demons had come back and he didn’t have the wherewithal to confront Jon.
The silence defeated him. At first he had been pleased to think of living on his own again. Claire could visit without interruptions, there would be less food to buy, less cleaning, fewer troubles, not as much money needed, though it became quite clear that Ada needed her tuition fees and rent money; she had a part-time job but she was hard-pressed to pay for the apartment. So, Charles helped her out. Del and Jon seemed to need nothing, which was disconcerting.
In the mornings, as the rain drove against the windows, he considered his day and discovered that hope had previously been based on busyness. With the exodus of his children, he felt ancient and unmoored. Too much time to think. He still worked in his machine shop, and Claire slipped over some late afternoons for a quick moment in bed, but even these moments were elusive and ultimately left him more despondent than he had been before. In the end, life with Claire did not last. The expectation the children had visited upon this affair dissipated. “I am incapable of love,” Charles told Claire, and she, though she wanted to, lacked the wherewithal to convince him otherwise.
Over the years that followed, light and shade fell across his memories. A whole history arrives with absolute clarity and then disappears like the sun that comes so rarely into the valley—expectation, and then disappointment. There gradually emerges a series of images, built up over time. A ferry arrives from a distant shore. A boy in shorts makes fast the ropes. A blind man sings a song that is off-key but hints at a ballad that is familiar and haunting, some tune about love and death and mourning. The boy in shorts opens his mouth as if to speak and then becomes a body on a bier that is being carried by the blind man and Charles. A sign appears indicating a name—the Han River. Charles did not tell anybody about these images.
3
LIEUTENANT DAT WAS A SMALL MAN WHO WORKED FOR ROOM 19, a division of the Danang police force that concerned itself with foreigners and religion. Dat was the policeman to whom Ada and Jon had been directed when they first arrived in Danang and he was the man to whom they kept returning. They would meet him in his office and ask if there was any news of their father. Dat would shake his head mournfully and then ask if they needed anything, a guide perhaps, or an evening out on the town.
Jon asked about their father’s valuables. Could they have them? Dat, who had none of Mr. Thanh’s tact or efficacy in English or even kindness, shook his head and said they were being held.
“Why are they being held?” Ada asked. Dat motioned at her legs and said that Ada had no idea how men in Vietnam would view so much bare flesh. She wore shorts and her legs were long. He said that she should wear dresses, or pantaloons.
She said, “Pantaloons?”
She asked at least to see a list of their father’s valuables, and Dat shook his head and said, “No.”
“Were you aware of him?” Ada asked. “Did you see him around town?”
Dat smiled. “There are many tourists that pass through. I cannot be aware of every one.”
“But you were aware of him missing. That’s why you took his things.”
“The hotel contacted me about a foreigner who had not returned to his room for a week. I made some inquiries, determined that this man, your father, was missing, and so I took his personal belongings. They are part of the investigation. Until we know what happened, we must keep his belongings. Do you understand?”
Ada said no, she didn’t understand. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. She hated this man with his officious and oily demeanor, who seemed more interested in telling her how to dress than in looking for a missing foreigner. On this day she had come alone to see Dat because Jon was tired of the nonsense that went on at Room 19. “It’s not even a real room,” he said. “And this Dat
The silence defeated him. At first he had been pleased to think of living on his own again. Claire could visit without interruptions, there would be less food to buy, less cleaning, fewer troubles, not as much money needed, though it became quite clear that Ada needed her tuition fees and rent money; she had a part-time job but she was hard-pressed to pay for the apartment. So, Charles helped her out. Del and Jon seemed to need nothing, which was disconcerting.
In the mornings, as the rain drove against the windows, he considered his day and discovered that hope had previously been based on busyness. With the exodus of his children, he felt ancient and unmoored. Too much time to think. He still worked in his machine shop, and Claire slipped over some late afternoons for a quick moment in bed, but even these moments were elusive and ultimately left him more despondent than he had been before. In the end, life with Claire did not last. The expectation the children had visited upon this affair dissipated. “I am incapable of love,” Charles told Claire, and she, though she wanted to, lacked the wherewithal to convince him otherwise.
Over the years that followed, light and shade fell across his memories. A whole history arrives with absolute clarity and then disappears like the sun that comes so rarely into the valley—expectation, and then disappointment. There gradually emerges a series of images, built up over time. A ferry arrives from a distant shore. A boy in shorts makes fast the ropes. A blind man sings a song that is off-key but hints at a ballad that is familiar and haunting, some tune about love and death and mourning. The boy in shorts opens his mouth as if to speak and then becomes a body on a bier that is being carried by the blind man and Charles. A sign appears indicating a name—the Han River. Charles did not tell anybody about these images.
3
LIEUTENANT DAT WAS A SMALL MAN WHO WORKED FOR ROOM 19, a division of the Danang police force that concerned itself with foreigners and religion. Dat was the policeman to whom Ada and Jon had been directed when they first arrived in Danang and he was the man to whom they kept returning. They would meet him in his office and ask if there was any news of their father. Dat would shake his head mournfully and then ask if they needed anything, a guide perhaps, or an evening out on the town.
Jon asked about their father’s valuables. Could they have them? Dat, who had none of Mr. Thanh’s tact or efficacy in English or even kindness, shook his head and said they were being held.
“Why are they being held?” Ada asked. Dat motioned at her legs and said that Ada had no idea how men in Vietnam would view so much bare flesh. She wore shorts and her legs were long. He said that she should wear dresses, or pantaloons.
She said, “Pantaloons?”
She asked at least to see a list of their father’s valuables, and Dat shook his head and said, “No.”
“Were you aware of him?” Ada asked. “Did you see him around town?”
Dat smiled. “There are many tourists that pass through. I cannot be aware of every one.”
“But you were aware of him missing. That’s why you took his things.”
“The hotel contacted me about a foreigner who had not returned to his room for a week. I made some inquiries, determined that this man, your father, was missing, and so I took his personal belongings. They are part of the investigation. Until we know what happened, we must keep his belongings. Do you understand?”
Ada said no, she didn’t understand. She closed her eyes and bit her lip. She hated this man with his officious and oily demeanor, who seemed more interested in telling her how to dress than in looking for a missing foreigner. On this day she had come alone to see Dat because Jon was tired of the nonsense that went on at Room 19. “It’s not even a real room,” he said. “And this Dat
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