Dragon House (7 page)

“Get over here,” Loc said, pointing at his own chest.

Mai was closer to shore and bravely walked forward, feeling naked in her underwear. Loc reached for her hair and pulled her roughly ahead. She whimpered but made no effort to resist him. Seeing her in pain, Minh stepped faster. Loc’s hand swung out with surprising speed, striking Minh on the side of the head. Minh’s ear rang. His vision blurred. He felt as if someone had thrust a steel pole into his brain. Still, he didn’t fall, for he knew that if he did, Loc would kick him. And kicks hurt even worse than cuffs.

“I need more money,” Loc said, speaking loudly, as if addressing everyone under the bridge. His voice, ruined from years of sucking on his pipe, sounded as if it emerged from a hole in his throat. “You need to win more. You hear me, you motherless half boy?”

Minh nodded, his knees weak.

“You two brats want protection?” Loc asked. “A place to sleep? Then win more games and sell more fans. Four dollars a day isn’t enough. I want five.”

Mai risked a glance into Loc’s eyes and saw that he was reeling from a crash, from whatever it felt like to no longer be within a world fashioned from poppy seeds. Before he could strike Minh again, she said, “You can take our only dollar. The dollar we kept after paying you last night. We were going to have some
pho
, but you—”

“Give it to me.”

Mai hurried to their basket, removing the dollar from within a fold of their blanket. Loc grabbed the bill, and with a grunt, dumped the basket upside down. The blanket and sections of carpet fell on compressed mud. Loc rifled through the pile, searching for anything they might have stashed away.

“We’ll win today,” Mai said, trying to distract him, to keep him from finding the loose piece of bamboo.

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where will I find you?”

She thought quickly. “Tonight? At the train station. We’ll be with foreigners.”

Loc glared at Minh and through the haze in his head remembered finding the abandoned toddler, remembered cutting off his hand so that he’d be a better beggar. Though Minh had almost died, Loc had been careful, and had managed to stop the bleeding and ultimately heal the wound. “I know why she left you, half boy,” Loc said, craving his pipe, fueled by the repressed aches of his own childhood. “You weren’t good enough for her. But you’d better be good enough for me. You’d better win.”

Minh nodded, trying to keep tears from his eyes.

“He’ll win,” Mai answered. Then, seeing the misery on Minh’s face, she added, “And he’s as good as anyone.”

Loc hacked, spat on their bedding, and then stumbled away from the underpass and into the web of nearby shanties. Mai left Minh alone, knowing that he wouldn’t want attention in front of so many eyes. And so she cleaned the befouled bedding, rearranged the interior of their basket, and put on her spare set of clothes.

Soon the two friends were back aboveground, in a realm where sounds and light weren’t subdued. They saw uniformed children riding bicycles to school, a beautiful woman in Western clothing getting her photo taken, and a boy selling flowers from a crate on the back of his motor scooter. Shanties disappeared. Hotels and banks rose skyward. Mai gripped the stub of Minh’s bad arm. He held his game.

Minh’s head still hurt from the blow, and his steps were unsteady. He tried to watch the children on their bicycles, to pretend that he was among them. But his pain was too great, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Mai saw his state and led him to a bench, where they sat and stared. Nearby, government workers wrapped Christmas lights around the bases of hundred-year-old tropical trees.

“Forget about Loc,” Mai said, stroking Minh’s stump. “What does he know anyway? You’re Minh the Marvelous and he’s got nothing but opium in his head. He couldn’t beat you in a game for all the dollars in the Sheraton. He shouldn’t even be in that big, strong body, but on some fisherman’s hook.”

Minh rubbed his aching ear. Even though he knew Mai was right, he couldn’t forget Loc’s words, for he often asked himself why his parents had left him. Is it because of my deformity, he wondered, like Loc always says? Is it because I’m stupid and ugly and worthless? Is that why I have no father, no mother, no uniform to wear to school? Why I sometimes want to swim beneath the brown water and never reappear?

Suddenly tears came and Minh could not stop them. They came like waves come to a shore, like birds flock to a branch. They welled from deep within him, bringing pieces of him into the air. As men strung Christmas lights, these pieces of Minh cooled. They fell to the dirty ground. They absorbed dust. And in the heat of the coming day they vanished as if they’d never existed.

 

 

THE PLANE WAS SO HIGH THAT to him it was unheard. Its bombs fell toward Earth as if stones dropped from a bridge, silent orbs of hurtling steel that erupted in massive balls of fire and death. The walls of his home exploded around him, light turning to dark, comfort to pain. A monstrous crashing of concrete filled his ears, his every pore. Into the darkness he went, tumbling, striking unseen objects. He tried to escape this darkness, but his arms and legs were quickly pinned, his body becoming immobile.

He heard the cries of several of his siblings and he called for them. One of his sisters was moaning, the other full of whimpers. His big brother coughed weakly. No words or pleas emerged from his parents or little brothers. They were as silent as the rubble surrounding him. He tasted blood on his lips and shouted for his sisters. Their voices called back to him, but these voices were no longer familiar. They sounded distant and hollow, as if connected to him by thousands of miles of old telephone wire. He knew where his sisters were going and he screamed at them not to leave. They couldn’t go to such a place. Not now, when they were so young, when their dreams were unfulfilled. He tried to crawl from the tomb around him, but on all sides he was pinned. The weakening sobs of his siblings prompted him to claw at concrete, to try to move what was unmovable. He shouted for help until his throat ached. Sirens wailed. A dog barked. Voices seeped into the tomb, but they weren’t the voices of his loved ones. Those had gone silent, though he still pleaded for them to speak. Light filtered down upon him. Later, in this same light, he saw their faces. Yet now their faces were like fresh paintings that had been cast into the sea, crushed against rocks by uncaring waves.

The light evolved, seeping into him, pulling him from the past. He awoke, stirring on his bamboo mat. Now that his dream was over, he found it hard to recall the faces of his family. So many years had passed. Too many.

Squinting, Sahn searched for his glasses. Even with their aid, the details of his room were unclear. A bright fog seemed to fill the air. This fog stole the clarity from his sight, as if he were looking through a camera that was out of focus.

Sahn ate a breakfast of cold rice and thin slices of mango. He then tidied his room—watering plants, sweeping the floor, hanging his blanket outside a window to bask in the sun. As he worked he thought about his dream, wondering why his unconscious so often reminded him of what he’d for so long tried to forget.

Standing in front of a large mirror, Sahn carefully dressed in his uniform. He’d ironed his olive-colored pants and shirt the previous night. He had also shined his shoes, belt, and the wide, black brim of his cap. A yellow star adorned the red ribbon that encircled the lower part of his cap. Sahn was proud of the star, proud that he wore it. The star had defeated a monster.

Before stepping into the day, Sahn paused in front of his fish tank. Several brown blurs sped about the tank, rising to the surface as he tilted a can of food. He watched the blurs eat, then left his room and locked the door behind him.

Sahn carried no gun. A black baton hung from his belt. He’d swung it twice in thirty years. As always, Sahn did his best to search the streets for criminal activity. He ignored taxis that darted through traffic lights, as well as scooters that drove the wrong way down busy boulevards. Even though more than a thousand people died each month on his country’s roads, nothing he could do would change that. And so he made it his mission to seek out those involved with crimes he could stop—offenses such as drug trafficking and child prostitution. Yesterday, his commander had told him about a crate of elephant tusks that was rumored to be in the city. Sahn’s beat included Le Cong Kieu Street, which housed scores of antique stores. For years the owners of these stores had paid him a monthly fee, ensuring that he wouldn’t report their stashes of ancient treasures that had been smuggled out of China. Still, even though Sahn turned a blind eye to such dealings, he wouldn’t stand for certain things. And a crate of elephant tusks was such a thing.

Sahn walked straight and without haste. Soon he was on Le Cong Kieu Street. The power must have gone out, for the antiques stores were unlit. Sahn navigated down the narrow sidewalk. He pretended to peer into the distance, though he could discern only his immediate surroundings. Moving into a darkened shop, he eased his way past piles of silk scrolls and bronze statues. The store’s owner, a young man who seemed perpetually afraid of him, strode in his direction.

“I am looking for elephants,” Sahn said softly.

“Elephants?”

“What dead elephants would be missing.”

“Captain, I haven’t heard about any ivory. I swear it.”

Sahn wished he could see the man’s expression. “If you do hear of these elephants, you’ll tell me. You’ll tell me and then I won’t stop by your store for many months.”

“I will. And I’ll get word to you as fast as possible.”

“Be careful what you do here,” Sahn warned, gazing into the gloom ahead.

“Yes, Captain.”

Sahn stepped out of the shop. The sun brightened the fog before him. Following the line of the sidewalk’s edge, he moved ahead. Most shopkeepers stayed hidden, though several nodded as he passed, looking up from newspapers or antiques that they were repairing. Sahn said hello to no one. But neither did he trouble anyone. These merchants had already paid him for the month. And he wouldn’t ask for more than was expected.

A tap on his shoulder served to break his train of thought. He turned, surprised to see two foreigners standing in front of him. The foreigners looked as if they were on safari, dressed in khaki-colored shorts and shirts. The man and woman wore sunglasses and oversize hats. “Excuse me,” the man said, pulling a map from his pocket. “But we’re looking for Ben Thanh Market. Is it near here?”

Sahn grunted. The market was just a few blocks away. Shrugging, he pretended as if he couldn’t speak English. Why would he want to help foreigners, especially ones who sounded like they came from America? Though most of his countrymen were delighted to have Americans back in Vietnam, Sahn didn’t share that outlook. He knew what these people were capable of.

“He can’t speak English,” the woman said, taking the map from her companion. “Let’s just hop on a cyclo and tell the driver to take us there.”

“How can he stand the heat in that outfit?” the man asked.

“He’s used to it. They all are.”

Sahn watched the couple depart. Soon they were blurs like everyone else. Soon they were gone. But the memory of what their people had done was not. Sahn scratched at an old scar on his arm. He thought of his sisters, recalling their whimpers in the darkness. The memory weakened him, as it always did. He leaned against a streetlight, no longer concerned with elephants. Instead he wondered where his siblings had traveled to, and what they might have become. He still missed them, even after so many long years. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was a fool, he thought. Time has no such curative powers. Neither does revenge or victory. I’ve tasted both and they meant nothing to me.

No, Sahn thought, such wounds are forever open, like the side of a mountain that’s been stripped of lumber and minerals. This mountain will never be the same, no matter how proud and noble it had once been. Nothing can change the ugliness of the past, and nothing can replace the beauty that’s been stolen from the world. Time doesn’t have the power to do either. Wounds don’t heal. They just fester and rot until the end.

 

 

TO IRIS, HO CHI MINH CITY in the daylight was almost as incomprehensible as it was at night. She found it hard to believe that Chicago and Ho Chi Minh City were on the same planet. She’d once thought Chicago to be hectic, even frenzied. But Chicago’s streets were nothing like what she looked upon now. Every inch before her seemed to be defined by movement. The scooters were everywhere, swirling like snowflakes in a storm. They darted. They moved as one. They avoided one another in last-second swerves that were somehow almost graceful. Mingling with the scooters were tractors, trucks, and bicycles—hundreds of bicycles, often ridden by pairs of uniformed schoolchildren.

Holding the directions her father had given her, Iris navigated the obstacles of the sidewalk. He’d often told her of the peace and sanctuary found at his center, but Iris found it hard to believe that anywhere in the city could be quiet. Too much of everything existed. Too many sights. Too many sounds. Even the immense tropical trees seemed to twist and lock branches, as if they too were trying to step through the crowds.

Ten feet behind Iris was Noah, his eyes instinctively looking for danger. The torn and buckled sidewalk presented a myriad of problems for his prosthesis. Made of a steel spring that connected an artificial foot with a sleeve that fit around his stump, Noah’s prosthesis enabled him to walk but made doing so difficult. When he planted his injured leg, it felt as if it were pushing into the pavement instead of away from it. The result was an uneven, ungainly gait that gave him chronic and severe back pain.

A flower market appeared beside them. The open-air market was comprised of scores of individual stalls that offered flowers rarely seen in the West. Many of the flowers sprang from branches, opening wide to the sky so their vibrant petals could gather as much sunlight as possible. Though they rose out of bamboo baskets that looked to have been woven at the dawn of time, the flowers were immaculately organized and presented. Brown or wilted petals weren’t in sight.