When the roosters began to crow, Trang heard the creaking of the wooden staircase. She rushed out. A thin figure was climbing the stairs, tangled hair covering her face.

  “Little Sister?” Trang asked.

  Quỳnh looked up. Her face was red, her eyes puffy.

  Trang ran over and took Quỳnh into her arms. “Where did you go? I was so worried.”

  Quỳnh turned away. Her shoulders shook. Trang hugged Quỳnh tighter, her heart wrenching. Once, when Quỳnh was ten years old, she was bitten by a snake while playing hide-and-seek in the garden. Her mother had carried Quỳnh on her back, running barefoot to their village’s health clinic. When the nurse tended to Quỳnh, Trang soaked her mother’s shirt with her tears. She promised herself that if her sister lived, she would take better care of her. Now, she had failed not just in that promise, but in her duty to her parents. How she wished her mother was here to right all the wrongs.

  “I’m so sorry, em. I’m a terrible sister,” she whispered. “I should have stopped you tonight. I shouldn’t have let you come here in the first place.”

  Quỳnh untangled herself from Trang. She sat down on the steps. “Don’t blame yourself, chị Hai. You did try to protect me, but I know what I’m doing.” She blew her nose.

  “If it’s because of the court, we can find another way.”

  “What way, tell me?”

  “Perhaps we can borrow from the tiger madam, or Hân . . .”

  “You think I haven’t tried?” Quỳnh rolled her eyes.

  As days passed, the war pressed down on Trang, its horror vivid on the faces of GIs and in the reports of fierce battles featured on newspapers and TV channels.

  “The Northern Communists and the VC are coming,” Hân told the girls at the Hollywood. “They’ll eat babies and rape all the women. When the day arrives, we have to darken our faces with charcoal and make ourselves ugly.”

  Trang shuddered. By serving American men, she’d become the enemy of the Communists. If they took over Sài Gòn, she’d surely be punished.

  “The VC will burn those who’ve had their hair curled and chop off the fingers of those who’ve painted their nails,” another girl said, and Trang stared down at her red nails.

  “Nothing will happen to us,” Quỳnh told Trang after they’d gone back to their room. “Before those savages arrive, we’ll flee.” She reached under her bed, felt around, and pulled out a wad of money. “Just twenty stacks like this, and we won’t have to work again.” She whacked the dollar bills against her hand. It was all of their savings, hidden in a secret compartment cut into the bedframe. Quỳnh counted the wad each day, adding the money they’d earned the night before. The money was to be sent home the following week.

  The next night at the bar, a GI asked Trang for a long time, offering nine dollars instead of six. “I’m going home in two days, and I want you,” he said.

  She shook her head. As the night went on, she kept staring at her drink. Quỳnh had gone out for a long time. The war was a disease rotting the Southern Republic. She’d heard about recent attacks near her village. She had to go home to her parents soon. She couldn’t let Quỳnh carry the entire burden.

  When the man approached her again, she studied his appearance. He was an older soldier. His nose was crooked, his face long, his skin punctured by pockmarks. He’d taken her to the back room many times and never forced himself on her. She knew him well enough to trust him a little. After all, what could he do to her? The nurse had poked into her so often down there, she was already as torn as a beggar’s clothes.

  “Me cherry girl,” she told the man. “You want long time? Twenty dollar.”

  “Get out of here. No girl ever gets that much.”

  She shrugged.

  “You really cherry girl?” he asked.

  She nodded. “You know me. I no boom boom.”

  He licked his lips, staring at her breasts. She pushed her chest closer to him. “You buy long-time ticket six dollar. You give me remain fourteen dollar. You no tell madam.”

  She put her hand between his legs. His chim was swelling. She gave it a gentle massage.

  His breath was hot against her ear. “Alright, you bitch.”

  After he’d bought a ticket for her time, she made him pay her the additional fourteen dollars. She hid the money inside her clothes in the changing room.

  The room he rented was tiny and smelled like a rat’s nest. The windows were covered in dust as if they’d never been opened. The mattress was soft and the bedsheet dotted with yellowish stains.

  “So . . . am I the lucky guy? You really cherry girl?” On the bed, the man reached for her legs, pulling her to him. She stared at his penis.

  “Me afraid,” she whispered.

  “No need to be, baby.” He brought her foot to his mouth, sucking her toes.

  “You wait.” She fumbled inside her handbag.

  “What the hell is this?” He laughed. “I don’t want any fucking rubber.”

  “No condom, no boom boom.” She shook her head firmly.

  “No . . . sweetheart . . . no. I paid you a lot of money, remember? I’m clean, you don’t have to worry.”

  “I want no American baby. No condom. No boom boom.”

  “You’re unbelievable!” The man said. She thought he’d slap her, but he took the condom and ripped open its package.

  When he entered her, Trang let out a big cry. She felt as if someone was slicing into her with a knife. Struggling to breathe, she dug her nails into the mattress.

  “No fast, no fast,” she begged him, but he had a wild look on his face. He gripped her buttocks, pumping into her furiously. She balled her hands into fists and shut her eyes, biting her lip until it was over.

  “Oh man, you were so tight!” The man rolled off her sweaty body, panting. Then he cocked his head, grinning. “Sorry, babe. Couldn’t help myself.”

  She lifted her bottom, staring down. A red patch was spreading on the yellowish sheet, as red as rose petals. The petals which she should have given her husband on their wedding night.

  She snatched the blanket, wrapped it around her waist, ran to the bathroom. She turned on the shower, washing herself. The pain throbbed between her legs. She hoped the condom hadn’t broken and the man hadn’t managed to plant his seeds inside of her.

  After she’d dried herself, she stood, shaking. She had no more hope to be with Hiếu. He deserved someone better.

  Out in the room, her customer had fallen asleep, his face turned to the door, as if he wanted to be watchful of the VC even in his slumber. Picking up her clothes, she eyed the pair of jeans he’d thrown carelessly onto a chair. A pocket was swollen, a brown leather wallet sticking out. Her heart was in her mouth as she crouched down, reaching for the wallet. It was packed with American bills, real green dollars, not the red MPC dollars. The man must have them because he was going home.

  Her roommates, Linh and Hường, had often talked about how much the American government was paying their soldiers. Hundreds of dollars each month. Each monthly payment could buy several motorbikes. How unfair. Trang and Quỳnh had entertained countless soldiers for months, and the money they’d earned couldn’t buy a single motorbike.

  Holding the wallet in her hand, Trang looked back at the soldier; he was still snoring. “This is for justice,” she thought as she took two five-dollar bills. She wanted more, but feared he’d notice it.

  Ten dollars and she couldn’t sleep the whole night.

  When the American woke up, yawning, she shut her eyes. She focused on keeping her breath rhythmic and her body still. She strained her ears and heard him sit up. Her body tensed at the sounds of his footsteps clicking against the damp tiled floor, of the water tap running, of him peeing. She turned onto her side, curling up like a shrimp, pulling the blanket to cover her body and half of her face. She ruffled her hair, smearing it with her saliva. If she made herself unattractive enough, he wouldn’t want her again.

  She closed her eyes as the toilet flushed. Sounds of footsteps moving closer to the bed. Silence. He must be standing, looking down on her. She froze as his breath warmed her face, his lips wetted her forehead.

  At the jingle of keys, she opened her eyes a crack. The American hummed a song as he picked up his jeans. She thought he’d count his money, but he didn’t even glance at the wallet. She closed her eyes and felt his mouth against her ear. “Goodbye, babe. Goodbye, my Vietnam.”

  After he’d gone, she buried herself under the blanket. Only then did she dare breathe.

  From then on, if Trang trusted a soldier enough, she agreed to go on a long time with him. If she was with a man who didn’t have any weapons with him, she’d check for his wallet. She kept what she’d stolen separately, under her jar of uncooked rice. She had felt powerless before, and now, by saving for her and her sister’s studies, she felt she was gaining control of her life.

  Taking money from men was her secret—her joy and her revenge toward American soldiers who were stealing her youth and her innocence. If it wasn’t for this war, she’d be a happy girl, working hard to become a doctor. If it wasn’t for this war, she wouldn’t see her sister drifting further and further away from her. These days, Quỳnh didn’t want to talk, and whenever they did, their conversations were shallow, as if both of them feared that if they reached down deep enough, they would touch the hearts of their pain.

  Five months into her work, Trang saw two men stepping through the Hollywood’s door. While the older man quickly found himself a girl, the younger one, blond and tall and slim, stayed near the entrance, looking as if he’d come to the wrong place.

  A couple of bar girls rushed to him and Trang looked away. She was tired and unwell. Her new high heels hurt. She regretted buying such a cheap pair. She sat by the bar counter, staring at the palm of her right hand. Once, her village’s fortune-teller had predicted that she’d marry and have one child. Would anyone want to marry her anymore? For sure it wouldn’t be Hiếu. How stupid that she’d dreamt, once again, that he came to Sài Gòn looking for her. Her mother’s letters hadn’t mentioned him at all. If Hiếu missed her, he’d have sent her a message. By now, he must have guessed that her job had nothing to do with an American company.

  The smell of men’s cologne drifted into her nose. The blond man was sitting down on the empty chair next to her.

  “What would you like to drink?” the bartender asked him.

  “Hmm . . . what do you have?”

  “Beer, whiskey, cocktail, you name it.” The bartender gestured at Trang. “And if you want to talk to this nice lady, you can buy her a Sài Gòn Tea.” Then he said something else Trang didn’t understand.

  The bartender winked at her. “I told him to buy you a tea every half an hour if he wants to talk to you.”

  She smiled and returned her gaze to her palm. The fortune-teller had also said that her lifeline was short but refused to say what that meant.

  “Sài Gòn Tea?” someone said.

  She lifted her head. The man was smiling at her.

  She nodded.

  The bartender placed a glass of beer in front of the man.

  “What’s your name?” he asked Trang.

  “Kim.” She drank the tea, shuddering, sticking out her tongue, hoping she looked convincing. Twice, her customers had checked her drinks. One man was so angry, he threatened to report the bar to the police. The tiger madam tried to calm him, and he only softened when Trang agreed to go with him to the back room for free. As for the second customer, she managed to charm him into believing that the bartender had made a mistake. For the rest of the night, though, the customer insisted that the Sài Gòn Tea cocktail be mixed in front of his eyes. Trang became so drunk, she threw up and had to spend the next day in bed.

  “What your name?” she asked.

  He told her over the noise of the bar.

  “Your name Đen?” She smiled. “Đen mean black.”

  “No black. See?” He pointed at his face. “I am white.” He said his name again. Again, his name sounded like Đen to her.

  She nodded. “I know. Easy. Đen. Meaning black.”

  “No black.” He laughed, shaking his head. He picked up his glass of beer and drank. When he put it down, the glass was still quite full. He asked the bartender for a pen and paper. He wrote down his name. Dan.

  She took the pen and wrote her bar name. Kim.

  “Where . . . do . . . you . . . come . . . from?” he spoke slowly.

  “Bạc Liêu,” she lied.

  “Bat Liu?” he said.

  “No, no Bat Liu. Bạc Liêu.”

  He opened his mouth and hesitated. “Bat, Bat Liu.”

  It was her turn to laugh and shake her head.

  “My Vietnamese, so bad?” He scratched his head. “You have to help me. What is this called?” He pointed at a chair.

  “Ghế,” she said.

  “Ge?”

  “No ge. Ghế.”

  “Ge, ge . . .”

  That whole night, she taught him Vietnamese. His pronunciation was so terrible, she had to giggle. The laughter filled her and lifted her up. Unlike other soldiers, Dan sat a distance from her and didn’t once touch her. To keep track of time, he undid his watch and placed it in front of him. Every half an hour, he ordered her a new Sài Gòn Tea. She noticed that he didn’t drink much, that he smelled good, not just from the cologne but from a healthy body. Unlike most other men who frequented the bar, he didn’t smoke.

  When Dan left, she hoped he would come back. He was the only customer so far who’d made her laugh genuinely.

  The Tree of Love

  Hồ Chí Minh City, 2016

  The grass at the 30/4 Reunification Park was wet from the evening rain. A cool wind cut into Phong’s face. He took off his shirt and brought it to his nose. Bình had ironed it before their departure to Sài Gòn. He inhaled her touch. He hoped she’d gotten home safely with the children and hadn’t run out of money along the way. He wished he had made up with her before saying goodbye, told her he was sorry. But he’d been upset about the visa and how bossy she was. When Bình agreed to marry him, people whispered that she only did it for the chance to migrate to America. They were wrong. He knew she loved him.

  He used to believe that he didn’t deserve love because his life was cursed. He used to believe that his parents had done something unspeakable and that he was being punished for it. The luck of his life had been meeting Bình. Her faith in him had enabled him to regain his confidence. Yet for years, he’d feared that she was just a beautiful illusion, and he would wake up to find her gone.

  If the Khuấts’ scheme to use him as a ticket to America had been successful, he might never have met Bình. But she wasn’t waiting for him outside the Khuấts’ doorstep.

  That day many years ago, when the man Khuất blocked his way with a large stick, Phong had taken a fighting stance. He only needed to demonstrate a few high kicks and powerful punches before the man slipped away from his view.

  After leaving the Khuấts’ house, he’d gone back to the building where the American Consulate people had interviewed him. He asked them to let him reapply for a visa. He was told that once his application was rejected, his chance was small, but he could go to the Amerasian Transit Center to seek help.

  Located near Đầm Sen Park, the Transit Center was packed with more than a thousand Amerasians by the time Phong arrived. Built and funded by the American government, it was managed by Vietnamese. The trẻ lai who stayed there had been homeless or came from the countryside. They were either waiting for their visa interviews, for their flights, or for another chance. Everyone’s case was different, but all hoped to leave. After registering and answering countless questions from Vietnamese officers, Phong was given food to eat and a room to share with five other boys.

  As months passed and his efforts to reapply for a visa failed, his hopes dwindled. Apparently, many trẻ lai had been associated with fake papers and the American government decided to apply strict rules. Phong wasn’t sure what these rules were. Visa officers were the ones who decided. Those in the Center often talked about a visa officer known as Mr. Ten Percent, who rejected 90 percent of the visa applications he handled. They hoped to be interviewed by others who appeared to be more generous, but even so, some of them only granted visas to around 30 percent of their cases.

  In 1997, the Center was shut down. Phong was twenty-five years old and once again homeless. He’d only worked odd jobs a few times during the last four years, and now he needed full-time employment. He went back to the bus station, only to find no job openings.

  Sitting at the bus station for hours, he stared at the people arriving and leaving. Sài Gòn had rejected him like a body rejecting a foreign object. He knew that the Mekong Delta, which he’d visited countless times while working on the long-distance bus, was rich with rice harvests. The perfume of such harvests lingered in his mind and called to him. He got off the bench and hung on to the back of a truck, telling himself he would go as far as the truck would take him. After an entire day of traveling, the truck made its final stop. He jumped down. He was in Bạc Liêu, a small province on the Southern tip of the Mekong Delta. He wandered around. Noticing dark-skinned people like him, he learned that they were ethnically Khmer. They were poor but known to be hardworking. Their skin color made him feel he belonged.

  He sold the four gold rings, which he’d sewn into the bottom of his bag during his stay at the American Transit Center. The money was sufficient for him to buy a plot of farmland, on which he built a small house using bamboo and coconut leaves. Once he had a roof over his head, he walked from house to house and told the farmers that he was Khmer, and could help with planting seasons and harvests. He worked hard and saved money. After a few years, he was able to buy an adjacent plot of land, where he planted rice and vegetables.