“But you don’t have enough money to stay on,” Bình insisted.

  “I’ll manage. You know me . . . don’t worry.”

  “Don’t do anything illegal, anh Phong—and be careful with your wallet. We have nothing left to help get you out of prison.”

  “Stop being my mother!” Phong snapped. He had lived in Sài Gòn long enough to know how dangerous this city could be. Still, he wished he had returned earlier. He might have heard about the DNA tests, and about the returning American veterans. His home was 300 kilometers away, half a day by bus, but he felt like it belonged to another world. There, the only news he listened to was from a public radio perched on top of a neighborhood tree. Each morning, a broadcast woke him up exactly at five o’clock. Most news had to do with government leaders visiting this city, that province, or another country.

  Tài stepped in between Phong and Bình. “Please . . . don’t fight.” He shook his head. “I’m so tired of this. Of waiting, of begging others for a chance.” The teenager’s shoulders sagged as if he was an old man. “I’ve been thinking . . . that perhaps it’s time we stop dreaming about immigrating to America. America has created this illusion that it can rescue everyone, but it has its own problems. It’s not like Black people have it so easy there. I’m not sure we would be accepted.”

  “Ha, trứng mà đòi khôn hơn vịt hả? How can eggs be smarter than ducks?” said Phong. “You haven’t seen life, Son. And you can’t tell me that all these people inside the consulate waiting for their visas are stupid.”

  “But they might be applying for business or tourist visas . . .”

  “Don’t you remember the relatives of our neighbors who came back from America? They are so well-off, so educated. I just want to give you and your sister the same chance,” Phong insisted. He’d believed in the American dream all his life, he wasn’t ready to let his own son crush it.

  “Yes I know . . . and I appreciate it, Ba,” Tài sighed. “But I hate to see how trying is affecting you.”

  “Without trying, we’ll never succeed,” Bình said.

  “You are the egg who wants to be smarter than his parents, the ducks,” Diễm told Tài, laughing. “The egg can’t be smarter than the ducks, la là lá la la,” she sang, running away as Tài tried to catch her.

  Phong stood outside the Sài Gòn Post Office. He’d just used a public phone to call Mr. Lương, who told him to come for a DNA test the next morning.

  On the phone, Phong had reconfirmed that the test was really free. Too many people had tried to cheat him, and too many more had made him empty promises. He needed to be careful, like he should have been with Quang. Just thinking about the visa agent made it hard to breathe.

  He had three hundred fifty thousand đồng with him. Bình, Tài and Diễm needed the rest to get home. He pulled his hat lower. He had planned to go home right after the interview and had brought next to nothing with him. He wished he had a long-sleeved shirt to cover his arms, and his razor to shred off the stupid beard. He needed a place to lie down and sleep, but hunger dug its sharp claws into his stomach, and the sun hammered its heat onto his head. The money he had would buy him a good meal and a bus ticket home, but not a room in a cheap hostel. Where would he sleep tonight?

  The Sài Gòn Cathedral stood in front of him, its redbrick walls and high domes as majestic as they’d always been. On the stone steps of the entrance, he could still see the body of his twelve-year-old self. The body that knelt, shivering beneath merciful hands. The body that wandered the streets of Sài Gòn, looking for things that could fill his stomach.

  Near the cathedral was a café packed with customers who spilled out onto the sidewalk, sitting side by side, sipping their drinks. A man was struggling to unload crates of soft drinks from a parked mini-truck.

  Phong approached the man. “Brother, may I help you? Shall I bring these into the shop?” He hoped to earn a tip, or a bottle of drink.

  Before the man could answer, a woman rushed out from the café. “My customers are looking . . . Don’t let him touch anything. He looks dirty . . . And who knows, he might be a drug addict. A thief.”

  “Go away,” the man said, heaving a crate onto his shoulders and staggering into the café.

  The eyes of those people on the sidewalk were fires that burned their marks into Phong, and he felt mortified. He walked away with his nails dug into his palms. If he punched somebody, then he’d still be a man. But Bình was right, it wouldn’t be worth it. They wouldn’t have the money to get him out of prison.

  He should have prepared better for this trip. When the letter from the consulate arrived asking him and his family to come for a visa interview, he was so excited that he forgot what it was like in this city. Bình had suggested that they drain their pond, sell the fish, and bring the money. But he insisted that in a few more months, the fish would be big enough to fetch a good price, sufficient for them to buy new tin sheets for their leaking roof.

  He made his way to the cathedral, where the sound of singing voices rose like birds toward the sky. He paced alongside the cathedral’s high wall, his hands tracing the rough, red bricks. He’d prayed to God as well as his Vietnamese and American ancestors. If they heard him, they hadn’t answered. Still, he said the Hail Mary prayer and thought about the kindness of Sister Nhã.

  In front of the church’s entrance, a woman sat, a baby in her arms, a small box in front of her. The woman’s face was gaunt but unwrinkled. She was too young to be his mother, but he still stared at her, his eyes lingering on the sickly-looking baby. He could have suffered like this baby if his mother hadn’t given him away; he could have spent his earliest years on the street instead of in Sister Nhã’s care and warmth.

  “Má, where are you? Do you ever think about me?” Words escaped from deep within him, soft as a whisper, bitter like tears.

  Facing the Consequences

  Hồ Chí Minh City, 2016

  Walking with Thiên and Linda to a local restaurant for dinner, Dan noticed a beggar, dressed in tattered clothing, a small child in her arms. She stretched her stick-thin arm toward him, murmuring something. The street light shone onto her face, and in her eyes he saw Kim’s desperation. He wanted to give her some money but had no change left. He turned away.

  Why was he feeling bad? He’d treated Kim well, hadn’t he?

  No. He was too old to keep lying to himself that he was the man of honor Linda had wanted to see when she looked at him.

  Bánh Mì Như Lan was similar to the eateries Kim used to take him to, only bigger and more crowded. Sitting on a corner of a busy crossroad, it was filled with noise and packed with people. Instead of doors, it had counters selling many types of dry and cooked food. Customers on motorbikes drove right up to the counters to buy food without even turning off their engines. Behind the counters were Formica tables and plastic chairs. Linda wrinkled her nose, eyeing the rubbish scattered on the floor.

  Thiên assured them that such a place sold authentic food. He ordered for them and soon the waiter placed the food in front of them: crunchy baguettes stuffed with thinly sliced roasted pork, pate, pickled vegetables, spring onions and coriander; plates of fresh and fried spring rolls; and bowls of steaming noodles.

  Dan reached for a baguette but Linda stopped him. She fished her phone out of his backpack. Linda loved taking photos and had to bring her phone everywhere with her. He was glad he’d left his mobile, which he mainly used for work, at home in Seattle. He’d always resisted the ways technology intruded on his private life.

  Linda took picture after picture of the food. She’d be posting these soon. “Done!” she said. “Bon appétit.”

  He picked up a bánh mì, closed his eyes, and inhaled.

  “Mmm, this is good,” said Linda after she’d bitten into hers.

  “When France invaded Việt Nam, they brought bread.” Thiên squeezed some lemon into his bowl of noodle soup. “We took the bread and made it better.”

  Dan chewed slowly, savoring each bite. The bánh mì tasted just as it had in the apartment he’d shared with Kim. Perhaps he could visit their old building, just to see how it had changed. As hard as he tried, though, he couldn’t remember the street’s name. Nor the name of the road close by the apartment where his favorite bars used to be.

  The food was so flavorful, they finished everything. Dan thought he was too full but ended up sharing a fresh coconut and a seven-color dessert made with jelly, beans, and coconut milk with Linda. Thiên devoured another bowl of noodles while talking enthusiastically with Linda about real estate, the ridiculous prices of land, apartments, houses. The Communists had changed the city’s name to Hồ Chí Minh, but Thiên kept calling it Sài Gòn. “Fastest way to make money here,” he told them, blowing his nose into a paper tissue, “is become friend with important government officials. Or bribe them. They tell you where to buy land.”

  “So you own land, Mr. Thien?” Linda asked.

  “Only a little bit, Madam. None of my friends are important officials, and I hate corruption.”

  “Me, too.” Linda clinked her glass with Thiên’s. “By the way, please do call us by our names. Any friend of Duy’s is a friend of ours.”

  “Ah, thank you but I’m used to it. It’s my job.” Thiên waved his hand.

  When the bill came, Linda converted the amount into USD. “Fourteen dollars for the three of us? We can eat here every night,” she exclaimed, then took more pictures of the busy counters. “By the way, we need to exchange some money. Should we do it at the hotel?”

  “Tomorrow I take you to gold shop. Rate much better.”

  “You have enough cash to change this for me?” She gave Thiên a ten-dollar note.

  “Sure.” Thiên handed her some cash, and on their way back to the hotel, Linda gave all of it to the woman beggar. “Buy some nice food for your child, please . . . and bring him home,” she told the woman, then studied the face of the sleeping boy, who looked skinny and possibly ill.

  As Thiên translated, the woman bowed to Linda, the child clutched tight to her chest. She was too young to be Kim, Dan thought.

  At home, Linda volunteered twice a month at a shelter for homeless women. She cooked and served food, organized donation drives, talked to the women, and helped them in any way she could. Dan picked up donated items and took care of the electrical repairs for the shelter, but didn’t otherwise involve himself in the women’s lives. Their problems—domestic violence, mental health issues, sexual abuse, and drug dependencies—were too much for him to deal with. He admired Linda’s strength and compassion.

  Perhaps when he found Kim and his child, Linda would help them.

  Or walk away from him and never come back.

  They took another route, passing several open-air bars that thumped with loud music. Excitement bubbled in Dan’s chest, as if he was becoming young again. He was about to suggest stopping for a drink when Linda yawned. “Damn, I’m exhausted,” she said. “I can’t wait to hit that soft bed.”

  Dan looked around and took in the city’s hectic activity. Despite his jet lag, he was full of energy. He had to make the most out of his two days here.

  His watch showed 8:45 p.m. when they arrived at the entrance of the Majestic. He really wanted to see the street where Kim’s bar used to be.

  He hesitated then pulled Linda’s arm. “Honey, why don’t you go up and sleep. Give your knees a rest. We’ll have a long day tomorrow. My headache . . . I need some fresh air. I’ll go for a stroll with Mr. Thien along the river.”

  He prepared himself for her questions, but she nodded. “Don’t take too long. Jenna said the jet lag is terrible. We’d better sleep early.”

  “Sure.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  He watched Linda enter the hotel. For a moment, he thought about going after her. He thought about his promise not to let her out of his sight. But the hotel looked secure and well-staffed. Besides, Linda wouldn’t go anywhere without him.

  “Sir, is your headache bad? You need medicine?” Thiên asked.

  “Thank you, my friend.” He patted Thiên on the shoulder. “What I need is your help in visiting the street where my favorite bars used to be. But please . . . don’t tell Linda, she doesn’t need to know.”

  “Ah . . . of course.” Thiên winked. “I can take you to excellent bars with beautiful girls.” He edged closer, whispering, “They can dance for you in private. Sexy. Naked. Whatever you want.”

  “No . . . no, that’s not what I have in mind.” Dan chuckled, but immediately felt guilty. He cleared his throat. “Hmm . . . I used to hang out with my friends at a street near the airport. I’d like to go there, for memory’s sake.”

  “Street near airport . . . with some bars during war . . .” Thiên tapped his finger against his forehead. “Perhaps Trương Minh Ký Street, now Lê Văn Sỹ? A veteran based at Tân Sơn Nhứt told me he used to go there. Fifteen minute by cyclo I think.”

  “That’s it. That’s the place.” A cyclo trip used to take Dan fifteen to twenty minutes and cost around 100 piasters, or 25 cents. Taxis were faster but much more expensive. “Do you remember some of the bars’ names?” He hoped Thiên would mention the Hollywood.

  “I wasn’t in Sài Gòn back then. But I heard about two streets with best bars for GIs: Nguyễn Văn Thoại Street, and Tự Do Street over there. Rex Hotel and Continental were also popular.”

  “I’d like to visit the street near the airport. Would you come with me? We can get a taxi—”

  “I have a better idea,” Thiên said. “I take you on my motorbike. You give me same amount as taxi fare going there and coming back? Fifteen dollars okay?”

  Dan liked the entrepreneurial spirit of Thiên. “I’ll pay you tomorrow when I get some change.” He looked up, suddenly feeling anxious. Most rooms on the highest floor had their lights on. Linda wouldn’t go anywhere without him. She should be safe.

  Thiên had parked his bike a short walk away. Dan studied the old Honda. It was half the size of his own Harley back home and one front mirror was missing. He wasn’t sure it could carry his weight but Thiên drove with confidence, maneuvering through the dense traffic, humming a song.

  Soon, Dan’s shoulders relaxed. It was actually pleasant to be on the bike. The heat, which had clung to him, was now easing its grip thanks to the breeze. People who surrounded him with their motorbikes paid him no attention.

  Shops lined both sides of the roads, selling all types of goods, from baby clothes to metal products, to stationery. Restaurants were filled with people. It was late, but businesses were still open. One shop seemed to sell electrical supplies. Perhaps he could check it out later. Maybe he could get some cheap stuff for his radio-building hobby. His former comrades, the few whom he was in contact with, were surprised that he’d become an electrician. They said he could earn better money working as a private helicopter pilot or a flight instructor, but he wanted none of that. He’d returned from Việt Nam with nearly two years left on his enlistment and had been assigned as a flight instructor at Fort Wolters, Texas. But he had nearly crashed a helicopter when he saw one of his students’ faces melt into the face of Reggie McNair, his dead co-pilot, and yanked away the controls. The army had grounded him, given him an array of pills to take and, to his relief, changed his medical profile so he could not be sent back to combat. His last months in the army were spent supervising paper work, dazed by his medications and the alcohol with which he self-medicated. After his discharge from the army, he decided to go back to school. His service had earned him a $130-a-month allowance for college under the GI Bill and he’d used it for two years at a community college that offered the vocational training he needed, as well as some English courses where he’d indulged his love of reading. Afterward he went through his apprenticeship, joined a union, and got his electrician’s license. He wanted to work with his hands, to solve problems. Being an electrician required good skills and a mind that could visualize the flow of electricity, switches, lines of incoming and outgoing power. With his job, he didn’t need to talk too much to people and could dictate his own hours.

  “Here we are. Old Trương Minh Ký Street, now Lê Văn Sỹ,” Thiên said as they entered a large, busy road.

  Dan looked around. No bars, just storefronts that sold cosmetics, clothing, and flowers. “Are you sure this is it?”

  “Yes . . . I already took quite a few vets here. It’s a long road.”

  They passed a new-looking church, a pagoda, and a petrol station. These buildings hadn’t been there before. More florists, clothing stores, restaurants, tea houses, and hotels. The only thing that resembled a bar was a modern beer garden.

  When they passed a railway that cut across the road, Dan tapped Thiên’s shoulder. “I remember this. My favorite bar wasn’t too far from here. It was called the Hollywood.”

  Thiên stopped alongside the road. “Let me ask around. Stay with my bike.”

  As Thiên went into a store, Dan felt something eerie, as if someone was standing behind him, holding up their hands, ready to grasp his neck. He spun around. The traffic was rushing by, ignoring him. He pushed the motorbike up on the sidewalk, toward the narrow wall of a shop. He stood facing the road, his back against the wall.

  He waved when Thiên returned. “Any luck?”

  “Nobody knows Hollywood Bar.”

  They traveled up and down the street. Thiên patiently talked to many people but they all shook their heads. Dan didn’t see anything familiar. In his nightmares about Việt Nam, nothing had changed. How ridiculous of him to not have anticipated that the old Sài Gòn was gone. The Vietnamese had built themselves a new city. A city that no longer needed to suckle from America.

  Dan looked around. Perhaps he could try to locate the apartment instead. “Mr. Thien, I have a good friend. Larry. He used to rent an apartment for his Vietnamese girlfriend around here. He asked me to check the building out, take some pictures for him.” It would have been better to tell Thiên the truth since he needed Thiên’s help to find Kim, but he had to be careful since Linda was involved. He had to protect his wife.