Chapter 30: Days in the Fishing Village
Old Hai flinched at the sight of the man. His whole body
was cold and rigid, his clothes plastered to his skin. His fingers were locked
so tightly around the driftwood that Old Hai had to pry them loose one by one.
He laid the man down on the deck and pressed an ear to his
chest.
Beneath the wind shrieking over the river and the waves
slapping the hull, he caught a heartbeat. Faint, but there.
“Still alive.”
Old Hai muttered it to himself, then swung the bow around
and rowed hard for the fishing village.
Khai Minh had no idea how long he had drifted. His last
memory was the icy water crashing over him. A body already wrecked by days of
forced medication gave out almost at once. He thrashed blindly, clawing toward
air, but the water kept pouring into his mouth and nose, dragging him under.
At some point his hand struck a floating log. He clung to
it with the last strength he had, and then everything went dark.
When he came to, the first thing he registered was the
smell of woodsmoke mixed with drying fish.
Overhead, wind whistled through the gaps in the roof,
rattling the old tin sheets. Farther off came the slap of waves, and someone
playing a folk song out on the river.
He tried to sit up. The moment he moved, pain tore across
his chest. His breath jammed in his throat and broke into a coughing fit that
curled his whole body in on itself.
“Don’t try to sit up.”
Old Hai said it gently.
“Your lungs are weak. Be glad you kept your life.”
Khai Minh went on guard at once. His hand slid along the
mat beside him, but there was no cane. He tried to push up onto his elbow
again; dizziness slammed into him and forced him back down.
“Where am I?”
“A fishing village downriver.”
The man came closer. His footsteps were heavy but even.
Nothing furtive about them.
“Name’s Hai. Pulled you up in my net the other day.”
“The other day. Which day?”
“You don’t remember? You’ve been out cold for almost two
days.”
Khai Minh lay still.
He didn’t know how far he had drifted, or how many
kilometers this place was from Dong Cang. His throat burned. His chest felt
crushed under stone. Every deep breath sent pain climbing from his ribs up into
his shoulder.
He lifted a hand to his left wrist.
His fingertips found the familiar leather strap.
His mother’s watch was still there. Only then did his
rigid hand slowly loosen.
“Where’s my cane?”
“When I hauled you up, you were hugging a log. There was
no cane.”
Khai Minh was quiet for a moment, then asked:
“Have you reported this to anyone?”
“Not yet.”
Old Hai set a bowl of water down beside the plank bed.
“You hadn’t woken up. I meant to wait until you did before
going to the authorities. Here, warm water. Drink.”
“Don’t you want to know who I am?”
“You want to tell me, tell me. You don’t, then don’t.”
The plain answer caught Khai Minh off guard.
For years, no one had helped him without wanting something
in return. His own relatives had cared for him for the Vinh An shares. The
Truong Sinh Group had kept him alive only to draw his blood and study his body.
Now, even with a hand stretched out to save him, Khai Minh
could not know whether a knife waited behind it.
He didn’t reach for the bowl.
Old Hai seemed to read the wariness, and nudged the bowl
closer.
“Drink. You dying in my house would just be one more
headache.”
The words were gruff, but the hand that set the bowl down
was gentle.
Slowly, Khai Minh sat up, leaned his back against the
wooden wall, and drank in small sips. The warm water scraped down his raw
throat, but it thawed a little of the cold out of his body.
For days afterward, Khai Minh lay mostly lost in fever.
At times he burned, sweat soaking through the back of his
shirt. At times he shook so hard his teeth chattered, even under two layers of
old blankets. In the fever’s broken dreams he kept hearing the door of Room 407
swing shut, gurney wheels rolling down a corridor, someone’s voice saying MK-2.
One night he jolted awake, both hands groping for a way
out. Only when he heard the waves outside and Old Hai stoking the stove did he
understand that he was no longer in that psychiatric facility.
Every morning, Old Hai left food and water beside the plank
bed and went out to the river. Toward evening, those heavy footsteps returned,
carrying the smell of mud, fish, and brackish water.
He never asked the younger man’s name, or how a blind man
had ended up adrift in the middle of the river.
That silence lowered Khai Minh’s guard, but he still
didn’t dare tell the truth. He said only that he had run into trouble, fallen
into the river, and lost his papers.
Old Hai just said:
“Don’t want to talk, then don’t. Get well first. The rest
can wait.”
One morning, the old cassette radio by the window crackled
to life.
First came the weather report, warning that the river was
still running high after days of rain. Then, after a short burst of music, the
announcer’s voice turned grave.
“Authorities are continuing the search for a young man
named Lam Khai Minh, a suspect in connection with a homicide in the city of
Dong Cang.”
Khai Minh’s body locked up.
His hand curled, slowly, into a fist.
“The subject was previously treated at a psychiatric
facility and escaped during a transfer between facilities. His whereabouts
remain unknown. According to the family, Lam Khai Minh shows signs of
psychiatric disturbance, is unable to control his behavior, and may pose a
danger to those around him.”
Khai Minh ground his teeth.
Mr. Minh Quan didn’t just want him gone.
He wanted the whole city to believe Khai Minh was a
madman. A killer to be feared and avoided. So that even if he came back alive
someday, every word out of his mouth would be dismissed as the ravings of a
mental patient.
The announcer went on:
“Members of the public who encounter an individual
matching this description are advised to keep their distance and immediately
notify the nearest authorities.”
The radio snapped off.
The little house went quiet. Only the water lapping at the
bank outside.
Khai Minh could hear Old Hai standing near the door. He
didn’t know whether the man had heard the broadcast from the beginning, or had
only just come in.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
Then Old Hai walked over and set a bowl of rice porridge
down beside him.
“Eat. It tastes fishy once it’s cold.”
Khai Minh didn’t touch it.
“You have nothing you want to ask me?”
“Ask about what?”
“The person they just named on the radio.”
Old Hai dragged a chair over and sat down.
“I didn’t see anyone on the radio.”
It might have passed for a joke, but his voice was
perfectly even.
Khai Minh understood then that the man had worked
something out. And still he asked nothing.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
“Are you planning to hurt me?”
“No.”
“Then eat.”
Khai Minh bowed his head. Between the two of them there
seemed to be an unspoken understanding: some things were not yet ready to be
said.
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