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  Now, beneath the open black sky, surrounded by sand grasses and low dunes falling into the sea, Percival and the others waited. The signal would come only once—three flashes. When they saw the light, they must run across the beach into the water. They were to go out into the ocean as far as possible. A small launch would pluck them out and take them to a ship.

  In the starlight, Percival could barely make out the ghostly shapes of his fellow travellers crouched around him. He stared out on the water and saw nothing, heard the chop of waves. What if the signal never flashed? What if morning cracked the horizon, if the sun shone down and exposed them before the boat came? The night must be half gone. Occasionally, soldiers patrolled the beach, swung dim flashlights, their radios squawked. If daylight came before the little boat, if they were caught, the soldiers would not bother loading them into trucks. The sand was easily dug. They’d be given shovels to prepare their own graves—the smuggler had explained this.

  And if the signal did come? What if, by then, the wind had whipped the waves up? Percival could not swim. Even once they were at sea, there were navy boats and pirates. Engines failed and captains became lost. But there was no point thinking any further than this moment—the one thing was to watch for the signal. Percival prayed to the ghost of his father and all his ancestors for the boat to come, for a chance to see his grandson again.

  He imagined entering the water, the waves welcoming him, licking up around his legs. He would plunge ahead up to his waist and listen for the boat, for any directions that were yelled. When it was close, he would go as deep as he could, up to his neck. He could not be left behind. He must not panic, even if the waves submerged him. If the launch was yet farther out, he would rise to the surface and swim. If the fish could do it, so could he.

  Then they came fast as three winks—the three flashes of light. Darkness again. There were no patrols nearby. Around him, he heard the others in the grass rising, uttering words of relief and fear, gathering and shushing children, running for the water. He ran too. He ran headlong down the dunes, legs slashed by the stinging grass, forward across the beach. His feet pushed through the soft sand, his lungs aching, the wind everywhere, guided only by the noise of the sea.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My deepest gratitude is to my wife, Margarita, who always encouraged, sometimes consoled, and often cheered me during my journey writing this novel. In so many important ways, she made this book possible. My parents helped me with generous recollections of their childhoods in Vietnam. The specific details and anecdotes that they shared with me were invaluable in my understanding of life’s rhythms in that era. My late grandfather, William Lin, inspired the fictional protagonist of this novel. A number of former teachers and students of his school shared their memories with me. Portions of the story pay homage to episodes in the lives of my relatives. In particular, this book remembers my late Aunt Sophie. Echoes of history are to be found in this narrative and yet it is a work of fiction.

  I am immensely appreciative of my editors in this project. Martha Kanya-Forstner believed in this book and nurtured it, even during its most impressionistic and fragile beginnings. She entered the lives of its characters with compassion, wisdom, and editorial rigor. In doing so, she helped me to carry the project through to completion, and challenged me to bring it to life on the page. Nita Pronovost peered deeply into the shadows of this book, and those of its author, to help both find their way through some difficult times. Alexis Washam asked essential questions of the characters, and her insightful editorial work helped bring clarity to the text.

  Thank you to Alex Schultz for a superlative copyedit, and Shaun Oakey for his exceptional proofread. Rachel Brown was very helpful with early manuscript preparation. A special thank you to my friends and publishers: Maya Mavjee, Kristin Cochrane, Brad Martin, Nick Pearson, and Molly Stern, all of whom gave me the opportunity to publish this book. My agents, Anne McDermid and Christy Fletcher, navigated some tricky waters with their calm hands, and I am grateful to them for that. A great debt is owed to my elegant and steadfast friend, Judy Hottensen.

  Along the way, I benefitted from encouragements, mutual commiserations, shared perspectives on the life of writing, and an extensive range of kindnesses from many people, including: Margaret Atwood, Joseph Boyden, Cathy Buchanan, Wayson Choy, Adrienne Clarkson, David Davidar, Junot Díaz, Katie Finch Rinella, Richard Florest, Graeme Gibson, Rawi Hage, Elizabeth Hay, Lynn Henry, Adria Iwasutiak, Joshua Knelman, Martha Magor Webb, Richard Munter, Michael Ondaatje, Monica Pacheco, Paul Quarrington, John Ralston Saul, Robert Rotenberg, Madeleine Thien, Miriam Toews, Jane Urquhart, M.G. Vassanji, Alyssa Wolff, Rob Weisbach, and a vast array of other professional colleagues, fellow writers, and readers.