fought just as much, perhaps more. Cecilia wished to holiday in Europe, and Percival had no interest. She would go alone, she said, and he told her not to bother coming back. When she discovered that he had sent thousands of piastres through the Teochow Clan to support China’s Great Leap Forward, she dismissed him as a fool. She had headaches at night, and Percival discovered the charms of Mrs. Ling’s introductions.
For their holidays, they began to rent a seaside villa from a Frenchman. The house’s cook prepared at least five courses every night. He could cook French, Vietnamese, and a little Chinese, in keeping with the languages he spoke. His specialty was sea emperor’s soup—a hot-and-sour broth heavy with pineapple, taro stems, prawns, and scallops. Dai Jai asked about this soup for weeks before going to Cap St. Jacques, and Percival would assure his son that the cook would make it. The villa was big enough that Cecilia and Percival could avoid one another, and they found it increasingly easy to do so.
Dai Jai was happiest during those beach holidays, for it was the only time he was able to attract his father’s attention. In town, Percival was always preoccupied with the school, mah-jong games, money-circle dinners, and lovers. Each morning at Cap St. Jacques, Dai Jai was anxious to rush to the beach, and each morning Percival checked that his son’s charm was securely fastened. Once, he said to his wife, “It will keep him safe.”
“He is a boy. He will lose the lump of gold. Then, because you are so superstitious, you will mistake it for a terrible sign rather than simply a waste of money.”
Through a gap in the trees, Percival saw a flash of sun, blue water in the distance, then took a breath of salt air. Percival realized he was driving towards the sea rather than towards the shanties that fringed Saigon. Not thinking, he had taken this direction. The car had brought him almost to the ocean. Percival eased on the brakes, let the car coast down a gentle slope and looked for an open spot to turn around. Then on a flat section, he took his foot off the brake pedal and put it back on the gas. It must be good luck to revisit these memories, for why else would the water be coming into view? Why else would his hands and his car have taken him here?
He tried not to think of Dai Jai, with the height of a man but the fragility of a boy, in an interrogation room furnished with a bucket, chairs, a bench, and an oil drum. Push it away. To dwell upon danger might itself bring bad luck. He made a quick entreaty to the ancestral spirits, forced himself to stare at the road. Beneath the wheels, the ground became a softer mix of earth and sand blown up from the sea. Through the open side window his eyes traced the line of searing white beach. With Cap St. Jacques just around the corner, he stopped short, parked beneath a tall palm. The fishermen’s boats were pulled up after their early morning work, long since dry. Percival removed his shoes and got out of the car, walked a few steps and worked his feet into the warm sand. The palm fronds whispered reassurance.
Hadn’t they come to this stretch of beach during the holiday before the divorce? He tried to pick out the spot where he had once feared the worst, unsure now of the precise location. He never brought up that day with Dai Jai for to do so would be bad luck, but he thought of it sometimes at the ancestral altar, when he thanked the ancestors and offered roasted meat and oranges.
One afternoon during what was to be their last family trip in 1958, the beach was empty at siesta time, but Dai Jai did not wish to return to the villa. He wanted to swim. Over the course of summers at Cap St. Jacques, Dai Jai had learned how to swim from the local boys, and he spent every possible moment in the water. Cecilia was stretched out on a lounge chair beneath an umbrella, complaining of the heat. There were no beach boys to run and bring cold drinks, and the air burned the inside of Percival’s nostrils. He, too, wanted to escape the sun and lie beneath a fan, but since Cecilia wished to return to the villa, he declared that the boy should swim. Dai Jai bragged to his father that he could swim out to the open ocean, to where the waves no longer broke. He ran in and plunged headlong into the surf. Dai Jai darted beneath the waves as they crested. Cecilia asked Percival to call their son back, but Percival retreated beneath an umbrella and said nothing, pleased that Dai Jai had taken his father’s permission as enough.
The heat caused time to stretch, and Cecilia closed her eyes. Percival half-watched Dai Jai for a while, expecting that he would soon turn back towards shore. The boy paused, waved, and continued to go out. Big for his eight years of age, he was becoming a good swimmer. After some time, Percival remarked, “He is swimming very fast, isn’t he?”
Cecilia sat up and stared. They could see only Dai Jai’s back bobbing up occasionally. Then Cecilia stood, shouted at their son, but already he was too far to hear. Between the peaks of the waves he disappeared. His arms were little punctuation marks in the ocean.
As they watched, Dai Jai shrank into the ocean. “He is being swept out!” she said. Although Percival’s reflex was to disagree, it was true. The boy was going out faster than he could possibly be swimming. A large wave broke over him and he vanished in a long expanse of water. Cecilia yelled, “Go out after him!”
Percival stood, and then stopped, frozen. “I can’t swim.” Neither of them could.
“You are his father. Go!”
There was no doubt. The boy was being swallowed by the ocean. Percival ran out into the water, and was surprised at the force that tugged and buffeted him. He waded ahead. “Son! Come back, you’re being pulled out!” His voice was lost in the crashing surf. Percival swung his hands high above him like flags, struggled forward into water that surged up to his neck. “Turn around! Swim back!” He threw the words uselessly into the ocean. Soon he was unable to see more than a few feet around him. A wave smashed over his head. Salty brine filled his mouth, stung his eyes. Percival looked into the moving walls of water, trying to see through them where Dai Jai had gone. He was caught by another wave, a larger one, that pushed him off his feet. He lost all direction as the wave roiled over him and carried him towards shore. He staggered up onto shore, coughing, his throat prickling with salt. Again, he ran into the surf, called, waved, but was unable to see the boy. Behind him, Cecilia yelled, “Go get your son, you useless man!”
Vietnamese children learned to swim as soon as they learned to walk, in the creeks, lagoons, and in the sea, but Percival had grown up in Shantou. During all these trips to Cap St. Jacques, he had never been into water deeper than his knees. He liked the look and smell of the ocean, but had never been interested in swimming. Now he flailed desperately into the water again, could not see Dai Jai. A crest lifted him up, his feet off the sand. He made the wild motions with his arms and legs that seemed to be what swimmers did, and felt his head submerged once more, a fist of water rammed down his throat. A swell gathered him, tumbled him over in white and blue, until he felt his knees scrape on the sand near the shore. On his hands and knees, sputtering, Percival vomited sea water.
Cecilia did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon. “There he is! Look!”
Percival staggered a little way up the beach, searched in the direction of her pointed finger. At first, he saw only breaking waves and the line of the horizon.
“Where?”
Then he saw the black dot of his son’s head appear. He was treading water. He had been pulled beyond where the waves were breaking, far enough that if they had not seen him swim out, they would never have known he was there. The boy began to swim towards them. He must have just realized how far he had been taken by the sea.
“He’s fine, he’s coming back,” said Percival, his spirits surging like the water. They stood motionless in the sun. Percival stared at the horizon as the salt water dried to a fine itchy powder on his skin. Dai Jai swam towards the shore, but though his arms churned desperately in a small commotion, the boy continued to grow smaller.
Cecilia said, “He’s being dragged farther out. The water is taking him away.”
