The woman turned to Mr. Dan, repeating “Xi? Ai thâu du.” Then she said something very long, from which Phong only caught the sounds of “sờ-cam” and À-mé-ri-cà.

  He turned to Mr. Thiên, but the guy had his eyes on the entrance door as if wanting to leave.

  Everyone was silent. The piano music kept playing, each note hammering Phong’s temples, making his head spin and his hands grow sweatier. The scented air was suffocating.

  He swallowed. He had to try harder. “Sir and Madam, please . . .” He twisted his fingers. “I’d be grateful if you could help me find my father. The American Consulate said if I have proof that my father was a soldier here, I could go to your country. Perhaps you could talk to the visa officer? They’ll listen to American people like you—”

  “They’re just tourists here. They don’t know anyone from the consulate,” Mr. Thiên interrupted Phong.

  “Uncle . . . please . . . these people are very interested in my life. Perhaps they’d want to help.”

  “Interested? Help? Ha! No way. They’re selfish, self-centered, and ignorant. They wanted you to dig up your past to satisfy their curiosity. They don’t really care about you nor me. They live privileged lives and they consider us dirt.”

  Phong glanced at Mr. Dan and his wife. It was a good thing the foreigners understood no Vietnamese. Did they pay Mr. Thiên to be their tour guide? If so, they’d made a foolish choice.

  Across the table, the woman shook her head as she exchanged words with her husband. They both looked upset. Phong wanted to get out of there, but he said desperately, “Uncle Thiên, could you translate what I said? Please tell Mr. Đan and his wife that my family would be thankful for their help.”

  “I said it’s not the right thing to ask,” answered Mr. Thiên coldly.

  When the couple finished arguing, Mr. Thiên told them something very short. He didn’t mention the word “À-mé-ri-cà” at all, so for sure he wasn’t translating what Phong had said.

  The woman reached into a backpack, took out a stack of Vietnamese đồng and pushed it across the table.

  “She’s sorry about your situation, but there’s nothing they can do,” Mr. Thiên said. “This money is for your children, to help with their school fees.”

  Phong stared at the money. Each bill was fifty thousand đồngs. The stack looked like it was at least ten bills—nearly twenty-five dollars. The money would help a great deal. His mind told him to take it yet his heart said that if he did, the woman would think he was a scammer, and she wouldn’t want her husband to help him.

  “Thank you, Madam, but I’m not here to beg for your money,” he said as he pushed the bills back. He gave the woman his best smile and looked her in the eye. “To be able to get to America, I need to find my father, and I don’t know how. Please . . . could you and your husband talk to your friends about me? Or perhaps you could contact some veteran associations in America and tell them about my case. Someone must know someone who knows my father. Please . . . my father might not have much time—”

  “Phong, I can tell them you don’t want the money, but I can’t insist that they help you,” Mr. Thiên interrupted him again.

  “Please, could you translate?”

  Mr. Thiên sighed but told the woman something. Again, he didn’t mention the word “À-mé-ri-cà” at all. The woman frowned. She returned the money to her backpack. The words that rolled out of her tongue sounded as cold as those uttered by the visa officer.

  “Too bad you don’t want her to help your kids, but that’s the best she could do. She wishes you the best of luck,” said Mr. Thiên.

  The woman stood up, telling her husband something.

  Mr. Thiên rose to his feet. “Phong . . . they’ve had a long day and they’re tired. Let’s go now.”

  Go? No! Mr. Thiên the gatekeeper had blocked out the most important questions Phong wanted to ask. “Please, Uncle,” he said. “Mr. Đan said he wanted to know how life was for Amerasians, and I have many things to tell.”

  “Believe me, helping you is the least of his concerns right now. He has his own shit to deal with.” Mr. Thiên fished his phone out of his pocket and played with it.

  Across the table, the couple was arguing again. Their rising voices and their flushed faces sent an icy feeling down Phong’s spine. Mr. and Mrs. Khuất had argued like that after hearing the news of their visa application. And they’d blamed Phong.

  “Are they upset because of me, Uncle?” Phong whispered.

  “Not really. Giận cá chém thớt.” Mr. Thiên shrugged.

  Ha, angry at the fish, they hack on the chopping board. So the couple was blaming Phong even though he wasn’t the problem.

  “How long have you known them, Uncle? Perhaps you could convince them to help me after they’ve resolved their issues?”

  “Thankfully not long. I’m their tour guide since yesterday, but today’s my last day working for them.”

  The woman was raising her hands high into the air. Mr. Dan told her something, reaching for her shoulder, but she broke away from him, heading toward the elevator.

  Phong was glad the woman was leaving. How could Mr. Dan, who appeared to be kind and gentle, put up with such a spoiled, arrogant woman—someone who caused her husband to lose face in front of others? Bình would behave better. If they had a problem, she’d talk to him behind closed doors. She wouldn’t vạch áo cho người xem lưng—lift her husband’s shirt so others could look at his naked back.

  He turned to Mr. Dan, hopeful that the woman’s departure had given him the chance for a man-to-man talk.

  Instead of sitting down again, Mr. Dan stretched out his hand and gripped Phong’s. He said, slowly, “Ai em só-ri.”

  Phong’s eyes blurred. What he needed was help, not an apology. “Tôi xin ông, hãy cho tôi cơ hội hỏi ông vài câu hỏi,” he said in Vietnamese, begging the American to give him a chance to ask some questions.

  Mr. Dan withdrew his hand. Without a single glance at Mr. Thiên, he hurried after his wife.

  Watching the couple disappear, Phong felt as if a snake had bitten him in the face. The muscles of his cheeks twitched. He’d waited the whole day, for what? To satisfy the American man’s curiosity about the suffering he’d endured? Now he’d have to spend another night at the park. How stupid of him to have rejected such a large sum of money.

  Mr. Thiên was texting on his phone. Phong hated the guy but had another question for him. “Uncle . . . I saw your name in the Tuổi Trẻ newspaper. Are you the one helping your friend Tôm Sờ-Mít find his Vietnamese girlfriend Lan Lan?”

  Mr. Thiên looked up immediately. “Yes. So?”

  “Mr. Tôm Sờ-Mít . . . is he here in Sài Gòn? Can I talk to him, please?”

  “He left last week.” Mr. Thiên dropped the phone into his breast pocket. “I have to go . . . Here’s my business card. Call me tomorrow night. I’ll write down your details. If I have a Black client searching for his child, I’ll look into your case.”

  “But Uncle—”

  “Look, I’ve had a bad day and I don’t need your shit now. Call me tomorrow, okay?” He hurried to the entrance door.

  Phong gripped the business card. Thiên means “Heaven” but the guy should go to hell; he only wanted Phong’s personal details for his future business.

  As Phong tore the card into pieces, his fingers tingled with satisfaction. He’d memorized the guy’s phone number from Tom Smith’s newspaper notice and now he pulled it from his memory. He jumbled the number around so he would no longer remember it. He didn’t have space in his mind for such a terrible man named Thiên.

  The Laughing Buddha

  Sài Gòn, 1969

  It poured the day Trang moved into the apartment with Dan. They left the windows open and stayed in bed looking out at the silvery blanket. The wind rushed in, trembling on Trang’s skin as Dan peeled off her clothes, gently. They made love to the murmur of rain.

  After he’d rolled away from her and his breathing eased, she circled her finger on his stomach. She felt like the rain had brought him to her and he was a part of the water, pure and heavenly. Now that they were together, she believed the war could no longer touch them. “I am very happy,” she told him. She truly was. She didn’t know what being married was like but she felt Dan was her husband. From now on, she wanted to take good care of him.

  “I’m very happy, too. Very . . .” He pulled her closer.

  She rested her head on his forearm. The air was cool and he was warm. She could stay like this forever.

  When her eyelids grew heavy, she told herself they hadn’t unpacked. Gingerly, she pushed herself up and covered Dan’s chest with his shirt.

  “Have a nap, em . . .” Dan’s voice was raspy.

  “I need to go market.” She looked around the empty apartment. Bags of belongings scattered on the floor. Unpacking could wait, but a home wouldn’t be complete without an altar. She needed the Laughing Buddha’s blessings. He’d brought her luck and she must continue to pray to him.

  “Market?” Dan rubbed his eyes. “You want to buy food? I’ve got some chocolate in my bag . . .”

  “I’m not hungry.” She kissed his forehead.

  “I am, for my delicious mangoes.” He grabbed her breasts, which hung before him.

  “You bad boy.” She slapped his buttocks and got out of bed. She pulled her dress over her head.

  “You go now?” He sat up. “May I come along?”

  “You? Market?”

  “Why not?” He put his jeans on, hopping on one foot. “At least I can help you carry.”

  She combed her hair. If Dan joined her, her neighbors would find out, and the news could spread to her village. Hiếu would know, but she no longer cared about him. Compared to Dan, Hiếu was a coward: he’d never dared to confess his feelings to her.

  She hadn’t received any news about Hiếu and wondered if he’d been drafted. Hiếu’s father had sold their buffaloes and cows to pay for the bribes required to help his son escape the draft. But she’d heard that no young man could stay away from the army forever. With the fire of war burning, it needed more men as firewood.

  “Don’t look so worried.” Dan smoothed the wrinkles on her forehead. “I’ll leave first . . . the back door . . . Where should I wait for you?”

  She looked at the smile in his eyes and realized that during this turbulent time, propriety wasn’t important; love was.

  “We’ll leave together,” she said. It was risky, but she was feeling excited to show off her man.

  The market was overflowing with activity. Everyone was getting on with their lives despite the war.

  Dan held her hand as they browsed stall after stall. People turned their heads, looking at him, whispering. Trang had wanted him to be a secret, but now, she felt pride surging through her. She wanted to shout out to the world that Dan was her boyfriend.

  They stopped at a fruit stand. “This looks strange.” He picked up a rambutan, its long hair nesting against his palm. “You sure we can eat it?”

  “The red color lucky.” She squeezed the fruit lightly, testing its firmness. She needed to buy five types of fruit, in five different colors, for the altar.

  “Where did you find him? He is so very cute.” The seller—a middle-aged woman—asked Trang, studying Dan.

  “How do I ask for a price?” Dan nudged Trang.

  “Bao nhiêu một ký.”

  He turned to the seller. “Bau nhiu mut ki.”

  The woman laughed out loud. “For you . . . one dollar per kilo.”

  “Năm chục đồng một ký, dì ơi,” Trang bargained.

  “Nam chuc dung mut ki, zi oi,” Dan repeated.

  The seller snorted and shook her head. She pushed a small bamboo basket into Dan’s hand. “Pick what you want . . . You’re too adorable.”

  They came back from the market lugging a wooden altar, a ceramic Laughing Buddha, bags of fruits, bunches of ancestor money made from joss paper, flowers, and incense. At home, Trang taught Dan how to set up the altar, how to arrange the fruits onto a plate, how to pray with incense, and what to say as they burned the ancestor money to send it to the dead. Kneeling next to Dan, Trang whispered her prayers to the Laughing Buddha, asking him to protect Dan and keep his helicopter safe.

  They started unpacking their bags, putting their clothes into the closet. Before it was done, Dan grabbed her by the waist, throwing her onto the bed.

  In the middle of the night, they woke up and reached for each other. Dan was gentle and loving. When she worked at the bar, Trang’s body tensed up with fear whenever another man touched her, but it had learned to trust Dan. It had discovered the ability to relax, surrender, and demand pleasure. It knew how to sing under Dan’s touch. It taught Trang that when she was with Dan, she could forget about her own problems. No responsibility to her parents. No trace of shame. Only the overwhelming feeling that she was entitled to happiness. And she felt the passion between her and Dan was fueled by their mutual sense of being stranded between intimacy and strangeness, dream and reality, safety and danger.

  When she woke up the next morning, Dan had put money into her purse. She understood that she could use it to buy food for both of them, to pay for water and electricity. And she understood that she could keep whatever was left. For that she was thankful.

  Dan told her he was being transferred to another unit and would be away more often. She was anxious. Did being away more often mean he would be doing more dangerous missions? When she asked him, he just smiled and told her not to worry. She cooked a lavish meal, and as they ate that night, she explained why it was important to take off one’s shoes before entering a home, how one should invite older people to eat first, and how to hold chopsticks.

  After dinner, he sat on the floor, next to a bucket of water. As she massaged soap into his hair, washing each strand, he told her about his family. He came from a city called Seattle. He had a sister, and he missed his mother very much.

  Dan must love her. Why else did he tell her about his family? He never mentioned a wife or a girlfriend and she was sure he had none. She felt no need to ask; she trusted him to tell her the truth because he seemed so open.

  Curfew time was approaching and he had to go back to the base, but she hung on to him. “Don’t go.” She had no idea what exactly he’d do on his missions and she didn’t want to know.

  “I’ll be back, em.”

  “Remember, you fly high. No joking.”

  He nodded. “I fly high. No VC can get me.”

  The following morning, Trang was so restless; she went out. Her feet were heavy as if she were lugging buckets of water. She passed Hân’s former building. Hân had found herself a boyfriend and moved with him to Đà Nẵng.

  She knocked at the door of Quỳnh’s apartment. Quỳnh’s roommate opened it, let her in and climbed back into bed.

  “Wake up, Sister. Come have breakfast with me.” She shook Quỳnh’s arm.

  Quỳnh turned away. Her face was smeared with makeup. Her breath stank of liquor.

  The room was as quiet as a book no one had read. Trang studied each piece of furniture, each item of clothes, knowing how much history was held within it, just like an unopened page. She lay down next to Quỳnh. She gazed at her sister’s bony shoulders but didn’t dare touch them, knowing how much Quỳnh needed sleep. She’d apologized to Quỳnh after their fight but the distance between them was expanding, a river swelling during the rainy season. Trang would have to cross that river to be close to her sister again, but she feared her secrets would drown her. She wondered what secrets Quỳnh kept.

  What was her Má doing at this time of day? She must be feeding Ba breakfast or working in the field. She must be sad that her daughters hadn’t come home for a visit. There’d been regular reports about attacks by the VC along the highway to Kiên Giang, but people were still traveling. She should bring Dan home and introduce him to her parents. They’d be delighted to learn that such a wonderful man had fallen in love with their daughter.

  She just hoped that Dan stayed safe.

  She opened her eyes to see Quỳnh staring at her. The light, streaming from the window, was blindingly bright. The heat told her it was probably noon.

  “Everything alright?” Quỳnh asked.

  “Everything perfect.” She smiled.

  “Your boyfriend, he still treats you nice?” Quỳnh turned onto her stomach, resting her cheek on her palm.

  “I’m his princess.”

  “Ha, tell me then, how much does he pay you per week?”

  “It’s not about money with him, em.”

  “Of course it has to be about money first, that’s why we are here, chị Hai. Don’t let him fool you.” Quỳnh sat up. “Remember that on top of the rent, electricity and water, he has to give you at least one hundred dollars per month. All soldiers must do that to be able to keep a girl to himself.”

  Other bar girls had talked about this rule, but how could Trang ask Dan? Besides, she stayed with him because it made her feel good; their love was purer than money. She got out of bed, rolled her hair into a bun. “Come, let me treat you to bún thang.”

  Over steaming bowls of noodle soup cooked with chicken, pork, and dried shrimps, she avoided mentioning Dan and gossiped about other bar girls.

  Afterward, Trang went to the Hollywood. She pretended to be sick, running several times into the toilet to vomit, coughing constantly and so hard that she was told to go home. She passed by the market, bought a ripe, large, and thorny red gourd fruit. Back at her kitchen, she extracted the fruit’s red flesh, marinated it with rice wine and salt, then mixed it with the sticky rice she’d soaked the night before. She steamed both with coconut milk. In front of the Laughing Buddha, with her forehead touching the floor, she prayed for Dan’s safety. After the three sticks of incense had burned out, the door clicked open. Dan stood against the evening.

  She rushed to him and enveloped him in her arms so tightly she was sure he wouldn’t be able to get free. He ripped away her pajamas and pinned her to the wall. With her clinging onto his waist, he made love to her urgently.