Opening the Future

Translated by Đặng Thơ Thơ and Thuy Dinh, from the short story “Mở Tương Lai” by Đặng Thơ Thơ.

It is well-known among Vietnamese writers of the diaspora that Đặng Thơ Thơ comes from an illustrious yet tragic literary lineage. Her maternal grandfather was Hoàng Đạo (Nguyễn Tường Long)—a writer, political activist, and member of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn (Self-Reliant Literary Group)—who died under mysterious circumstances in July 1948 while traveling in China, before his egalitarian vision could galvanize a pre-partitioned Vietnam’s non-Communist struggle for independence. Nhất Linh (Nguyễn Tường Tam), her great uncle, another revolutionary and co-founder of Tự Lực Văn Đoàn, committed suicide in July 1963 to protest the Ngô Đình Diệm government, after penning his last words, “Let history render judgment on my life.”

If Đặng Thơ Thơ’s “Autumn Vanishings”( featured in Words Without Borders’ Untethered States: Literature of the Diaspora) can be read as an allegorical prose poem that mourns seemingly imperceptible disappearances, then “Opening the Future,” originally written as “Mở Tương Lai” in April 2005 for Hợp Lưu Magazine’s 30th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon, is its prologue, where seismic shifts in the author’s life was first explored via a fictional lens. The paradox of suicide illustrated in the story has a long tradition in Vietnamese culture. Such an act can represent both fate and freewill—a desperate yet defiant gesture asserted by the Trưng sisters and countless other dissidents in Vietnamese history—who viewed suicide as the ultimate rejection of their oppressive fate, or an oppressive regime.

– Thuy Dinh

***

Over many years of restless sleep, I’ve been haunted by the promise I made to Nguyễn Hương. The promise was for us to meet again in fifty years. Sooner would be better, but fifty years would be our deadline. At the time of my promise, we were still in 1975, and our lives had been revolving around the future (we didn’t have a present of our own, as we didn’t have enough memories to form a past). Hương’s future then looked very bright—I saw good omens in her high forehead, straight nose, and radiant brows. My own future, however, remained hidden, locked within the realm of dreams.

In 1975, my intuition was remarkably keen. Through dreams, I could predict the future. Once, I dreamt we were separated. When Hương asked how long, I remained silent; the dream offered no concrete details. She seemed doubtful of my ability. Hương failed to grasp the elusive nature of dreams, their space warped and fragmented across dimensions. Unbounded, dreamtime would expand and contract based on its own idiosyncratic laws.

Learning Hương was leaving for Vũng Tàu with her family and fleeing the country that very same afternoon, I vowed to manipulate my dreams to help her escape. She argued, “My escape must come before any dream of yours, Thơ Thơ; dreams often reflect the past and cannot open the future.” Blind to the dynamics of dream manipulation, she failed to grasp its reciprocal nature as a volley between two minds. But I, the player, would reach into the future and alter its course.

Huong gave me her older brother’s address and phone number in the state of Virginia. P.O. Box 1124, Fairway, VA 22043 and (703) 717-7447 were scribbled on a piece of paper torn from a notebook. We would find each other again based on these numbers. I held the piece of paper as if it were an artifact from the future. A future meticulously encoded and clearly defined.

***

Bombs were exploding from the Băng Ky bridge as my father parked the car in front of my grandmother’s house. Her house stood at the end of a small alley near the Bình Hòa five-way intersection. Beyond a pebbled driveway, bamboo baskets of colorful orchids swayed along the porch’s entryway.

It was April 25, 1975. The atmosphere in my grandmother’s living room seemed very still, in stark contrast to the panic I saw on the streets.

When I saw my grandmother, I immediately knew she was going to die soon. Her cancer had reached its final days.

Reclining in her chair, with her hair in a high bun, my grandmother looked skeletal, yet her demeanor remained elegant and noble. Behind her was a lacquer painting by the artist Nguyễn Gia Trí, depicting a woman in a white silk blouse, her hair loosely coiled, sitting in a hammock—the pose and expression reminiscent of my grandmother in her youth. Later, my aunt would sell that painting in exchange for two grams—or half a chỉ—of gold, enough for the household to live on for a month. The painting would pass through many hands, until an international art collector paid 30 gold taels and smuggled it out of the country. I would recognize the painting in an exhibition in the U.S. years later. But that would be another story for the open-door era and its aftermath. Now, this moment heralded the closed-door era, the near future of no hope. It was also the time of imminent closure for my grandmother.

She sat with one arm lying gracefully on the armrest—it looked slightly surreal as if stretched beyond its normal length. Her other arm, amputated years before, now conjured by a silken shroud-sleeve, draped loosely across her stomach. Occasionally, she would wince in pain, her intact hand caressing the empty sleeve with a fussy tenderness: “This ghost arm is so wicked. Even after being sawed off, it still clings to me. I wouldn’t have it removed had I known.” My grandmother’s words would send shivers down my spine. I could almost see her severed, decayed arm floating in a jar filled with formalin next to her bed.

My mother pleaded, “Mother, please come with us.”

Grandmother shook her head. “No. I’m dying. What would be the point? You all go. Don’t worry about me. I know how to handle the Communists. I understand what they want, what they need. You don’t. You must go.”

“But if we leave, who will take care of you?”

She met our gaze. “I’ll manage. Mai will stay with me.”

Mai was my grandmother’s live-in caretaker. Orphaned by a Việt Cộngattack in her teens, she had been a constant presence in my grandmother’s life ever since. We treated her like a family member. I felt a surge of gratitude for Mai’s unwavering loyalty and devotion. She was sitting on a stool next to my grandmother, massaging her swollen legs.

 “And with my medication, I fear nothing.” Grandma stressed the word “medication” with a cryptic expression, a smile flickering across her lips.

My home in the Thanh Đa apartment complex sat on a small islet, accessible only by a bridge spanning the river’s ceaseless flow. The locals called it Cầu Kinh. “Kinh” means both terror and scripture, so Cầu Kinh was both “Terror Bridge” and “words of prayer.” This duality mirrored the bridge’s history, a place where many had ended their lives. A small chapel stood nearby, its prayers a constant echo for those who crossed.

Each morning, from our balcony, I’d watch the river stretch towards the deserted Water Sports Club. Once alive with skiers and rowers gliding from Mai Thôn to Bình Triệu, the body of water now lay still. The Việt Cộng were advancing from those very directions. I wasn’t afraid.  My personal belongings were all packed in a yarn shoulder bag—the fashion trend of 1975 Saigon. Our flight had been scheduled for April 28, the appointed place being the Vietnamese American Association (VAA) Headquarters. Hồng Trang, a close friend of my mother’s and also a VAA instructor since its inception, would be waiting there along with other staff members. We would all board the bus to Tân Sơn Nhất Airport.

The future seemed very near. Even if the future was still far off, I was like someone with spiritual nearsightedness. I could only see so far into it. The future only opened up to my vantage point. The future pointed toward Hương’s trajectory. Hương had gone a little further into the future. But I would catch up. Tomorrow.

In those final days, the Thanh Đa River glowed with a brilliant orange hue. A strangely dazzling orange, transparent and liquidous, as if squeezed from tangerines. The sun in those days seemed about to burst overhead. The sun was also a citrus fruit, dripping juice into the river. The brilliant color of the water mirrored the signal flares ejected from the river’s far bank. When would the other side make their crossing? I shuddered. The river now represented the final barrier.

Dreams represent shortcuts to the future.

Yesterday, I dreamed of Hương wandering along Dâu Beach. So she hadn’t boarded the ship yet. The seaside must have been more dangerous than the city; people might have killed each other for a spot aboard (I had these foolish, random thoughts, which, unexpectedly, turned out to be true—I later learned that my cousin Thuần had died in a similar way). At the time I was filled with dread and blamed myself for not focusing more on Hương in my waking hours.

Tonight, I would try. I would find a way to control my dreams, to focus on her image until I fell asleep. I would bring Hương into my slumber. Then I would place her on the boat and pushed her out to sea. Far away. The farther from me, the better.

“This will be my last morning with the river.” I wrote this sentence down in my notebook on April 27. I planned to take the notebook with me, and maintain my diary practice during my plight just like Anne Frank. There had been many reasons to write, so it was not to emulate Anne Frank, even though we were the same age, or rather, I was now the age Anne had been prior to her death.

I stood at the water’s edge to bid the river farewell. In my mind I murmured my goodbyes, imagining the river a spirit that could read my thoughts. The water lapped against the earthen bank, gurgling softly; its level was low now. By afternoon water hyacinths would drift here, their purple blooms spilling onto the bank, narrowing the river’s girth. Whirlpools would rise from its depths, exuding a damp, pungent smell. Some families were rumored to have boarded boats from here all the way to sea and thereby escaped …. Escaped? Well, they hadn’t returned.

Huong was adrift at sea. I knew it, with a certainty that chilled me. In my dream last night, she hadn’t been able to go to sleep and so ventured out on deck, saying she was terribly cold. I said, “I should hold you, Hương, to keep you warm.” Despite her aversion to the intimacy of bodies, I knew she wouldn’t refuse, would let me hold her, because I promised an embrace devoid of all feelings. I would ensure my skin registered nothing. Her body was so fragile, so insubstantial; I held her tightly, yet felt only the phantom of her bones. I shifted my grip, tightening, loosening, holding her wavering form as we swayed in the vast, empty darkness, all night long.

For the past three days, the American members of the VAA Board of Directors, and its American instructors and staff had been unreachable. This felt like an ominous sign. When we checked in with Hồng Trang, she seemed visibly worried. Despite our names being on the list, we had no real assurance. Hồng Trang nevertheless insisted they wouldn’t abandon us. When she said “wouldn’t,” her eyes flashed with a steely resolve. She spoke as if she were embodying the Americans’ perspective, convinced that as an American, she would never leave anyone behind. Hồng Trang was a woman of unwavering loyalty. My mother always said that those faithful in love are also faithful in life. Hồng Trang was profoundly faithful, capable of loving only one person. After her fiancé’s death, she never loved anyone again.

At 10:00 a.m. on April 28, we arrived at the VAA Office. Hồng Trang led us to the meeting room. Many Vietnamese instructors and their families had already been waiting there with their belongings. They told us that John Clark, the director, would arrive around 11:00 a.m. to escort us to the airport.

We waited over three hours. By 1:00 p.m., no bus had arrived. Hồng Trang called Clark’s home. They informed her that he had already left for the airport the previous night under urgent evacuation orders, but sending his deepest regards and apologies to Hồng Trang and the Vietnamese instructors.

On the way home, I gazed out the car window, searching the sky for the movement of airplanes and jets. I counted fifteen of them, flying at a relatively low altitude, as if they had just taken off, as if they had been patiently waiting for us, but we had failed to arrive.

I still couldn’t believe we had been abandoned.

My mother wept. Hồng Trang didn’t cry, but she looked deeply saddened. As she got out of the car, she grasped my mother’s hand and apologized, “It’s all my fault. Because of me, you missed other opportunities. I’m so terribly sorry.”

That evening, Hồng Trang came to see my mother with exciting news:

“We’re going with staff from Đài Tiếng Nói Tự Do. A helicopter will pick us up tomorrow night.”

Đài Tiếng Nói Tự Do! Voice of Freedom.

My mother embraced Hồng Trang, overjoyed.

That night, I dreamt Hương had given me a book. She stood at the prow of a boat, saying, “This is an amazing story, Thơ Thơ, you have to read it.” The dream was suffused with cold air. Hương lay down on the boat’s floor, her voice strangely gentle, “Tonight will be very long, longer than any night. Lie down here, Thơ.” I obediently lay on top of her. Our bodies rubbed against each other as the boat began to rock. My eyes closed, and a shiver of pleasure, like an electric current, surged through me. It was the first time I’d felt such a sensation with Hương. I was acutely aware of the strangeness of these feelings when we held onto each other tightly, and Hương kept moaning, “So cold, so cold,” as if urging me to hold her tighter, to hold on forever.

The next evening, Hồng Trang led us into the VOF station. We took the elevator to the building’s top floor. Above us was the rooftop, where the helicopter was to land at midnight.

Our waiting area was an office with thick, gray carpeting—desks and bookshelves lining the walls. The room hummed with air conditioning, a sealed box, isolating us from the chaotic, panic-stricken Saigon below. Dozens of people had already congregated there. From my parents’ and Hồng Trang’s conversations, I learned that they were station staff and South Vietnamese artists. Everyone seemed acquainted, yet no one spoke. A heavy silence prevailed, as if any sound would prevent them from hearing the arrival or departure of a helicopter.

It got late but I couldn’t sleep; the air-conditioned room was too frigid. I switched on a small lamp and randomly pulled a book from a nearby shelf. I laid down on the carpet and began to read, as those around me drifted into an uneasy slumber. The book wasn’t long; I could finish it in a single night. Initially, the title alone drew me in.

A Desperate Dream.

This title, apparently translated from a foreign novel, resonated with me. As I read, I sensed an impending doom that seemed to descend at a faster speed than the helicopter we were waiting for. I kept on reading past midnight, 1 a.m., then 2 a.m. The room grew colder; my body had become numb. I longed for sleep, so I could fall into a dream state and catch a clue from the future, but the book held me captive. It lay open before me, demanding that I spend the entire night with it. It was a form of torture. The tragedy and tension within its pages reduced my frazzled mind to an icy nub.

Huong was right; this night would be long, and longer than all the nights to come.

It was the night leading into the dawn of April 30.

At six a.m., the room buzzed with the static of news broadcasts. We frantically scanned every broadcast frequency: Saigon radio, military broadcasts, the Liberation Front, the BBC, VOA …. Voice of Freedom was silent, utterly gone. We were the last souls stranded in that forsaken place.

Only then did the truth surface: Tân Sơn Nhất airport had been mercilessly shelled the night before. “That’s why the helicopter couldn’t reach us,” someone declared, their voice a desperate attempt at reason. The others nodded, clinging to this explanation. It offered a semblance of logic. No one wished to believe they had simply been abandoned.

Rumors spread about countless deaths from Việt Cộng artillery in Bình Hòa. We exchanged grim glances. My mother decided we must return to my grandmother’s. I tidied up our makeshift sleeping area, looking at the remnants of the longest night I’d ever known. I wanted to take A Desperate Dream with me as a tangible testament.

My mother recoiled at the book’s title, “No, no! Get rid of it!” her expression a mixture of revulsion and dread. “I haven’t finished it,” I pleaded, yet I returned the book to its shelf. A sense of deep regret settled within me. Fifty years later, it remains an unfinished book. Fifty years later, the book’s author, original title, and the translator’s name still elude me. Fifty years later, it lingers on as a maddening presence.

If only I had disobeyed my mother and taken the book …. But I could no longer bear the weight of anyone’s desperate dreams. Not even Hương’s. As I put the book back on its shelf, I noticed two other books beside it: The Good Earth by Pearl Buck and Exodus by Leon Uris. Both titles promised good fortune.

On the drive back to my grandmother’s, I witnessed many dead bodies along the road. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning. Traces of the previous night’s bombardment still smoldered on shattered rooftops.

My grandmother, seeing our return, masked her disappointment with a sardonic remark: “You’re all utterly inept.” My mother explained, “We lacked the means to escape.” “And that,” my grandmother retorted, “is the very definition of ineptitude. This family has never possessed a shred of know-how.”

We gathered around her once more.

The news broadcasts were punctuated by a series of explosions coming closer. The final moments of a collapsing regime were measured in gunfire and lamentations. I could almost hear the spectral tread of an unseen army approaching the city.

The announcement of surrender echoed through the air.

That very afternoon—April 30, 1975—my grandmother distributed her treasures among us. “One vial for each of you,” she declared. Each vial, a slender glass tube, held a viscous, translucent liquid. She considered it more precious than gold, asserting, “Gold cannot buy this.”

She referred to the liquid as “xi-a-nuya,” acquired from Lanton Pharmaceutical Institute on Cao Thắng Street. The pharmacist had guaranteed its potency: blood turning black, ruptured intestines, disintegrated lungs, a still heart, all within ten seconds.

Fifty years later, Nguyễn Hương identifies it as cyanide.

Cyanide works with immediate, ruthless efficiency.

Cyanide offers a profound tranquility, a sedative that quells all agitation. No one anticipated that such a quick, serene peace could come from this poison. No one wept when my grandmother dispensed her vials. No one seemed afraid. No one succumbed to despair.

But everyone had doubts about their existence among the living.

A most peculiar state of being.

We shared a final feast that day. Mai cooked my grandmother’s favorite noodle soup with chicken and bamboo shoots. Strong liquor. Hot rice with stewed meat for those who were still hungry. In retrospect, it was a day of profound, unsettling happiness. A happiness that came from the lingering warmth of the last drops of wine, the concentrated sweetness of soup broth at the bottom of a pot, the knowledge that tomorrow would change our lives. Someone would depart. Grandmother would be gone. My cousin would perish on a desolate shore ….

Tomorrow, some vials of this poison would be emptied.

The world after April 30 became inexorable. The shadow of April 30 lengthened, stretching into the distant future, through countless decades. Even if we were to live a hundred years, we could not escape its reach. It is etched deeply into our memory.

It ushered in a new life, forged a new people. Now, the people who stayed had adapted to change with startling speed, in both words and deeds. Everyone, as if in a grotesque play, donned the same drab, wretched clothing. No longer our friends or neighbors, many averted their gaze. Was this place still my home? Strange eyes, planted throughout, watched with suspicion. There were eyes scrutinizing my parents’ nightly self-criticism reports, eyes testing my loyalty to every uttered word. Eyes, like hunters, stalked our most private thoughts, scanning every crevice of our memory.

Because we refused to live on this land, because this was no longer our rightful place, the future nearly ground to a halt. Or perhaps the future had already fled— following Hương’s path of escape.

Hương, in my dreams, remained aware of everything happening here, everything happening to me. Yet, I knew nothing of Hương’s actual life, even as I saw her return in my dreams. The dreams grew increasingly sweet, intimate, and tender, which filled me with dread. I began to distrust these beautiful dreams. They were merely metaphors, vague signals. There was a book on dream interpretations—the kind of book I’d always scorned but always been fascinated by—that asserted: “The law of dreams is about reversal. Everything is inverted. Love in dream means hatred in reality, a sad dream means happiness in life. A dream about a house fire signifies good fortune. A dream about killing someone means you will be saved. Intimate acts or affectionate behavior in dreams are believed to foreshadow painful separation, even eternal estrangement.” I shuddered as I read those words. I refused to believe them, yet I would strive to avoid intimate encounters with Hương in my dreams.

Grandmother died a month after our family feast. People outside our family generally assumed her passing had been due to cancer, but she in fact committed suicide. I witnessed a departure so serene, so exquisitely composed, it brought tears to my eyes. It was a gentle fading, like morning transitioning into afternoon and evening; and just like that, her life dissolved into nothingness.

Dressed in a white brocade shroud, she lay in state on her cherished wood bed, a piece of her past brought south by ship twenty years prior. Mai fashioned a white orchid wreath and placed it on my grandmother’s head. The “ghost arm” kept by her bedside—her cancerous, formalin-preserved arm—would now be buried with her. In death, her physical symmetry was nearly restored; both arms, though still of uneven lengths, were together again.

Two weeks after my grandmother’s passing, Hồng Trang, desperate to escape by boat, visited my mother. They spoke for hours in hushed tones behind closed doors. As she left, she gently stroked my hair, whispering, “Thơ Thơ, I’m leaving!” I remembered the softness of her hand, her pale skin, and the small, distinctive mole near her lips. She possessed a captivating grace that perfectly suited her name, Hồng Trang. Her voice was soft, yet her eyes held a fierce determination. As a child, I’d often played with the white, pink-eyed pet rabbits at her home, their gentleness mirroring hers. Even now, the sight of a rabbit would bring her vividly to mind.

A few nights later, I dreamt of her. She sat at the foot of my bed, wearing a brown shirt. Her hands felt rigid and cold, her face a disturbing shade of purple. Through the dream’s murky haze, I still recognized the small mole by her lips as she smiled.

I was jolted awake, my body rigid and slick with sweat. My spirit, still adrift in the murky depths of my subconscious, struggled to return. The coldness of Hồng Trang’s touch still lingered. I forced myself up, staggered to the bathroom, then swallowed three allergy pills, desperate to plunge back into the dream. Hồng Trang returned, but the dream became fractured, a fault line running through its reality. Then Hương materialized, pushing her way into the space between us. “Let me stand between you,” I said, “You don’t know each other.” Hương seized me, her kiss violent and consuming, leaving me weak and pliant. Hồng Trang, ever gentle, insisted positions didn’t matter, though her wanting to stand between Hương and me seemed to hold some unspoken significance. Throughout my long, drug-fueled dream, they argued over their respective position, while I, dazed by Hương’s kiss, became listless.

***

My mother cried. She had given her share of the cyanide to Hồng Trang. That trip turned out to be a setup, a ploy to seize gold and property. While the police were searching those they’d apprehended, Hồng Trang, who hadn’t yet been searched, told everyone not to reveal her identity to avoid implicating her family. She then went into the bathroom. Moments later, she emerged, foaming at the mouth and convulsing, then collapsed and died. In the bathroom, they found torn scraps of dollar bills scattered throughout. Her body, wrapped in a thin mat, was later buried in a shallow ditch at the edge of a rice field, near the arrest site. She had died wearing a plain brown shirt.

I remembered my grandmother’s warning, “The substance is extremely potent. The sharper the almond scent, the deadlier the poison. You won’t know whether it causes any pain until you take it. Use it only as a last resort.”

Hồng Trang’s words echoed in my dream, “The pain passes quickly, but death lasts forever. Don’t tell my parents. Tell them I escaped. Have my family in Australia go through my old photos, then have them paste my images into their current pictures, and mail the pictures back here to my parents. Every month, have my younger sister write home, if she could make her handwriting smaller and more slant, it would look just like mine.” For decades, her family members in Australia would dutifully carry out her posthumous wishes. The photos sent home always had a youthful, smiling Hồng Trang among her siblings’ aging faces.

***

After all the arrests and deaths, everything returned to normal, so normal that there was nothing left to tell. The dead had fulfilled their purpose, which was to die.

As for us, the living, we were immune to suffering. We only cared about logistics: when to take cyanide, whether the remaining vials, after sharing with Hồng Trang, would be enough for all of us, and the looming fear of its expiration—a prospect more terrifying than death itself, which we were determined to prevent. One of my grandmother’s friends had ingested his allotted vial, but its potency might have been diminished, leaving him convulsive and wracked with pain, suspended between agonizing life and uncertain death. Since my grandmother had warned, “Use it only as a last resort,” I would ask myself constantly: Is this the right moment? Have we reached our limit?

The dreams about Hương grew hazy, yet through them I intuited that Hương was still alive and might occasionally think of me. If Hương still followed my dreams, she would know I was doubting their authenticity. Dreams only held meaning if rooted in life. But where did these dreams come from, those endless nights of intoxicating kisses that led to other things between us, leaving my body burning with desire every time I recalled their sequences. Always, the dreams about Hương would unfold with vague, ambiguous words, a random, aimless scenario, and then, as if by pure chance, we fell into each other’s arms. Once, I awoke to a deep, pulsing heat in my lower belly, then a coiling tightness, followed by waves of shattering release. Could my flesh yearn so fiercely, to convulse on its own in a dream?  I was going through puberty. I didn’t know what to call it, only how to silently savor new, dizzying sensations, both exquisite and shameful. The deeper the shame, the more intense the exquisite rush. On the other side of the world, did Hương remain oblivious to my dreams?

Anyhow, my dreams seemed pointless, since we had never been attracted to each other, and perhaps never would.

When the authority of Ward 27 presented us with the eviction notice, their reasons were starkly clear—precisely as we’d anticipated. They had compiled a comprehensive dossier on us, had even created a new document on our behalf, with meticulous details, though perhaps a tad exaggerated. We complied without protest. Returning from the People’s Committee headquarters, I saw people lining up around a state-owned booth. It was the end of the month, and the starving populace was craving meat. The line snaked from the rear of Thanh Đa Market, down several residential blocks, even spilling onto the main road. Each clutched their pork ration book, a weary, patient, bored, and hopeful throng, baking in the midday sun for their monthly half-kilo. I saw the towering mounds of bones and gristle haloed by black, buzzing flies. I saw faces like mine, and an indescribable sadness washed over me. Suddenly I realized I had become different: I no longer craved meat, had not for a long time.

We had two days to vacate our apartment. It would be sealed; the local police would seize our belongings. We were each permitted a few sets of clothes in our personal bag, just like when we were preparing to escape with Hồng Trang. But this time, everything was more organized: they would arrange our transportation to a new economic zone. They wouldn’t abandon us like the Americans.

This apartment, overlooking the river and Kinh Bridge, would stand as proof of our existence. That afternoon, as I had done many times before, I took out the vial, unscrewed the lid, and sniffed the faint, bitter almond scent. The liquid shimmered, almost weightless, as if a vast sea had been compressed within. It suddenly dawned on me that I had already been acclimated to this poison. Now, no one and nothing could touch me. My life had been sealed with the promise of ultimate escape.

In those moments, I thought of Hương, of our promise to meet again in fifty years. Could the path to that future, a long, straight trajectory, be shortened by dreams?

I gave up.

There was no way to shorten the path to that future, because the future seemed concrete and inexorable, like the distance of land and sea I would have to cover with my corporeal being. How long would that journey take? Would I go by boat, or on foot? Would my journey be interrupted by prison? Could I bribe my way out then continue on? Would it really take me fifty years to catch up with Hương? An impossible feat. Fifty years was enough for a child to transition into adulthood then fade away without being touched by war. Fifty years was enough to erase a lifetime. To lose fifty years was to lose everything, forever.

***

Huong hugged me tightly, reducing me to tears. We had just made love, spent but contented, free of all burdens. Filled with sensations, I closed my eyes, drifting in a daze. I had never slept so deeply, a sleep beyond all sleep. But Hương shook me awake as if I were a rag doll. She urged me to keep living, to not give in to despair. One day, things would turn around. Fifty years from now.

But now Hồng Trang, in her brown shirt, stood in a dark corner watching me. A black curtain descended, and her frail form clung to it, as if suspended. She hovered closer, yet her gaze was miles away. In my fevered state, I recalled my dream cycle from the three allergy pills I had taken. I hadn’t swallowed them all at once but sequentially, each at the crow of the rooster, marking each watch of the night.

The first pill took effect during the first watch, as Hương pulled my weary body across the vast American continent. Beginning in Virginia, we soared over towering cities, traversed wide expanses of snow, bridged the Great Lakes, and passed through immense deserts, ultimately arriving at the Pacific coastline. In Little Saigon, Hương pointed to the non-communist zone, showing me the night flame that cast shadows on the yellow flag with three red stripes in front of the Vietnamese American Veterans Monument, where restless souls were standing guard. She said, “There will be countless other monuments, bearing witness to countless other deaths. Nothing is more futile.” With a shrug, she added, “Fifty years from now, even Hồng Trang’s death would become meaningless.”

Hồng Trang spoke up, “But I’d already died many times before, over two centuries ago. That year, they cast my body out at a crossroads like a criminal, deeming me unworthy of being admitted into any cemetery. All along the pilgrimage routes, from East to West, on the desperate search for a promised land…. I bore within me a heretic’s lost soul. They heaped stones upon my body. They drove stakes through my heart. They denied me both heaven and rebirth.” Her eyes flared with indignation, sparkling like an avenging angel. “They hauled my soul before a court, inscribing words of warning upon my tombstone. Then the year 1823 changed everything. I am now absolved.” (When I inquired about 1823, Hồng Trang explained it was the year England removed the ban on soul prosecution and burying suicides in consecrated ground—a fact, she insisted, well-known to any student of English law). Hồng Trang then began to weep, her hair disheveled, streaked with rain and dirt. “But my death is not meaningless,” she asserted, glaring defiantly at Hương. “The future has no right to dismiss a death from the past. All values may shift, but the cost of human life remains constant.”

I awoke two more times to take my pills before drifting back to sleep. It had been said that dreams during the third watch usually hold truth, while those of the fourth have no meaning. I couldn’t place this dream within any of the watches, but this was what I saw:

Huong stroked my eyes, then traced her fingers down my lips, along my throat. Her hand then plunged deep into my abdomen, stirring the distended expanse of my intestines. Her slender fingers, long and delicate, brought me exquisite pleasure in my delirium. Hương argued while suicide is self-murder, it’s impossible to truly end oneself, citing my grandmother’s friend who suffered in agony without being able to die. I countered with other definitions. Suicide is not only self-murder—that would be its simplest, but trickiest definition.

Another fissure opened in the fabric of my dream. Hồng Trang approached, settling down beside me. Her brown shirt was now cleansed of mud and dirt. The three of us sat together, crafting a poem about suicide:

Nothing yields such beauty and enigma as suicide
Nothing seems more fiercely unbounded
No silence echoes with such desolate resonance
It is the final utterance
Self-abandonment full of selfishness
Both extinction and salvation
For the brave and the mad, it is
the ultimate weapon,
an act of defiance couched in surrender

As we wrote our poem, we clung to each other, laughing as though there were no tomorrow. Nguyễn Hương said suicide, akin to dreaming, would open a door to the future. Hồng Trang suggested placing our poem, once finished, at the monument for the war’s fallen, who, after all, had committed accidental mass suicide. But we were in no hurry, since we had fifty years, or more, to complete our poem. Our final destination would be contingent upon the future’s unfolding.

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