Trang lowered her gaze, staring at the tiled floor. Her madam was right. With her job, she’d smeared not only herself but her family with filth.

  “Snap out of it, will you?” The tiger madam lifted Trang’s chin, turning her face toward the bar. “See the guy over there? He looks miserable. Go make him happy.”

  She took a few steps forward, dreading the moment she had to talk to another stranger.

  “Em Kim, em Kim,” a voice said.

  She swirled around. Dan was standing in front of her, a smile bright on his face.

  After they sat down at a table in the corner, Dan showed her what he’d brought along: a map of Việt Nam, a small notebook, and a Vietnamese–English dictionary. He pointed at different locations on the map, North and South, and she taught him how to pronounce their names. She gazed at Bến Hải River, which slashed her country in two, and wondered if she’d ever cross it. The names of the Northern provinces sounded so strange on her tongue, as if they belonged to an imaginary planet. The North mystified her. How did the people there survive the American bombings? Were the Northern Communist soldiers as savage and cannibalistic as the rumors, which referred to them as “ăn lông ở lỗ”—“creatures who eat raw meat and live in caves”—and “đầu trâu mặt ngựa”—“creatures with buffalo heads and horse faces”? During the Tết Offensive the year before, the bodies of those soldiers had filled the river near her home. Some neighbors had gone to check on them. They came back whispering that the men looked like pigs, their bodies swollen, rotting.

  Talking to Dan, though, helped her forget about the war and all its troubles. He was trying so hard to learn new words that lines deepened their marks on his young forehead. But his pronunciation was so bad, she kept laughing.

  On the first page of the blank notebook, she wrote down the words she’d taught him and the corresponding English meanings. They went over the words again while other couples around them were flirting, kissing, touching each other, or dancing to the music.

  She’d never asked another American about his duty in Việt Nam, but she found herself asking Dan. When she couldn’t understand him, he fumbled with the pages of the dictionary. Finally, he pointed at a word.

  “Fi cong. I’m a pilot, em.”

  “Fi cong?” She gazed at the Vietnamese translation. “Oh, you mean phi công.”

  “Yes, fi cong. Pilot.”

  “You phi công? You too young.”

  “I’m twenty. Old enough, em.” He smiled, flipping the pages. He pointed at another word. “Chuc than. Helicopter. Helicopter pilot.”

  Again, she couldn’t understand him. She looked at the Vietnamese translation. “Oh, you mean trực thăng. You phi công trực thăng?”

  “Yes, fi cong chuc than. Helicopter pilot.”

  She sat frozen, her vision filled with the images of helicopters roaming the sky of her field and village. Their deafening noise. Their gigantic green bodies resembling murderous dragonflies. Soldiers with machine guns standing at their doors. She’d always associated helicopters with violence and death. How could someone as gentle as Dan be connected with helicopters?

  “I no like helicopter.” She stood up. “They bad.” She hadn’t cared what other soldiers did, but Dan was different. She wanted to tell him about innocent farmers who’d been shot from the aircraft.

  “No . . . I do no bad. Come on, em.” Dan also stood up.

  “You have gun on helicopter?”

  “What?”

  “You shoot?”

  Dan waved both of his hands. “No. I don’t shoot. I’m just a copilot now. My helicopter transports people. Here . . .” He showed her the Vietnamese words.

  She bit her lip. If he transported people, it shouldn’t be bad.

  “Hey, don’t look so worried.” He folded his map. “Let’s talk about something else, something that makes you happy . . . Your family . . . Tell me about your family.”

  “Fam . . . ili? I no understand.”

  He reached for the dictionary, fumbling with the pages, and pointed at a word. “Za dinh. Family.”

  “Gia đình?”

  “Yes. Your za dinh. Tell me about your za dinh.”

  It was the first time a foreigner had asked about her family.

  “Papa, Mama make rice.”

  “Make rice?”

  “Ya. They work. They make rice.”

  “Ah, you mean they are farmers?”

  “Ya, farmer. My sister, there.” She gestured toward Quỳnh, who was standing at the bar counter, flirting with a man.

  “That’s your sister? Real sister?”

  “Real sister. Same papa, same mama.”

  “I see . . . Is she younger or older?”

  “She baby sister.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Lan,” she told him Quỳnh’s bar name.

  She was glad Dan had brought the dictionary along. It helped her describe how beautiful her village was: the rice fields that became velvety carpets during the planting season and a sea of rippling golden waves during the harvesting time; the river that draped its silky body around the feet of tall bamboo ranges; the ponds that were filled with blooming purple water lilies all year round.

  “Would you like to keep this dictionary?” Dan smiled at her. “It’ll help with your English.”

  “Really? You not joking?”

  “No joking. You keep it.”

  “I pay you. How much?”

  “No, no pay. But you can do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Translate for me one day when I visit the zoo.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Let’s ask our good friend what ‘zoo’ means.” He turned the pages of the dictionary. “Xo thu?”

  “Oh, sở thú?”

  “Yes, I was told that Saigon has one of the oldest zoos in the world.”

  He turned the pages again and she learned the names of different animals: elephants, giraffes, hippos, monkeys, tigers, leopards.

  “You not afraid of VC at sở thú?” she asked him.

  “VC at the zoo? Nah. Don’t think so. If any VC goes there, the tigers will eat them. Grrr.” He bared his teeth.

  She tossed her head back, laughing.

  The next Sunday, Dan picked Trang up in the morning. She felt giddy sharing the same seat with him on the small cyclo. For the first time, she was going out with an American in broad daylight. She’d been afraid of being attacked by the VC, but on the ride, Dan’s voice calmed her. He pointed at the charming Vespas and the sturdy Honda Dreams, and told her about his motorbike back home in America.

  Now that she sat high up on the cyclo, she noticed how many homeless people and beggars there were on the street. They were sleeping on the pavement, some with disfigured faces, others with missing limbs. Most of them must have fled their villages in the Central and Mekong Delta regions, where bombings and mortar strikes had become as frequent as daily meals. She shuddered, thinking about her parents. Her village was safe for now under the protection of the ARVN, yet the situation could change as swiftly as the wind changes direction.

  Once they arrived at the zoo, though, her worries became smaller, then disappeared as she walked through the flower-filled park, fed sugarcanes to the elephants, imitated the monkeys’ calls, and admired the gigantic hippos as well as the graceful leopards. She didn’t really need to translate for Dan as most signs were also in English, but she made him practice Vietnamese. She liked being his teacher. Perhaps she would get better at this and teach Vietnamese to Americans for a living.

  She had worn high-heeled shoes so as not to look too short compared to Dan, and her feet hurt from walking. After an hour, he bought her a pair of plastic sandals from a wandering vendor. “You look so cute with those!” He admired her feet. “Seriously, no more need for high-heels.” He made the motion of throwing her shoes into a bush and she had to stop him.

  “So, you like the zoo?” he asked. They were eating ice cream, their backs against the trunk of an ancient banyan tree.

  “I could live here.” She inhaled deeply. Sunlight, filtered through the swaying canopy of leaves, jumped rope on her arms. It felt so good to be around Dan, perhaps she could invite him to her home village for the coming New Year. She would show him how to fold banana leaves around sticky rice, mung beans, and pork to turn them into bánh tét, how to climb coconut trees to pick the best fruit to make candied coconut ribbons. In her latest letter, her mother had insisted that both daughters must come home for Tết even though the celebrations were still several months away.

  “I could live here, too,” Dan said. He studied her, his gaze intense, then turned away. She wondered if he was married, or if he had a girlfriend back home. She’d learned the word “girlfriend” and practiced on her customers, but she’d never asked Dan, perhaps because she didn’t want to know the truth.

  The zookeeper blew his whistle, announcing, “Sở thú sẽ đóng cửa nửa tiếng nữa.”

  “They close in thirty minutes,” she translated for him.

  “We still have time, hurry.” He gathered her shoes.

  “Hurry for what?”

  “Pictures. I saw a street photographer over there.”

  She raced on the grass with him at her side. She imagined that if she lifted her legs just a little higher, her whole body would float among the clouds. How wonderful to have a day when she didn’t have to think about survival, or deal with the greed of men. Dan treated her with respect, and she appreciated it.

  “You two make a nice couple.” The photographer snapped their picture. “Wait twenty minutes, and it’ll be ready.”

  “Please make two copies.” Dan paid for the photos.

  When the man handed them the photos, Trang cupped her hand against her mouth: the boy in the photo resembled Dan but the girl looked like somebody else: radiant, beautiful, and full of life.

  Dan gave her a photo. “So we won’t forget this fun day.”

  “Never.” She held the photo against her chest.

  Her room was deserted when Dan brought her back. Quỳnh and the other roommates had left for work.

  “Oh no, I am late.” Trang panicked, imagining the tiger madam’s sharp words.

  “So . . . this is where you live.” Dan stepped into the room. “How many of you sleep here?” To her embarrassment, he looked around. The room was messy, clothes were strewn on the floor and dirty dishes piled high in a bucket.

  She didn’t want him to pity her. She was about to tell him to leave when a whizzing sound tore through the air. An explosion that sounded like a bomb shook the building.

  “Down!” Dan leaped toward her. He pulled her to the floor, shielding her. Another whizzing sound approached, and this time, the mortar exploded even closer. The window shattered, showering glass like rice seeds onto the floor.

  She screamed.

  “Stay calm, I’m here.” His heart trembled against her back. His breath was hot on her hair. His arms gripped her tight.

  “Việt Cộng tấn công Tân Sơn Nhứt. Việt Cộng tấn công Tân Sơn Nhứt,” somebody was screaming from the street below.

  “What did they say?”

  “VC attack Tân Sơn Nhứt Airbase.”

  “Damn.” He gripped her tighter.

  Silence, then sounds of people crying, calling for each other. Dan sprang up to his feet.

  He leapt over the fallen glass and opened the door to the balcony. When she reached him, he was holding on to the railing, watching the columns of smoke twisting toward the sky.

  “It looks like our base was hit. I’ve got to go.”

  She followed him back inside and to the door. “No! Stay here.” She held on to his arm. She wanted to say that it was dangerous out there, and he should remain inside, but couldn’t find the English words. She didn’t want to lose him to this terrible war. She wanted him to be able to return to his parents, the way she needed to return to hers.

  A tear escaped her eye and he paused. He released the door handle and turned. Time seemed to stop moving as he took her face into his hands. His lips were on her eye, kissing her tear away. A long moment passed as he held her against him. She could hear her own heart, beating as frantically as a young bird trying to break free.

  When she’d gathered enough courage to lift her chin, he’d moved his face closer. His breath smelled like honey and felt as fresh as early morning sunlight on her skin. He was so close she could see his fine lashes, the irises of his eyes. She shivered as his lips touched hers. Tender, warm, gentle. Like a flower, she opened herself to him. He tasted sweet and fragrant. Other men had kissed her, but for the first time, she felt her body was a đàn tranh instrument, singing under Dan’s touch.

  She wanted the moment to last forever, but Dan peeled himself from her, apologizing that he must go.

  Standing on the balcony, she watched him race from her building down the lane. Then he disappeared from sight.

  The next afternoon, she was wiping a table when Dan arrived. The bar was still quiet. Some girls were chatting among themselves, the rest were putting on makeup. Quỳnh was alone at a table, going through her English phrase book.

  “I can’t stay long,” Dan told her, smiling shyly. “I just came by to say hello.” There was a yearning in his eyes, so strong it almost took her breath away. All she wanted to do was to reach up to him and taste his mouth again.

  But she felt she wasn’t entitled to that kiss.

  “You should know something.” She led him to a table in the corner and turned the pages of the dictionary. He’d treated her with respect, unlike other American men, and she must do the same. She couldn’t deceive him.

  “Em làm điếm,” she said, pointing at a word.

  “What?”

  “Po-ti-tu,” she tried to pronounce the word. She pointed at her chest and at the word prostitute. “I dirty, I po-ti-tu. Men pay money. I go with them. My papa sick. I need money. I po-ti-tu. I send money home.”

  She closed her eyes. If she could return to her village, she’d seek shelter in the shade of the trứng cá tree, the way she and Quỳnh had always done as they walked home from the rice field. If only she had met Dan during the time of her innocence, then she would deserve him.

  “I’m sorry,” Dan said, “but you are just doing what you need to do, to help your family.”

  She turned away. She would not let herself cry in front of him. In addition to being a prostitute, she was also a thief. But the truth was too bitter for her to admit.

  He tried to tell her something but she wouldn’t listen. She left the table.

  Sitting on the toilet, she cried into her palms. Dan had used his body to shield her from the explosion. He could have died for her. Her books and her mother had taught her about worthiness, and she wasn’t worthy of his care and attention.

  By the time she returned to the bar, he’d gone and she was sure he wouldn’t be back for her. Still, she found herself refusing any offers to go to the back room. She told the men it was her red day.

  That night, like the previous night, she could hardly sleep. Dan kept appearing in her mind, as if he was a light and her eyes the switch. She missed his voice, his laughter, the ways he enabled her to relax and be a normal girl. She realized that she needed him in her life. She had to fight for him.

  The next evening, she went up to the tiger madam, who stood leaning against the bar counter, counting real American dollars as well as MPC bills.

  “Madam,” she said when the woman finished, “my frequent customers buy lots of drinks these days. I don’t need to go to the back room anymore. No more long time.”

  “Why? I thought you needed to help your parents?” The woman stuffed the money into her leather handbag and lit a cigarette.

  “Yes, I’ve been helping. My father had another surgery recently. The doctor said he’s improving and perhaps he can walk again.”

  “So?” The woman blew out smoke.

  “What I’m saying is that . . . now that I can earn enough money to keep going, I don’t want to be alone with men anymore. I speak enough English, and I know how to charm them.”

  “Is that because of the blond boy? As I told you, don’t be such a dreamer!”

  “It’s just that I can’t do it anymore. At least for the time being—”

  “Hello, Kim,” a voice interrupted her. She turned to see a large man, one of her regular customers.

  “Hello.” She gave him her automated smile.

  “We’ll talk later,” the tiger madam told Trang. She patted the man on the butt. “You look stronger every day, sweetie.” She winked and walked away.

  Each moment that Trang waited for Dan was agonizing. She felt she’d made a mistake by telling him the truth. She hardly believed her eyes when he appeared that night, smelling like an exotic, faraway dream.

  The music was blasting. Though it had provided Trang with a distraction during the past months, she wished it would vanish. Same for the people around them. She pulled him toward a table at the furthest corner.

  “I want to talk . . . about something.” Her heart beat so fast she had to bring a palm to her chest.

  “I also have things to tell you.” He smiled.

  She unfolded a piece of paper. She’d written this with the dictionary’s help and had practiced reading it over and over. She hoped she wouldn’t make a mistake. “Dear Dan . . .” She looked up to check his reaction. “I told my madam I don’t want to go into a private room with another man anymore. I want to stay just a bar girl from now on.”

  He reached for her hand. “You’re doing this for me?”

  She nodded. Then she shook her head. “No, I do for me.”

  He gazed into her eyes. “I also wanted to tell you something. I’ve been thinking . . . I’ve seen people dying around me. The attack on Tan Son Nhut . . . three of my friends were killed. I’m scared as hell . . . So as long as we both stay alive, I don’t care.” He kissed her, this time longer, more passionate.

  “I dream about you last night,” she said after he’d pulled away. She couldn’t believe she was confessing her feelings. Where had her mother’s teachings gone? As a woman, it was inappropriate of her to reveal her emotions first. If others knew, they’d ridicule her, calling her “cọc đi tìm trâu”—“a tether searching for a buffalo.”