn’t cry for myself, I cried for them. For the poor people who weren’t allowed money. 

Re-education camp

1979 

Men. Brothers. Stood side by side. For the first. In a long time.

At the front stood a podium with two flags of red and blue, with a star in the middle. 

Red.

Blood of half our nation’s men 

Their throats cut to coat those very flags

Blue.

Vastness and uncertainty

Our home, our country, our land

Rusted star.

Blurred radiance

Muffled voices

Vietnam had aged overnight. Its trees, once stood proud and tall, now hunched painfully, closer to the earth, wanting to break on their own terms. But even they had to pretend to stand up and look okay because that was all we could do. We wilted before we had a chance to relish the last drop of water. 

Pickled Uniforms

1979

From the asymmetrical frowns and the clouded eyes, I could see that a lot of us did not know why we were here, or what threat we posed to these people. A flower put in infertile soil can not possibly grow any thorns. 

I myself didn’t quite comprehend why exactly I was here. They said this place was for those who were suspected of pro-American sympathies. Army officials, teachers and writers. Sure, I was a writer. But in my possibly unreliable reasoning, being a writer doesn’t correlate to my political stance. 

I looked around to see if there were familiar faces. Tuấn, who was a maths teacher at the local high school before he enlisted in the war, looked as if his body had consumed itself from starvation. His flesh had all dissipated. I remember when we made fun of his boyish looks under his chubby complexion. In fact, I had written a short jingle for him. 

Fat kid fat kid

Where is he now?

He has the will

But is a cow

He’s always late

We don’t know how

Will he also be late

For his wedding vow?

One of my finest works of poetry, composed when I was fourteen years old. Not even years of writing lessons can surpass that level of innocent creativity. But now, he was lanky, with a long nose and piercing eyes. His thin lips could bend and shape, but they would break on their way there. It looked as if I were to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder, his body would immediately disintegrate. 

One man, another pickled man, declared himself in front of everyone behind the podium. 

“You all are here for either one of two reasons. Either you have collaborated with the other side during the war or have attempted to exercise such democratic freedoms as mentioned in Article 11 of the 1973 Paris Agreement. Here, you will be rehabilitated into the new society through education and socially constructive labour for three years.”

When we were dismissed, I went to greet my old friend. As I maneuvered through the mild crowd, I stumbled across a snippet of conversation that was slightly too loud to be casual. 

“They don’t want to kill us straight away; they want to kill us slowly.” 

The crowd had slowly become a violent protesting scene, with men inches away from hitting each other’s faces. With the air charged with such political tensions, the odd heated argument led to physical scuffles. Or more.

“Americans. We shouldn’t have trusted them in the first place.”

“Stop putting on the act. We know you’re just trying to get out of here”, the commander had howled while storming across the crowd. He batted at whoever was in his way and ‘diffused’ the situation. He had declared that the environment ‘too unstable and dangerous for studying to be of any benefit at the present time.’

They didn’t want to silence us, they knew that everyone would hear, but they were confident that no one would listen. 

Vietnam became insulated. We had become trapped in our own home. 

When I looked in Tuấn’s direction, I saw that he was looking at me with the same absence in the soul. The nauseating grey cloudiness in his eyes. We were both too tired to cry. 

This was the new Vietnam.

Ho Chi Minh Museum

2015 

Scheduling problems meant our cheap flight landed not in Ho Chi Minh City but in Hanoi. I knew we shouldn’t have arranged our flights with the travel agency back in Australia. We should have done it ourselves. Things were usually better when you took matters into your own hands. Women are stubborn like that, making men doubt themselves when we are clearly in the right. 

“How about we visit the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum as a detour?” Điệp pleaded earnestly.

She proceeded to bring her hands up to her face, drew her chin closer to her chest and batted her eyelashes. 

She looked insane. 

“Absolutely not. I am afraid I cannot encourage such ideologies”.

“You’ve never even met the guy. Perhaps it’s time to.” 

She had a good point, but I knew it was a bad idea. And I knew there was no point in me resisting anyway. It surely wasn’t worth reducing my lifespan over it. 

The tanned, crusty Vietnamese men piled onto buses en route into the city. Lucky for us, we were gestured to be the first few to get onto the bus. I’d like to consider this as Vietnam’s repayment, although old people's privileges probably helped as well. As the bus bustled in a frenzy, we couldn’t help but notice the claustrophobic streets, with dense ropes of telephone wire hanging along the streets. They dragged, slung like dough over hooks, illegal offshoots snaking through the plants and vines that clawed up the houses and covered the blast holes and scars. 

I found it ridiculous that there was a large queue to see a dead body. 

We finally took our first step into the hall. A hall of approximately a hectare only stored one thing. There was an ominous silence that filled the empty space in the air, making me feel bitterly cold, albeit the humidity in the air. The room was filled with an ominous silence. 

Four guards patrolled each corner surrounding his bed. It was eerie to see the dead body of Hồ Chí Minh lying in a perfect state after 40 years. He was the reason why this nation was in the valley of suffering. The man who brought ideas from outside, that were far too heavy for this country’s shoulders. 

He lay there, in his luxurious silk pyjamas. Unadulterated and whole.

What did he do right? 

The Crucifixion

Stranger to brother

14 hours on end

Blameless and pure

Against the tree

Densely braided nylon

Raw against the wrist

A riculet of red

Velvety and viscous 

Metallic stench

From black batons

His profile

Tinged with a greenish-blue

Barely recognisable

Slowly seeping away

And like that

A stranger again

That could have been me pressed against that damp wood, standing in front of my death. What scared me most about dying wasn’t the actual death. I figured I could handle the pain. It wouldn’t be much worse than what I felt now. In fact, maybe at the moment of my death, I would be too weak to feel pain. Death would be a relief. 

What worried me the most was the thought of my family not knowing what happened to me, not knowing whether I was dead or alive. I hated the idea of my brothers and sisters living in false hope. For me, at least, it would be over. For my family, the pain would be constant.

90 Kernels of Corn and Urine for Breakfast

1982

 I should have savoured the bitter melon soup Tuấn shared with us last night. He didn’t cook it as well as Thương did. No one could turn bitter melon sweet like she could. But it was food, and that was sweet enough for us. I stumbled to the ground. My hands were cold and clammy and the rest of my body was prickling from the wave of heat. 

This morning we had corn. I counted 90 kernels for breakfast, coupled with steadily increasing flakes of skin, snowing into my bowl. I hoped that my hands had become tough and callused so that they would be desensitised to the friction with the untreated wood. They wouldn’t let our blisters have enough time to heal. With constant pressure placed on the thin film, they ripped open and oozed out a raw pink substance. If that happened for long enough, they ripped open and deflated, to leave an empty bubble. Another empty sac in my body. I kept changing my grip on the handle to avoid the protective skin from ripping away, revealing the sensitive flesh.  

Beads of sweat ran down the handle of my axe and my face. I tasted the saltiness and slight bitterness of my excretion, shocking my taste buds, which were accustomed to the bland food and living conditions. It was almost as if the temperature had gotten so hot that the air itself was sweating. The smell of stained sweat had become a daily burden. Summer approached and battling the scorch meant working harder so that we could meet the cool cement sooner. White singlets were promptly immersed with sweat, dirt kicked up with an occasional fall of sap. It was so hot that even the flies could only manage a lazy drone around our perspired faces, and couldn’t summon the energy to move on to another victim when we batted them away. These were the things that embodied the last four months of my re-learning experience. 

I tried not to let my frustration show, as the commander lazily grinned at us. His tongue clucked impatiently and sent my heart into overdrive. They wouldn’t give us a ladle or cup. We bent like dogs, each taking turns lapping out of the bucket while the commander drank leisurely from a large canteen. 

The Việt Cộng pushed us harder. If we so much as stumbled, they reduced our rice rations. I had no tears. The sensation of crying could fill me, but my eyes only dry-heaved and burned with every attempt. Blisters wept on my hands instead. Our fingernails were caked with dirt. My knees looked like raw meat, and my back ached from steadily swinging my arms. The water smelled fishy, almost as though there were hints of fermented nước mắm, but I didn’t care.

We were cutting the trees when Tuấn had the urge. The rule was, that if one person had to go, we all had to as well. We had agreed that we would wait until halfway between our shifts to relieve ourselves so that it would be fair for everyone else. But instead of being angry, we were all glad. Tuấn received permission to use the bathroom and then pulled most of us into the woods. We pulled down our shorts and squatted, afraid that our shorts would fall apart if we squatted too low.

We faced each other. “Việt, can you please pass that leaf?”, asked Đức, as pointing at the rugged frond.

We began to laugh. It was such a ridiculous sight. Young men, squatting with their asses as bare as the day we were born. We actually laughed. Tuấn laughed so hard he let out too much than he intended. 

“Our sense of humour. They can’t take that away from us, right?”

We laughed some more. And slowly it became a bitter, inaudible cry. 

“The commander is on his way now.” the messenger boy from the campsite exclaimed.

I thought about the can of sardines hidden in my room.

“They’re here for the sardines. I stole it.”

“You did what? How could you be so stupid, stealing from the Việt Cộng?” 

“It’s not about the sardines. The commander wants you to write a poem for his wife.”, remarked the messenger before he scurried back to the headquarters.

Prisoner of Words

1982

Something poetic, he said. Something that shows my love for her, he said. 

Vast waves

I think of you and I

Rocking back and forth

Like the waves in the ocean

Glistening foam

Caresses every mark in the sand

Bulbous seashells 

What do these shells bring me?

Though small and dainty

Allure larger waves

And the seaweed Though tenacious

Tickles the moving sea 

All I did was write a poem. She didn’t like it. And so here I was, aligned with mail clerks and religious chaplains. Confessing to a crime of kindness.

Puppets

1988

I looked out from our room. 

“Foreigners?” I asked the boy on the other side of the concrete bed. 

Ridiculous really. Only an inch-thick piece of a sponge mattress is enough for them to claim that they’ve given us adequate living conditions. But it wasn’t worth fussing over. After all, anything was better than lying on the unforgiving concrete surface on a cold night. 

“Americans,” he grumbled and went back to lie down on his cold concrete bed. 

I turned back to writing my letter to Tuấn. Tuấn had moved to Australia after he left the re-education camps. He took his entire family with him. If only I hadn’t been the arrogant and driven boy I was, maybe I would have been married and had a family by now. I signed off the letter with a short sentence, with the substantial English I had learnt from reading the books in the study room. 

I will come soon. 

I was sitting cross legged in the corner of the bed, overseeing the ruckus from outside, when the door flew open. A loud yelling came soon after. I scrambled to my feet, smoothing my hair as though anyone in this place gave a damn about how I looked. 

“You! Come here.”

Two guards grasped my arms and threw me into a spacious room, with a lanky wooden table and two chairs on either side of it, one of which was occupied by a built, young man sporting a cleanly shaped moustache. He lazily waved the guards out of the room, then gestured at the empty chair across from him.

Grudgingly, I sat down.

“You talk to the Americans. Tell them how great this place is.”

He opened a drawer, taking out a pad of paper and a pen, and slid it across to me expectantly. 

“No.”

I started walking back toward the door until I felt an inescapable grip on my forearm, reminding me of the relentless handcuffs that brought me here.

“Poet! You talk to them, you’re free.” 

Dozens of American journalists surrounded me as I stood on the slightly elevated step in front of a large tree. The guard believed that the tree would look better on camera and to the Americans.

White people. Skin so pale that you would assume they bathed in milk. 

The guard at the back signalled for me to start. 

I unfolded the flimsy yellow paper out of my pocket and read.

“Our Vietnam with Communism as our hands and feet, is strong and eternal. From 1979 to now, a total of about 3,000 inmates have been gifted with Communist wisdom. Our flag, red with the blood of victory, bears the spirit of our country. The gold star of our flag in the wind, leading our people, our native land, out of misery and suffering. The Communist have been the long-awaited relief fertiliser to our nation’s drought. Ceaselessly— ”

The dozen or so men, malnourished and hollowed, stood on the crusted dirt and beside the dull concrete buildings, blocking out the sun. They were all but a shadow. The boy, whom I hadn’t made the effort to learn his name, despite spending the last four months sleeping next to him, looked at me with his wilted almond eyes, disgorging his next few years of suffering. With exhaust, he raised the anchored side of his mouth, trying to mask his ache. As if he was trying to tell me that he would have done the same thing. As if he said that they would all be fine. 

My lower lips quivered as words slowly made their way out of my mouth. 

“—they strive for the people’s cause. Some people are sad to go because the Communist have treated us so well, giving us plenty of food and water. This truly is our home.” 

If only he had looked at least slightly disappointed or angry. At least I would be able to live with myself. 

The "Healthy Pretty" Hair Salon

2015

Điệp had convinced me to go to a hair salon for her styling appointment in preparation for her friend’s daughter’s wedding ceremony. When we walked into the salon, we were overwhelmed with the acidic smell of hair spray. They needed to look into some sort of ventilation system. The interior was painted in a tacky pink that was ever so slightly stained by brownish patches. 

The young girls wore tight fluro dresses, accentuating their pale complexions and long black hair. They welcomed us at the front door with high-pitched enthusiasm and took us personally to our seats. 

“You girls should cover up more, or else men will get the wrong idea”, I remarked as the girls gave a flirty chuckle and continued their jobs. 

Điệp and I sat on the pleather chairs which had been frayed at the hem. The mirrors had been speckled with hairspray remnants and fingerprints. 

“Would you like a happy massage, sir?” asked one of the staff to the young man sitting next to me. The young man refused with an uncomfortable smile. 

“Can I have a happy massage, please? I’ve been aching for days. My wife has been dragging me all over Saigon like a dog. I think I deserve one of those.” I asked.

Without acknowledging my humour, one of the girls had started shifting towards the curtain to prepare for my happy massage.

“No, no. My husband’s fine. He’ll just have a haircut for today.” interfered Điệp as she gave me a stern glare. 

“This is exactly what I am talking about. This woman is always telling me what to do and what not to do, now she won’t even let me get a massage,” I proclaimed to the entire hair salon.

“Do you know what happy massa?” 

I was confused about why she suddenly started conversing in English.

“Why?” I asked.

“They want to touch your ding dong.”

I nervously looked at the masseuse who had already lathered her hands with oil.

“Oh no no no. I just remembered. I need to pick up the dầu chéo quẩy for the wedding. See you in a few hours, honey.” 

I hastily kissed my wife and left utter disturbance.

250,000 đồng

2015

Dozens of custard yellow housing blocks had replaced the single-storey colonial bungalows that had once stood here. It was hard to differentiate each building exactly, especially when Điệp insisted on going to the Bến Thành Market, which was also conveniently a yellow building and designed accordingly, in unity and conformity with others. Yellow buildings, yellow people. 

It wasn’t until we heard the cải lương sales pitches echoing in the near distance. Điệp’s sulky gait immediately transformed into a light skip, as though she was reuniting with a long-lost friend. And that was exactly so. She hadn’t shopped since thirty minutes ago because we had been too occupied with debating over who had the better sense of direction.

It wasn’t until we reached what seemed like an entrance to an embassy building that we knew exactly where it was. We hiked for at least ten minutes to find the Bến Thành market. Điệp had said that the only place she wanted to visit was this place. 

The stalls at the rear end sold fresh fruit and vegetables, meat and fish and flowers. One might feel disgusted by the intestines, chicken feet, pig's trotters and brains. Others might be intrigued or even feel indifferent. However, the flowers were a lovely sight, calming even, and made me momentarily forget the unsettling image of picking up a brain fold with a pair of chopsticks. 

I stationed myself on the blue plastic stools in front of the portable food stall whilst awaiting the exotic seafood that we had ordered. Whilst Điệp looked at the “adides” sandals, I resorted to a plate of sea snails and a can of VB. What a sight my wife was, getting excited over a faux pair of rubber sandals. 

Two European women towered over a clothing stall. 

“250,000 đồng” 

“No. Cheaper. No good material. 100,000 đồng”. The overly botoxed lady was giving excessive hand gestures as though the store owner was hard of hearing. The two women laughed, however, unable to actually express it through their frozen faces. One of them checked the price tag and began making a big ruckus.

“This tag says that it is 180,000, why did you lie to us?”

The store owner gave them an uncomfortable and nervous smile and tried to convince them that the tag had it wrong. 

They began walking away.

“Okay, okay! I do 150,000 đồng for you beautiful lady!” she exclaimed.

They continued walking, slowly and steadily, ignoring the storeowner behind them.

“Vietnam’s so corrupt”, they mumbled, leaving the marketplace. 

She didn’t like it. She didn’t like lying to people about the prices of singlets. She didn’t like the reward of gaining a little more dollars from oblivious customers. But sometimes that was the only way to live. Or perhaps, it wasn’t, but it was the best she could do. 

For now at least. 

Điệp had finished her shopping, and so we were off, leaving behind the empty pockets of sea snails and adides shoes.