Noon was approaching, but outside the American Consulate, a handful of people still waited patiently. He searched but Quang the visa agent wasn’t among them. He had the crook’s phone number but calling wouldn’t help and would cost money.

  His throat burned; his stomach rumbled. More than nine hours until he could see Mr. Dan. He should have asked for an earlier meeting, but Mr. Dan had been in such a hurry to go after his wife.

  He was checking for his wallet to make sure his money and ID card were still there when someone touched his arm.

  “Brother, are you applying for an Amerasian visa?” A man with sunglasses and tattoos glistening on his neck asked him.

  Phong quickened his footsteps. There was no way he’d allow another visa agent to cheat him.

  “Wait, Brother.” The man followed him, whispering. “I have something that you might want to see. It’d make a great addition to your visa application.”

  His visa had already been denied. No random Vietnamese person could help. He pressed forward. As he turned the corner, the man caught up with him.

  “Brother, have a look!” In the man’s palm was a photo.

  An old, faded picture. In it, a dark-skinned man in a soldier’s uniform smiled broadly, his arm around the waist of a Vietnamese woman.

  “He looks like you.” The tattooed man pointed at the photo with his dirty fingernail. “He could be your father.”

  This was surely a trap. Still, Phong held up the photo. The couple evoked in Phong a strange yet welcomed feeling, that his parents might have been happy together, that he might have been a love child. The woman’s smile looked so genuine, it shone like springtime in her eyes.

  “Five million đồng and you can have it.” The man took back the picture.

  “Hey . . . Let me have a closer look.”

  “Enough looking,” the man said as he slid the photo back into his breast pocket. “This is a rare find. I’m doing you a favor by selling it to you so cheaply.”

  “Five million? I can’t even dream of having such money, Brother.”

  “No money, no honey.” The man grinned. “Think about it. It’ll be your ticket to America.”

  “How?”

  The man looked around, then lowered his voice. “American people, you know . . . they need proof. Your proof is right here.” He patted the pocket. “Just say the woman is your mother and the man your father. Say that your mother gave you the picture before she died . . . or something like that.”

  “Ha. You think Americans are stupid?”

  “Listen to me. If you don’t try, how do you know that it won’t work? No pain no gain, my friend. This picture, hard to find. You want it or not?”

  “May I look at it once more?” Phong held out his hand, wanting to touch the couple’s happiness again. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d like to have the photo. Perhaps just to stare at it, to imagine how his father and his mother had been. Where had the photo come from?

  The man pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose. “Five million đồng cash. Money handed over, the porridge will be delivered.”

  “Tell you what. My visa agent cheated me. Quang. You know him? If you help get my money back, I might be able to—”

  Laughter rolled from the man’s thick throat. He yanked his sunglasses off his face, glaring at Phong with bloodshot eyes. “You son of a bitch. Create trouble for Quang and the next thing you know . . . you’ll be gone.” He made a slitting gesture across his neck.

  Phong shook his head and walked away. He wasn’t afraid, not really. He’d been in enough street fights to know that he was hard to beat. But he had to be careful, for in this city he was alone.

  Phong sat down on a bench at the 30/4 Reunification Park, waiting for the time to pass until he could see Mr. Dan. Sunset had arrived, spreading golden light on top of rustling trees. As he cast his eyes around him, he rose to his feet. Quang and the tattooed man were on a bench not too far away, going through some papers that looked like a U.S. visa application. A woman and a girl stood by; their faded, simple clothing told him they were from the countryside. Heat rose to Phong’s chest. The two men were conspiring to deceive those less fortunate and taking their hard-earned savings without remorse.

  Phong went to the girl and the woman. “Be careful with them,” he said, “they cheated me.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth.” Quang stood up and took a swing at Phong. As Phong stepped back, he shifted his weight onto his right foot, and swept his left foot against Quang’s closest ankle. As the visa agent fell sideways, Phong brought his knee up into Quang’s face. Quang lay sprawled on the ground, screaming in agony.

  “You son of a bitch,” the tattooed man hollered. He ran to a patch of blooming marigolds and grabbed a large rock.

  A loud whistle. Two security guards came running toward them.

  The tattooed man dropped the rock and helped Quang up. Both men threw hateful glances at Phong, cursing him.

  “Stop cheating others, or else you’ll suffer from bad karma,” Phong said. He’d wanted to demand that Quang return some of his money but knew he wouldn’t have a chance. He considered following the two agents out of the park and beating them up; he knew he could win, but the police might arrest him. He gathered the papers and gave them to the shaken women who were hiding behind the trunk of a tree.

  “I was suspicious of those men,” the older woman told Phong later at the tea stall from across the street, after Phong had shared with them his visa experiences. “But my daughter was certain they could arrange for her to marry someone in the U.S. so she could migrate there. They asked for a lot of money. They said we could sell our land . . .”

  Phong turned to the young woman who was bending her head, as if in shame. He poured more tea for her. “It’s good that you haven’t given those guys any money,” he said, his voice gentle. “If you agree to a fake marriage, your visa might be denied and you might be banned from entering the U.S. forever. Believe me, you don’t want to make the mistake I once did.”

  Phong gazed at the grand building, which he knew as Cửu Long Hotel. Cửu Long meant “nine dragons” and the hotel deserved its name, for it looked magnificent with its domed windows on the ground floor and balconies that curled above the street like halves of the moon on upper levels. Why had the government allowed the hotel to change its name to Majestic—which, when pronounced by Mr. Lương, sounded like Ma-chés-tịch—a word so foreign, so meaningless to Vietnamese like Phong who didn’t know English well? Hadn’t they said they fought the war to get rid of foreign invaders?

  Phong smoothed his clothes, combed his hair and beard with his fingers. He’d found a public bathroom, washed his face, and rinsed his mouth. Still, he wished he could have taken a shower and changed his clothes. His white shirt had been stained from sweat and dust. His pants appeared crumpled. But he hoped that once he touched the grandness inside the hotel, his life would be transformed. Mr. Dan looked sincere and he sensed the man would help him.

  At the hotel’s entrance, he approached a young man dressed in a black-and-white uniform. “Hey Elder Brother, may I go in? I have an appointment.” The doorman was younger than him, but he used a respectful title.

  “Appointment with whom?” The doorman looked him up and down.

  “Mr. Đan and his wife, they’re Americans.”

  “Full name? Room number?”

  “I don’t have it, but Mr. Đan told me to be here at nine.” He looked through the glass door. Several people stood inside, but none of them were the people he’d met at the post office.

  The doorman frowned at him, then flashed his broadest smile at an approaching Westerner. Bending, he opened the door for the white man. Phong turned away. He felt that if he were white, he could enter this hotel without the need to answer any question.

  A car rolled toward the entrance. Mr. Thiên sat behind the steering wheel. Mr. Dan stepped out, holding a large painting with both hands.

  The doorman rushed to Mr. Dan, who handed over the painting and helped his wife out of the car. She stepped down, several large shopping bags in her hands. As their eyes met, the smile on her face vanished.

  “Phong,” said Mr. Thiên via the half-open car window, “go with them inside. I’ll park the car and come back.”

  Mr. Dan patted Phong on the shoulder, telling him something.

  “He thanks you for coming, Uncle.” The doorman translated, then opened the door for him. Phong couldn’t believe how much a handshake with a foreigner had elevated his status.

  Inside, the air was cool and smelled of jasmine flowers. Piano music floated in the air. Impressive chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, radiating their light onto the paintings, stained glass panels, furniture, and decorations, most of which bore the royal color of gold. Countless orchid flowers bloomed from a center table. Phong wished that his wife and children were here to witness how lavish life could be, and to be a part of it.

  Mr. Dan gestured toward some ancient-looking brocade armchairs. As Phong sat down, he touched the rosewood armrest. The woodwork was exquisite, brown as honey, carved with birds and flowers. He wished he could learn how to make furniture like this.

  Phong smiled at the woman who sat next to Mr. Dan across the table, but her eyes were fixed on her fancy phone. Her black dress must be made out of real silk and her sandals real leather. Her husband was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, but they must be made in America and cost a fortune. The couple’s skin looked pink and well-nourished. Of course they had to be rich to stay in this luxurious hotel. One night probably cost enough to feed his children for three whole months.

  A man approached, gave Mr. Dan a menu and asked Phong what he’d like to drink. Phong shook his head. He couldn’t afford anything from this hotel.

  The woman said something. The waiter nodded, gathered the menu and walked away. It seemed Mr. Dan and his wife weren’t ordering anything either. Phong’s heart pounded. He’d hoped for a long talk with Mr. Dan, during which he could tell him everything about his life and ask for help, but it looked like he wouldn’t have time. Damn this woman. Why did she have to be here, dampening his spirit with her sullen face?

  The doorman had placed the painting on a chair. Mr. Dan lifted the wrapping paper, revealing a golden rice field being harvested by farmers. He nudged his wife and said something. She nodded.

  “Tranh đẹp quá.” Phong gestured toward the painting and gave it a thumbs up.

  The woman watched him.

  “Tôi cũng làm ruộng như vậy.” Phong pointed at himself, then toward the farmers. To make himself understood, he stood up, bent his back, pretending to harvest the field.

  Mr. Dan smiled and exchanged words with his wife, whose face softened.

  This wasn’t as bad as Phong had feared. He recalled the English words his children had taught him. “Ai pham-mờ,” he said. He pointed at his chest, repeating, “Ai,” then toward the farmers, “pham-mờ.”

  Mr. Dan said something that sounded like “Du pham-mờ?” He gestured at the farmers, then Phong.

  “Đúng, đúng rồi.” Phong beamed. He couldn’t wait to tell his children how much their English had helped him.

  The woman nodded and exchanged words with her husband. Now that she no longer appeared to be upset, Phong appreciated her fine facial features. Her high nose, porcelain skin, big eyes, and well-shaped face resembled those of Western women who often appeared on advertising billboards for Vietnamese beauty products.

  “Looks like you’re doing well without me.” Mr. Thiên sat down next to him.

  “Oh, so good you’re here, Uncle.” Phong breathed out a sigh of relief. “I was just trying to tell your friends that I’m a farmer, like the people in the painting.”

  “Yes, we got that,” Mr. Dan said, through Mr. Thiên’s translation. “Thanks for coming here to see us today, I really appreciate it. By the way, this is my wife, Lin-đà.”

  “My name is Tấn Phong. It means ‘strength from thousand gusts of wind.’ ” Phong hoped the foreigners would be impressed by the special meaning of his name, but they showed no reaction. Perhaps Mr. Thiên didn’t translate it right.

  “How long have you worked as a farmer?” asked Mr. Dan.

  “More than ten years, Sir. I also grow vegetables, I raise fish, and I make furniture. And you, are you really from America?”

  “Yes, we are. From a city called Xi-át-tồ.” The man clasped his hands together, leaning forward. “What sort of furniture do you make?”

  Phong smiled, appreciating Mr. Dan’s interest in his life. “I make simple furniture for street sellers.” He thought about the tables and chairs stacked high at the back of his home. He hadn’t been able to sell anything for months. Street sellers these days preferred plastic products, cheaper and easier to carry. He took a deep breath. “I’d like to build bigger furniture, like cupboards and wardrobes, using wood like this,” he said, patting the armchair, “when I get to America.” He had to mention his American dream. Reaching that dream was the entire purpose of him being here.

  The woman said something.

  “She wants to know why you want to go to America. You already have different types of jobs here,” Mr. Thiên translated.

  “Madam . . . I have to do many things because none of them earns enough money to feed my children and pay for their schooling. As for America, I need to go there, for my children.” He handed the woman the photo of Tài and Diễm. “Look how beautiful my kids are.”

  The woman stared at the picture.

  “My children are bullied at school, Madam. Because of our skin color, people think we’re dirty, low class. Because I’m the child of an American soldier, some people consider us the enemy.”

  Mr. Dan flinched, his head bent low.

  Phong cleared his throat. It had been a while since anyone had said his family was related to the enemy, but he had to make his case. “Sir, Madam . . . I live in Bạc Liêu. I come to Sài Gòn this time to apply for a visa with the American Consulate. I must bring my wife and children to the U.S. It’s our right to emigrate. Unfortunately, our visa application has just been rejected.” He needed to find a way to tell the Americans to help him.

  The woman frowned.

  “I am very sorry to hear,” said Mr. Dan. “In the post office, you said you grew up in an orphanage?”

  “Yes . . . I was just a newborn when I was abandoned outside an orphanage’s gate. I didn’t have any papers with me. But you can tell by my physical features that I’m related to a Black American.”

  “Your orphanage . . . where was it? Were there many children? Was it difficult for you there?” Mr. Dan leaned forward again.

  “It was in Hóc Môn, an hour by car from here I think . . . Yes, there were many children, Vietnamese and Amerasians. Sister Nhã and two other nuns took care of us. . . . I wish I could stay there but when I was three years old, Communist troops took over the orphanage. We had to go to the New Economic Zone up in Lâm Đồng Mountains. There, I worked in the fields with Sister Nhã. We didn’t have enough to eat. It was very . . . very hard.” He wanted to say more but was aware that he had to stop for Mr. Thiên to translate.

  “The kind nun who took care of you . . . where is she now?” Mr. Dan said.

  “She died when I was twelve . . . After that I lived on the streets for many years.”

  Mr. Dan looked as if he was about to cry. “I am so, so sorry.”

  Phong closed his eyes. The pain from his past dug into him, like the sharp claws of a mud crab. “I didn’t want to beg, so I tried to find a job. I thought I could work as a waiter or dishwasher but shop owners just laughed at me, saying their customers would run away because of my dirty-looking skin. Others just wrinkled their noses. Luckily, I met a bus driver. He let me work as his assistant.”

  Mr. Dan apologized again, as if it was his fault. Then he said, “You mentioned you’ve been searching for your father. How?”

  “I just did my DNA test, Sir.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “You told us your visa application to the U.S. was denied, did you try to leave previously?”

  “Yes, Madam. I applied once before, in the nineties, but they didn’t give me the visa either.”

  Instead of interpreting, Mr. Thiên asked, “Why couldn’t you get a visa then? With your facial features, it should have been very easy for you to leave.”

  “I didn’t have enough papers, Uncle. That’s why I’m applying again. Please understand my situation . . . I really need to get my family to America, to give them a future.”

  Mr. Thiên translated. The woman looked at her husband, opened her palm and said something that sounded like, “Xi? Ai thâu du.” Phong looked at Mr. Thiên, wanting to understand her, but he reacted as if she’d uttered nothing.

  Mr. Dan didn’t answer his wife, either. He looked at Phong and said something.

  “So you grew up in Sài Gòn? How come you ended up living in the Mekong Delta?” Mr. Thiên translated.

  Phong felt himself sweating, even though the air was cold. The way these people attacked him with questions, it wasn’t different from the police or visa officers. He wanted to explain how the Khuấts had driven him out of Sài Gòn and to Bạc Liêu, but that would reveal his effort to bring strangers along with him to America. Instead he said, “My job on the bus took me to Bạc Liêu. There, I met my wife. Her name is Bình.” The thought of his soulmate lifted Phong up. He smiled. “She can be stubborn at times but is the kindest person I know. The best mother to our two children. We have a good family now. We work hard but life is tough. Sometimes my kids don’t have enough to eat.”

  “I’m sorry but I have to ask . . .” The woman straightened her back. “If you get to meet your father, what would you want from him?”

  “I want him to know that I’ve missed him so much over the years.” Against Phong’s will, tears welled up in his eyes. “I want him to meet my children and my wife, and I want him to be our family.”

  “But you also want him to sponsor you to America, right?” The woman asked.

  “Yes . . . it would be wonderful, Madam. We have no future here. People despise us. We don’t belong.”