Summary
Kien recalled he and his scout units attacking the Lang Cha building in Saigon. He lost his friend Tu, and he thought about other friends he had seen perish before him. Whenever he escaped death, he was filled with a welter of emotions—the thrill of escaping once more; the pain at having lost his friends.
His most memorable escape was during the Tet Offensive retreat. His unit was destroyed, beaten miserably. Those who were left encountered a team of stretcher-bearers heading for Cambodian territory. Kien did not exactly want to join but they did. They were led by a female guide, Hoa. She was from the North and not the Thuong minority who knew the region. Kien could see that they were lost, as they had not arrived at the east bank of the Sa Thay but instead at a huge, unnavigable lake filled with crocodiles—“Crocodile Lake.” Kien was incensed and yelled at Hoa. He wished he could shoot her but she blubbered and apologized, saying she knew how to get back to Sa Thay. Kien had no hope, but she was the only option.
The men took cover to rest. A calm spread over the area but it seemed ominous to Kien. It was hot and humid, and Kien was irritable as he said he was going with Hoa. He told her he did not trust her but their duty was to the wounded.
The two headed off into the jungle and found a lightly used track. The area seemed fresher, greener, and they felt better. They sat down to rest before they headed back to gather the others. Hoa gave him a cigarette from a pack she’d found from the Americans. They spoke of how they had little ammunition because they’d left the AK with the wounded in case the Americans found them. Kien felt himself softening toward her. He asked how long she had been here, and she replied that she came south two years ago. This was the worst she’d seen it; Kien sighed that this was the real fighting and it was just starting now.
Hoa was young and slight, and Kien felt bad that he wanted to shoot this teenage girl just for getting them lost. They sat together, his arm around her. They left in the late afternoon. It was silent and foreboding, and there was tension in the air. On the trail, Kien caught a glimpse of an American patrol just in time and pulled Hoa down.
The patrol consisted of a massive German Shepherd and several men, all moving silently and cunningly. To Kien’s horror, he saw the dog sniffing a piece of white bandage and realized all the wounded were in danger. He did not see Hoa slip away.
Suddenly, shots rang out—Hoa shot the dog several times until it died. The men sprang into action and grabbed Hoa. They raped her brutally, but this was what let Kien get away. He could not believe how powerless he felt; Hoa had saved fifteen sick and wounded men from certain death.
What disturbed him more than anything else, though, was that no one asked about Hoa when he returned to the wounded. Even he began to forget about her. He wondered if this sacrifice was an everyday occurrence now—or were people that selfish?
Years later, Kien and the scouts returned to Crocodile Lake and he thought of Hoa. Only the sorrow remained. It was these people, though, who “[raised] the name of Vietnam high and proud, creating a spiritual beauty in the horrors of conflict” (192). Kien knew he would be dead by now if not for the sacrifices of others.
Now there was only peace, he thought, and that peace was “painful, bitter, and sad “ (193) even though they won the war. This was the paradox, that justice had won, but so did cruelty, sadness, tragedy, and violence.
The light in Phuong’s apartment after she left stayed on for a while and then went out. Kien’s life seemed meaningless, but he had to finish the novel. He drank and worked, and people in the neighborhood pointed him out as the sorrowful famous writer. He barely spoke to anyone, especially not his old friends; only the mute woman was his confidante.
The past seemed much more appealing to Kien, and this increased the older he got. He thought of some of his friends who stayed south for better opportunities and climate. Some stayed in the central Highlands and lived outdoors, becoming hale and free. Kien wondered if he should have had this natural life.
One pastoral scene often sprung to mind. He and his scout team were in the southern sector of the Central Highlands. It was a beautiful area and he felt at peace there and wished deep down he could settle there. One day, he and his team went to go look at a coffee plantation. They admired the house and garden and crops. The plantation owner was very polite to them and showed them around. He explained that he and his wife and son lived there, having come from the North. As his wife brewed coffee, he spoke of how he was thankful to be here, that everything good came from Heaven and their own hands. They did not need the government or any help. The soldiers did not dispute what he said, feeling like there was truth to it and that no one needed indoctrination lessons that day.
The coffee was delightful and everyone felt at home there. It was a peaceful yet sorrowful moment. When they left, the men felt many things. Kien said nothing. He always thought he might go back but never did. This always remained a special memory for him.
One evening, Kien could not sleep; he thought of Phuong and her apartment, which was basically a room identical to his. She’d had a piano but told him she sold it. Her mother was a music teacher and Phuong played well. Her mother told Kien that Phuong was a perfectionist and a special soul who would be crushed by the coarse life that was overtaking everything. Later he saw that she had predicted many things, but war had come and it was too late.
It was now time for him to go over what happened the day of the air raid, even though he wanted to forget. In the first raid, he was knocked unconscious and scrambled back on the train when he woke. The air raids stopped for the night and the train moved on. It stopped at Thanh Hoa station, which Kien was shocked to see was completely destroyed. The train was amid wreckage even as it was barely held together.
Kien jumped out and saw several disreputable figures jump out as well. He kept looking for Phuong and finally found her in the car they had initially been in. She looked through him as if she did not recognize him. Her blouse was ripped, her lips bruised, blood trickled down her leg, and her breasts were bared. Kien could not fully understand what had happened to her, especially when she pushed him away and said the blood on her legs was not a wound and could not be bandaged.
He was even more confused when a large, muscled man in a sailor’s uniform appeared and acted as if he knew her. He was hostile to Kien, who could not see why Phuong was being pliant and pale. The sailor grinned crassly at Phuong and said it was his turn now because he stopped the others from lining up for her.
At that moment, the freight train and the earth itself shook; it was another bombing raid. The sailor started pulling Phuong out to safety and Kien pushed him away. The man told him he was only going to screw Phuong until Vinh, after which Kien could have her. Kien grabbed an iron bar and hit the sailor with it. When Phuong feebly tried to intervene, he screamed that she was a whore. The sailor kicked Kien in the groin, and Kien beat him to death with the bar.
Phuong screamed at him not to touch her, but Kien made them move away from the train. He had to pull her down when a screaming jet swerved down and strafed the train. Explosions were everywhere, the air filled with black clouds and glass. Kien thought he was going to die.
When there was a break in the bombing, Phuong escaped from him and he pursued her. Bomb after bomb exploded; Kien captured Phuong, then lost her, then captured her. After the last bomb, which split the train in two, Kien picked Phuong up and waded through the corpses that were everywhere. At this moment, he knew he was cool under fire, which was not something anyone knew until the first time they were tested.
Kien saw an intact bicycle and put the catatonic Phuong on the rear carrier seat. He rode them away through the burning wreckage and craters, struck by how dramatic an entry into the war this was for him. He brought Phuong to an air-raid shelter. Around him, people were going about the daily lives, which was surreal but now normal. The two of them could not speak to each other, and “maintained their silent rage” (212). This was the first of several times Kien would feel like this: no fear, no enthusiasm, no joy, no sadness, no emotions, no hopes, no concerns.
At one point, a man came, excitedly asked to buy the bicycle, and gave them money. It was an oddly funny moment. Kien and Phuong ate and drank a bit, and Kien was surprised to see how easily she did so—how blasé she was. He saw that she had much more strength and resilience than he’d thought.
Kien suggested they go rest in a nearby hamlet. Phuong dully told him to keep the shirt he offered her and not to worry about her anymore; his duty was to go to his unit. He refused this, and they began walking hand in hand. They came to a school, now devastated, which cut to Kien’s heart. Phuong shrugged that maybe it was their own soldiers who had done this.
They settled in and he told her to get some sleep. She sarcastically said he would not want to lie next to her now, and she whispered then that she wished she could bathe somewhere. He said he’d check but she told him not to bother, for she could just be unclean now. She mumbled on about this being the last time they would be together, that they were both sullied, and that there was no point in thinking about tomorrow. She fell asleep and Kien looked at her, staggered by how callous and cold she seemed now.
When he awoke from a nap, she was gone. He wandered around looking for her and came across more soldiers, sitting and playing cards or resting. He asked if they had seen a girl, and one of them crudely described her; he said she had been bathing but was probably now screwing someone. Kien was embarrassed and another man, as big as a wrestler, chastised him for being a soft bourgeois. Kien was pushed to his breaking point by the man’s comments, punched him, held a gun in his face, and then walked away. No one followed.
Dizzy and confused, Kien kept looking for Phuong and wondered if what the wrestler said was true about Phuong. He saw birds wheeling in the sky along with more bombs, and, at the exact same time, he espied Phuong bathing. She showed no interest, no fear in what was going on. She washed, dried herself, and dressed. Kien watched, mesmerized. She seemed to know she was being watched, and she had a new boldness. She was not just a pure, simple girl anymore; rather, she was a hardened woman. Maybe it was his fault, he wondered, for dragging her into it all—or, he thought, he could never forgive her.
For a brief moment, he considered killing himself, realizing that death was not worse than life. When he heard Phuong calling his name, he did not go to her. He waited until she was gone, then left and presented himself to military headquarters. He was put into a platoon and marched into Nong Cong. He did not hear from Phuong for ten years.
Actually, he’d heard one thing: he received a letter from a man who turned out to be the soldier whom he’d asked about Phuong and who’d replied in coarse terms. The man apologized for his and the others’ rudeness, saying they were young and dumb. Phuong had come back looking for him; they had taken care of her and had not hurt her. He hoped Kien and Phuong would reunite when the war was over.
Kien did feel warmed and consoled by the letter. Maybe there could be a miracle in which Phuong would be untouched: still young, still beautiful, still pure, passionate, happy, and unchanged.
Kien imagined himself on the river of life heading over the edge into death when Phuong’s call at the school echoed out to him. Forty years appeared before him, memories urging him back into the past.
*
The writer disappeared and no one knew where he went. The mute woman stayed and gathered the papers he’d left. A narrator said that he admired the woman for waiting for the writer.
The narrator received the manuscript and began to delve into it. It made no sense and was not chronological; it seemed turbulent, manic. Yet once he engaged in the flow, it compelled him: he went along with the reversals of fate, the logical inconsistencies, the ghosts, and the memories. It was clear the writer wrote to write, not to publish. The novel became harmonious in its reality and he copied it all out.
Sometimes, it seemed like the writer and the narrator had the same ideas, feelings, and situations, and the narrator believed he actually knew Kien in the war. They had one fate, though they were crushed by the war differently and had very different postwar experiences. There was always the common sorrow, of course: the sublime sorrow that helped them escape the war and bring them back to life.
The narrator wondered if this was what Kien wanted to suggest, but then he realized the man’s sorrows had been heavier than his own and he might have been devoid of spiritual hope. The past brought him some solace and he kept finding peace in his memories of youth, love, and friendship. The narrator envied Kien's inspiration and optimism in focusing on “the painful but glorious days,” the “caring days,” the “days when all of us were very young, very pure, and very sincere” (233).
Analysis
In this last section, Kien remembers Hoa, the brave, young woman who sacrificed herself to save the wounded men, and what really happened to Phuong on the day Kien went off to war. Both of these characters experience the horrific trauma of being raped, something that is all too common during times of war. Kien is openly cognizant of what Hoa did for the soldiers, and he is obviously extremely sorrowful about what happens to Phuong; however, part of Kien’s response to Phuong’s rape is deeply problematic to contemporary readers.
Perhaps the most glaring example of Kien’s internalized misogyny is when he calls Phuong a “whore” for reacting to his beating the big man who talks to her on the train (he claimed he stopped the other men from gang-raping her but was hoping for a turn of his own as a reward). Yet there are many other disconcerting moments that testify to Kien’s problematic masculinity. When he first espies Phuong after it happens, he tells himself he does not understand what he is seeing: “Kien felt himself unable to cope or to understand fully what had happened” (204) and wonders, “What was going on? He knew so little!” (204.) Frankly, it is hard to take his protestations that he doesn’t know what happened at face value. He is not an idiot, he knows what sex is, he can see Phuong’s “injury,” and it is utterly disingenuous for him to claim he cannot “cope” with this when it Phuong who is the one actually coping with the violation of her body.
Once Kien and Phuong have made it out of the bombed train and settled briefly into the shelter, Ninh writes that “They seemed determined not to speak to each other, not even look at each other. They maintained their silent rage” (212). While we can certainly be sympathetic toward Kien for enduring the bombing, the fact that he harbors any “rage” at all towards his girlfriend who was gang-raped is mind-boggling. Kien also tries to dictate (silently, thankfully) how Phuong should be responding to what happened to her. He wonders how she could eat as if nothing had happened, and thinks he “would like to have seen her eating with more appreciation” (214). In the next paragraph, he tries to redeem himself by calling Phuong’s behavior an example of “an unusual reserve of strength and resilience” (214), but this “praise” is hollow.
Kien continues to give us more utterly damning indications of his entrenched misogyny. He looks at Phuong when she drifts off to sleep and decides “she had metamorphosed. Once pure and beautiful, she had spoken like a callous, uncaring pessimist, ready to bury anything tender in their past” (218) and “From being a pure, sweet and simple girl she was now a hardened experienced woman, indifferent to vulnerable emotions” (223). This is classic misogyny, claiming that a woman is less “pure” because she has sex, that a woman who has had sex is “different.” Kien also decides she is trying to “bury” things in their past, completely discounting the trauma that Phuong just experienced. He has no sympathy for her here, only a childish and petty view that she is not living up to his expectations for their relationship. He calls her an “experienced” woman, hardly the right way to describe a gang-rape. Though readers have no idea what is happening inside Phuong’s mind, and she may certainly be exhibiting “boldness” while bathing, it is more likely a defense mechanism rather than some newly-acquired sexual confidence. Grotesquely, Kien wonders to himself, “Could he ever forgive her, that was the question. Probably not” (223). Finally, he has the audacity to call what happened to Phuong as “his first war wound” (180), completely ignoring the fact that Phuong was the one wounded.
Yes, Kien loved Phuong, and parts of their love story are compelling, romantic, and tragic. However, while Bao Ninh does present us with somewhat of a nuanced view on women during the Vietnam War—women as soldiers, women as scouts—he fails to make Phuong anything other than the perfect, “pure,” dream girl of Kien’s imagination. Glimmers of Phuong’s unique sensibility occasionally make it out of Kien’s remembrances, but ultimately she is a one-dimensional, hagiographic object for Kien.
