Eventually, Miss Trung was the only one left out of all the girls who had moved to the hamlet to rent rooms and work for the Americans. She quit her job at the American office and waited for the day when Smith would take her with him back to America. Everyone realized that theirs was a sincere love, so the older generation would stop bad-mouthing the Americans when Smith was around, riding his bicycle through the hamlet in the afternoons.
One afternoon, after a particularly heavy rainstorm, the people in the hamlet heard the sound of gunfire coming from a prison on the other side of the creek. Mr. Tam said that it was just business as usual. The guards must have fallen asleep and some Viet Cong had broken into the prison to steal guns and grenades. Everyone knew that soon the authorities would come to their homes and they’d be asked to show their papers. The men in the hamlet would be interrogated and Kiet would probably be a primary suspect. Indeed, business as usual.
But then, a little while after the gunfire had died down, the people in the hamlet suddenly heard a cry of “Help!” coming from the creek, which had overflowed with dangerous rushing water after the heavy rain. It was widely known that drowning had claimed almost as many lives in the hamlet as the war. Everyone, including Smith, rushed to the creek. In the crowd, Bach stood on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the black spot struggling in the churning waters. Then all of a sudden Smith jumped into the creek. Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, before Smith finally was able to drag the drowning person up onto the shore. Everyone was shocked to see that it was Kiet.
“But Kiet is a good swimmer,” someone commented. How could he drown?”
Smith and Miss Trung began to give Kiet CPR. Finally Kiet began to breathe again, though he was still very weak. He’d hardly been conscious for a few minutes when everyone heard the distinct sound of police cars approaching. The police ordered everyone to stand back and began to search Kiet’s body. Bach watched as the police turned and flipped Kiet’s body in every direction, as if they were cooking a rice cake. But they found nothing and eventually departed, leaving behind them a trail of thick smoke and the smell of gasoline.
“Damn it,” cursed Mrs. Nam Bong. “They’re worthless. All they ever do is make a big scene with their noisy vehicles!”
The sand on the shore of the creek was covered with heavy boot marks. Kiet stretched and lay on the ground, exhausted as if he’d just almost drowned a second time. Smith and Miss Trung built a fire to help him get warm.
It was more than thirty years later when Miss Trung and Smith returned to Vietnam for the first time since the end of the war. At sixty years old, they still seemed like a happy couple. They returned for a visit to the old hamlet, which had now become the Hung Phu district of Ho Chi Minh City. Bach still lived there, in a new three-story house. In fact, many of the residents of the old hamlet now lived in bigger, more comfortable homes. Life was much better than before.
Smith seemed to recognize Bach immediately, as if she were the same little girl with the friendly smile and crooked teeth.
“Hello, Bach!” Smith called out in Vietnamese. “How have you been?”
Bach was shocked—Smith could speak Vietnamese! Mrs. Trung said that when she’d taught her two children the language Smith had joined her lessons.
So they had two children together, Bach thought. The war had in fact created something beautiful.
After catching up with Bach, Smith asked about Kiet. Bach explained that he now held an important position in the local government. Smith said that he would like to meet Kiet, if possible, and Bach promised she would help arrange it. Then Mrs. Trung and Smith went around saying hello to Mrs. Trung’s old neighbors. Mrs. Nam Bong, her former landlady, invited them over for lunch, and they stayed there talking with her all afternoon.
A few days later, Kiet invited Bach and Smith and Mrs. Trung to dine with him at a local restaurant. Kiet seemed to be in a particularly cheerful mood, talking and laughing. He was especially interested in having a conversation with Smith in Vietnamese. Before the food arrived, Kiet filled two glasses with wine and said,
“Smith, here is a drink that I’ve been saving for you for over thirty years. I want to thank you.”
“I should be the one thanking you,” Smith said.
“Why do you have to thank me?” Kiet asked.
“Without you and Bach, I would have been killed by those fire ants.”
Kiet laughed so loud that his shoulders began to shake.
“When I helped you that day,” Kiet said, “I was really angry with that group of guys.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “They were correct, you know, in suspecting that I was a Viet Cong infiltrator. I was serving back then as a spy for a unit stationed deep in the jungle. Fortunately, you and the American boyfriends of the girls in the hamlet were never on our radar.”
“Well,” Smith said, sighing, “it was wartime back then. Anyway, you don’t need to thank me.” Smith
