Dragon House (30 page)

She looked at him, wondering how he could be so good when her countryman was so bad. “We are negotiating,” she replied, aware that the truth shouldn’t be told.

Noah reached into his pocket and removed a stack of bills. “Maybe this will speed things along,” he said, flashing the money to Loc.

Having never seen such wealth, Loc stepped toward the American. “Take the girl,” he said in Vietnamese.

Thien shook her head. “The deal is for Mai and Minh. Not just one.”

“I need him. And he’s only a half boy. He’s—”

“Both of them. We’ll take both of them. You hear me?”

Loc glanced again at the money. “Then have the half boy too.”

“And you stay away from them,” Thien said. “And in six months we’ll come back with more.”

“You’d better,” he replied, reaching for the money, squeezing the thick wad of bills.

“This is a deal between us. But you break it in any way, and we’ll go to the police. We’ll have you arrested and you’ll never see our money again.”

Loc hacked and spat. “If the police care about the girl and half boy, why do they sleep here?” He smiled. “Bring three hundred in six months. And next time tell me your price.”

Before she could stop herself, Thien wished that he’d die of an overdose. She knew that opium had claimed him, and that he’d trouble them again. Taking Noah’s hand, she led him away. While pleased that they’d successfully bartered for Mai’s and Minh’s freedom, she felt soiled. She’d survived the encounter only because Noah was with her. But children like Mai and Minh had no one. They could be easily manipulated and terrified, and that was the source of Loc’s power. That was how the monster lived.

“Can we hurry?” she asked. “Please?”

Noah pushed himself to keep up with her. He slipped once, but she paid him no heed. She needed to flee the monster, to breathe air untainted by his presence. The scooter materialized before her, and she unlocked it, sat down, inserted the key, and pushed the start button.

“Is everything okay?” Noah asked, moving behind her, pulling his aching leg into position.

She twisted the throttle and the scooter gracefully moved ahead. “Mai and Minh will live with us,” she answered. “And this makes me happy.”

“But you don’t seem happy.”

Thien reached behind her and placed her left hand on his knee. “Thank you for asking, Mr. Noah. I am happy. I am looking forward to seeing Mai and Minh when we tell them the good news.”

“But?”

“But I do not like the world we just saw. I see it too often. And I feel so powerless when I see it.”

“You’re very brave.”

“I would rather see something beautiful. I would rather take you and Miss Iris and the children to see something beautiful. Like my father’s rice field, or my village.”

Noah wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, and that her beauty came from her courage and her spirit. He wanted to tell her that he felt stronger with her beside him, that his aches weren’t so terrible when he heard her voice. But if there was ever a time for such words, this was not it.

“Can you sing something?” he asked, as they drifted through the empty streets. “Maybe right now you can’t show me something beautiful. But you can let me hear something beautiful.”

She nodded, reminding herself that while monsters ruled the underworld, dragons reigned above. Dragons were all around her. Some had only one hand. Some were sick and near death. But they were dragons all the same. They were loyal and pure, and would protect the world from darkness. And she would do her best to help them. Even though she was young and small and sometimes scared, she would do her best.

Thinking of these dragons, Thien began to sing. She sang quietly at first, but the rising wind seemed to give her strength. And her voice blossomed. It carried Noah, taking him to places he’d never visited, to realms she’d imagined but he had not.

 

 

THOUGH SHE HAD BEEN IN THE dormitory for more than an hour, Mai still gazed about in wonder. She’d been betrayed so many times before that she thought her eyes must also be treacherous. The two rows of bunk beds couldn’t be more inviting. The clouds above must be illusions. Even the floor was too clean. Had it been scrubbed for a special visitor?

Mai sat on the edge of a bed. Four beds down, Qui read softly to Tam. In the corner of the room a large fish tank rested on a steel table. While Mai felt the sheet beneath her and asked herself if she’d ever touched something so soft, Minh knelt in front of the fish tank. He’d seen fish in the shallows of the river but had never looked at them through a pane of glass. The fish mesmerized him, moving with such grace that he was sure they had wings instead of fins. He wondered what the fish thought of him. Did they know he was awkward and clumsy? Did they see his stump and realize he couldn’t play like other boys? Minh hoped that they didn’t care about his stump. He liked the fish. He wanted them to be his friends.

The room was quiet but for Qui’s whispers, which lingered like motes in the air until footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Mai listened to the footsteps, momentarily fearing that Loc had come for them. When she saw Iris appear, she put her hand over her heart and breathed deeply.

Iris carried a tray full of bowls. The bowls each contained two scoops of vanilla ice cream. She smiled and asked Mai and Minh to come to Tam’s bed. “How about a treat for everyone?” she asked, trying to hide her worry over Noah and Thien as well as her sadness for Tam. “If you’re going to paint a rainbow, you need something to keep you going.”

Mai looked up at Iris. “A rainbow?”

“Thien told me. She told me all about your paintbrush.”

Reaching into her pocket, Mai produced the paintbrush that Thien had given her. “I always carry it. Sure, sure, I no lose it.” She grinned at the thought of a rainbow, Loc vanishing from her mind.

After Qui helped Tam rise to a sitting position, Iris gave her a bowl. “Will you paint with us, Tam?” she asked.

Tam’s chest hurt. Her knees and elbows also ached, and she held back a moan. She looked at Mai and Minh, and she wanted them to be happy. Dung and Little Bird were happy. And the new boy and girl also needed to smile. Tam had decided that this room was for smiling only. Such a room must never contain sad faces. “Yes,” she finally replied. “I paint.”

Iris handed bowls to Tam, Minh, Mai, and Qui. She took the last bowl for herself. She watched Mai and Minh grin as they licked their spoons, and their grins lessened her burdens. Perhaps she’d helped to save them, but their mere presence would repay her a thousand times over. For a reason unknown to her, she thought about Charles Dickens, about how he wrote of sacrifice and nobility in
A Tale of Two Cities
. While Iris didn’t begin to compare her deeds to those of Sydney Carton, she understood for the first time why he allowed himself to be guillotined so that his adversary could marry the woman they both loved. Beauty existed in his sacrifice, and beauty existed right before Iris. Three street children were smiling—three children who’d been abandoned by an uncaring world.

Iris finished her dessert, and walked to a chest near the stairwell, removing a paint-splattered canvas sheet. She dragged the sheet a few feet until it rested beneath the room’s entrance. “I think we should paint the rainbow here,” she said, “so that everyone always walks under it. Let’s surprise Thien. She’ll be so happy to see it.”

As the children gathered about her, Iris positioned a ladder beside the door frame and then opened cans of paint. “Qui, since you’ve seen the most rainbows, why don’t you paint the first color? We’ll let your paint dry, and tomorrow we’ll add another color.”

Qui smiled. She helped Tam to a nearby chair. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine the last rainbow she’d seen. It hadn’t been long ago. She remembered viewing it through the window of their room above the canal. The rainbow had arched over the canal as if it were a colorful bridge that connected two worlds. She’d studied its beauty with Tam, who’d asked if her mother might see it from her home in Thailand. Qui had replied that she most certainly did. She’d then created a story about rainbows, about how they carried love from mothers to daughters, about how that love could be held within hearts.

After contemplating which color to use, Qui dipped her brush in a can of yellow paint. She carefully climbed the ladder, eyeing the spot above the door. She wanted the rainbow to reach each side of the door, the way the rainbow had crossed the canal. And so she started to the left and slowly created a yellow arch. Her hand was surprisingly steady. Her brush left a uniform track of paint. Qui dipped the brush in the paint can again, and worked until her arch was complete. Then she descended the ladder, admiring her creation.

“It’s pretty, Little Bird,” Tam said in Vietnamese, remembering the story, eager to add her color to the rainbow.

Mai watched the old woman. She saw how the wrinkles in her face deepened as she smiled. Though Mai had never experienced familial love, she felt the bond between Tam and Qui as surely as if it had been made of rope. Because of Minh, Mai didn’t feel jealous. Instead she felt a strange combination of joy and sorrow. She was happy that Tam had such a grandmother. But she was sad because she’d seen the grandmother cry, and she feared that this rope might be severed.

Then Mai thought about the rainbow, about painting something beautiful and walking under it each day. And she saw how the old woman continued to smile, as if the yellow arch contained a secret that made her happy. Suddenly Mai didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to add the next color. Tomorrow seemed a thousand days away. She left the group and hurried to her bed, grabbing several of her fans. “Let’s dry it,” she said in Vietnamese to Minh, her words as quick as her feet. “Let’s dry it and Tam can paint the next color.”

Mai and Minh climbed the ladder together. They waved Mai’s fans inches from Qui’s arch. Everyone except Tam gathered close to watch as the paint faded slowly, as its fresh brightness gave way to a profound permanence. Mai and Minh continued to work, moving left to right, forcing warm air upon all parts of the arch. Sweat beaded on their skin. A fly threatened to land on the fresh paint and was blown away by Mai.

“I think it’s dry,” Iris said, unsure what to make of Mai’s persistence but pleased by it.

Minh nodded. He knew that Mai was anxious to see the rainbow finished and so he had worked hard. He’d thought about Noah while he worked, wondering if he would really get to live with the kind American. He couldn’t imagine such a life. No longer would he have to worry about food and police and Loc. He could play his game just for fun. He could learn to read.

Mai stepped down the ladder, almost knocking Minh from his perch. “Sure, sure, it be dry,” she finally replied in English. “Now Tam can paint.”

After Minh had descended, Qui and Iris helped Tam move to the paint cans. “What color would you like?” Iris asked, wishing that Tam weren’t so light.

Tam studied the colors. She thought of Qui’s story, of how rainbows were magical paths that connected mothers and daughters, of how love floated along these paths. What color would best carry love? She wanted her rainbow to bring love to everyone who walked beneath it and so she thought long and hard. Soon her legs trembled. Her chest hurt. Qui asked if she wanted to sit, but Tam shook her head. This question could not be rushed. It needed thinking.

Finally, Tam decided to dip her brush into the orange paint. Orange was the color closest to yellow, and since Qui had chosen yellow, Tam knew that she must choose orange.

She weakly climbed the ladder, aware of hands supporting her, of Iris behind her. She smiled when her brush touched the wall. She’d never created any work of art, but as she pulled the brush she felt something emerge from within her, something beautiful that would remain on the wall long after she’d traveled to the new world.

TWELVE

Elephants and Escapes

A
rooster woke Noah. Its shrill cry reverberated within his mind as if it were trying to punch holes in his skull. Around midnight he’d gone to the bathroom and had heard Tam’s muffled coughs. He had hardly slept since, consumed with thoughts of her suffering. As the night went on he’d grown increasingly agitated, fading into a shallow slumber only after swallowing a sleeping pill.

Normally, Noah might have tried to return to sleep, as its warm darkness was a refuge. But this morning was different. Tam needed him. And he’d give her whatever he could.

After he dressed and put on his prosthesis, he walked quietly downstairs. To his surprise, Thien wasn’t in the kitchen. Perhaps she’d also slept poorly, worried about Tam or their encounter with Loc. Noah was used to her presence, and the kitchen seemed desolate without her. Its walls didn’t resonate with her voice. Its hollows didn’t carry her smell.

Noah passed through the kitchen and into the playground. Slender sprouts of grass had emerged from the soil, and he carefully made his way along the path he’d created. Iris sat on his half-finished seesaw. A notebook lay atop her lap. Her hair, usually held tight behind her head, tumbled below her shoulders. She was wearing a T-shirt and an old skirt that fell to her knees. Her feet were bare.

“You’re up early,” she said, yawning as if to emphasize her words.

“So are you.”

She shrugged. “I thought I’d start a journal. So I won’t forget anything.”

“You won’t forget.”

“Why not?”

“Because this place . . . it’s a part of you.”

Iris smiled. “Where’s your whiskey?”

“Not far.” He moved closer to the seesaw. Propped against it was a pair of plywood elephant ears that Thien had meticulously painted. “When did she do this?” he asked, his fingers tracing her brushstrokes.

“I’m not sure. Maybe last night, after you got back.”

“She’s so talented.”

“I know. But I don’t think she knows.”