“It’s getting dark.”

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  “What are you looking for here?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to come back.”

  “I knew that,” he said.

  “What did you know?”

  “I knew that you would come back.”

  “How strange,” I said.

  “Yes, it is strange. But why else should I have survived being crushed by a heavy piece of metal shrapnel? I knew there would be someone out there looking …”

  “The person I am looking for is dead,” I said all of a sudden, surprising even myself. “Sometimes I think he is just like you. Have you ever imagined that there might be a woman like me waiting for you?”

  “No,” he said, hurriedly. “Both of us are liars. You’re looking for something that is already lost, and therefore irreplaceable, and I am waiting for someone who doesn’t even exist.”

  He stood up unsteadily.

  “I was eighteen when I joined the war,” he said. “I didn’t have a fiancée, which was a fortunate thing. Nobody was tormented when I left.”

  He looked at me more seriously.

  “Please leave this place immediately,” he said. “You shouldn’t live in your dreams. Let it pass.” As he started to walk away he added, “I probably won’t live much longer.”

  I felt my heart beating wildly as the sound of his wooden leg against the ground gradually grew distant.

  …

  Days later, I heard him return, the same determined clomp of his wooden leg against the ground.

  “I knew you would be back,” I said.

  “Really?” he said.

  “You wouldn’t leave me here all by myself when it’s dark.”

  He looked deeply into my eyes, and for a moment his face brightened like that of a child.

  I’m not sure why I cried so much when I gave myself to him. He cried as well. In that moment, I think I honestly believed that if my tears and his ran together, something divine would happen.

  …

  I have never seen a man’s face that is as strange as his. There is anger in his eyes, and something like sorrow on his lips.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “It’s been a month,” I replied.

  He sat there quietly, touching the small veins on my hands. I wondered if he could hear what I was hearing: sounds from some distant world, the beating of two immortal hearts.

  “You’re serious,” he said, looking for confirmation.

  “Yes, I am serious.”

  He stood suddenly and began shouting like a maniac.

  “Yes! Oh, yes!”

  His wooden leg beat the ground in a way that sounded musical.

  Three days later he died from a recurring illness.

  * * *

  Anyone who visited the village and asked about Tuc would hear the story of her out-of-wedlock pregnancy. She had been lovesick and gone crazy and left the village, the gossips would explain. When she finally returned, she had a child and lived the rest of her life like a mute, reclusive woman. But her child was beautiful, as if he’d stepped out of a painting.

  Well, ill fate was always associated with beauty, the gossips would say, sighing. If only Tuc had not been too picky and married Hao, she would’ve had a great life. In my entire village, only Hao was wealthy. He joined the military but never shot a gun or fought in a battle, and still he was promoted to the rank of major. Though his wife was eccentric and unattractive, she came from a powerful and rich family. Hao needed only to rely on his father-in-law for his own upward mobility. Who else from our village could’ve done better than he?

  Nobody remembered that Tuc had once been the most beautiful girl in the village.

  10 / BROTHER, WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME?

  TRUONG VAN NGOC

  Truong Van Ngoc was born in 1973 in Hung Yen and currently lives in Hanoi. He is a high school teacher and an emerging author whose short fiction has been well received in Vietnam. Every summer, he devotes his time to searching for the remains of soldiers who died in the war with America. Over 300,000 Vietnamese soldiers are still missing, a staggering statistic that impacts hundreds of thousands of families, mostly in northern Vietnam. The trip to Dien Bien in “Brother, When Will You Come Home?” is typical of the privately funded search missions organized by the families of the missing. These private search trips were enabled mostly by improved economic conditions in the wake of the market reforms of the early 2000s; families suddenly had the financial means to actually go look for their loved ones. These searches continue today and, like the trip in the story, often employ a mix of spiritual and logistical methods for tracking down a missing soldier.

  * * *

  There were six of us crammed into the white Toyota SUV as it bounced violently along the road. The mountain road from Hanoi to the northwest was full of twists and turns, ups and downs. National Highway 6 was under construction, so all the vehicles moved slowly, like languid cows.

  Quan was tired and looked out the window. This was his third trip up to Dien Bien. The first two times he hadn’t accomplished what he wanted. This time, though, with meticulous planning and preparation, he was convinced that he would accomplish his mission.

  Mr. Hung sat next to Quan in the bouncing Toyota. He was a veteran who had fought in the same unit as Binh, Quan’s brother, whose body we had come to this place to look for. Other people in the car included the driver, Quan’s younger sister Lan, her husband, and myself.

  Quan was an atheist and didn’t believe in fortune-tellers or ghosts. He had faith only in friendship, witnesses, and hard evidence. The Province Military Headquarters had drawn a detailed map marking the location of his brother’s grave and given it to the family. Our trip relied upon it.

  Around noon, we arrived at the peak of Pha Din Mountain. Thick fog covered the mountains, and some local people had set up shops along the side of the road selling wild game that smelled really good. Looking back down at the road we had just traveled, winding back and forth through the layers of fog, I recalled some lines in a poem by To Huu: “At Pha Din, she carries things on her shoulders, he transports goods by bicycle / At Lung Lo Pass, he chants, she sings.” The poem talked about the nation’s heroic years and the difficult time Quan’s brother and Mr. Hung had experienced. Now that our country was unified and socio-economic conditions were starting to improve, we needed to look for the bodies of fallen soldiers—it was the duty not only of their families but also of the entire society. Finding his brother’s body was Quan’s most important wish. He knew it would make his elderly parents happy, and it would give him peace of mind because he would finally be able to pay respects to his brother.

  Quan and I worked together at the same company in Hanoi. We were colleagues. But unlike Quan, I myself was spiritual. I believed that, in the afterlife, the dead had the same kind of lives as the living. The dead had wishes and desires, just like the living. After all, our ancestors had always said, “The earthly life and the afterlife are similar.” I had already participated in finding and exhuming nearly twenty graves, of both civilians who had been killed in the war and fallen soldiers. Quan had asked me to accompany him because he believed that I would be able to help him with his mission.

  Before we left, I had told Quan to prepare himself for dealing with the spiritual world on this trip. But he had insisted, “As long as I am sincere, I will be able to bring my brother’s remains back. Plus, this time we’re going with one of his old war friends, and we have the map of the grave.”

  * * *

  The area of the woods where Nguyen Thanh Binh, Quan’s brother, was apparently buried was located on a steep hillside. Beneath the hill was a creek that ran all the way to the border with Laos.

  Quan stood quietly, studying the map and looking at the area in front of us. The forest here was thick, dense with green, leafy trees and vines. It would be difficult to find the grave.

  Mr. Hung walked back and forth, measuring and doing mental calculations. Then he paused for a moment. His face looked agitated.

  “Everything has changed,” he said finally. “This path”—he pointed at a thin sliver of dirt running up the hillside—“I don’t know if it’s the same path. There was a cement factory on that side of the lake before, but everything is gone now. This map won’t be much help. What should we do?”

  I tried to stay calm and recalled my previous experiences with exhumation.

  I told Quan, “Maybe we should go into the village and ask around. Maybe someone will know something.”

  Quan seemed excited and agreed to my suggestion.

  We met Ut, an older man who was one of the village leaders. Ut told us that back during the war, Company C3 had been stationed right next to the Na Hai Mountain village. There was a young soldier who went with his unit into the forest to collect bamboo for building huts, but he was swept away when Pam Not Creek flooded. Three days later, the other soldiers in the unit found his body and buried him on a hillside, which contained an old Montagnard cemetery, just as indicated on our map.

  Quan was extremely happy about this information. Right away, he and his sister hired a group of strong laborers who had all the necessary tools to begin the work of digging up the grave site. They dug for a whole day and cleared away a section of the forest. By the end, everybody was exhausted. Quan and Mr. Hung ran back and forth anxiously.

  Elderly Ut said, “It must’ve been in this area, because up there is the old Montagnard cemetery.” As is customary among the Montagnards, the earth directly above the graves had been flattened and no incense had been burned, so trees had grown everywhere.

  It was already late in the afternoon at this point. Dim sunlight pierced the forest leaves, making everybody’s face look pale. I thought of a spiritual explanation for our failure: something hadn’t been done right on the trip up here in the white Toyota SUV, and that was why the gods and maybe even the spirit of Quan’s brother were not happy. That was why we found nothing.

  I had certainly witnessed plenty of incredible incidents on trips like this before. For example, I’d seen the relatives of one fallen soldier who chose to stay at a luxury hotel, spent money extravagantly, and displayed no patience; they’d looked for the grave several times but always failed to find anything.

  Perhaps Binh was testing us.

  The next day the laborers continued digging. The morning went by quickly. We’d erected a temporary prayer altar at the location of the grave—the location that was marked on the map—and after lunch I requested that everyone sit in meditation. Then I lit some incense and began to pray:

  “I bow down to the earth and forest gods, to all local spirits, and to the spirit of fallen soldier Nguyen Thanh Binh. Please protect and guide us, Binh, so we can find your grave quickly and bring your remains to reunite you with your ancestors.”

  Once the incense had burned down all the way, everybody stood up, clearly tired and disheartened. Quan again asked the village leader Ut about the details of the burial years ago, during the war.

  “The people here are very honest,” he insisted. “The soldier was buried here. I’m not lying. Trust me.”

  Suddenly one of the laborers spoke up. “Well, if he was buried several years ago,” the laborer said, leaning on his shovel, “we won’t find the grave here. Everything sank. We should look over there instead. Look for a low spot in the ground that has the shape of a coffin. I should know, I used to dig graves on this hill.”

  Everyone dispersed and went back to work. Only a few minutes later, one of the laborers shouted, “Here it is!”

  Quan was overwhelmed and came running over to the fresh hole on the side of the hill.

  The next steps were done very quickly. I personally washed and wiped each bone carefully and arranged them in a wooden urn. The dead had no material possessions left except his shoe heels, which were believed to belong to a pair of standard-issue soldier’s shoes, and a damp, curled ID card, though the words printed on it were illegible.

  “Did ID cards exist back when Binh died?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Hung replied, without hesitating. “ID cards were issued starting in 1972.”

  “I told you!” Ut the village leader said excitedly. “That’s him! A soldier. He was the only one buried here.” Ut turned to address the bones I’d cleaned and placed in the urn. “Return to your hometown now. We’ll have a prayer ceremony for you.”

  Everybody was delighted and forgot immediately about how exhausted they were. Quan was so happy that he cried. He would finally be able to bring his brother back to his family and back to their ancestors so Binh could rest in peace.

  Back in Hanoi there was a party at Quan’s house. The whole family got together. People cried and laughed. Quan’s elderly parents trembled as they held the wooden urn that contained the bones and had been covered with the national flag. They cried, “My son, why did you leave us for so long?”

  The usually calm residential street suddenly filled with excitement. Neighbors and other veterans stopped by to congratulate the family. Anyone walking past would have easily mistaken the party for a wedding.

  “Let’s drink to our accomplishment,” said Quan’s uncle, who fashioned himself leader of the family.

  It was late winter. Outside, the air was cold and the winds blew violently.

  * * *

  This would not be an easy mistake to fix.

  While everyone was celebrating and eating cheerfully, I suddenly remembered the ID card found with the remains. It was still in the pocket of my jacket. After so many hours, and probably because of my body heat, the ID card had dried so that the words were now clearly legible: “Full name: Lo Van Thang. Born in 1917. Birthplace: Muong Phang, Tuan Giao, Lai Chau. Registered residence: Sam Mun, Dien Bien. Issued on May 28, 1988.”

  After reading the information on the card, I told Quan about it right away. His face turned dark as he examined the ID card himself. He read and reread each word. Then he picked up the phone and called the village leader Ut in Dien Bien. After hearing the name on the card, Mr. Ut confirmed that the remains belonged to his brother-in-law, who had died in 1990.

  The next day, Quan called an emergency family meeting. His parents, after hearing the news, were speechless. They leaned against a wall of the house, both of them shocked and in a daze. The most important thing was to keep this news confidential. And it was necessary to return Thang’s remains to his original grave as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Once again, the white Toyota SUV bounced along the windy mountain road from Hanoi to Dien Bien. In the car this time we were joined by Ms. Hoa, a psychic. Quan had finally taken my advice and decided to seek the help of a medium.

  Quan was quiet during the whole trip and rarely talked. He looked pensive. At work he was a firm and determined manager. Under his leadership our company had won the highest government recognition several years in a row. But when dealing with things like this he could hardly hide his confusion and sadness.

  We arrived at Sam Mun late in the afternoon, and everybody went to work immediately looking for a place to bury the urn. The village leader Ut brought a boiled chicken and a raw egg. He walked back and forth, throwing the egg up in the air, but each time it fell to the ground without breaking. He explained that if the spirit liked a specific spot, the egg would break. Ut continued for several minutes until finally the egg broke—the spirit had chosen its spot—and everybody started to pray.

  The atmosphere was so still it made us shudder. I opened my eyes for a moment and saw in front of me, hovering in the smoke from the burning incense, the image of a hunchbacked old man grinning cheerfully, showing his shiny black teeth. Then the image vanished almost immediately into the tufts of smoke.

  The next morning we returned to the area very early. Ms. Hoa, the medium, quickly set up a small shrine. I stretched out a piece of canvas to cover the ground, and everyone sat in meditation. She prayed for a while and waited for the incense to burn down completely. Then she gave us an order:

  “Everybody close your eyes,” she said. We were all still sitting on the piece of canvas in meditation. “Relax your arms and legs. Do not get distracted, and concentrate your thoughts on the dead.”

  Then Ms. Hoa continued her prayer:

  “I bow down to the forest and earth gods and to all local spirits. Today is December 22, according to the lunar calendar. On behalf of Nguyen Hong Quan and his relatives, I summon the soul of the fallen soldier Nguyen Thanh Binh, who was buried near Ha Nai Mountain, Sam Mun, Dien Bien. I respectfully request that you guide your relatives to your lost grave so they can reunite you with your ancestors.”

  Ms. Hoa paused for a while and observed the rest of us burning incense. The hillside was extremely quiet. Incense smoke was everywhere.

  She continued:

  “Spirit, we respectfully summon you. We miss you. We invite you to come here and sit wherever you like. You are a sacred spirit. Please show us the way. Do you live down by the creek or up in the mountains? Please show us the way. I bow down to you. Sit wherever you like.…”

  After a little while the medium turned to Lan, Quan’s sister.

  “I summon you, spirit,” Ms. Hoa said, lowering her voice. “Please enter her body a bit further and show your family the way.”

  Lan was shaking. Binh’s spirit, I assumed, must have occupied Lan’s body. Everybody gathered around her now.

  Quan spoke first, in a trembling voice.

  “Hello, Binh. Is that you? This is Quan.”

  Mr. Hung said, “Brother Binh. I am Hung C3. Do you recognize me?”

  Lan’s body was still shaking.

  I said, “Hello, Binh. I am your brother’s friend. If you have arrived, please say something.”

  Suddenly Lan let out a loud shriek, then began to cry. Tears covered her face.

  Ms. Hoa said, “Spirit, if you are unhappy or unsatisfied with anything, please let your family know. We are ignorant earthly people.”