Thiên looked at him sharply. “You have the address?”

  “Larry said it’s on a small lane not too far away from the railway.”

  They drove. Thiên turned into a path that cut into Trương Minh Ký. Dan gazed at the tall, narrow houses lining up on both sides. The street where he’d rented the apartment used to have tamarind trees, and Kim had sometimes picked their fruit to cook delicious sour shrimp soup for him. He couldn’t see any trees now. Just concrete, people, shops, and motorbikes.

  “Your friend Larry, what’s his girlfriend name?” Thiên asked.

  “Kim. She worked at a bar.”

  “Kim was a popular name for bar girls. Not a real name.”

  “Really?” How stupid of him not to have known. All that time, Kim had used a fake name. What else did she lie about?

  After going through many small lanes, Thiên returned to the main road. “Let me ask about the Hollywood Bar once more.”

  Dan nodded, telling himself he’d give Thiên a generous tip.

  Thiên approached a man standing next to a motorbike at the corner of a crossroad. The man seemed startled as he saw Dan. Then he looked at Thiên with such an intense gaze, as if he was about to weep. Thiên and the man exchanged words for a while.

  “I feel so bad for that man,” said Thiên as he drove Dan away. “He works as a motorbike taxi driver. Like me, he used to be an ARVN soldier and was imprisoned in a reeducation camp. When he was in the camp, his wife left on a boat with his children. He’s been waiting for them since. Thirty-eight years, imagine that? When he saw us, he thought his wife had sent us to look for him. He thinks she made it to America and you are her friend.” Thiên choked up.

  Dan looked back at the man. Thirty-eight years of waiting. More than thirteen thousand days of longing for one’s wife and kids, not knowing whether they were dead or alive.

  He thought about Kim. Her swollen stomach. Her hands stretching toward him. Her telling him that the child was his. Was she waiting for him?

  In front of the beer garden where they stopped, an old man sat, begging. Thiên gave him some money. Inside, Thiên ordered a plate of grilled pork, a glass of fresh beer for himself, and a lemon soda for Dan.

  “You don’t drink?” Thiên asked.

  “Not anymore.” Dan had been sober for five and a half years. He’d told his sister but she didn’t believe him. Too bad she wasn’t able to see it for herself.

  He had managed to find Marianne a few years after their mother’s death, but she’d refused to come back to Seattle. The memories of it were too much, she’d said. They had talked on the phone a couple of times and he’d driven across the country for four days to see her in Vermont. Things had gone decently at first, but then he’d gotten drunk. She kicked him out of her house, yelling that he was just like their father. She’d since moved to Australia, further away from him.

  Most tables in the beer garden were full, surrounded by men whose faces were flushed from drinking. Some were loudly counting one, two, three in unison before clinking their glasses and downing their drinks in one gulp.

  Thiên raised his glass. “Trăm phần trăm. Bottom up!”

  They clinked glasses. Dan took a gulp of his soda. Thiên finished his beer in one go. A waitress, dressed in a red dress that was so short that her underwear almost showed, filled Thiên’s glass. At the table next to them, a man picked up his guitar. Music floated from his fingers, rising into the air, drowning out all other sounds. Dan wished Linda were here. She would have enjoyed this, seeing how the locals spend their evening.

  When the man’s singing voice climbed up, dipped, and rose again, Dan shivered. The lyrics sounded familiar, as if coming from the marrow of his memory.

  Thiên sang along, then smiled. “I love this song, written by Trịnh Công Sơn. We call him the Bob Dylan of Việt Nam.”

  “Oh, I remember now. Kim used to sing his songs.”

  ‘So you were close to Larry’s girlfriend?” Using his chopsticks, Thiên dipped some herbs wrapped around a piece of pork into a bowl of fish sauce where chopped chili and minced garlic accentuated the amber color.

  “I didn’t know her actually,” Dan forced a laugh. “Larry said his girlfriend adored a songwriter who was regarded as the Bob Dylan of Vietnam.” He couldn’t tell Thiên this, but Kim used to recite long sections of an epic poem that contained thousands of verses. During their nights together, she’d often sent him to sleep with those verses, or a lullaby, or a Bob Dylan of Việt Nam song.

  He found himself comparing Kim and Linda. Unlike Kim, Linda wasn’t a reader. He had given her books written by other vets, books in which he could see himself as clearly as if they were mirrors. He hoped they would help Linda understand him better, but she left them on the shelves, unread. She didn’t care much about poetry. Once she’d said she didn’t understand poetry, nor why people wrote poems. For him, poetry was the language of the soul. Writers could hide their feelings behind fiction, but had to bare their soul to poetry.

  Kim would understand what he meant. If he’d met Kim in a world without war, would they have had a chance? He wasn’t sure, but he yearned for a partner with whom he could share his love for reading. For him, a conversation about books represented the most intimate discourse. It revealed a person’s values, beliefs, fears, and hopes. Experiencing the same books enabled people to travel on similar journeys and brought them closer together. Dan had found that at the book club he and his veteran friends had been treasuring for years.

  Was Kim still reading these days, and was she happily married? He hoped so. And he was again gripped by the hope that their child had survived.

  Many years ago, while catching the train home from work, he’d found a copy of the New York Times on an empty chair nearby. A boy stared at him from one of the pages. Born to a white GI and a Vietnamese woman, the boy had been abandoned during the war. After reading the headline and the first paragraph, he folded up the newspaper, returning it to the seat. He told himself that if Kim had given birth, she would have taken care of their child. A dedicated Buddhist like her wouldn’t have given up her own kid. She’d always managed her situation well and overcome many obstacles. And her sister was there to help.

  Now, thinking back to the article, a lump rose up in his throat. He turned away and looked out to the road. Kim or his child might be passing by him right now, on one of the many motorbikes and scooters, and he wouldn’t even know if it was them.

  Once the singer had finished, Dan turned back to the table. “Mr. Thien . . . once I read about kids of American GIs here. The article said they had a difficult time. Is it true?”

  “Yes . . . many GI kids were homeless. We called them bụi đời, which means the dust of life. Some GI kids were lucky to make it to America, but not all.”

  “You know GI kids who are still here? How are they doing now?”

  “They’re mostly poor. Many didn’t have a chance to go to school, so finding jobs is difficult.” Thiên took a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. “You smoke? No?” He lit one and inhaled, blowing smoke through his nostrils.

  Dan leaned closer across the table. “I have some questions. But . . . the things we discuss tonight . . . please . . . don’t tell Linda. Don’t mention anything to our common friends Mr. Duy nor his wife. In fact, I’d be grateful if you can keep this to yourself.” It was risky to ask Thiên to conceal things from Linda, but he had no choice. On the other hand, Thiên was a vet, he would understand how complicated the war was.

  “No problem.” Thiên finished his second beer. He snapped his fingers. As the waitress filled his glass, he told her something, which made her flush. She bowed and went to the next table. Dan winced as Thiên leaned back in his chair, his leg on another chair. Dan wondered what type of a person Thiên really was. He had acted like a polite tour guide while on duty, but no longer. There seemed to be two people in Thiên: the compassionate one who’d cried for his former comrade and given money to beggars, and the married man who flirted. But who was Dan to judge? After all, he’d done much worse.

  “So . . . what questions you want to ask?” Thiên gulped down his beer.

  “Well . . . I told you about Larry. He’s a very good friend. He was here from 1969 to 1970. When he left, his girlfriend, Kim . . . she was pregnant. Larry wanted to keep in contact with her but it wasn’t possible. And now, with me being here, Larry asked if I could look for her. He wants to keep it confidential . . . He’s married, and his wife has no idea.”

  “Sure. We all have secrets to keep.” Thiên took a drag of his cigarette, studying Dan through the smoke. “You have a picture of Kim? Her address? Full name?”

  “No . . . not anymore. But Larry remembers that Kim had a sister. Both of them used to work at the Hollywood Bar.”

  “We already asked about that bar. No luck.”

  “Perhaps we haven’t met the right person . . . You think you could go back tomorrow and ask around for Kim and her sister? The Hollywood Bar was well known. And Larry . . . he wouldn’t mind paying for your time.”

  “But it’s difficult. Kim was a popular bar girl name. Her sister may not be a real sister.”

  “I’m sure that was her real sister, working in the same bar. They were very close. People might remember them. Their father was sick, and Kim wanted to be a doctor.”

  “You remember what they look like?”

  “Well . . . I didn’t meet them. But Larry said Kim had long hair, brown skin, and she was slim.”

  “That could be any bar girl.” Thiên chuckled. “You American men . . . you boom-boom bar girls, have children with them, yet you don’t know their names or who they really are.”

  Dan winced. Yes, he didn’t know much about Kim, but he did care about her. He appreciated the many things she’d done for him, and the ways she’d tried to save him.

  “It’s not me who’s looking for Kim, Mr. Thien. It’s Larry,” he said, hating it that he had to lie, but he needed to protect his marriage.

  “Whatever.” Thiên flicked the ashes of his cigarette on the floor. “Whoever your friend Larry is . . . if he wants to look for Kim, I hope he has good intention. I know men like him who come back here to find our women, only to break their hearts again. Some of you guys are selfish and ignorant. During the war, you used our women for sex, and now some of you use them to be able to feel better, to get rid of your guilt.”

  Dan blinked, stunned by Thiên’s sharp words. “Larry isn’t like that, Mr. Thien. He wants to find Kim to meet his responsibility as a father.”

  “You sure?” Thiên blew smoke out of his nose. “Recently I help an American vet find his girlfriend. After forty-five years. I was happy at first but he made her miserable.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Thiên sighed. “The guy is insensitive to our culture. He made the woman think he still loved her, then disappeared again. He doesn’t want to talk to her now that he knows she is alive. I feel so bad for her. Rejected twice by the same man.”

  “But why did he want to find her in the first place? Did they have a child together?”

  “Yes . . . but the child died when it was a baby.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. My friend Larry . . . he’s considerate. I know he cares about Kim and won’t hurt her again.” Dan appreciated Thiên being frank about the consequences. If he found Kim, he had to be clear that he loved his wife, so there would be no misunderstanding. But what if Kim still loved him and his feelings for her returned once he saw her again?

  “If you’re sure Larry is careful,” Thiên rapped his fingers on the table, “then I can help him. I help GIs look for their kids. It’s a part of my job on top of being a tour guide.”

  “Really? How many veterans have you helped? Did many of them find their kids?”

  “Quite a few GIs over the last ten years. Some found their women and children, but not many. Work is difficult and needs time.”

  “Larry doesn’t have time. He’s getting old, and he’s sick.”

  “Tell Larry to publish notices on newspapers and on TV.”

  “But that would cost a lot of money, no?”

  “Very cheap for Americans. Fifty dollars for a short search notice in a national newspaper.”

  “That’s quite affordable, but I have to ask Larry. As I said, he wants privacy.”

  “My fee’s also very cheap for Americans. Tomorrow night I can go back to Trương Minh Ký Street. I can do many other things to help find Kim. My starting fee is one hundred dollars. If we find Kim, Larry should give me more.”

  Dan didn’t need to think. He gave Thiên a one-hundred-dollar bill. “By the way, Larry said Kim had a small scar above her right eye, caused by a childhood accident.”

  Thiên took out a small notebook and started writing. “What did your friend Larry do?”

  Dan wanted to say Larry was a Marine but Thiên needed the right information. “He was a helicopter pilot.”

  “So his job was just like yours?”

  Linda and her mouth. He’d told her that if Thiên asked, she could say he was a vet, but nothing else. They’d talked frequently before this trip and he wondered what else she’d revealed to Thiên.

  Thiên’s phone rang. He picked it up, laughing and shouting into it. He turned to Dan. “My cousin. I’m very late for his birthday party.”

  When Thiên dropped Dan in front of the Majestic Hotel, his wristwatch showed 11:05 p.m. He should go up to the room. He’d been gone too long and Linda could be anxious, if she wasn’t sleeping. But all he wanted was to be by himself.

  He crossed the street and stood leaning against the railing that ran beside the water. The river was Kim’s hair, black, smooth, stretching until eternity. He recalled how she’d caressed his naked body with her hair, how she’d made him laugh, their passionate lovemaking, the meals that they’d shared, the fights that they’d had. Upon reflection, he was shocked at how intensely he’d felt for Kim while being in love with Linda. As if he could love two people at the same time. But were his feelings for Kim love or lust? He wasn’t sure, but he was certain it wasn’t pure sex. Kim had enabled him to see that Vietnamese people were just like Americans, neither barbaric nor pitiful as his training had taught him.

  He gripped the railing. He realized now that what he’d done to Kim was the deepest cause of his regrets. He had to find her and his child. Knowing that they were okay would enable him to make peace with the person he was, with the decisions he’d made. Perhaps he was selfish, like Thiên had said, but he felt certain that Kim would want him to get in touch if she’d had a child with him. If he found her, he’d be respectful. He’d try to find the best solution so that he wouldn’t hurt Kim nor Linda.

  He only had two weeks in Việt Nam and two days in Sài Gòn. He had to make the most out of his time.

  What if tomorrow he pretended to be sick? Once Thiên took Linda on the day tour, he’d rent a taxi and go looking for Kim himself. Before that, he’d ask the hotel to let him use their computer; he’d search the Internet for the Hollywood Bar. Perhaps Kim and her sister were on Facebook and he could find them somehow.

  He shook his head. It wouldn’t be fair to Linda. She’d planned for this trip as a vacation but mainly as a kind of geographic therapy for him. Perhaps the right thing to do was to confess, but that could very well ruin their marriage.

  The more he thought about it, the heavier his feet became. He doubted he’d be able to find Kim behind Linda’s back, and that he could avoid hurting both women at the same time. By finding Kim, he might risk losing Linda and their life together. But by not searching for her, he’d forever be tormented; his trauma would never be healed, and he’d never have a peaceful marriage with Linda.

  He sighed.

  His room was quiet. All the lights were off, except for the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Linda knew him well: he must have at least one light on.

  Standing at the entrance hall, he cocked his head. Linda must be sleeping. He bolted the door, secured it with the metal chain.

  He eased his shoes off, opened the bathroom door, closed it behind him and locked it. He sat on the toilet, his palms against his face. Other vets had been returning to Việt Nam for years, looking for their children, but not him. Kim and his child might have been abused and hungry while he’d enjoyed a comfortable life.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Tears flowed down his cheeks. He sobbed uncontrollably.

  It took a long while for him to calm down. A headache blurred his eyesight. The goddamn wound in his head was giving him trouble again.

  He tiptoed toward the bed. He looked for Linda and his mouth opened. She wasn’t there.

  “Honey,” he called.

  “Linda.” He pulled the duvet away. He checked under the bed and behind the curtains.

  “Linda!”

  He rushed to the window. The Sài Gòn River was there, a calm black sheet. The street was almost empty. A motorbike zipped by.

  He jumped toward the phone, dialed reception. He beat his fist onto the table as the phone rang and rang.

  A click at the other end. “Good evening. May I help you?” a girl’s voice said.

  “Have you seen my wife? Linda . . . Linda Ashland.”

  “Oh, the lady with blonde hair?”

  “Yes, for God’s sake. Where is she?”

  “She was here, Sir. She talked on the phone, but she’s just gone upstairs.”

  Someone rapped at the door.

  “Who is it?” he shouted.

  “Open the goddamn door!” Linda screamed.

  He pulled it open. Linda stood, her face red, her lips quivering.

  “Where have you been?” he said. “You freaked the hell out of me. I thought you’d been kidnapped.”

  She avoided his gaze, stepping inside. Her shoes were on the floor of the entrance hall and she swung her leg, kicking them, sending them flying toward the middle of the room. She grabbed her suitcase.