The terror of the street began to fade. The pain within his mind and body diminished. A stillness emerged. In this stillness he was able to temporarily detach himself from his sufferings.
“Where you from?” the bartender asked in broken English.
Noah eyed the older man, who was constantly cleaning glasses or the countertop. “America,” he replied, avoiding the man’s stare.
“Why you come to Vietnam?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your first time here?”
“Yeah.”
The bartender nodded. “It good to have Americans back in Vietnam. When I was boy, here in Saigon, I saw many Americans. We South Vietnamese fight with you, against the north. We fight and die together. And then, when we lose, Americans left. One day they all gone, thousands of them. And for many years they no come back. Those times very hard. No jobs. No food. No reason to—” The man stopped speaking when the power abruptly went out. He smiled. “Some things always stay the same, as you see.”
“Does that happen often?”
“As often as it wish,” the bartender replied, opening another Tiger beer for Noah. “As I already say, it good to have Americans back in Vietnam.”
“Why?”
“Why not? I friends with Americans before. It good to be friends again. Maybe you no welcome everywhere in world, but you welcome here in Saigon.”
Noah looked through a nearby window. “I thought people called it Ho Chi Minh City.”
“Ah, only young people and government people say Ho Chi Minh City. To me, Saigon is Saigon. If people told you to say George Bush City instead of New York City, would you?”
“No.”
“You see?” The bartender sighed when the power came back on. “There. Now I must go and reset the air conditioner. You please excuse me for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“If you want another Tiger, take one. I trust you. And as I say before, I am so happy that Americans come back. Your country, my country, we are good countries. Good peoples. We have great futures ahead of us. Better to go into this future together, yes, than to go ahead alone?”
Noah watched the man depart, envious of his outlook on life, wanting to also be a cheerful bartender in Saigon.
TAO DAN CULTURAL PARK WAS AN idyllic span of green in the heart of the city. Beneath the shade of more than a thousand towering trees, people walked, read, and practiced tai chi. The park was a haven, the groans and cries of the surrounding city muted by the thick foliage. Birds sang in lofty branches. The wind could be heard. The laughter of children rose and fell.
Holding Minh’s stump, Mai walked along an old, concrete path. Her eyes darted to nearby benches, looking for foreigners who might be interested in a game of Connect Four. Mai liked coming to the park, for tourists could be found and easily engaged. And while Minh played she could watch the trees.
“The Shaq was something else, wasn’t he?” she asked.
Minh smiled and nodded. The two friends had just come from an electronics store. Several times a week they stood outside the store and, staring through a glass wall, watched the televisions inside. On this particular morning, they’d seen an NBA game.
“No one can dunk shoot like the Shaq,” Mai continued. “Do you remember the video of when he broke the backboard? What strength!”
Minh recalled that day. It had been raining, and they’d stood beneath the store’s awning for hours. Thinking of how the Shaq had broken the backboard, Minh raised his Connect Four box, pretending to throw it down as if it were a basketball being jammed through a hoop.
Mai laughed. “That’s right, Minh the Dunk Shooter. You look just like the Shaq. I think that maybe you could even beat him. It’s too bad that he can’t come to Ho Chi Minh City and play you for a thousand dollars. We’d be rich. We’d eat ice cream every day for the rest of our lives.”
Licking his lips at the thought of so much ice cream, Minh watched a group of older women practicing tai chi. The women moved as if they were in slow motion, their arms and legs as graceful as anything he’d seen. He wondered what they thought about when moving so slowly. Do their thoughts move at the same speed as their arms? Do they hear and see things that I can’t?
Mai and Minh continued to walk, looking for foreigners. The path curved deeper into the park. A large banner portraying Ho Chi Minh fluttered in the breeze. Minh thought that their great leader looked happy, as always.
“I need to cut your hair, Minh the Monster,” Mai said, touching his locks with a folded-up fan. “You look like some kind of jungle creature. We’d better tidy you up or children will scream and run away. I’m afraid of you, and if . . .” Mai paused, glanced at her feet, and then said, “Loc’s here. Don’t look, but he’s following us.”
Minh bit his lip. He lowered his shoulders, no longer feeling like the Shaq. Gripping his game tightly, he increased his pace.
“We should find someone to play,” Mai said. “He’s probably spent all our money and we’d better get him some more.”
Minh saw a grasshopper on the ground, thought about stepping on it, but didn’t.
“We have to leave him,” Mai said softly. “But fourteen dollars isn’t enough. Oh, how will we ever get more?”
Minh looked away from her. He didn’t want to talk about leaving Loc, not with him so close.
“He can’t hear us, Minh. So stop worrying your dirty little head. Besides, he’s probably so full of opium by now that he thinks he’s a deer, or invisible or something.”
Continuing his fast pace, Minh scanned his environs. Not far ahead, a blond-haired man sat on a bench. Minh headed in the man’s direction.
“Good spot,” Mai said. “He looks bored. Maybe you can play him a few games.” Mai let go of Minh’s stump and waved to the foreigner. Switching to English, she said, “Hello, mister. We can sit with you?”
The man glanced at her briefly. “Sure,” he said, pulling an olive-colored baseball cap lower on his brow.
“Why you here all alone?” Mai asked, as she and Minh sat on the opposite side of the bench. “You lose your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“You no lose her or you no have?”
“No have.”
Mai smiled. “That too bad. Anyway, you look bored. Maybe you play my friend a game? It good way to pass the time. If you win, we give you one dollar. If he win, you give us one dollar.”
Noah rubbed his brow. He’d been on the bench for almost an hour, and his aches had returned. After leaving the bar, he had again struggled with the chaos of the city and had sought refuge within the park. He’d wanted to lie down on the grass and sleep, but thought such a spectacle might draw too many eyes. Squinting against rays of sunlight that seeped through the foliage to reach him, he studied the boy and girl. Both were dressed in tattered clothes. One of the boy’s hands was missing, and thinking of his own self-consciousness about his leg, Noah pretended not to notice. “I’ll play a game,” he finally replied.
Minh opened up the box and began to set the game up on the bench.
“You know how to play?” Mai asked.
“I think so.”
“You must get four pieces in a row. Down, across, or diagonal works same, same.”
Noah motioned for Minh to make the first move. The boy placed his black piece in the center. Thinking that he’d start filling up one of the sides, Noah dropped his red piece into the slot farthest from him. Minh’s next piece went beside his first. And Noah’s next piece went atop his first.
“No, no, silly man,” Mai said, laughing. “Now Minh put third piece next to his other two. And you cannot win, because he then have three in a row with a space on both sides. No matter where you go next, he get four in a row.”
Noah looked at the board. She was right. The boy had already beaten him. “I guess I owe you a dollar.”
“You sure you play this game before?” she asked, giggling.
“Yeah.”
“Must have been a long, long time
ago.”
“It was.”
“You want to play again? You play better this time. Sure, sure.”
Noah’s stump itched, but he didn’t reach down. “What’s your name?” he asked, placing his first red piece in the board.
“Mai. In English, it sound like the month after April. My friend is Minh. He no speak, so I speak for two of us. I like to talk, so it good deal for he and me.”
Minh dropped his piece, wondering why the foreigner was sitting alone on a park bench.
“Speaking is overrated,” Noah replied, watching the boy.
Mai shrugged. “Why you no have girlfriend?”
“Girlfriends are overrated too.”
“Then you no have right girlfriend,” Mai said, opening one of her fans and then cooling herself. “I think when you have right girlfriend you no sit alone on park bench.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How much you pay for your hat? My friend sell this same hat.”
“Seven dollars.”
“Seven dollar? Are you crazy? Next time you come to me. I get for you cheaper. Sure, sure. Or I can sell you fan if you like. Very good to keep you cool.”
The board was filling with black and red pieces. Noah studied it carefully, aware that the boy rarely took his eyes from it. “Why aren’t you in school?” he asked, glancing at Mai.
Her smile faded. “We must make money. If we go to school, we no make money. Then we no eat. So I sell fans and Minh play games. Maybe someday we can go to school. Then we can learn more English, two plus two, capitals of Europe, and so on.”
Noah held a game piece, debating his next move. The board was almost full, and he was being forced to go where he didn’t want to. “Does he ever lose?” Noah asked, dropping his piece.
“Oh, yes. Many time. Maybe you even beat him next game.”
“Next game?”
“Oh, this game you lose. Sure, sure.”
After a few more moves Noah lost. He watched the boy empty the game. Minh’s stump was just as active as his hand, separating the black and red pieces. Noah’s eyes found his and Minh nodded, clearly wanting to play again.
“Just one more,” Noah said, wishing that he were still a child, that he could go back in time and then make different choices. His childhood had been the best part of his life. He’d cared only about sports and comic books and his family. He hadn’t yet pulled a trigger and watched a man crumple. He hadn’t looked into a mirror and seen a stranger. “Tonight,” he asked, “if I wanted a drink in a quiet place, where would I go?”
Mai pursed her lips. “A quiet place in Ho Chi Minh City? Easier to find a hundred-dollar bill on Ham Nghi Street.”
“There must be somewhere.”
“Go to big riverboat. You can have dinner and a drink, and riverboat take you up and down Saigon River. You see many beautiful things. Maybe you even find lovely girlfriend. You look like you could use lovely girlfriend. If I find one for you, you give me five dollar? My friend, she sell noodles near Park Hyatt hotel. She very, very beautiful. And so nice.”
“I’ll never beat him,” Noah said, dropping another piece.
“Where you stay anyway? Sheraton? Omni? Sofitel?”
“Do I look rich?”
“No five-star hotel for you? Maybe three-star? What about Continental? Empress? Metropole?”
“I’m helping a friend open a center for street children. I sleep there.”
Mai looked from the game to Noah’s face. “The Iris Rhodes Center?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Sure, sure. Everyone on street hear such things. Is Mr. Rhodes your friend?”
Noah thought about telling her that he’d died. But instead, he replied, “I’m here with his daughter, Iris.”
“Wow. Then you like a famous man in Vietnam. Maybe you give me autograph.”
“I won’t be here long.”
Mai started to fan Noah after noticing beads of sweat on his face. “Why not? You no like it here? Maybe it too hot?”
Suddenly tired of the conversation, Noah lost the game on purpose. “That’s three dollars I owe you,” he said. “What if I give you five and take that fan?”
“Good idea,” Mai replied, handing him the fan.
Noah watched the boy put away his game. “You’re smart. I don’t think I could beat you if we played ten games.”
Minh nodded, wishing that he could sit and play with the man for the remainder of the day.
When the children didn’t rise from the bench, Noah knew that he’d have to leave. And so he rose awkwardly. “Good-bye,” he said, looking from face to face.
“You break your leg, mister?” Mai asked.
Noah locked eyes with Minh. Impulsively, he pulled up his pant leg, exposing his prosthesis. “Good luck,” he said, for the first time openly staring at Minh’s stump. Then he turned and limped away.
THE KITCHEN SIMMERED WITH THE SCENTS of dinner. Thien held the handle of a large pan and used an oversize bamboo spoon to stir a concoction of garlic, pepper, bok choy, and prawns. Occasionally she added a few squirts of fish oil to the dish. At the counter, Iris peeled rambutan fruits. Once she’d peeled a score of the lime-size fruits, she cleaned the firm, white flesh that remained. “I’ve never seen these,” she said, glancing at the discarded skins, which were red and hairy.
“Try one,” Thien replied. “They are as sweet as candy. But bite gently, as a seed is inside each.”
Iris sampled the fruit, which, once torn by her teeth, seemed to cast sugary juices into her mouth. “Wow,” she said, surprised by the taste. “That is sweet.”
Thien nodded, starting to sing softly as she continued to stir the dish. By now Iris was used to her singing. Thien’s voice had the remarkable ability to relax Iris, almost as if it were classical music emanating from a speaker. “Why do you love to sing so much?” Iris asked, cleaning up her cuttings.
“I sing of happy things, Miss Iris. And that makes me happy.”
Iris heard a noise behind her and, expecting Noah, turned. Her heart skipped when she saw a policeman standing nearby. His uniform was an olive green, and a yellow star sat prominently on his cap. His face was stern and unfriendly. He began to speak in Vietnamese, and though Iris couldn’t understand what he said, his words seemed harsh. Thien lowered the heat on the stove and set her bamboo spoon aside. She didn’t appear intimidated by him and spoke much faster than Iris had ever heard her.
When their conversation paused, Iris looked to Thien. “What does he want?”
“I speak English,” the policeman replied. “So ask your question to me.”
Iris wiped a small piece of rambutan from her lips. “Oh. I’m sorry. Why . . . why are you here?”
Sahn scrutinized the American, her features muddled by the haze that perpetually dominated his sight. He wondered why he hadn’t been told that she’d be arriving. His informers were getting sloppy. That would have to change. “I responsible for this area,” he finally replied. “Why you come here?”
“I am sure, Captain, that you know the answer,” Thien answered in English, a trace of defiance in her voice. “She came to finish what her father started.”
“Your father, the American war criminal?”
“The what?” Iris asked, stepping back.
“You Americans think you understand everything. That you can save or destroy world when and where you want.” Sahn’s fists clenched as he remembered meeting the big American, the man who’d once fought in Vietnam. He had hated the man immediately. “Where is war criminal?” he asked, glaring at the foreigner.
Thien walked to Iris’s side. “Do not listen to him,” she said, taking her hand.
“Where is he?”
“He is dead,” Thien replied. “And he was no more a criminal than you or I.”
Sahn heard the American sniff but didn’t think she was crying. “Again, why you here?”
Iris shook her head. “To open the center. That’s all.”
“To rig
ht a wrong?”
“No. But to . . . but to do a right.”
Sahn wondered if he should demand to see the center’s licenses and official letters. But he knew that Thien would have everything in perfect order. He’d already asked to see the papers several times, and she’d always been ready. And she’d bribed him so that he’d go away. “You think you save children?” he asked, looking at Iris.
“I don’t know.”
Grunting, Sahn peered about, pretending to scrutinize his surroundings when they were really nothing more than a collection of blurred images. He’d return later and demand another payment, he decided. Better to ask then, at which point Thien would expect to hand out a new bribe. “You no wanted here,” he said to the American. He then turned and strode out the front entrance.
Iris watched him leave, feeling small and beaten. She looked to Thien. “Why did he say those things?”
Thien squeezed her hand. “I do not know, Miss Iris. But there is no need to fear him. We have official permission to open our center and have the blessing of high-ranking officials. He knows this. And I give him a few dollars every week just so that he will not make trouble for us.”
“You . . . bribe him?”
Thien nodded, her ponytail bobbing through the back of her hat. “Pay no attention to what he said about your father. Your father made many, many people happy here.”
“That was awful . . . to hear. Just awful.”
Thien saw the sadness in Iris’s face and wanted it to depart. “Do you want to do something good tonight?”
“Now?”
Thien took a steel bowl from a nearby shelf. She then scooped some of the meal that she’d prepared into the bowl. She placed two spoons in her pocket. Opening a chest in the corner of the kitchen that Iris had assumed contained utensils, Thien removed an old Polaroid camera. She hung it about her neck. “Come, Miss Iris,” she said. “Follow me.”
Soon Iris and Thien were outside. In one hand Thien held the bowl. In the other she gripped Iris’s fingers. She led Iris forward, singing softly as they entered the chaos of the night. Iris tried not to think about the policeman’s words, instead gazing at her surroundings. Earlier that day, Thien had taken her down a seemingly countless number of streets and alleys. At first Iris had been afraid of the strange sights, sounds, and smells. But as the day had progressed she’d seen scores of people smile and wave at her, as if they knew her, as if they’d missed her. Iris had waved back, saying hello in Vietnamese, the way Thien had taught her.