Dragon House (5 page)

“I’ll find a drunk one for you tonight,” Mai said, leading him across a street, walking erratically so as to avoid the looming headlights of scooters and taxis.

Minh shook his head. He didn’t like playing the drunks, for they could be cruel to Mai. And they always seemed to ask about his hand and why he never spoke.

“I wish you’d play them,” she countered. “Their money’s so easy to take. They toss it about like trash. Ah, you can be stubborn, Minh the Powerful. As stubborn as that old water buffalo we saw the other day. If only I could play like you. I’d beat every drunk tourist in the city and we’d be rich.” Mai turned toward Minh and saw that he was watching boys kick a soccer ball in a park. “Did you hear anything I said?” she asked, knowing that he did, but understanding that his thoughts were with the boys, that he was somehow in their company.

Mai understood because she also knew how to place herself in the company of others, to pretend that she inhabited different worlds. Minh was better at the game, of course. But she still played, still imagined that she walked among schoolgirls, ate
pho
on the street with her father, read a book while waiting for her mother at the market. Mai, like Minh, played the game because it transported her from a place of hunger and pain, weariness and fear. In the pretend worlds she didn’t have to worry whether or not Minh would win, whether Loc would beat them, whether she’d have to someday sell herself to survive. In these worlds she went to school, Minh was her brother, and she was loved and protected by those who had given her life.

 

 

BEN THANH MARKET HAD BEEN IN existence for about a hundred years—since the time of the French occupation. In the muted darkness, the entrance to Ben Thanh resembled an old schoolhouse or country church. The yellow, rectangular structure boasted an arched entry, above which rose a square face that bore an immense black-and-white clock. Inside this entry, the market opened into a sprawling labyrinth of stalls and passageways. At a height of some thirty feet, a vaulted ceiling was supported by yellow girders and protected merchants and shoppers from the city’s unpredictable weather.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of locals and tourists populated Ben Thanh, browsing for bargains in Ho Chi Minh City’s most famous and popular market. Closet-size stalls offered eel, pig stomach, skinned oxtail, sea snails, lemongrass, dried shrimp, coffee beans, dragon fruit, and loaves of fresh bread. Beyond the food stalls, vendors sold lacquer platters, teak chopsticks, traditional Vietnamese clothes, tea sets, bronze animals, sunglasses, T-shirts, and about anything else imaginable.

Gathered outside the entry to Ben Thanh were the Vietnamese who made a livelihood from pleasing tourists. Drivers leaned against dozens of cyclos, or bicycle taxis. Entrepreneurial tour guides scanned the area for confused travelers. Women moved quickly about, selling bottled water, bags of potato chips, and candy bars.

Sitting near the entry, atop an old bench, a hunched woman who looked two decades older than her fifty-one years held a child on her lap. The woman wore a traditional conical hat, which was made by sewing palm leaves onto a peaked bamboo frame. Her clothes were simple blue pants and a shirt—an outfit that Westerners might think to be pajamas. The woman’s face was thin and sunspotted and bore ripples of wrinkles. Several of her front teeth were missing. Those that remained were stained and crooked, jutting from her gums like the rocks at Stonehenge.

The child was seven years old. She wore shorts and a tank top, revealing legs and arms as thin as the handle of a tennis racket. Her elbows and knees were much wider, inflamed by a disease beyond her understanding. Short and parted in the middle, her hair was held fast by rusty pins. Her face, narrow and pleasant, was dominated by large, almost oversize eyes. Half of a coconut shell sat on her lap. Several gold-colored Vietnamese coins occupied the bottom of the coconut. Beneath the coconut was a worn blanket, which was flowered and full of patches.

“We’ll get going soon, Tam,” the woman, Qui, whispered, stroking Tam’s cheek. “The river misses you.”

Tam nodded absently. “A pretty sky.”

Qui glanced above. At first she saw streetlights that drew countless insects. But higher, several stars managed to penetrate the glow of the city. “Yes,” she replied, “but not as pretty as you.”

“Or you, Little Bird.”

A bearded foreigner walked past, and Qui tried to capture his attention. Switching to English, she said, “You want good book?
The Quiet American
?
Lonely Planet Vietnam
?”

The man paused, his eyes darting from an orderly pile of books at Qui’s feet to the sickly form of Tam. “My money’s gone,” he replied, lifting full plastic bags. “Too many souvenirs.”

Qui stroked Tam’s arm. “Please. Maybe you have few Vietnamese dong left? Or U.S. dollar? My granddaughter so sick. Please help me.”

The foreigner looked more closely at Tam. He saw how her body was wasting away, how her eyes didn’t seem to fix upon him, but drifted about. He wondered what was wrong with her. “I don’t think I have anything left,” he said, avoiding Qui’s gaze.

“Please, please look in your pocket,” Qui replied, placing her hands together as if praying. “I must buy more medicine for granddaughter. Please help her. Please, kind sir.”

Setting his bags down, the man unzipped his fanny pack and groped inside it. He produced several nearly worthless Vietnamese coins, and placed them into Tam’s coconut. “I’m sorry. It’s all I have.”

“Thank you,” Qui replied. “You are good man. You have good heart. Maybe tomorrow you come back and buy book?”

“Maybe.”

Qui took her hands, placed them outside Tam’s, and again appeared to pray. “May Buddha smile on you.”

The man said good night and disappeared into the chaos that was Ho Chi Minh City. Tam groaned and instinctively reached for her blanket. The coconut fell to the ground, coins scattering. Knowing that she’d stayed too late, Qui carefully lifted Tam from her lap, set her granddaughter on the bench, and began to gather the coins.

Qui then placed two straps around her shoulders and tossed a bag-like canvas device over her head. The contraption rested against the middle of her back. After setting her books and the coconut in a pouch that she wore against her belly, she nodded to a nearby cyclo driver and the man stepped toward Tam. He lifted her gently, positioning her within the bag, so that her legs encircled Qui’s waist and her arms draped down upon Qui’s chest. Tam’s blanket, held tight in a small fist, swung to and fro.

Qui thanked the driver, drew a deep breath, and began to walk. The night was humid, but not too hot. Along the wide road near Ben Thanh Market, buses—either sleek havens for tourists or ancient contraptions for locals—belched fumes as they lumbered past scooters and cyclos. Many pedestrians and scooter drivers wore cotton masks so as to spare their lungs from the soot that permeated the air. Qui had once tried placing one over Tam’s face, but Tam hadn’t liked breathing through the fabric. And if Tam wouldn’t use a mask, neither would Qui.

After a few blocks, Tam’s weight—nominal as it was—caused Qui’s back and knees to ache. Though the pain slowed her down considerably, Qui was accustomed to it. In some ways, she welcomed the pain, for Tam suffered so much, and it was better that her precious granddaughter not be alone in her misery.

Thinking of this misery, Qui asked Tam how she felt.

“My front hurts,” Tam replied.

Qui knew that Tam’s belly and chest were aching, that she was finding it difficult to breathe. Two weeks earlier, Qui had used every bill and coin she possessed to take Tam to a hospital. Several doctors had spent hours with them, and many tests had been run. Qui had left the hospital with Tam on her back and had cried, just as she did now. Soon Tam would be taken from her. No matter how much she loved her, treasured her, and wanted to protect her, Tam would be taken. Stolen forever.

Her tears dropping like rain from a statue’s face, Qui continued onward.

“Will Momma kiss me tonight?” Tam asked, as she did every day.

Qui sniffed, pretending that something was lodged in her throat. “She’s . . . still in Thailand. Working hard so we can buy your medicine. She loves you so much, Tam. She and I love you so very much.”

Tam didn’t respond, and Qui wondered what she was thinking. Was her sweet, innocent mind able to guess that her own mother had abandoned her, and probably would never come back?

As she did many times each day, Qui prayed that her daughter would return. She begged Buddha to be compassionate, to send her daughter home so that Tam could hold her again before she died.

Qui turned toward the canal that stretched below their home. She tried to quiet her despair, for soon Tam would look upon her face, and her granddaughter could never see such tears. Qui had told Tam that someday she’d fall into a sleep that would magically take her into a different world, into a realm where children weren’t sick, where they swam in warm seas, where they awoke each morning nestled between their mother and father. Tam believed in this realm, and Qui could never destroy this belief. So she could cry only when Tam’s eyes couldn’t find hers.

The buildings of modern-day Ho Chi Minh City disappeared. Tin shanties soon encroached upon narrow passages, and Qui tried to ignore a variety of ever-present sounds—a baby’s wail, children laughing, moans of pleasure. Tam asked about these noises, and Qui told her stories that had been repeated scores of times. After a few more blocks, just as Qui felt she could go no farther, her feet fell on planks that lay perched above brown water. She followed these planks until arriving at a vinyl tarp that covered the entrance to their room, which sat on stilts above the canal.

Perhaps seven paces wide as well as long, the room was mostly empty. Bamboo mats covered the tin floor. Plastic garbage bags full of crumpled balls of newspaper comprised a bed. Stacked neatly in the corner were metal plates, an iron pot, and a pan. A tiny, wood-burning stove was also present, as was a trio of potted plants. Hanging below the room’s lone window were two sheets, an extra set of clothes for Qui and Tam, some pajamas, and a small towel. A square hole in the floor served as a toilet. Near the hole was a plastic bucket with a rope attached to its handle.

Qui carefully knelt on the bamboo mat and removed Tam from the sling. Tam groaned at the pain that movement brought. Moving as swiftly as she was able, Qui plucked a sheet from the wall and placed it over the garbage bags. She then lowered the bucket into the canal below, hauled the bucket up, and dipped a corner of the towel into the murky water. She lifted Tam, setting her on the far side of the makeshift bed.

“Let me clean the day from you,” Qui said, kneeling next to Tam, using the damp towel to wipe soot from her forehead. Tam smiled faintly, and Qui leaned closer. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Rub my back, Little Bird.”

“I have to clean you first, sweet child. I can’t let you go to sleep so dirty.”

“My blanket?”

“Oh, sorry about that. Here it is.” Qui started to clean Tam once more but quickly stopped. “My wits have left me,” she muttered, reaching into her pocket to produce a plastic bottle with several pills in it. She set a pill aside and stood up, dipping a cup into a wide bowl in which she collected rainwater. After Tam had swallowed her medicine, Qui wiped her closed eyes with the damp cloth.

“I love you,” Tam said tiredly, holding her blanket against her cheek.

“I know, sweet child. And do you know how much I love you?”

“How much?”

Qui continued to clean Tam’s face, thinking of tonight’s response. “Remember the gecko that lived with us?”

“He was green.”

“Remember how he’d wait in that corner of the ceiling? Wait for a bug to come crawling toward him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I love you like that gecko loved his corner.”

“That much? Really, Little Bird?”

Qui fought back a sudden shudder, glad that Tam’s eyes were closed. “Yes, that much, my precious child.” Setting the towel aside, she lay down next to Tam, drawing her close, so that Tam’s last memory of the day would be of shared warmth.

 

 

AS SHE STRODE TOWARD THE BAGGAGE claim area of Ho Chi Minh City’s new international airport, Iris felt as if she were inside a giant white shoe box. Almost everything seemed colorless. The lone exception was a row of potted flowers that stretched down the long corridor. Thousands of pots held bright flowers, and Iris couldn’t imagine how they were all watered.

After having her passport stamped for the first time and passing through customs, Iris waited for Noah, and the unlikely traveling companions descended toward the baggage area. It was late, almost eleven o’clock local time, and most of the airport’s shops and stalls were closed. Scores of Vietnamese waited next to her as she eyed the conveyor belt for her two bags. Most of the luggage on the belt came in the form of cardboard boxes. The boxes glistened with clear packing tape and were often covered in Chinese markings.

Iris and Noah found their bags, and she followed him outside, trying not to notice how he limped. Beyond the orderly confines of the airport, chaos unfolded. Hundreds of people stood in a waiting area, restrained by a chain-link fence. Many eyes fell on the two Americans, and immediately people offered them hotel rooms and taxi services. Iris nodded to a smiling driver, asking how much the fare would be. The price quoted seemed reasonable, and they followed him to a car that looked as if it had just finished competing in a demolition derby. The headlights, doors, and rear bumper had all been smashed.

The car’s inside was surprisingly clean and undamaged. Iris and Noah settled into the backseat and the driver turned the key. The car and its radio jumped to life. A high, almost feminine-sounding male voice seemed to try to keep pace with plucked guitar strings, violins, and the metallic clash of drums and symbols. Iris had studied Spanish in high school and believed that she had a good ear for foreign languages. But the sounds she listened to now totally baffled her. She recognized nothing.