Dragon House (24 page)

Thien stepped toward their visitors, speaking in Vietnamese. The girl answered, bowing slightly. Noah set his drink aside and walked toward the trio. He noticed the boy staring at his prosthesis.

“You remember us?” the girl asked Noah, twisting a plastic ring.

“Yes. But not your names.”

“How you forget our names? I am Mai, like the month. My friend, his name is Minh. He beat you three times when you play Connect Four. Maybe you do better today.”

Thien took Mai’s hand. “Is that why you came here? To play another game?”

“Sure, sure,” Mai replied. “Minh want to play another game. Maybe for two dollar this time. And when he play, maybe you can take me on tour of center.”

“How about for a dollar?” Noah asked. “We can play in the kitchen.”

Minh nodded, following Thien, Mai, and Noah inside. Minh watched Noah limp, wondering how it would feel to be missing a leg instead of a hand. Minh had always enjoyed walking and couldn’t imagine what it would be like to stumble forward on a leg of steel. After sitting in front of a plastic table, Minh opened his box and began to sort through the pieces. He held up a black and a red piece, offering his opponent the choice of colors.

Noah chose red. His back ached and he wished that he’d finished Thien’s drink. “If you win, I’ll give you a dollar,” he said, gathering all of the red pieces. “If I win, will you help me with those stones for a bit?”

Minh thought about the stones. They were large and looked heavy. He lifted his stump and showed it to the American.

“That’s okay,” Noah said, dropping his first piece into the game board. “We’ll do it together.”

Minh smiled and played his piece.

A few feet away, Thien held Mai’s hand and led her to the stairwell. Despite her eagerness to see the center, at first Mai worried about leaving Minh alone, for they were almost never apart. She took two steps up and then glanced back toward the kitchen.

“He’ll be fine,” Thien said in Vietnamese. “We’ll just be gone a moment.”

Mai looked around, marveling at the nearly finished paintings on the stairwell’s walls. She traced a branch with her finger, wondering what it might be like to climb such a tree. The birds and squirrels on the limbs seemed to smile. Mai wished that she could create something as beautiful. She was certain that to create such beauty, the painter must have laughed many times.

Mai traced the tree’s contours until they reached the second floor. As Iris was out interviewing a potential teacher, Thien led Mai into the classroom, which was still but for the ceiling fans. Mai looked from the desks to the books to a world map that someone had started to paint on a nearby wall. She had never been inside a classroom and wanted nothing more than to spend the day sifting through the treasures surrounding her. But she couldn’t leave Minh for long and glanced at her guide. “Will you be a teacher?” she asked.

“Oh, no. I am only the cook, and Miss Iris’s assistant.”

Mai wondered what it was like to be such an important person. “Do you sleep here?”

“Sometimes. But not usually. I have a room just a few blocks away.” Thien watched Mai’s eyes continue to drift about. “Do you live on a street downtown?” she asked, suspecting that their visitor did, but wanting to gauge her honesty.

“No,” Mai replied, feeling somewhat ashamed in front of this beautiful woman who had her own room. “We have a bed under a bridge. It’s not so bad. We sleep in a big basket and listen to the traffic.”

“You and Minh?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice.”

Mai saw that the older woman’s smile didn’t waver, that her face didn’t fill with disgust. “I call him Minh the Magnificent,” Mai said, her voice gaining confidence. “Do you know that he once won twenty-six straight games of Connect Four? He beat all these smart foreigners who’d gone to universities and were so rich.”

“Twenty-six games?” Thien asked, feigning amazement, wondering if Mai knew that their center was only for girls.

“He’s only got one hand, but I’m sure that he’s got two brains. Of course, you’d never know it unless you watched him play. Then you’d see those two brains at work. Have you ever watched the Shaq play basketball? Well, the Shaq uses his two hands to dunk shoot over everyone. Minh uses his two brains to do the same thing. I’m sure your friend is discovering that right now.”

Thien laughed, again taking Mai’s hand. “Let me show you some more.”

They walked upstairs, their speed increasing. Thien led Mai into the dormitory, where she saw two rows of bunk beds, and a girl and an old woman who occupied the last beds. The girl looked asleep. The old woman sat beside her and held an open book.

Thien moved forward and realized that Tam’s eyes were only half closed. “Hello, Tam,” she said softly.

“Hello.”

“Did you sleep well last night?”

“I dreamed.”

“About what?”

“Flowers.”

Thien smiled, gesturing toward their visitor. “This is Mai. She and her friend Minh came to look around.”

Mai saw that illness gripped the other girl, who was a little younger than she. “I like your doll,” she said, watching how Tam stroked her hair.

“Thank you.”

Qui started to rise from the bed. “I was about to start working. I know there’s so much to be done.”

Thien put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Please don’t get up. There’s plenty of time for chasing spiders, and I’d like to show Mai around.”

Bowing slightly, Qui offered her thanks and again opened her Thailand guidebook. Tam’s gaze drifted back to a photo of turquoise waters and an unbroken sky. Qui had been telling her a story of dolphins that lived in the waters, of how they secretly knew how to fly. By flying only at night, they kept their secret from everyone but the stars.

Taking Mai’s hand again, Thien led her to the center of the room. They paused beside a bunk bed, and Mai leaned down to touch the bedding, which was soft and clean and so unlike what she slept upon. She wanted to lie on the bed and wrap herself in its sheets. She’d stay there all day, listening to the city below, protected by the walls around her. Maybe she’d dream about flowers too.

“Did you see our clouds?” Thien asked.

Mai glanced from Thien’s face to the ceiling. She gasped as the clouds seemed to billow before her. Smiling, she reached up as if to touch them. Beautiful and wondrous, the clouds made her feel as if she were somewhere very distant, at a place outside the city where clouds were untainted and free to roam about the sky. She laughed, wanting to show Minh. “Who painted these?” she asked, looking from cloud to cloud.

“Miss Iris and I.”

“Could you teach me to paint like that? Please? Maybe I could paint one under our bridge. It wouldn’t be as pretty there, but I could look at it. And Minh could too.”

Thien removed a paintbrush from her back pocket and set it in Mai’s hand. “Maybe you could paint one here.”

Mai turned to Thien. Had Thien somehow read her mind? For her whole life Mai had longed for things she didn’t have—things like a father, a family. She’d longed to go to school, to ride a bicycle with a friend sitting behind her, to fill her belly each night with warm food. She’d pleaded silently for such things and yet they had never fallen before her. Now, as she looked at the clouds and soft sheets, Mai wanted nothing more than to try to paint something within this magical building. She wanted to take a brush and stroke bright colors on a surface that had been dull and lifeless.

Even better, if something like an old ceiling could be turned into a beautiful sky, then perhaps people could be painted too. Perhaps Thien could take her miraculous brush and paint Minh’s voice back into his body. Perhaps this same brush could cover up Mai’s fears and sorrows.

“Could . . . could we stay?” Mai asked quietly, fearing an answer.

Thien saw the want and desperation in Mai’s eyes. She was afraid of breaking Mai with the wrong answer, but she couldn’t mislead her. “Only girls . . . will stay here,” she replied, once again holding Mai’s hand. “So you could stay. But Minh would have to—”

“No,” Mai interrupted, the clouds above her suddenly gray, her world once again full of wretched truths. “I won’t leave him,” she said, her eyes tearing. “He has no one else . . . and . . . and I won’t ever leave him. He’d never make it by himself.”

Thien felt Mai try to pull away from her, but she wouldn’t let the girl step back. Instead she drew Mai closer against her. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, stroking Mai’s shoulder.

“Why wait? I won’t leave him. Never. So go paint your silly clouds with someone else.”

“I want to paint them with you.”

“No.”

“I do, Mai. I—”

“No, you don’t,” Mai replied, tears dropping to her cheeks. “You don’t care about me.”

Thien continued to hold Mai tight, not letting her flee, afraid of what might happen to her. She’d seen too many girls ruined by the streets, and she knew that Mai was close to such misery. “I want you to keep my brush,” Thien said, stroking Mai’s cheek, needing to stem her desperation. “It’s my only one and I have so much more to paint. Flowers for the kitchen. An ocean for the washing room. There’s so much to paint, Mai. But I won’t paint again until you’re beside me and we can work together. That’s why I want you to keep my brush. My lucky brush.”

“What . . . what about Minh?”

“Did you see the children, Mai, the children painted in the entryway who are holding hands?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that we’d ever pull such children apart? That we’d take you from Minh?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, we won’t. Not today or tomorrow or ever. So don’t worry about that. I’ll talk with Miss Iris. She’s very clever and determined, and I’m sure that she’ll think of something. And when she does, you can bring my brush back and we’ll paint whatever you want.”

Mai rubbed her eyes with her free hand. She wanted to believe the older woman, but she’d been disappointed so many times in her life, and to her a promise was only a series of meaningless words. “I should go.”

“Take the brush, Mai. Please take it with you and come back in a few days.”

“It’s just an old brush.”

“No, it’s not. Believe me, it’s not.”

“I don’t—”

“When you feel it moving in your hand, Mai, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“How?”

“Because that old brush could paint a beautiful rainbow.”

Mai glanced at the brush. She felt its bristles with her fingers, moving them back and forth. “You’ll teach me?”

“I’d love to.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m here, Mai. And I’ll teach you. So you and Minh come back to us. Stay safe and come back to us.”

Mai looked at the clouds, wanting to believe the woman’s words, wishing that words couldn’t cut so deeply, couldn’t weaken her knees. She pocketed the brush, pleading silently that words wouldn’t once again betray her. She didn’t know if she could endure another betrayal. The mere thought of it caused her eyes to again dampen. The clouds blurred. They soon seemed to pulsate with the cadence of her heart.

Mai took a deep breath. She steadied herself. She’d have to hide her hope and fear from Minh. Perhaps she would let him see a sliver of her hope, just to keep him going for the coming days. But beyond this sliver, she’d show him nothing, because betraying him was something she’d never do.

If this woman betrayed her, Mai knew that another piece of her would die. And then, there would likely be too little of her to hold together. The strings that she had tied around herself would sever and she would break apart like a bottle cast on stone. She’d never paint a rainbow or feel a soft bed. She’d never hope or dare or dream. She’d simply walk into blackness and lie down, and whatever happened to her, she wouldn’t fight it. She was too tired to fight anymore, and if she found herself in darkness, she’d let its waves wash over her until what little memory she had of light was gone.

 

 

THOUGH THE PIPE HAD LEFT HIS lips an hour before, Loc’s senses were still dominated by opium’s heavy hand. The drug simultaneously managed to slow his mind yet heighten his abilities to see and hear and smell. Colors and lights filtered into his brain as if his eyes had been fitted with magical lenses that enriched the hues before him. Sounds permeated his ears the way they might underwater. Scents of diesel fuel, flowers, and spices powerfully infused the air he drew into his lungs. His face and body glistened—his altered environs a womb that kept him warm and free of pain.

For the last eight of his twenty-nine years, Loc had visited opium dens each day. The discovery of these dark and quiet refuges had altered his life. With opium in his system, he no longer feared the streets. Nightmares ceased to torment him. Memories could be pushed away. Food and women became appealing, and he grew to crave each almost as much as his pipe.

Loc spent his days in opium dens, collecting his money, and in the company of women for hire. In the dens he was left alone and would bathe himself in the drug’s comforting waters. On the streets he protected a handful of children in exchange for most of their earnings. And in the grasp of women he momentarily became a god.

The children were the key to fulfilling his cravings, and Loc treated them accordingly. He’d beaten each multiple times, but never so badly that they’d been unable to work. Though sometimes he took joy in these beatings, he mainly hurt the children because he needed them to fear him. As important, he needed them to fear a world without him in it. And he often let them know what would befall them without his protection. A child had once run from him, and Loc had made an example of the incident, letting the city’s most deviant minds know that the boy was no longer under his protection. Three days later the child was found dead and broken. And in the months since, Loc had muttered the boy’s name whenever his children seemed ready to wander.