Houses of Cards

Chapter 8

In mid-December the North Vietnamese Army commenced a new offensive and launched attacks against Tay Ninh. That morning was the first time I recognized the name of a newsworthy location in South Vietnam other than Saigon. Now acquainted with someone living there, and thinking about dangers the conflict presented to that person, bad news about that faraway place unsettled me in a way I hadn't known before.

On my side of the world Christmas season was approaching, and since relocating to Vancouver last year, I hadn't been able to return to eastern Canada for a visit. Only too eager to help me out in regard to having some time off, my employer chose to shut down company operations for two weeks and lay-off employees for the holiday period. 

Merry Christmas Scrooge!

Now facing ten days of unpaid time off, I was free to fly to Montreal and visit my family for Christmas. Right up to the day of my departure I was hoping another letter or possibly a card from Phi Bang would arrive, but nothing came. 

Throughout my visit I kept poring over newspapers for updates about the situation in South Vietnam, and unsettling news wasn't hard to find. The post-Boxing Day edition of the Montreal Gazette's front page featured a photograph of a baby in a hammock hanging in a ramshackle shanty that had been bomb-damaged.

The reported location wasn't Tay Ninh, but a nearby village between there and Saigon. War and destruction had been Christmas Day in South Vietnam. I thought about Phi Bang and wondered if she'd been near the conflagration, and if so, was she safe? 

I had no way of knowing.

Although I wanted to tell my parents about Phi Bang, I didn't, because I feared they wouldn't understand why their son who didn't have a girlfriend was writing to a young lady in South Vietnam. I felt certain my parents would've grilled me to no end as to why I couldn't find someone here. I don't think I could've explained to them how this happened, because I couldn't give myself an explanation that made sense. Some things in life just happen.

I needed to do some last-minute shopping before returning to Vancouver, so one grey, snowy afternoon during that week between Christmas and New Year, I made a trip over to Fairview Shopping Center on one of those rickety old blue and white Brisebois Bus Line school-type buses that were passed off as public transportation. The bus arrived about twenty minutes late and was crammed full to squished standing room only. As was the bus, Fairview too was crowded with shoppers searching for post-Christmas bargains.

In walking by one of the busy stores, I thought I noticed Karen McLennan inside. Although she'd long been out of my thoughts, I was nonetheless taken aback, so I turned around and peered through the large storefront window to address my nagging curiosity. Yes, I was looking at Karen, and this time not mistaking an anonymous Chinese lady for her.

I could scarcely believe my eyes, and for a brief moment my heart jumped with excitement. She hadn't seen me though, so I was about to go over and surprise her. Before I made a move however, someone else appeared next to her, and from the way he placed his arm around her and she responded to him, I knew he wasn't just anyone. Instead, I was the one who'd been surprised. 

I'll admit to some disappointed and having felt little stabs of jealousy too, but enough time had passed already, so this surprise was really of no lingering consequence. Since I'd begun writing to Phi Bang I hadn't even thought about Karen, and determined not to be recognized now and interfere with anything, I withdrew into the anonymity of the crowded mall. 

Nonetheless having seen Karen again, and this time with someone special to her, made me lose interest in shopping. Minutes later I was heading back on another Brisebois bus, and reflecting upon those days with Karen in our music classes. While I would never know the answer to the 'What if?' question, at least I'd learned one answer to the "If not" question. I had seen that answer.

Happy New Year 1975

Leaving home, family, friends, and everything else familiar the for first time was easy, because I knew nothing about the silent solitude that living alone in Vancouver would entail. Saying good-byes and leaving home the second time was more heart-tugging difficult, because I knew only too well the hated silence of an empty apartment was all that awaited upon my return.

When I entered my Kitsilano dwelling and saw Phi Bang's photo on the desk waiting to greet me, in that silence I wished, "If only your photo could talk to me."

A Christmas card from Phi Bang was waiting in the foyer upstairs, and I was grateful. Her card and letter were the only welcome back that I'd receive at my three-room closet, and confirming the postmarked date, I was certain she'd survived the conflict that had flared up in Tay Ninh. 

The scene on her card was a couple looking at a large full moon. The man and woman were standing beside each other and holding hands. Although the scene may not have had anything to do with Christmas, the card was for me and it was beautiful. For a moment I thought, "Why couldn't that be me with Phi Bang? 

"No! It could never be." a cold and clear common-sense logic right away retorted in my head.

During the first week of January 1975, the North Vietnamese Army overran Phuoc Long Province, the first province of South Vietnam that would fall to the military forces of the North. For years the war had meant nothing to me, and so I'd ignored it and everything about it. Now, my attention was moth-to-flame drawn to every detail the newspapers and radio reported. Gazing at the two photos of Phi Bang and looking at the card she'd sent, I wondered if the tranquil images she'd so fondly written and told me about were from the same war-torn Vietnam constantly in the news.

Seated at my desk and writing to her, I began listening to a recording of Beethoven's "Emperor" concerto. His last piano concerto is a magnificent outpouring of triumph over adversity. The difficult to imagine historical accounts in Beethoven's biography tells us he composed this amazing piano concerto while the city he was trapped within, was being bombarded by the artillery of Napoleon's armies. I saw a similarity between Phi Bang and Beethoven, because both had been living in war situations with battles raging all around. Beethoven's concerto didn't reflect any of this, nor did Phi Bang's letters reflect anything about war either. 

Had both been ignoring the overwhelming realities that surrounded them as if they weren't there? 

Or did both reach from somewhere deep within to rise above their utterly hopeless situations in displays of the triumph of the human spirit over unchangeable despair?

I had no way of knowing, but I deeply admired both; Beethoven for the beautiful musical gift he left to the world, and Phi Bang for the heart-stirring letters she wrote to me that brightened my mundane and dreary existence.

Unable to concentrate on writing though, I set the pen down on the note pad, placed my feet against the table's cross-rail, and leaned backward until the chair was balancing on the two rear legs. I'd wanted to ask questions about the war situation where she lived but didn't, because I was afraid to tread there without knowing first her thoughts and feelings about that.

A minute or two later I let the chair down, and reached over for the pipe tin on top of the books. Puffing away on a pipe full of a Latakia tobacco mixture while deep in thought was distracting if not soothing. As I watched my tiny handheld fire pit send clouds of smoke to the ceiling, I recalled one of Mr. Douglas's recent less than flattering comments, "Even if you're not thinking at least it smells like you're spinnin' wheels trying."

Following the fall of Phuoc Long, hostilities between the armed forces of the north and the south appeared to lessen. Instead, world attention focused more on the civil war in neighbouring Cambodia, because the situation there seemed much more precarious for the anti-communist forces. The South Vietnam-Cambodia border was near Tay Ninh, and I wondered, "If Cambodia falls, is the road to Saigon through Tay Ninh?" 

I folded the map and put it away for the night. Nothing I could do, or wish to do, would alter any of the events going on in Southeast Asia.

Unplanned change of scenery...

One Thursday night in late January a cold front slipped-down from the arctic, making temperatures dip and daytime highs remain about five degrees below the freezing point. The cool but clear sunny respite from the rain persisted into the weekend, and I welcomed it.

Mark, my cousin Martha's latest boyfriend, had set-up a date with her for a Saturday hike up Hollyburn, one of the mountains of West Vancouver that overlook Burrard Inlet and Vancouver. Unbeknownst to Mark, Martha had invited her brother Matt and me to come along. Aside from once trekking across and to the top of Megantic Mountain in Quebec, I'd never hiked to the top of a mountain here in British Columbia in spite of seeing the nearest ones every day. Eager for this opportunity as well as a change of scenery, Matt and I both agreed to join their date. Of course Mark was surprised, but he took Martha's change of plan in stride.

Our adventure started below the snow line at a nondescript dead-end street, where suburbia stopped and mountain forest began. Our trail ahead was a couple of miles of unbroken ascent, and soon after starting out, we crossed the snow line and headed in to quickly deepening snow. Fortunately our route was hard packed from earlier eager trekkers who'd started out ahead of us.

Although the mountains overlooking Vancouver keep their snow caps through much of the year, I soon noticed Martha, Mark and Matthew were finding the cold powdery snow somewhat of a novelty. They'd only known the wet and sticky stuff on those rare occasions when it did snow in the city. On the other hand, I knew well eastern Canada's often frigid long snowy November to April winters, so for these few hours I'd be back in the familiar. Too, I'd learned a few things about the lighter side of winter life, and today I was determined to exploit that knowledge to full advantage. 

Hollyburn had received an overnight fresh covering of powdery snow, so as we proceeded in single-file with Mark in the lead, in passing I started giving the odd suitably situated and not-too-thick-trunk fir tree a vigorous shove with my foot when I was certain no one was paying attention. That usually provoked a seconds-later small avalanche of snow to cavalcade down on the unfortunate person or two following me. Even more amusing, Matthew and Martha weren't even aware of what was causing the snow to pour off the trees. 

Eventually Matthew noticed, and curious he asked, "Why do you keep stopping to kick at a tree?"

"It's to keep snow from building up on the bottoms of my boots." feigning sincerity.

"Does it work?"

I lifted my right foot to show them the snow-free bottom of the boot, and said, "See?"

"But I think what you're doing's making snow fall off the trees."

"Really?" playing dumb.

"I almost got buried back there." Martha chimed-in while brushing snow off her hat and coat.

"I'll try to be more careful." and then turned around to stifle laughter. 

I then suggested, "Why don't you two take the lead for a while?"

Mark watched us but never said a word. I'm sure he knew what was really going on.

More than an hour later we reached the chalet located in a clearing on a ridge, and the only place along the route where the trail sort of levels out. Since starting, I felt like I'd been climbing a never-ending flight of stairs, so I welcomed Martha's suggestion we take a break. 

Minutes later we resumed the arduous and now steeper ascent toward the summit, and I felt I was climbing a worse almost never-ending flight of stairs. Megantic Mountain back east seemed more like a hill compared to Hollyburn.

Our view from the summit peak was spectacular and the sky above Vancouver clear. The city looked so tiny, and from here seemed so other-world-away far below.

"I can't believe we actually made it this far." Martha puffed, and then flopped onto the snow.

"Neither can I." I added. 

Yeah, I admitted to them the climb was tougher than I'd expected, because the slopes were more severe than I was accustomed to. While resting, I pulled my pipe and tobacco out of a pocket, filled the bowl with the usual fuel and then set it alight.

"Did you have to bring that thing along?" Matt complained, and then promptly lit up a cigarette.

"Mine keeps the mosquitoes away." 

"There aren't any mosquitoes." 

"I told you it works." and continued puffing away.

"I brought a bottle of wine." Mark announced.

"You did?" Martha sounded surprised.

"There was no way I was gonna climb to the top of this here hill and never celebrate if ever I reached the top." and looking smug, he pulled the bottle out of his knapsack and followed with an opener.

"What do we drink it out of?" she asked

"Unless someone brought along cups, we'll just pass the bottle around." 

"Talk about roughing-it." 

"We could always go back down to the chalet, buy some coffee, and spike it." Mark suggested.

"Like railway tracks?" I interjected.

"What?" 

"Don't mind him.” said Matt.

“He's got a one-track mind when it comes to trains.” Martha added.

“Trains?” 

“You just said the wrong word and got him started." 

"What word?" Mark looking even more confused.

"Spike." Matt enlightened.

"What happens if you put too much spike in the coffee?" Mark tossed at us.

"You get hammered." I quipped.

"No! You get nailed." Matt countered

"You get hammered." 

“You don't get it! Spike...nail...see?" Matt persisted.

"But what does the nail get out of this? 

"It gets spiked."

"Hammered."

"Wrong answers." Mark interjected.

His interruption was timely, because when Matt and I got started on any mundane topic we disagreed on, we'd debate seemingly non-stop with each other for no other reason than the joy of trying to convince the other that the other was wrong.

"Then what's the right answer?" Martha asked.

"Coffee that's good to the last grope." 

"Sad." Matt shaking his head.

"Very sad." shaking my head in agreement.

"It's a wonder he doesn't get sued by that coffee company."

"Well, are we going to open the bottle now or wait 'til the snow melts to celebrate?" Martha asked, thus returning attention to the subject at hand.

Seated in the snow at the summit Mark uncorked the bottle, took a good swallow of wine, spoke a few words of forgettable less than profound wisdom, and passed the bottle to Martha. When the nearly empty bottle reached my hands, I glanced toward the Pacific shore far below us, thought about Phi Bang on the far side, gulped down my share of the purple liquid, and then said, "Here’s to someone special in a place far away.”

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Martha's curiosity piqued.

"Someone in Vietnam.” 

“Who?” 

“It’s a long story... I'll clue you in later."  

"Did you serve in 'Nam?" Mark asked, and sounding genuinely curious.

"No." 

"But you said you know someone over there." 

"How about you... did you go?" now wondering if he might've gone and could tell me something about the country.

"Not me but two good high school buddies of mine went to Nam. They went south to volunteer and enlisted in the Marines. Both got shipped over in '71 for a tour of duty there."

"Did they make it back?"

"Yeah... lucky I guess." 

"Why would they even go?" 

"I dunno... to get American citizenship maybe... but why're you interested in that place?"

"It's been front page news since the fighting started up again."

"My buddies called it an endless sad song of yellow skin."

"I know someone there, that's all." bothered by his comment.

"Are you one of those bleeding-heart anti-war protesters?

"Hey you two!" Martha snapped.

Her interruption seemed timely, because Mark was becoming agitated and I was getting uncomfortable from what I'd been hearing from between his lines.

An uneventful while later, as we descended from our lofty perch overlooking Vancouver and returned to the realities of life in the big city, I filled-in Martha about Phi Bang. Soon back in Vancouver, I was dropped off near home and walked the rest of the way. Upon facing the locked dark brown door to my basement suite, I didn't want to enter and cross over into that silent world of inside, at least not yet. 

Kitsilano Beach was deserted, but I expected this. Native Vancouverites seemed quite comfortable enduring the milder days upon days of rain, drizzle, fog and grey, but they also seemed to possess an impatient intolerance for the few cold days winter sometimes brought. While standing on the bluffs and facing into the cold northwest wind blowing in from across English Bay, I watched sunset's final traces of reds and purples quickly darken into blackness. 

The thousands of city lights on the slopes of the opposite side of the bay seemed far more numerous than the stars I saw above me, but what did I know about how many stars are out there after God told Abram, "Look toward heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them."

Thinking more about Phi Bang than numbering stars, I was wishing she could've accompanied me on the climb up Hollyburn.

"She'd have hated it." echoed in my heart.

"Lord God, why am I spending so much time writing to Phi Bang? How long will our letter writing go on? How long can it go on? 

"Does she ever think about me? If so, does she ever ask herself questions about me, as I ask You my questions about her?" 

When images of Pepé Lew Pew's hopeless pursuit of love jumped to mind, I wondered if I was being just as lost-cause hopeless.

The uncertainties running through my head were much more numerous than answers, maybe like these stars above, but then came a moment of clarity. I was writing to Phi Bang like she was a close friend, a very close friend with whom I could share my deeper thoughts and feelings I wouldn't tell anyone else, not even Martha. The paradox was I'd never seen Phi Bang, never met her, never talked to her, never heard her voice, didn't know her family, didn't know her friends... from every conceivable logical conclusion that could be drawn from my culture and conditioning, Phi Bang was a complete stranger. 

But was she?

Into the unknown...

February 14 was approaching and, as I contemplated that particular date, I realized five years had passed since someone special had been a part of my life. 

Had it really been that long since I could say that I'd once been head over heels in love with someone? 

Yes, that long. 

Today I felt as if those days had never been, but a love relationship must have occurred. How else could I account for and rationalize the aching and emptiness that persisted this long after my former only girlfriend severed our relationship and said good-bye to me? 

I always thought being in love with someone would be something that would endure forever, but reality for me was that love was something which seemed forever elusive. Finding and then falling in love with someone special was something that only happened to other people, and I envied them.

A few years had passed since I last perused Valentine cards, because when February came around, I avoided the card section in stores. I didn't need or want reminders of a lost happier time that had no road back. However this year would be different, because after leaving work, I detoured into a downtown department store I knew would be selling cards. 

In one letter Phi Bang told me she loved flowers, so I was determined to buy a card picturing flowers. Hundreds of cards were displayed, and all adorned with red hearts and silly rhyming verses inside. None of those were what I wanted. Perhaps having been misplaced, amongst the birthday cards I found one with a beautiful picture of exotic-looking flowers that might've been orchids, and better too, the inside was blank. 

By the time I'd walked back to my First Avenue lodgings, I knew what I'd write to Phi Bang, but writing out my feelings was awkward. I felt unable to express my feelings in articulate words.

"Do you know what day February 14 is for people in North America? It’s called Valentine's Day. That day comes only once a year and is supposed to be a special day for people in love. Do you have the same in Vietnam for February 14? If not, do you have a similar day at another time of the year? You once told me that you like flowers so I chose a card that pictured flowers. Five years have passed since I sent a card like this to anyone. There is no one special in my life, no girlfriend in my life, but I’m hoping things will change. 

Phi Bang, a few weeks ago I placed your picture on my desk. This way I can look at you. Sometimes I even talk to you, but all you do is silently stare back at me. In some sort of way you have become important to me. You dominate my thoughts a lot of the time. Do you think it is possible for someone to love another person that he or she has never met? If it’s possible then I think it has happened to me about us. 

Phi Bang, I wish you were here. I wish you could one day come to Canada. Do you think that could ever be possible for us?

Do not say anything right away because I am afraid of what you would say to me. Phi Bang, just promise me that you will write to me again after you read this letter. Yes, I am afraid for the future. I am afraid for you. When I started to write to you I was hoping to find someone special but I never expected that writing letters would amount to anything. Where will our writing lead? Toward a far away place? To a place we do not know and know not where it is?

As I write these lines to you, I also wonder about how you will interpret my meaning."

Putting the pen down, I paused to think about what I'd written. "This is crazy." I thought, "Here I am afraid to bare my thoughts and feelings on paper while Phi Bang is on the other side of the world, maybe dodging bullets, and completely oblivious to what I’m thinking about and doing at this moment."

Written words on paper were as close as I could come to explaining my thoughts and expressing my feelings, but words alone didn't seem to be enough. Carefully folding the sheets of paper that I hoped might change the direction of my life, I slipped the pages inside the card and sealed the envelope. I remained hesitant and unsure about mailing them. Spoken words can't be taken back, however written words can be, but only if they're not sent. The instant any letter drops into a mailbox, words penned become irretrievable.

Acting on impulse, I picked up the phone and called Martha. She knew about Phi Bang and my months of letter writing, so I wanted her input on one point.

As soon as she answered, I said, "Hey Martha, I have a question for you. 

"What?" surprised by the abruptness.

Just say yes, or no, but don’t ask why." 

"Okay."

"Do you think it's possible for someone to fall in love with someone they’ve never met?" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Just answer, yes or no... do you think it’s possible?" 

"No." 

"Thank you." and I hung up.

Knowing Martha as well as I thought I did, I felt sure she'd call back. Sure enough, the telephone rang within seconds.

Assuming the caller was Martha, right away I asked, "What took you so long?"

"Mark's here so I can't talk to you now, but don’t do anything crazy!"

"At least you didn't say stupid."

"That applies too."

"Thanks. Call me later if you want the rest of the story." 

"You bet I will." and she ended the call.

Convinced something had to change in my life, and determined to try to do something about it, I went out and mailed the card and letter to Phi Bang. One small step, perhaps the first in a journey of many steps.

As February 14 neared, I was hoping to receive a letter or card from Phi Bang. Nothing came. Valentine's Day came and went but still no card and no letter or word from her. As each day passed, my expectations wilted. I gave up waiting and assumed that Vietnam didn't have any such thing as Valentine's Day.

On the last day of February a letter arrived from Phi Bang that included her response I'd been waiting for.

"We cannot speak of love. Not know what is love. I too young for you and for love. My love, you are too young to think such about love. You must study first. Go back to school to study. If not then love only sorrow and too much tears.

What about another dear love lady in your place and life? You not tell me any about her such thing. Why? Why you write about only five years ago love? You do not love now? Not any one other person in Canada for you? It is too much believe for me to think you only want to love Phi Bang. And then what? Do we must say 'sayonara' like that word in the movie with same name? Do you know that story movie? So very sad like in Vietnam. Must I think you to want that we live like such and then to die like such? You are not Vietnamese person and you will not understand to know like Vietnamese person. How you can know? You not live here at my country.

Now, I also must tell you very deep I feel, hope, want to love, but I am very afraid to think that. It will die if too young and you will be too sad for that thing which called love. You must think about happy days of sunshine, where no tears can be to fall like rain. With me there can never be like that for you. This thing you tell me I always keep close my heart and not to forget. So many happiness I have for souvenir when old. I cannot imagine such wonderful like that.

If you not afraid of many tears, such sorrow and pain to die, as like love for only one season, then we can find love. You must not cry at time when to say good-bye. You must be brave."

Mystified, I read and re-read her reply, and with a sigh of confusion, wondered, "What does she mean?"

For the last few weeks I'd been hoping with a guarded optimism that maybe, just maybe, Phi Bang might be interested in me. At the same time I kept reminding myself about the impossibility of someone on the other side of the Pacific Ocean being interested in anyone on this side. Not only was the distance so great, the division between east and west was greater.

My first thought was escape for a walk along Kitsilano Beach, the usual place I'd go to clear my head when confronted by confusion and disappointment, but I didn't go. I wanted to know without a doubt what Phi Bang meant for me to understand in her words which I felt certain she'd chosen with care. Too often people write down something they believe conveys the thoughts they're thinking at the moment, but then the words ending up on paper mean something very different.

 

I didn't want to err and misinterpret her intended meaning, so again I read through her letter a few more times, and then pondered, "Do her words mean what she really wants me to understand?"

I didn't know, and her ambiguity was unsettling. Of course thinking or understanding like a Vietnamese person was impossible for me, and I had no one I could go to for advice or an opinion. Thus having chosen this uncharted course, I was very much on my own without a compass.

Placing Phi Bang's letter aside I decided not reply right away. Tomorrow or the next day I'd re-read every letter she'd written to me over the months, and plumb her words for a clearer understanding about her and her thoughts. I wanted to know if she might've intended a different meaning in the words of her last letter. I needed time to think about Phi Bang's choices of words and phrases.

Two days later another letter arrived in the mail.

"To find love you must reach in bag with 99 snakes. You must choose the venom snake. If not then you will die. Love like that. I tell you Phi Bang is very bad snake. Only can be too sorrow for you. Maybe not snake for my dear love. You must be ready for that chance. Are you ready? Do you think you can choose like that? I very afraid. Very afraid you choose wrongly.

How you can know what is love? Do you know expression about love? When young must depend on woman to know what is love. When old, must depend on the love to understand what is woman. Do you know about this? Do you think this true? Tell me!

In my country only sadness. So very heavy sorrow. Can't believe about love. Too great to think such thing like that. My dear love, I not forget your kind words. When old, I remember that wonderful idea that you write. Too much to imagine such possible like that for us. Do you know, a time for us? A place where there is not any tears again. A place for only to be sun shining. Search your heart my love for that place. I know, you will find that place. The place called notre pays de soleil.

Do not be sad to think about such. Too much to think. Please tell me! Inside I want to hear the words 'my dear love' or 'beloved' but, so much to imagine like that for Phi Bang. Not know which person I suppose to hear like that from. Can such words to say from dear love in Canada never seen? I believe it too crazy such possible for us.

Write to tell me what I must supposed to say to you my dear love.”

                                    

The meaning behind the 99 snakes was baffling, and certainly descriptive enough to give me something deep to think about. Parts of Phi Bang's letter were ambiguous owing to her limited English, and her meanings could have been interpreted in several different directions depending upon how I wanted to perceive them. All I wanted was to understand her intended meaning without reading my thoughts, desires or hopes into her words.

I pondered the last sentence of Phi Bang's letter, and read it aloud, "Write to tell me what I must suppose to say to you my love."

Pausing, and then looking at Phi Bang's photo, I continued talking aloud as if I could've been talking to her and then started writing down some of what I was saying.

"You ask me to tell you what you're supposed to say to me, but I don't even know what I'm supposed to say to you. If you were present here now, in this room, I probably wouldn't say anything at all. The truth is that I wouldn't know what to say to you. I'm the one who couldn't even find the words to ask someone out on a date to a Beethoven concert. But then you wouldn't know about that. No one does.

Phi Bang, don't tell me what you think I may want to hear. Tell me what you feel, if anything. If you love me, tell me that. I'd like to hear those three words from you, but only if they are sincere. I don't ever want to read them in a letter simply because the words may be easy for you to write down on paper. 

Yes, you are right. What do I know about love? Nothing. Yes, you are right. It is crazy for me to say that I feel something for someone I've never seen, but agreeing with you doesn't change the way I feel. Am I crazy? Do you think that I'm crazy?

You tell me you want to remember my words when you are old. No! Old and years from now is not what I want. You talk about wanting to remember, but I want to talk about living and loving. Now, not years from now. Yes, we may be too young but when will we become not too young?”

I stopped writing, set my pen down on the desk and stared at the half-filled sheet. I was afraid to say more, because I knew what I was writing wasn't what I wanted to write. What I really wanted to say to Phi Bang, but in not as many words, was, "Come away from that horrible war. Come to Canada." 

But I wouldn't write any more on the subject. First I needed to search inward, and then with honesty face-down my feelings. 

Have I only fallen for a nonexistent imaginary person I've created in my mind based upon assumptions made from the letters I've been reading and re-reading over these last few months? 

Might I really love Phi Bang or do I just think I do?

Am I desperate and only trying to fill a void in my life? 

Am I romantically fantasizing about rescuing Phi Bang from a war I know nothing about, involving a people I know nothing about, in a country I know nothing about? 

These and other challenging questions came to mind, but none came with a clear answer. Then again maybe I'd sensed some answers but was shutting them out, because they weren't the answers my heart wanted to hear.

I picked up the black and white photo of Phi Bang, gazed at her image, and in silence implored, "Tell me you're really the person I think you are! Tell me you're real! Tell me I'm not wrong!" 

The continuing silence of the three-room closet was the only response.

"You asked me to tell you what I want to hear you say to me... so I just did!"

The deceptive calm in South Vietnam was not to continue. Before the end of the first week in March a new North Vietnamese offensive struck at Pleiku. A week later the North's forces attacked Ban Me Thuot. As news reports came in, I consulted the map of Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam that I'd obtained from the National Geographic Society. After some searching, I was able to pinpoint the locations of most towns named in the news. The troubled areas were away from Tay Ninh. The news reports also indicated that the situation was not going well for South Vietnamese forces. Soldiers were not in a strategic retreat trying to regroup. They were fleeing southward in unrestrained panic and chaos.

From my review of the map, I speculated the communist forces were determined to take over the central region of South Vietnam to separate the country into two parts thus isolating the northern region. From details of skimpy new reports and the relative safety of being half a world away from the conflagration, I could easily make a second guess analysis of what may have been going on. In truth, I had no idea what was going on there, or how desperate the situation may or may not have been. Likewise, I had no idea if my ignorance was a good thing now or bad.

By mid-March Ban Me Thuot had fallen, and In short succession, Pleiku fell too. The government of South Vietnam insisted the provinces were strategically abandoned and South Vietnamese Forces had not been militarily defeated. The government's version of events was impossible to believe. Pictures in the newspapers depicted columns of wounded and frightened soldiers, and throngs of desperate civilians fleeing in crammed vehicles over severely congested roads. The news media were reporting stories of fleeing thousands being killed by the unrelenting North Vietnamese forces, a horrible tragedy later came to be known as 'The Convoy of Tears'.

The scenes of fear, panic, death and devastation I saw in pictures and read about in newspapers were so very real, and yet Phi Bang continued to write about a beautiful country she very much loved. She didn't write anything that even hinted at the conflict and destruction going on in her country. 

Was she oblivious to the war?

Or was she just consciously ignoring it? 

That was a difficult paradox for me to fathom.

As hints of spring approached, I wrote to Phi Bang about maple syrup, explaining in detail how it's made. Recalling my experiences with the sugaring process, I shared with her stories about past spring times when my brother Ted and I would tap some maple trees out in the woods when we'd visit Grandpa's farm for our much-welcomed ten-day Easter break from school. 

Two or three times a day we'd go out and collect the sap in large pails, and then haul our heavy watery loads through the woods back to Grandpa's house. On the large wood-burning cooking stove in the kitchen we boiled down the sap into maple syrup. 

I also told her about the first time, when my grandfather accompanied Ted and me into the woods to check-up on our work. Grandpa seemed rather amused by the pail hanging on a tap Ted had inserted into a dead tree, and some others he'd place on several beech trees, so he asked, "How much sap did you get from them particular maples?

 

"None." Ted admitted, because the expectant pails remained bone dry

With Grandpa's firm but seasoned guidance, we relocated the misplaced taps into maple trees. Sure enough, sap began dribbling out and plinked into our waiting empty pails.

I set my pen down and wondered how I'd arrived at this point in life; far from home and writing to a young woman on the far side of the world I hadn't met, nor likely ever would meet, but pouring out my thoughts for her to read nonetheless. A lingering residue from the failure of my previous relationship hung in the recesses of my mind, and while writing, memories of that heartache of having lost my only girlfriend surfaced too.

I'd gone out for walk in the wooded area near home that memorable warm and bright mid-March Sunday afternoon two years ago, and as luck would have it, I encountered my her. She was busy trying to tap a maple tree to collect sap and produce maple syrup, but she didn't know how to do it. I offered to show her and help her with her school project, and much to my surprise, she accepted my offer. 

We spent the remainder of that afternoon together while I drilled holes in a dozen or more trees and improvised on the rest. She didn't have any of those genuine hooked tree taps the commercial producers use, but the plastic straws we'd cut into short lengths worked just as well after they were pushed into the freshly bored openings. I banged a nail into each tree we'd selected, just above and slightly to the side of those straws now dripping that wanted sparkling clear liquid. On those nails we hung empty cans I'd rigged with wire loops. 

For those few brief days, our hours together were almost a return to the way things had once been between us. Throughout that week I carried a delusional glimmer of fragile hope she might've changed her mind about me, but my hope faded away with the last of melting snow and end of the sugaring season. Nothing had changed. She didn't want me, and the sting of re-rejection hurt; really hurt.

Today I didn’t want these other reminders so I didn't pen them for Phi Bang to read, because I wanted a genuine freedom from the past. If nothing else, this wide distance gap between Vancouver and Montreal only reinforced the necessity of moving on with life. Yearning for home after writing about the sugaring season, I went out, and purchased a small tin of Quebec Maple Syrup. Instead of opening the tin, I packaged it up, and sent it via registered airmail to Phi Bang. I could only wonder what she'd think if the package ever got there.

Sure enough, the package did arrive in Tay Ninh a week later, and Phi Bang responded by telling me about rice cakes. She promised to send some to me, and a few days later a package from South Vietnam arrived in the mail. True to her word, she'd sent me rice cakes together with instructions about how to cook them. 

I didn't know what to think, because I'd never heard of rice cakes nor had I ever seen anything like them. They were extremely hard and dry, and looked like plastic potato chips. After reading through her letter describing how to cook them, I then attempted to try that. After pouring a generous amount of cooking oil into the frying pan, I turned on the stove. 

While waiting for the pan and oil to heat, I wondered if a Vietnamese person would use a wok for this. Regardless, I didn't have a wok, so the frying pan would have to do. When the oil started smoking, using a spatula, I slid one of the dried cakes in. The dried wafer soon puffed up to several times its original size. When the rice cake began turning brown, I removed it from the pan and blotted it on paper napkins to drain the oil. I cooked several more before turning off the stove.

"What do I eat these with?" 

The rice cakes were different from any food I'd seen before and Phi Bang didn't tell me what I should eat them with. I tasted one, and thought it rather bland and tasteless.

"Maple syrup!" flashed to mind, "These would be perfect with Maple syrup." and I set out to mix Asian and Canadian foods.

"I wonder what Phi Bang would think if she saw this?" 

"Likely she never will, but I’ll write and tell her about it."

On March 26th, soldiers of the North Vietnamese forces stormed unopposed into Hue, the ancient capital. A few days later the northern provinces of South Vietnam capitulated as remnants of the defending military forces fled further south by sea, by air or by whatever means they could commandeer. On the 30th, Da Nang fell like a domino. 

By the end of March the situation in South Vietnam seemed hopeless. The South's military forces were in shambles, and not in a strategic retreat for regrouping into defensive positions as their government was reporting. They were shattered and defeated forces no longer able to respond fast enough and counter events which were rapidly unfolding. Numerous provinces had fallen since the beginning of the year, the first surrender of territory the government of South Vietnam had ever officially acknowledged and conceded to the North.

Reports in the news showed embassies in Saigon besieged by thousands of citizens desperate to leave. Those events weren't lost on the news media and photographers. Expressions on the faces of the Vietnamese people captured on film were those of panic and terror. Photographs said what words could not; a population on the verge of anarchy trying to flee by whatever means they could. People scrambling to escape from Saigon were using relatives, friends, acquaintances, even willing complete strangers, for sponsors and as a means to escape Vietnam. I didn't want to believe the chaotic scenes were real.

News about Vietnam became more disturbing each day. A possible defensive line was being drawn from Tay Ninh in the northwest across the country through Xuan Loc, and east toward the coast. First reports in the news indicated military success for the South Vietnamese forces at Xuan Loc. The defenders had repulsed repeated attacks made by the numerically superior forces of the North Vietnamese, inflicting heavy casualties while sustaining only light casualties in exchange. As the ferocity of the battles intensified however, the Xuan Loc defenses began to crumble. Newspaper experts wrote as if the government of South Vietnam was in difficulty and faced imminent collapse. I took that to mean surrender to the North was inevitable. News media continued to convey images of a population gripped by fear and despair. Everyone in Saigon, it seemed, wanted out by any possible means. 

Upset by the dismal news reports, I sat down at my desk and resumed my letter in progress to Phi Bang. In the process I vented my frustrations about being completely powerless to do anything whatsoever.

"As soon as I think that I have possibly found someone to live for and to die for, my time for love may never come. The communists, those forces of darkness and evil, are poised to grasp everything and pull it all away from my reach.

Is there no justice? Are opposing political ideologies worth the needless bloodshed of uncountable millions of persons caught up in the mire? Tell me, what useful purpose does any political ideology serve? Has there ever been a politician anywhere in the history of time that has ever truly served any useful purpose for mankind? 

Not many as far as I can tell. If there is such a person, would not he or she have to compromise his or her integrity and humanitarian principals in the process of attaining that position of power? Even the so-called good politicians are not so good at all. Turn over any stone and there are always snakes.

Phi Bang, I don't have to worry about your bag of only 99 snakes. That should be simple in comparison to politicians and the horrible world mess they are leaving in their wake; some deliberately evil and most in the delusion that they are leaving the world a better place for an always elusive tomorrow."

After ending my letter, I placed the pages into an envelope and set it down beside the pipe tin on top of the books.

Having second thoughts the following morning, I grabbed the envelope, tore it and the contents into several pieces and tossed them away. I feared if the communists took over and started censoring mail, then maybe hastily written words could harm Phi Bang if my letter on the way to her ever ended up in the wrong hands.

Daily the radio and newspapers were reporting on the astonishing swift successive victories the North Vietnamese were achieving, and with the situation in South Vietnam becoming untenable, I became cautious about what I wrote in my letters to Phi Bang. 

Another letter arrived from Phi Bang, but she never wrote a word about the deteriorating situation in Vietnam. I didn't know if she didn't know, or maybe didn't want to know, or if she knew all too well and was afraid to talk about her concerns. 

I wanted to ask her a lot of questions, but I didn't. I didn't know what to ask her, because I didn't know how to confront my feelings of utter uselessness to her. 

 

Two days later another letter arrived from Phi Ban, and enclosed were two different butterflies that had been very carefully preserved in plastic. The butterflies were somewhat similar to species I'd seen in eastern Canada, but in spite of the similarities, these butterflies from Vietnam were distinctly different.

Do you like butterflies? They are very beautiful to look at. Also very too much fragile. Also very easy for me, and also my friend, to catch and to keep for school. I think already you know my friend Lien. I have study about subject lepidoptera for extra mark. Are you surprise I can know about this word? I think maybe Phi Bang to astonish you for this to know such.

Do you know that butterflies love flowers? Phi Bang also love flowers too much. There are so many beautiful flowers in Vietnam. Do you think Phi Bang is like butterfly or like flower? Which one? You must tell me. I wait your answer reply to me. 

I think the butterflies too much like us. Maybe our love too. Very beautiful and only last for one season then to die. Do you think our love to be like that? Do you have like these in Canada? Write to me and tell about that.

Phi Bang revealed she wanted to study medical science, because her mother had died from stomach cancer. Her words penned recounted that particular day, when her mother's situation suddenly worsened, and her father sent her off on the motorcycle to get the doctor. She was crying so many tears and was unable to see properly while speeding through the hectic, traffic-clogged streets. By the time she'd returned home nothing more could be done, because her mother had passed away. From the way she'd chosen and framed what to tell me, I knew she was hurting from the loss of her mother.

Her letter also contained details about her family, because on a separate page she'd listed from eldest to the youngest, each family member's full name, age, and date of birth. She didn't explain why, but I understood. Reading news articles about what happened to other less fortunate Vietnamese families can be a brutal way to learn what to understand.

To me, Vietnam was a troubled country, and the Vietnamese people seemed to possess such a sad, almost fatalistic outlook toward life as only being able to offer nothing but grief, sorrow, tears, and death. 

Was this truly the Vietnamese outlook on life? 

Was this the way Phi Bang looked upon life? 

The death of her mother and living her entire life in a country at war must've influenced her outlook on life, but I really didn't know. I wanted to ask her but didn't. Perhaps Phi Bang's family had thus far escaped the loss of a member from warfare, but she probably had friends who'd lost family members. She didn't write anything about how the war may have affected her or her family. I could only guess and make assumptions based upon what I'd seen in the news and read in the papers, and then hope Phi Bang’s life in Vietnam wasn't truly that awful.

But why now?

Her following letter included two little flowers joined at the stems. The center of each flower had a trace of dark maroon or brown encircled by a set of tiny dark yellow petals. Phi Bang told me that in Vietnam these flowers are a symbol for love. 

“This flower call Immortal flower. Even though keep for 20 or 25 years in a book the colour not fade. Two flowers for you like us. You can keep for memory about Phi Bang. After love gone you can see color not change. My dear, promise you not to forget about me, your dear love friend Phi Bang in Vietnam.”

This latest letter was postmarked Saigon rather than Tay Ninh, and I wondered if her departure from her home town was precipitated by the recent capitulation of the Phnom Penh government in Cambodia, or the sudden and hurried departure of President Nguyen Van Thieu, or just a crumbling South Vietnam that appeared to the outside world like a falling house of cards. All speculations aside, Phi Bang didn't mention why she was in Saigon or how she'd managed to travel there.

Had she journeyed alone, or was she with her family? 

I didn't know.

Was she just one other person who'd been among the thousands of desperate citizens fleeing ahead of the unstoppable advancing forces of the North? 

I really didn't know anything, but scenes in the news reports showed only people and their desperate faces etched with fear.

With fighting going on around both Tay Ninh and Saigon, as well as along the main road between the two cities, I wondered where she'd managed to find the flowers. 

Did she stop to pick them up along the way? 

I didn't know, but I was relieved to learn she was safe in Saigon, and that she'd given me an address where to write to her there. 

But for how long would Saigon remain a safe place? 

The answer wasn't long to follow. 

In the predawn quiet of April 27, the first attack on Saigon in five years commenced. A widespread raging fire was ignited by the shelling and rocket bombardment. By the time the flames had subsided, at least ten people were confirmed dead and more than five thousand were homeless. On all sides of the city heavy fighting continued while the Americans were now occupied with their continuing race against time to evacuate personnel from Saigon. 

What remained of South Vietnam resembled a sinking ship. People were fighting each other for survival and risking escape at any cost. Lifelines to safety were anything that could fly or float at sea. 

As events unfolded faster than the news media could report, I feared for Phi Bang's safety, yet unable to do anything at all for her, I was overwhelmed by feeling useless. War was a situation I was powerless to do anything about. 

In desperation I lowered my head and prayed to God, begging Him to protect Phi Bang from harm. My action and words seemed so trite, so feeble and so useless, and I feared my desperate pleas would go unheard. 

After all, who was I to ask anything from God? 

On April 29, the late-night news on the radio carried an unconfirmed report that Saigon had given up fighting and surrendered to the North Vietnamese forces. In spite of knowing that the end had been inevitable, I still didn't want to believe it. 

I turned off the radio, lay on the couch, stared at the ceiling, and wondered, "God, if what I just heard is true, what will tomorrow bring?"

The Oddblock Station Agent