“Contact his father? Down in Hue? I don’t know,” said Khoi, the joy of the day already drained out of it. “His father often works with the emperor, or that’s what Sinh said. I don’t think he’d deign to read a telegram from me. He might not even accept it. But I will try,” he said when Anne-Marie let out a desperate-sounding squawk. “Of course, I will. I’ll leave right now to do so,” he said, walking across the room for his hat. “Don’t worry, Anne-Marie. I’m sure Sinh hasn’t forgotten about us. Well, me, maybe,” he said, smiling. “But not you.”
“It’s impossible,” I said, sitting next to her. “I’ve never seen two people more in love than you and Sinh.”
“That’s only because you can’t see yourself,” she said, seeming slightly relieved. “Too bad you’re so utterly married.”
“It is quite a pity,” I said, not disclosing that I had been thinking very often about how to get unmarried over the last year and a half.
We didn’t receive word back from Sinh’s father for another month, a month that Anne-Marie and the two of us spent worrying and drinking in excess, both noon and night. Anne-Marie’s grades started to reflect her mental state, and her parents forced her to spend time with tutors instead of her friends.
We saw less and less of her, so when we finally received a letter from Sinh’s father, Anne-Marie was not with us to open it. We had, in fact, not seen her for a week. Khoi ripped the letter open, walking toward me as he did, but as soon as he’d read a few lines to himself, he stopped in the center of the room, his face ashen. It was as if he’d just been handed his death notice.
His hand barely able to hold the paper, he read on, turning the pages over. There were three in total. He walked to the kitchen, poured himself a whiskey, drank it in one gulp, then poured another and handed it to me. He watched me drink it and then started reading the letter aloud. To my surprise, the note was in French.
Dear Monsieur Nguyen,
I would first like to thank you for the friendship you showed my son during his years in Paris. He mentioned you in his letters many times and praised you for being not only an upstanding student, but a model representative of our people in France. I am afraid I only know your father by reputation, but I hope I have the chance to meet him, and you, in the near future and express my gratitude in person.
Unfortunately, the good news stops there, for this letter is a letter no father should ever have to write. Your dear friend, my son, Sinh, is no longer with us.
“What!” I said, gasping. “No.” I started shaking my head. All I could say was no. I kept repeating the word quietly as Khoi continued to read, his voice breaking.
I never saw Sinh when he arrived back in Indochine. His boat docked at Haiphong at the end of April, and he was immediately brought into police custody. The reason, I was later told, was because he was in possession of communist literature. He had several copies of L’Humanité, a French communist publication, with him.
“He took Anne-Marie’s writing home!” I exclaimed. “Why would he do such a thing? He should have known not to.”
“How could he not have taken her writing?” said Khoi, letting his arm bend down for a moment. The letter dropped to the floor. “He couldn’t bring her, so he took her words instead. I’m sure he thought if anything the newspaper would be confiscated on arrival. Not that they would lead him to a death sentence.”
Khoi bent down, gathered the pages, and kept reading.
The police telephoned me when he was in custody and informed me of what had happened, a courtesy made only because of my position in the government. I told them to please hold him overnight and that I would come to take him in the morning. I was in Hue and it would take me that long to travel north. I asked them to keep him in custody overnight as I was very angry with him. How could the son I raised be so foolish? I was sure that a night in prison would help set him straight and put a stop to the communist filth that had taken over his mind in Paris. Perhaps you can