Dragon House (11 page)

“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 right 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.

Now, as Thien led her along once again, Iris wondered where they were headed. Who’s Thien bringing the food to? she asked herself. What good is she going to create, and why did that awful man say those things to me? As she thought about the last question in particular, Iris watched Thien interact with some of the merchants and vendors they passed. Clearly, she had walked this path many times before.

Thien guided Iris across a boulevard, moving in a start-and-stop fashion to avoid hundreds of approaching scooters. The air here was so thick with pollution that Iris held her breath for as long as possible. When she finally needed to draw air, she placed her T-shirt over her face and inhaled through the thin cotton.

After crossing the boulevard, Thien seemed to walk away from the city’s biggest and most beautiful buildings. Soon she passed people who appeared to live on the street. She dropped Iris’s hand when they came upon a one-armed man who begged in front of a travel agency. Handing Iris the bowl of food, Thien greeted the man. They spoke for a moment and he grinned. Thien lifted her Polaroid, capturing his face and smile. The photo emerged from her camera, and after blowing on it for a moment, she showed it to Iris.

Iris saw that Thien was skilled. She’d shot the picture so that the man’s head was in front of a store light, so that this light created a halo effect around the man’s features. His wrinkled face struck Iris as having seen more tragedies than triumphs, yet at the moment Thien had captured him, he seemed to be pleasantly surprised, as if life suddenly weren’t all that terrible.

Thien handed him the photo. He chuckled, showing it to a nearby soft-drink vendor. The two men laughed and spoke with Thien. She soon waved good-bye and moved ahead, stopping every block or so to take someone else’s photo. “We are going to Ben Thanh Market,” she finally said. “Someone there is very hungry.”

“Who?”

“A sick girl. Her grandmother tells me that she likes my cooking.”

Iris walked behind Thien, amazed by the sudden notion that she’d follow this stranger anywhere. Soon she recognized the market, the front of which was crammed with cyclos and scooters. Drivers asked foreigners and locals if rides were needed, dusting off cracked seats. Thien zigzagged through the mayhem, soon approaching an old woman who sat with a child on her lap. The woman smiled, her tongue visible between gaps made by missing teeth.

Thien dropped to her knees before the woman, handing the girl on her lap the bowl of food. Iris’s gaze didn’t leave the girl, whose legs and arms were impossibly thin, whose eyes wandered about as if unable to focus on anything. Remembering the girl from their earlier encounter, Iris watched Thien and the woman converse, watched the woman gently and patiently guide food into the girl’s unresponsive mouth.

“These are my friends,” Thien said in English, nodding toward the pair. “This is Qui, and this is her granddaughter, Tam.”

Iris nodded, feeling ridiculously tall, wanting to be at the same height as these strangers. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Iris. It’s nice to meet you.”

The woman motioned for Iris to crouch beside her and then asked, “What you think about Vietnam?”

Iris watched the spoon rise slowly, depositing half of a prawn into the girl’s mouth. “It’s not what I expected.”

Thien took a photo as Iris responded to the question. The photo soon emerged, and Thien handed it to Iris, who held it carefully and watched colors and shapes materialize. Soon she saw herself, saw how she contrasted so mightily with the girl and her grandmother. Iris had never felt so different from anyone, and yet she also felt connected to these strangers. She felt connected to them because she knew she could help them. She could give them food. She could buy them clothes. She had the power to take their hands in hers and make their lives better.

Iris was tempted to ask Thien about the girl, about her condition. But not wanting to appear rude or to make some social blunder, she simply sat and watched Tam eat. Several times Tam looked at her, and Iris tried to smile. But it was hard to smile when staring at such a sick child. Iris couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be ill and young and on the streets. Tam must be lonely, and, thinking of her own experiences with feeling abandoned, Iris wanted to sit beside Tam and do something to make her smile. Iris thought about reading her a story, about combing her hair, about doing so many things that might lessen the burdens that she carried.

Iris watched the woman continue to feed Tam, the process seeming to occur in slow motion. As she ate, Tam often moaned softly, and these moans somehow penetrated Iris’s skin, seeping through her flesh, past her rib cage, and into her heart. These moans dampened her eyes. They stirred her soul. They caused her fingers to move out, to rest upon Tam’s swollen knee.

At that moment Iris realized that she didn’t know where she was going, but that she wasn’t going back.

FIVE

Bridges

B
reakfast was a hurried affair of coffee, French baguettes, and sliced papaya. Iris wasn’t hungry but forced herself to eat. A full day awaited her. The previous night, as they had walked back to the center from the market, she’d asked Thien if they might explore more today, perhaps even venturing outside the city. Thien had seemed pleased by this request and had promised to arrange such an excursion.