Rare Orchids shares a saga of passions and loves of three generations of Vietnamese women whose lives intertwine with the history of U.S.-Vietnam relations.
Rare Orchids shares a saga of passions and loves of three generations of Vietnamese women whose lives intertwine with the history of U.S.-Vietnam relations.
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Mother told me this blank book of paper was for me to write my diary, or poetry, or whatever I wanted to write. That was before the legionaires took her away. She died from the fever in a French prison. For the last two years this book has been at the bottom of my bottom drawer. Then, this morning, I pulled the drawer all the way out and turned it over on my bed. The book is bound in pink leather, which is what drew my attention to it. Today I was searching for a pink sapphire necklace that Mother had given me on my fifteenth birthday. She told me it had belonged to her mother and her grandmother before. Father had said the necklace's sapphires were the same color as the pedals of a rare orchid that he was searching for. He worried it was already extinct. Last year he found his orchid. And today, I found my necklace and this book. Later today, Father is going to announce his success at cultivating the orchid in captivity. Since Mother is gone, I am the hostess. So that is all I can write, for now. I suppose I should have written down the date before I started this scribbling. It is January 20, 1940. I am back. I decided to write a few more words before changing into my white blouse and long pink dress with the daring slit Father hates. The white blouse is a perfect backdrop for the and pink sapphire necklace that Father loves. I should tell you that the name of the rare orchid Father was looking for is the Vietnamese Paphiopedilum. He called it by its Latin scientific name, Paphiepedium vietnamense. He was so obsessed with rare orchids he named me Lan, the word for orchid. ARRRGH! My uncle can be so annoying. Today was Father's event. He and I had pulled back a curtain and revealed a long table with fifty young potted paphiepedium vietnamense, to a gasp of delight from the group that Father and I had gathered. But then Uncle used the unveiling to make a political speech. Father did not say anything, even when Uncle handed out leaflets with inflammatory writing by Nguyen the Patriot. Father's way is to avoid conflict. I am always the one who has to stand up for our interests with merchants and those we hire to help us. Of course, I understand Father always has his mind in the clouds, up on some mist-wrapped mountainside, imagining, I suppose, that he is peering between wet foliage at some sapphire pink orchid pedals. I just wish he would come out of the clouds once in a while, such as earlier, to usher Uncle out the door. I was the one who had to put a stop to Uncle's verbal cascade. When Uncle passed me on his way out, his eyes barely flickered at mine, but I felt his anger at me for interrupting him. Blood? Yes. My bloody fingers write this now. Our guests were long gone and the day had almost gone, when loud, urgent knocking rattled our strong wooden door. Was it Uncle? What had he forgotten? Or was it one of our other guests? The botanists could get pretty passionate fervor going when they had a point to make. As I neared the door I could hear more than one voice but could not hear what was being said. Then the pounding came again so intensely, I angrily unlocked it. I was immediately thrown back by a wave of uniformed male bodies shouting in French. They had the stale reek of tobacco stewed with cologne that had failed at its job. They dragged Father past me and out the door. I heard trucks depart. I assumed they were headed with Father to the Citadel, Hanoi's notorious prison, so that is where my feet began to take me. As I stepped under the badly-deteriorated arch at our neighborhood's entrance I saw a horror that made me gasp and choked my scream. Hanging from the entry side of the arch was a blood-soaked corpse of a Vietnamese man. Rolled papers had been stuffed into its mouth and grotesquely, into eyeless eye sockets. I compelled myself to step closer to the corpse. I saw the rolled papers were Nguyen the Patriot leaflets. I focused on the blood-caked garb of the corpse. Suddenly, belatedly, I realized the truth. It was Uncle.
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