The Gangster We Are All Looking for - Couverture rigide

Le, Thi Diem Thuy

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0375400184 ISBN 13 : 9780375400186

Editeur : Alfred a Knopf Inc, 2003

Synopsis

Book by Le Thi Diem Thuy

A propos du livre

Extrait :

suh-top!

Linda Vista, with its rows of yellow houses, is where we eventually washed to shore. Before Linda Vista, we lived in the Green Apartment on Thirtieth and Adams, in Normal Heights. Before the Green Apartment, we lived in the Red Apartment on Forty-ninth and Orange, in East San Diego. Before the Red Apartment we weren’t a family like we are a family now. We were in separate places, waiting for each other. Ma was standing on a beach in Vietnam while Ba and I were in California with four men who had escaped with us on the same boat.

Ba and I were connected to the four uncles, not by blood but by water. The six of us had stepped into the South China Sea together. Along with other people from our village, we floated across the sea, first in the hold of the fishing boat, and then in the hold of a U.S. Navy ship. At the refugee camp in Singapore, we slept on beds side by side and when our papers were processed and stamped, we packed our few possessions and left the camp together. We entered the revolving doors of airports and boarded plane after plane. We were lifted high over the Pacific Ocean. Holding on to one another, we moved through clouds, ghost vapors, time zones. On the other side, we walked through a light rain and climbed into a car together. We were carried through unfamiliar brightly lit streets, and delivered to the sidewalk in front of a darkened house whose door we entered, after climbing five uneven steps together in what had become pouring rain.

In 1978, an elderly couple in San Diego decided to sponsor, through their church group, five young Vietnamese men and one six-year-old girl from a refugee camp in Singapore. Mr. Russell was a retired Navy man. He had once been stationed in the Pacific and remembered the people there as being small and kind. When Mr. Russell heard about the Vietnamese boat people, he spent many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling and thinking about the nameless, faceless bodies lying in small boats, floating on the open water. In Mr. Russell’s mind, the Vietnamese boat people merged with his memories of the Okinawans and the Samoans and even the Hawaiians.

One night, Mr. Russell fell asleep and dreamed that the boats were seabirds sitting on the waves. He saw a hand scoop the birds up from the water. It was not his hand and it was not the hand of God.

The birds went flying in all directions across the blinding blue sky of Mr. Russell’s dream, but finally he saw them fly in only one direction and that was toward the point where in the dream he understood himself to be waiting, somewhere beyond the frame.

The original plan was that my father, the four uncles and I would live with the elderly couple, but as our papers were being processed Mr. Russell died and there was some question as to where we would be sent. Tokyo? Sydney? Minneapolis?

Mr. Russell had told Mrs. Russell his dream about the birds. After his death, she considered the dream and decided that we should move in with their son, Melvin.

Ba said it was no one’s fault that we lasted only one season at Mel’s place.

When Mel approached us at the airport, we heard a faint rattling: a ring full of gold and silver keys hang- ing from his belt. With each step Mel took, the ring swung and rattled by his side. The keys were new to him. Mel was tall and thin, but the ring looked fat, important. Mel caught the ring and pushed it into his pocket. This silenced the keys for a moment. He shook everyone’s hand—including mine—and laughing nervously said, “Welcome to America.”

He then waved his hand in the air and when I followed it with my eyes, I saw a poster of a man and a woman at the beach, lying on striped towels, sunning themselves between two tall palm trees. Above the palm trees were large block letters that looked like they were on fire: SUNNY SAN DIEGO. The man was lying on his stomach, his face buried in his folded arms. The woman was lying on her back, with one leg down and the other leg up, bent at the knee. I looked through the triangle formed by the woman’s tanned knee, calf and thigh and saw the calm, sleeping waves of the ocean. My mother was out there somewhere. My father had said so.

After Mel and his mother took us to the room in Mel’s house where Ba, the four uncles and I would all be sleeping, they wished us goodnight and left us alone, closing the door quietly behind them. They stood in the hallway and we could hear them talking. Even without understanding a word of what they were saying, the tone of their voices troubled us. Had we been able to understand, we might have heard the following:

“I feel like I’ve inherited a boatload of people. I mean, I’ve been living here alone and now I’ve got five men I’ve never met before, and what about that little girl?”

“Dear, you know your father wanted them here.”

“Here in America, sure, but not here with me.”

“Well, it’s worked out that way. If your father were here—”

The woman started to cry.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry.”

We heard their footsteps move down the hallway toward the living room.

Inside the bedroom, we all remained quiet in our places. Ba was standing with his back against the door. The four men were sitting on the two bunk beds and I was sitting on the double bed, my knees pulled up near my chest.

One of the uncles took a deep breath and lay down on the bed. He was still wearing his shoes and let his feet hang off the edge of the bed so he wouldn’t get the covers dirty.

Ba stepped forward and explained to the four men and me that Mel had bought our way into the United States. He said that Mel was a good man. We heard without really listening. We nodded. Ba said that Mel had let the people at the airport gates know that it was O.K. for us to be here. “If it wasn’t for him,” Ba said, “they would have sent us back the way we came.”

We each thought of those long nights floating on the ocean, rocking back and forth in the middle of nowhere with nothing in sight. We remembered the ships that kept their distance. We remembered the people leaning over the decks of the ships to study us through their binoculars and not liking what they saw, turning away from our boat. If it was true that this man Mel could keep us from floating back there—to those salt-filled nights—what could we do but thank him. And then thank him again. Only why did it seem from the tones of the voices in the hallway as if something was wrong?

Ba said that we had to be patient.

Two of the uncles nodded. One closed his eyes. One lay down and turned toward the wall. I wrapped my arms around my knees and studied my bare feet. They were very clean; not a speck of sand or salt on them.

Ba said whatever we might come to think of Mel, we should always remember that he opened a door for us and that this was an important thing to remember.

There were things about us Mel never knew or remembered. He didn’t remember that we hadn’t come running through the door he opened but, rather, had walked, keeping close together and moving very slowly, as people often do when they have no idea what they’re walking toward or what they’re walking from. And he never knew that during our first night in America, as he and his mother sat on the living room couch holding on to each other and crying because Mr. Russell was gone, Ba had climbed out the bedroom window and was sitting in the shadow of the palm trees on the front lawn of the house, staring at the moon like a lost dog, and also crying.

.  .  .

The ring of gold and silver keys that rattled beside Mel opened the doors to condominiums, duplexes, and town houses in various states of neglect. Mel was not good with tools and, since a bicycle accident in early childhood, was generally rather fearful, a fact that had always pained him, especially around his father. In exchange for letting us live with him—an arrangement he reluctantly agreed to, to satisfy what his mother called his father’s “dying wish”—Mel employed Ba and the four uncles as his crew of house painters and general maintenance men. He was relieved not to have to climb shaky ladders or crawl through dark, narrow spaces to see about small broken things.

When the white walls in one of his properties had faded or become dirty with the grubby prints of people’s lives rubbing up against them, he sent Ba and the four uncles in with directions to “touch them up,” “make like new,” “make white again.”

On almost every day of the week, you could find them working: five small-boned Vietnamese men climbing ladders in empty rooms, painting the white walls whiter.

“So much white is unlucky.”

“Layers of white bury you.”

“In between the first coat and the third—”

“Death could slip in and—”

“Press you up against the wall and—”

“Wrap you up in coats of white.”

“Dressing you for your own funeral.”

.  .  .

Of all the men, Ba knew the most English; he had picked some up from the Americans during the war. The uncles asked Ba to ask Mel why the walls had to be so white. Ba didn’t know the word “so.” His question came out like this:

“Why white?”

Mel said, “It’s clean.”

That was the end of the conversation.

When Ba told the uncles what Mel had said, they stared at him blankly.

“No,” they said, turning to the white walls. “We don’t understand.”

They picked up their paintbrushes and rollers and rags and went back to work.

Ba tried to tell them again, the way Mel had told him, in that voice that shines bright in your face like a flashlight aimed at your eyes when you’re sleeping. It’s a voice that doesn’t explain, though it often says things in tones that make you wonder. My Ba does not have such a voice. Ba’s voice echoes from deep down like a frog singing at the bottom of a well. His voice is water moving through a reed pipe in the middle of a sad tune. And the sad voice is always asking and answering itself. It calls out and then comes running in. It is the tide of my Ba’s mind. When I listen to it, I can see boats floating around in his head. Boats full of people trying to get somewhere.

.  .  .

Mel had stopped going to church years ago but after his father’s death, he started going again. Every Sunday morning he would drive to his parents’ house to pick up his mother and accompany her to church. During our first month at Mel’s, Ba and the four uncles and I would all pile into the car and go with them. But after a couple of Sundays in a row during which the uncles either slept through the sermon or stared at the floor absentmindedly, picking dried paint off their hands and fingernails, it was decided that we should stay at the house while Mel and his mother went to church.

After church, Mel would bring his mother by to visit with us.

We would all gather around the coffee table in the living room, Mel seated on the lounge chair in the corner, reading the Sunday paper, Ba, the four uncles and I taking turns smiling at Mrs. Russell, who sat on the couch and smiled patiently back at us.

“Now, what’s happening in the world?” she’d ask Mel.

“Oh, the usual,” he’d answer.

Mrs. Russell’s face was always made up, and when I leaned in reluctantly to kiss her, it smelled of sweet powder and rouge. She wore necklaces and earrings with bright purple and red stones. Some of the earrings were in the shape of flowers and some hung like clusters of lights shining from either side of her face.

From that house of bachelors, Mrs. Russell chose my Ba and me as her favorites. Perhaps she sensed we’d once had a woman in our lives. She bought me pastel-colored dresses to wear to school and smaller versions of those necklaces and earrings she liked to wear. The jewelry came cushioned on cotton squares inside little white boxes that rattled hollow when she shook them.

On Sunday afternoons that first winter, she would take my Ba and me for long drives up into the mountains. After the telephone wires and the streets of the city had slowly given way to treetops and gravel roads, we would get out of the car and find ourselves surrounded by snow. A small woods stood before us, and the road fell away in the distance behind us. There was nothing up there but snow and sky. And it seemed that all we ever did was walk in circles, making footprints in the soft snow.

After the third trip to the mountain, I asked Ba why Mel’s mother was always taking us up to the snow.

He said, “Maybe she thinks we think it’s magic, the way she can take us to a snowy place that’s so near a hot city.”

“Why doesn’t she take us to the beach?” I asked.

Ba shook his head. “No. Not possible. There’s no reason for us to go there.”

“But Ma’s there,” I said.

“No, she’s not,” Ba said, leaning down to zip up my jacket.

“You told me she was at the beach,” I said.

“Not the beach here. The beach in Vietnam,” Ba said.

What was the difference?

The grandmother brought a small camera with her on these trips. She liked looking at things through it. On our very first trip to the mountain, she took a photograph of Ba and me standing in front of Mel’s blue car.

In the photograph, Ba is wearing brown pants and a turquoise velour sweatshirt. His hair is parted on the side and pushed back behind one ear. I am wearing blue jeans and a yellow-and-red striped sweater that you can’t see because it’s under the ivory-colored sweater the grandmother had pulled from the trunk of the car, shaking the dust off before helping me into it. Before we took this picture Ba brushed my bangs across my forehead so they wouldn’t fall in my eyes.

In this photograph, my Ba and I hold hands and lean against the blue car. We are looking at the camera, waiting for that flash that lets us know something has happened inside the body of the camera, something that makes it remember us, remember our faces, remember our clothes, remember the blurred shape of our hands captured in that second when we shivered, waiting.

After the grandmother took this picture, she led us toward the woods.

.  .  .

That first day on the mountain, I made a game of following in my Ba’s footsteps so I left no tracks of my own in the snow. When I stopped and looked back in the direction we had come from, I could see only my Ba’s footprints and the grandmother’s. The footprints began at the car, which looked, from a distance, like a shining blue box that had dropped from the sky.

I watched Ba walking slowly toward the woods. He had his hands behind his back and was staring at the ground. The grandmother walked ahead of him. She was looking through her camera at the sky, at the tops of trees and, sometimes, back at us.

I ran after them.

In the thickest part of the woods, she stopped walking and turned to face us. She was smiling and I remember how her head shook slightly, sending the shiny balls on her earlobes swinging like searchlights.

She laid her palm against the trunk of a tree and with her finger traced some letters that had been carved there. She was smiling and crying at the same time.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Ba was squatting in the snow ...

Présentation de l'éditeur :

This acclaimed novel reveals the life of a Vietnamese family in America through the knowing eyes of a child finding her place and voice in a new country.

In 1978 six refugees—a girl, her father, and four “uncles”—are pulled from the sea to begin a new life in San Diego. In the child’s imagination, the world is transmuted into an unearthly realm: she sees everything intensely, hears the distress calls of inanimate objects, and waits for her mother to join her. But life loses none of its strangeness when the family is reunited. As the girl grows, her matter-of-fact innocence eddies increasingly around opaque and ghostly traumas: the cataclysm that engulfed her homeland, the memory of a brother who drowned and, most inescapable, her father’s hopeless rage.

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Alfred a Knopf Inc
• Date d'édition: 2003
• ISBN 10: 0375400184
• ISBN 13: 9780375400186
• Reliure: Relié
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 160