Thiên translated, and the woman refilled Thiên’s glass.

  “Mr. Thien,” Dan said, shifting in his seat, “please ask if she’s Kim.” He wished he’d spent time refreshing his Vietnamese. It wouldn’t be too difficult for him to learn simple phrases such as “Are you Kim?,” “Where is Kim?,” “Take me to Kim.” All his life, he’d expected people from around the world to know English, to translate their life experiences to serve people like him. Why should they?

  Thiên told the woman something, with the word Kim in it. Once again, the woman’s lips curled up, but she didn’t smile.

  “She said you met her at the bar,” Thiên said. “She knew you well.”

  “What bar? The Hollywood?”

  Without waiting for Thiên’s translation, the woman nodded.

  “You knew me well? And you knew Kim?” Dan gazed at the woman. He wished the language barrier between them would disappear.

  The woman stayed silent. Behind her, under the grove of banana plants lit up by their red flowers, the mother hen was spreading her wings, protecting her chicks. Dan reached out for his wife’s hand. Whatever truth he discovered next, he was determined not to let it hurt her.

  After a long while, the woman looked up. “Yes, I know Kim well,” she said. “My name is Quỳnh. I am Kim’s sister. We worked at the same bar.”

  The words stunned Dan. He’d never thought about finding Kim’s sister first. He didn’t remember much about her, except that she’d disliked him and refused to talk to him.

  Quỳnh looked at him. Her fists on the table relaxed, then tightened again. Her face became flushed and her lips trembled. As she spoke, each word that came out of her mouth sounded heavy, as if she was spitting it out.

  “You remember that when you left my sister, she was pregnant?” Thiên translated. “She was pregnant with your child.”

  “Yes . . . I am so sorry.” Words tumbled out of Dan’s mouth. “I was young and irresponsible . . .”

  “Young? My sister . . . she was just eighteen when you ruined her life. She trusted you and you were a coward! Do you remember this?” A tear rolled down Quỳnh’s cheek. She reached into her shirt pocket and handed Dan a black-and-white photo.

  Dan stared at the faces of the couple in the faded picture. It was him and Kim at the zoo. They were standing next to each other, laughing, happiness alive on their young faces. He hadn’t even touched her by then; he’d been determined to stay loyal to Linda. But later, the impact of the explosion outside Kim’s apartment had shaken him. In a moment of vulnerability, he had kissed Kim. That kiss changed everything.

  He’d denied it, but now, looking at the picture, he knew the feelings he had for Kim were real. They had found each other, and clung to each other amid the hurricane of war. Both had been torn from their families, both trying to do their best. Together they had erected a safe haven that protected them both. At least for a short time.

  A sob escaped his throat.

  “You had this picture taken at the zoo,” Quỳnh said. “You swallowed your promise to be there for my sister. Why did you leave her when she was carrying your child? Why didn’t you come back earlier? What do you want from her now?”

  “I’m so sorry . . .” Dan said. “I can’t explain my past mistakes, except that I was irresponsible. But I’m here now, to meet my responsibilities as a father. Please . . . tell me where Kim and our child are.” Dan looked into the house. He could only see the orchid flowers. Their white petals were so pure; they reminded him of Kim when they’d first met.

  “My sister, her real name is Trang.” Quỳnh took the photo back. “Her name means graceful, elegant.”

  “Trang . . .” Dan whispered. “Trang.” He held on to the table. He didn’t know much about the woman with whom he’d fathered a child. He hadn’t even cared to ask for her real name, or her full name.

  “Trang gave birth to a beautiful daughter and named her Thu Hoa,” Quỳnh’s voice trembled. “Thu Hoa means Autumn Flower.”

  “Thu Hoa . . . Autumn Flower,” Dan repeated. He turned to Linda. “I have a daughter . . . a daughter.”

  Tears welled up in Linda’s eyes.

  “Please, where is Trang now? Where is Thu Hoa?” Dan stood up.

  Quỳnh rose from her seat. “You want to see my sister? Come with me.”

  The veranda was built from shiny ceramic tiles, decorated with the images of rising phoenixes. Following Quỳnh, Dan and Linda left their shoes on the front steps.

  Inside, the living room was spacious, furnished with a wooden sofa, a coffee table, and four armchairs. A large glass cabinet displayed many types of exquisite-looking fabrics. On a long stand sat a large TV, surrounded by framed pictures of a young couple and their two children. Next to a door that opened into a corridor stood a small wooden altar. Dan’s heart leaped at the sight of the Laughing Buddha. “Kim . . . Trang,” he called. He gazed at the corridor, hoping for a shadow, a movement. Perhaps Kim was bedridden. It wouldn’t be rare for people her age to be sick. Perhaps she’d been injured during the war. He would not let himself think about the other possibility.

  The woman turned and Dan saw an ancient-looking wooden cabinet, inlaid with mother of pearl. On top of the cabinet stood three incense bowls, a vase of flowers, a bottle of liquor, and a plate of fruits. Behind them were three framed pictures, their details obscured by the offerings.

  The woman struck a match, lighting up sticks of incense. As the incense smoldered, she held it above her head, saying something.

  “Elder Sister Trang,” Thiên whispered his translation, and Linda clutched Dan’s arm. “Dan and his wife are here to see you. Come back and say hello to them. Come back, Elder Sister . . .”

  Dan stepped closer to the altar. He saw Trang’s diary. The diary from which she had read her favorite poems to him, as well as her own poems. She had penned her dreams, her hopes, and her longing for peace between those worn covers. And now, she was looking at him from one of the framed photos. Her eyes were still filled with hope, as if she never ceased to believe in him, and in a better future.

  Revenge and Forgiveness

  Cần Thơ, 2016

  Standing in front of the altar, Quỳnh looked at Dan. He was kneeling, wailing her sister’s bar name, “Kim! Kim!” as if he didn’t know her as a real person. His face was scrunched up, wet with tears. He was crying, but it was too late.

  On the altar, Trang smiled from her photo. She was still beautiful and full of life. If she hadn’t died, Quỳnh’s life would be different now. She wouldn’t have to stay awake night after night, thinking that it was she herself who had killed her own sister by forcing her to go to Hóc Môn, and by driving the motorbike on that road.

  Dan bent lower, hitting his fists against the floor. Quỳnh brought her palms to her ears, trying to block out his cries. She’d witnessed enough sorrow, she could no longer burden herself with someone else’s, especially when that person was her worst enemy.

  Dan stood up and got closer to the altar. “Trang, Trang!” he called. The sound of her sister’s real name was sharp against Quỳnh’s blurred mind. She felt as if Trang had just died, her body bloody on the road, her head torn open.

  That day, kneeling by the roadside, Quỳnh had wished she had perished along with Trang. Gone was her best friend, the pillar of her strength, someone who always believed in the goodness of people. Gone was her only sibling, who had cheered her on, had always picked her up when she felt down. She’d never told Trang that she loved her, and she regretted it.

  Quỳnh looked at Dan through her tears. If you weren’t such a coward, my sister would have survived, she thought. She wanted to hurl these words at Dan. The vicious words that she’d repeated to herself like a mantra last night. But she saw the sorrow in Dan’s eyes, and knew how much he’d suffered. “It was a mortar attack,” she told him. “We were traveling on the road . . . Trang was holding your newborn baby.”

  “NO!!!” Dan howled. Linda reached out to him, held him tight, and sobbed into his shoulders.

  The sight of the shaken couple was too much for Quỳnh to bear. “I need to be by myself for a while,” she told Thiên and hurried outside. In her garden, she stood with her face against the rough trunk of her jackfruit tree and wept.

  She didn’t know why the mortar had taken Trang’s life but spared hers. And she kept wondering whether the things she’d done after Trang’s death were right or wrong.

  Never could she imagine that Dan would come back looking for Trang and their daughter. She’d seen Dan’s search notice when it first appeared in the newspaper. She immediately tore it to shreds. She cursed him, screaming, “How dare you? What do you want from my sister?”

  In the days that followed, she burned incense and asked Trang what to do. She’d wanted the incense to flare up, as a sign, and when that didn’t happen, she prayed to Trang, asking her to send a message via an owl’s cry, or a sudden gust of wind, but nothing. She tossed and turned during the nights. This morning, she received her newspaper delivery and opened it. There it was, Dan’s notice again, staring back at her. He refused to go away. He refused to give up. She crushed his message into a ball. It was then that she decided she must meet him, to condemn him and tell him he’d killed Trang.

  She’d practiced time and again the harsh words she wanted to fling at him. Words that would be knives that would slice his heart open and leave it bleeding. But she couldn’t do it, for she felt she was responsible for her sister’s death, along with Dan. And now, the truth about Dan’s daughter would be his biggest punishment.

  She dried her tears. She shouldn’t feel sorry for that bastard. He deserved it, after what he’d done or failed to do.

  “Toi xin loi,” someone said and she turned around.

  Dan walked to her. He reached for her hand, bringing it to his face. His tears were hot, as hot as hers. His face was trembling hard, as hard as hers.

  She raised her other hand and hit him in his chest. “I hate you, why don’t you go away!”

  He nodded as if he understood her.

  She launched both fists at his chest. “Why don’t you hit me? Slap me! I’m guilty, too. I killed my sister.”

  Dan put his hands on her shoulders and said something. Something soft and sorrowful. Something that sounded like an apology. Then he pulled her to him.

  With her face resting on his chest, she wept. She wept for Trang’s unrealized dreams and hopes. She wept for her parents. She wept for herself. And she wept for Dan and Trang’s baby.

  From across the marble table, Dan was silent. His shoulders drooped, as if the regrets were piled high onto them. When he looked at Quỳnh, his eyes were brimming. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said via Thiên’s translation. “It wasn’t my intention to bring harm or pain to your family.”

  Quỳnh stared at her drink. It was empty, as drained as she was. She feared the many questions that Dan would ask. It had been a lifetime since she spoke about her past with anyone. She’d tried to bury it deep into the marrow of her memory, but it refused to sleep.

  Linda refilled the glass and handed it to Quỳnh. “I can’t imagine what you’ve had to go through. I’m so sorry.”

  Quỳnh drank the water and let her gaze rest on the banana flowers. She’d tried to recreate the garden her parents and Trang once loved. She burned incense for them often, offered them food, and invited them to visit her. She felt their spirits and knew they were never far away. She hoped her cousin was taking good care of her family home. Even though her birth village was a part of her being, after her parents’ death she had to detach herself from it. She’d moved to this neighborhood, more than a hundred kilometers away, where nobody knew her. She’d needed a new identity, a fresh start to life.

  “The pictures in your living room,” Linda asked. “Are they of your family?”

  Quỳnh nodded, studying Linda. The woman’s features radiated kindness. Linda had to have a generous heart to be here with Dan. Was she married to him when he was with Trang? Did Trang ever know about her?

  “Yes, my son,” Quỳnh said. “He lives in Sài Gòn with his wife and two children.” Thinking about Khôi and her grandchildren sustained Quỳnh. They were the pillars of her life. Khôi had called her the day before, saying that he was driving his family down for a visit. They would be spending the entire weekend with her. She couldn’t wait for her house to be filled with their laughter and footsteps. They would cook together, eat, play cards, climb trees, pick fruit, harvest vegetables, and fly kites. Even though her maid, Phúc, had a long list of things to do, Quỳnh had told the woman to take the afternoon off. No one should know about Dan and Linda’s visit. She would do anything to shield Khôi from the trauma of her past.

  “Your son looks like a fine young man,” Linda continued, as if trying to console Quỳnh with her words, “and his children are adorable.”

  Quỳnh nodded. She was proud of Khôi, who was a lecturer in business and economics at a public university in Hồ Chí Minh City. He often used her company as an example for his teaching. His son and daughter, four and six years old now, revitalized her.

  It had taken Quỳnh many years of hard work to build up her business, but she’d done it. She had to prove herself again and again by pushing against sexism, deeply rooted in such proverbs as “đàn bà đái không qua ngọn cỏ”—“women can’t pee higher than the top of grass blades” or “đàn ông nông nổi giếng khơi, đàn bà sâu sắc như cơi đựng trầu”—“when naïve, men still seem as profound as a deep well; when thoughtful, women are no deeper than a flat-bottomed betel leaf container.”

  People in her province now called her Cô Ba—Auntie Number Three. None of them knew her real name, nor her past. In their eyes, she was simply a successful businesswoman, a key supplier of cloth to tailors in the province. They envied her frequent trips to India, Bangladesh, and China. They admired the unique materials she brought back. Recently, retailers from different provinces in the Mekong Delta had been calling her, wanting to get hold of the batik she’d been importing from Indonesia. Two years ago, she’d stood at the Mayestik Market in Jakarta, in awe of the exquisite designs and low prices of batik. She knew the long pieces of cloth, with stories embedded into each design, would be perfect for Vietnamese áo dài. She’d enjoyed working with the artists there, incorporating Vietnamese elements into her orders.

  “I am afraid to ask,” Dan said, tears still in his voice, “but please do tell me, what happened to my daughter?”

  Quỳnh bent her head. It seemed as if yesterday that Trang stood in front of her, her newborn baby against her chest. “I’ll bring my baby back to Sài Gòn with me,” Trang had said, “I will raise her.”

  Quỳnh sighed. “You should know that my sister loved your daughter very much,” she told Dan. “We’d planned to give Thu Hoa to an orphanage, but once the baby arrived, Trang refused to do it.”

  Thiên translated and Dan nodded, “Yes . . . that sounds exactly like her.”

  It was difficult but Quỳnh took a deep breath and described the motorbike trip to Hóc Môn, Trang giving birth, their fights, the journey back to Sài Gòn, the guards who stopped them, and the explosion.

  “Oh God, it was all my fault!” Dan clamped his palm against his mouth. “Please . . . don’t tell me that both Trang and my daughter . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Quỳnh brought her hands to her eyes, as if blocking her vision now could stop her mind from recalling Trang on the road: her face covered by blood, her body motionless, curled around her screaming baby. Even in her death, Trang had protected Hoa.

  “My sister died saving her daughter,” Quỳnh said. “It was truly a miracle that Hoa didn’t suffer any injury.” Quỳnh recounted how loud Hoa had screamed when her mother was put into the ground by those who lived near the explosion site, brown dirt blanketing Trang’s feet, then body, then face. Hoa calmed down only when a nursing mother offered her milk. “That kind woman . . . her name was Phương . . . I met her at the medical clinic where I was treated for my broken ribs.” Quỳnh stared at the back of her hands, at their blue veins. Like the blood that rushed to her heart, her memory was gushing back to the image of Phương, a tired-looking mother who lay on a bamboo bed, one hand embracing her newborn son, another hand caressing Hoa’s back as Hoa greedily drank from her breast. “Phương lost her own mother to the war so she bonded with Hoa instantly. . . . She said there was no deeper sorrow than losing one’s parent to violence.” Quỳnh would never forget how Phương hummed a lullaby to Hoa, and how the tenderness of Phương’s voice silenced everything else: the screaming in Quỳnh’s heart, the piercing pain of her broken ribs, the thundering airplanes above her head, the shells that exploded in the distance. In that sacred and rare stillness, Quỳnh caught a glimpse of a future for her niece.

  “When Phương told me that she had two sons,” Quỳnh said, “and that she’d been yearning for a daughter, I offered . . .” She paused. “She kept Hoa.”

  Dan flinched, his eyes opened wide in shock.

  “I’m sorry, but I had no choice,” Quỳnh returned his gaze. “I had no means to raise your daughter. And there was Hoa’s chance for a real family: a mother who loved her, a sibling her age . . .”

  “Are you . . . are you sure the woman kept Hoa?” Dan asked.

  “Yes . . . I gave her all the dollars you’d given Trang, and she promised to take good care of Hoa. Her husband, Thịnh, was there, too. At first he said they couldn’t feed so many mouths, but I begged him to save Hoa. I told him about Trang, our parents, my demanding job. He agreed . . . on one condition . . .”

  Dan looked at Quỳnh, unblinking. Quỳnh had despised him so much, she had thought that seeing him in pain would bring her satisfaction. But now she knew the suffering of someone else could not possibly be the source of delight for another, and that revenge, however successful, would not be able to resurrect the dead.