“Oh yeah? What happened in your dream?”

  “This,” she pulled him to her.

  That evening, he asked about her father’s health and the reasons she and Quỳnh had to work at the bar. He apologized to her, though it wasn’t his fault.

  The next time he came back, he told her his family wasn’t rich; he had to support his mom, but he wanted to help her family, too. He gave her an envelope. At first she tried to refuse, but he said it was for her parents. That night, sitting on her bed, she opened his gift. One hundred red dollars. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She gave it to Quỳnh who knew the black market well and could obtain a better exchange rate than her. She wrote a letter to her parents, telling them how fascinating the zoo was. As she sent the money and the letter home the next morning, she wished she could tell her Ba and Má about Dan. But she knew she had to keep him a secret.

  Dan came back the following night and as they kissed, she pressed herself against his body. She wanted to melt into him, become a part of him.

  “I want you so bad.” He wove his fingers into her hair.

  “Me, too.” She felt herself blushing. She’d dreamt about being naked with him for days. She wanted to hold him closer, feel his heartbeat against her, touch every inch of him. She’d feared sex before, but she trusted Dan. She didn’t know the type of hunger that came with love.

  The hotel Dan took Trang to was so grand, she admired its high ceiling, exquisite paintings, and spacious lobby. Yet she had to hide her face behind a scarf. She had to be careful, or else gossip would catch fire and travel to her village.

  Once they entered the room, she latched the door. She undid her blouse buttons. She had wanted this for herself. She was entitled to this happiness.

  As Dan unzipped her skirt, she brought her hand to his chest and felt the blood of his twenty-year-old body rushing through her.

  He was tender, passionate, and caring, unlike anything she’d experienced. When she made love to him, every cell of her body became alive, demanding more. She was a đàn tranh, a seventeen-string zither, each string echoing its unique sound as it had found this perfect partner to discover joy with.

  The next time they made love, they gave their body parts names, told each other stories which didn’t make sense because they didn’t know each other’s language well enough, held each other close, and laughed out loud.

  “I wish you had your own apartment,” he said afterward, his finger on the bridge of her nose. “Some of my friends rent apartments for their lady friends, and they said it’s very convenient. I mean . . . it’s probably cheaper for me to rent you an apartment than these hotel rooms.”

  She buried her face into his chest, inhaling his scent. People only stayed with each other when they were married. And what if her parents found out?

  “I can pay for the rent. We need some furniture.”

  “Phớ nì chờ?”

  “Ah, some chairs, a table . . . Perhaps we can buy ourselves a radio, and a TV. What do you think?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “And we need a really, really strong bed.” He climbed on top of her.

  During the following day, she missed him as if he were a part of her body; without him she couldn’t function properly. With the war intensifying, life was unpredictable. She could be killed any day.

  She’d never had the chance to live for herself, and now she must.

  She counted the money she’d stolen from other men and hidden under her rice jar. Fifty-eight dollars. Her education could wait. She’d ask the Tiger Madam for a day off work and go to Sài Gòn Market to buy some decent clothes to wear when going out with Dan. She’d visit Tao Đàn Book Store to buy herself some new books of poetry and love songs. She’d give the rest of the money to Quỳnh and try to convince her once again to stop sleeping with men. Quỳnh had accepted her role as an entertainer—in and out of bed. She didn’t have a boyfriend, saying that she’d make better money being free. The last time they talked, Trang had reminded Quỳnh about safety, and Quỳnh had shown her the condoms, and demonstrated her self-defense moves, which their father had taught them many years back. “One more year and we’ll be out of here,” Quỳnh said, more determined than ever. Any advice Trang told her was water poured on a duck’s feathers.

  That evening, Dan appeared at the bar and surprised her with a rose.

  “When are you done with work, my beloved em?” His tongue was warm on her earlobe.

  “Three hour, anh.” She felt herself getting wet. Sex with him had been incredible; she had been a dry field thirsting for rain.

  “Three hours? But I have to be back to the base by then.”

  She looked up at him, admiring his blond hair, arched nose, and blue eyes. He was Từ Hải in The Tale of Kiều, who rescued Kiều from the wicked madam Tú Bà and her brothel.

  “Want to hear some news, em? I asked around and I found a place for us. Want to see it now?”

  “Our own place?” She felt as if he’d just proposed marriage to her. Deep down, she believed only married couples lived with each other.

  “Yes, it’s not too far from here. Can you leave for a short while?”

  Dan bought a ticket for a two-hour long-time.

  The one-bedroom apartment Dan wanted to rent was on the top floor of a three-story house, nestled in a small lane within walking distance from the bar. It had a back entrance—“For safety,” he said. The kitchen was spacious and opened onto a balcony filled with pots of red and yellow moss roses. The bedroom had a double bed, an armchair, and a radio. Instead of a squat toilet, there was a white and gleaming Western one. And instead of a water tap and a bucket for washing, there was a shower.

  She ran her hands on the bamboo curtains. They reminded her of home.

  “What do you think, em?”

  She reached for her bag and opened the dictionary. “Can my sister stay here with me?”

  “Not when I am in town, but if I’m away for a few days, she can have sleepovers. I just want our privacy, you know . . . I need to visit you whenever I’m free, and when we can make a lot of noise.” He winked.

  She withdrew her hand from his. He lifted her chin. “What’s wrong?”

  “Papa, mama will know . . .”

  “They live far away, remember? The back entrance . . . I can come in and out without anyone knowing. And this . . .” He patted on the bed. “Our privacy. Our heaven.”

  He sealed her lips with a kiss. He pulled her into him, his teeth knocking against her teeth, his chim swelling against her thigh.

  Quỳnh faced them as they stepped into the Hollywood. “I need to talk to my sister,” said Quỳnh, frowning at Dan.

  “Hello.” He smiled. “Kim told me about you.” He held out his palm.

  Quỳnh ignored it. “You wait. I talk to my sister.”

  She pulled Trang aside. “You’re getting serious with him, aren’t you? Don’t forget, chị Hai, that all Americans will leave us. Just get money from them, but don’t give them your heart.”

  “I can’t believe you were so rude to him. You should apologize.” Trang searched for Dan with her eyes. He was talking to the bartenders, making them roar with laughter. She turned back to her sister. “Believe it or not, Dan is special. He’s kind and gentle. And he really likes me.”

  “I knew it! You’ve fallen into his trap. They’re all like that at the start, but once they own you, they’ll drop their masks. Don’t you already know the danger of fire? You’ll get burned.”

  “Come on, Quỳnh . . . Remember how many men I’ve already talked to, huh? Dan is unlike any of them. And he makes me very happy.” She pulled her sister closer. “He just showed me the apartment he wants to rent for us.”

  “Are you crazy? You want to move in with him?”

  “I didn’t think I’d ever do this, but yes.”

  “He’ll crush your heart, chị Hai.”

  “No he won’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he loves me.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “He doesn’t need to.”

  “If you like him that much, go on . . . move in with him.” Quỳnh pursed her lips. “Just make sure that he pays you a monthly allowance.”

  “He gave me one hundred red dollars the other day, you haven’t forgotten about that, have you?”

  “He should give you the same amount every month, and more. He should take you to the military post exchange for you to buy PX goods so you can trade them for profit. If you don’t tell him, he’ll soon forget.”

  “I don’t want to talk about money with him, em.”

  “Then what does he want from you? Oh, I know. Your body. And you should want something from him in return: money.”

  Trang felt hurt and disgusted. Why did both the tiger madam and her sister refuse to think that Dan liked her as a person? She was sure Dan didn’t just want her body. He wanted her as a companion. He had cared about her, had sent money to her parents, had taken her to the zoo, had bought her flowers, had really talked to her. He was unlike other Americans.

  Quỳnh sighed. “Chị Hai . . . we are just water hyacinth plants floating on a river. Don’t let the current pull you down. Protect yourself because nobody else can. And under no circumstance should you allow yourself to get pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Trang chuckled. “You think I am stupid? For sure I won’t get pregnant. We’re being careful and he knows I don’t want a baby.” She’d seen Amerasians on the street—the homeless children who’d been abandoned by their parents. Their foreign features made them stand out like thorns in people’s eyes.

  And she knew the danger of pregnancy like a bird knew the strength of the branch it perched on. The girls at their bar often talked about the abortions they’d had to have: where to go, how much it cost, and how long they had to abstain from sex afterward; the money they lost because of it. Well known at the bar were stories of the two girls who’d died from home abortions and the six who’d given birth to children during the last three years. Of those six mothers, four gave their newborns away before returning to the bar; one actually did go with her baby to America with her boyfriend; no one knew what happened to the remaining girl.

  In no case would Trang allow herself to get pregnant.

  “You said you wouldn’t have an American boyfriend and look at you now.” Quỳnh shook her head. “Remember, he’ll only be here for a short while and won’t bring you to America.”

  “I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ll stay near Má and Ba.” By now, Trang knew that Americans were rotated on a twelve-month or thirteen-month tour; most would go home after that. Dan would, too, but she hoped he’d extend it, now that they were in love. Perhaps he’d even stay. She hadn’t allowed herself to dream, but now that she had Dan, nothing seemed impossible.

  “I’ve heard that people do crazy things once they’re in love,” Quỳnh smirked. “Don’t forget that our parents need money, chị Hai. They don’t want a grandchild, fathered by an American soldier.”

  Trang squared her shoulders. “Look who’s acting like an older sibling now, huh? If you must know something: Dan is a pilot. That means he isn’t a normal soldier but an important officer.”

  “Oh, so you think he’s too high up to drop you? The higher he is, the worse your fall is going to be. You wait and see.”

  A fire ignited inside Trang’s ribcage. Its heat spread to her tongue. She tasted the poison of words that formed in her mouth. “Oh, now I know why you’re upset. I have a handsome boyfriend and you don’t. For the first time in your life I’m doing better and you can’t stand it.”

  “Get out of my face!” Quỳnh walked away.

  The Cost of Hope

  Hồ Chí Minh City, 2016

  Phong stood inside the Sài Gòn Post Office, waiting for Mr. Lương, who was posting a package. He’d hoped that his DNA samples could be mailed to America to speed up the process, but Mr. Lương said the samples had to be carried by hand, by someone who was traveling to the U.S.; Vietnamese customs considered DNA test kits to be medical products and would not allow sending by mail. Phong wanted to talk further to Mr. Lương, to find out more about DNA testing. He had many questions: What could go wrong? How long it might take? What else would the test results reveal apart from family members?

  The post office was busy at this hour, and Phong noticed two white foreigners standing near him. Dressed in jeans and a blue T-shirt, the man was tall. The woman was chubby, with blond hair that glowed like gold and silver. A Vietnamese man with a scar slashed across his left cheek accompanied the foreigners. He pointed toward the large portrait of Hồ Chí Minh on the wall and said something. The foreign woman chuckled but the foreign man frowned and looked away.

  Just then, Mr. Lương made his way across the hall toward the small group. “Thiên! I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he called out, shaking hands with the Vietnamese man.

  Thiên? The name sounded familiar. Thiên. Ah, Phong remembered now. It’s the name of the contact person in Tôm Sờ-Mít’s newspaper advertisement. So the white man could well be Tôm Sờ-Mít. Phong studied the foreigner. He looked old enough to have been in the war.

  The white man was now staring at Phong. Their eyes locked. Phong registered some heaviness on the foreigner’s face, the heaviness of someone who had to carry a burden larger than himself.

  The foreigner looked away but turned toward Phong once more. Something told Phong he had to talk to the man. If the man was Tôm Sờ-Mít, Phong could ask about his time in Việt Nam, how it was looking for lost family members. In addition, the drink seller had said American men who came back looking for their children would be able to help him.

  Phong stepped toward the foreign man. His heart thumped as furiously as a freshly caught fish jumping on dry land as he took off his hat. Surely the white man could now see his Black American features. “Hế-lô,” he said, “mai nêm Phong. Ai em sân A-mé-ri-cần sấu-chờ.” His children had helped him learn these English sentences by heart in the hope that he could communicate directly with the visa officer, but he’d had no chance.

  The man shook his head and said something that sounded like “Só-ri?”

  “Mai nêm Phong. Ai em sân A-mé-ri-cần sấu-chờ,” Phong repeated, desperate for the foreigner to understand him. But the man was turning to his wife, who was telling him something. Phong tried to understand her but could only catch one word, “phôn.” She gestured toward the entrance, as if wanting to leave.

  Phong had been drowning for so long, he couldn’t let a possible buoy float away. He turned to Mr. Lương and Mr. Thiên who were sharing a joke about eating phở and rice, laughing at the clever ways Vietnamese men distinguished sex with their wives as “eating rice” while sex with their mistresses as “eating phở.”

  He interrupted them. “Eh . . . please help tell this foreign man that my father was an American soldier and I’ve been searching for him.”

  Mr. Thiên narrowed his eyes.

  The woman was raising her voice higher, pointing toward the exit. The foreign man looked at Phong, saying something—his words were bees buzzing into Phong’s ears. He turned to the Vietnamese men, but their faces bore no compassion.

  He looked at the foreign man. “Mai nêm Phong. Ai em sân A-mé-ri-cần sấu-chờ,” he said slowly, hoping that he’d placed the right accent on each word. How hard was it to get two sentences right?

  The man exchanged words with Mr. Lương. Phong strained his ears. They must be speaking about him since they were glancing at him. The woman threw her hands into the air, looking upset.

  Finally Mr. Lương turned to him. “The gentleman here wanted to know what you were trying to tell him, so I translated what you said, that your name is Phong and you are the son of an American soldier. He asked how you know for sure.”

  “Sir . . .” Phong held the white man’s gaze and gestured at himself. “Look how dark my skin is, my curly hair, my beard . . . They are the proof that I’m the child of a Black American soldier. Besides, I’m one meter eighty. Vietnamese don’t get that tall.”

  “But your mother must have told you something about your father, no?” The white man asked, and Mr. Lương translated.

  “Sir, I don’t know my mother, either. I was abandoned in front of an orphanage.”

  As Mr. Lương interpreted, the woman exclaimed something. She spoke in long sentences and started walking toward the entrance.

  “Son of a bitch.” Mr. Thiên snarled his teeth at Phong. “You just poured more oil onto a fire. Now that woman thinks we are colluding to scam her.”

  “Huh? What scam?” Phong said, but Mr. Thiên had already taken off, running after the woman.

  Phong turned to the foreign man. “Sorry, Sir. I didn’t want to upset anybody.”

  “Ah . . . it’s not your fault,” The man said via Mr. Lương’s translation. “My wife forgot her phone at the hotel and wants to go back to get it.”

  The foreigner and Mr. Lương exchanged words.

  “He asked if I knew you.” Mr. Lương said. “So I told him about your DNA test, that you’re truly looking for your father. He said you’re the first Amerasian he ever met, and he really wants to talk to you. He doesn’t have time now, but he’s staying at the Ma-chés-tịch Hotel. Can you see him tonight? At nine o’clock?”

  “Yes, yes . . . Of course!” Phong felt as if he’d won the lottery.

  “My name is Đan. See you tonight at the lobby of my hotel,” The foreigner said before hurrying out of the post office.

  Phong had expected to see the drink seller when he returned to Lê Duẩn Boulevard, but the pavement where her cart had stood was empty. He hoped she hadn’t fallen sick. What a pity he couldn’t tell her the good news about Mr. Dan wanting to talk to him. She’d have been able to coach him about the right questions to ask.