Hotel Majestic looked as magnificent as ever, with its domed glass windows, its elaborate entrance where a guard stood. Painted a pale yellow, the building now had a bright red Communist flag flying above its name. He gazed at the rooftop, recalling that it had one of the best views of the city. He had to take Linda up there, tell her tales about the foreign journalists who used to hang out at the rooftop bar during the war.

  To the right, Tự Do—the Street of Freedom, now called Đồng Khởi—the Street of Uprising—stretched out before his eyes, lit up by colorful lights. Were some of the bars still there? During his final month here, he’d been a frequent customer. The girls had been younger than Kim, undemanding and not pregnant.

  “This hotel was built by a Chinese Vietnamese businessman in 1925,” Thiên gestured toward the Majestic. “His Chinese name was Hui Bon Hoa, but we called him Uncle Hỏa. He was once Sài Gòn’s richest man. His family constructed thousands of buildings, including the current Fine Arts Museum.”

  “That’s amazing,” Linda said. “And how interesting that this hotel looks just like some of the buildings I saw in Paris.” Linda tilted her head, looking up to the lit windows of the higher floors.

  As Linda mentioned French architecture, Dan thought about the terrible things the French had done to the Vietnamese. They’d colonized the country for decades, divided its people, caused the First Indochina War, which killed hundreds of thousands of people. Then he noticed how Linda’s innocent words had instantly snapped his mind to the subject of French colonialism. That was the thing about being here. In America he could pretend that world history had nothing to do with his life. But as soon as he stepped back into the hot air of Việt Nam, he knew that notion was bullshit.

  A young bellhop in a white suit rushed to them, whisking their suitcases away. Dan and Linda walked to the entrance, where a guard bent his body as he opened the door for them. Dan bowed in return. He didn’t like how some other Western guests ignored the doorman, behaving as if they, like the architecture, hadn’t changed since the old French colonizers.

  Inside, the air was cool and smelled of rose perfume. Linda gasped at the impressive entrance hall. At the long counter to the left, two receptionists looked stunning in their áo dàis. Dan searched their faces. They were young enough to be his grandchildren but had no Caucasian features.

  As Linda and Thiên checked in, Dan walked to the glass window and gazed out at the road, studying the faces of those who passed.

  Linda arrived at his side. “Our room is on the highest possible floor. River view!” She gave him one of their two key cards.

  “See you in half an hour . . . for dinner,” Thiên said.

  Upstairs, the bellhop opened the door to their spacious, air-conditioned room. The bed looked luxurious, covered by a white duvet on which rose petals had been scattered. Dan felt a pang of guilt. They could never afford this type of hotel back home.

  A lacquer vase stood on the dressing table, filled with red roses. Kim had often decorated their apartment with fresh flowers. She’d always gone on about how cheap they were, harvested during the night, brought into the city by farmers all the way from the countryside. She’d talked about those farmers with such tenderness and he knew she’d have preferred to be working on her rice field instead of at the Hollywood Bar.

  Linda took off her shoes and stepped across the room toward the glass panel of a large window. “Look at this view!” The Sài Gòn River was a dark snake dotted by ships lit up with lights. Between the river and the hotel was a large road filled with motorbikes traveling in opposite directions.

  At the door, Dan gave a five-dollar tip to the bellhop, whose face brightened as if he’d just earned a hundred bucks. Dan bolted the door, securing it with the metal chain. He relatched the window that faced the river as well as the glass door that led to a small balcony.

  At home, he was always the last to go to bed. He couldn’t sleep without double-checking all the doors and windows. When they bought the house more than ten years ago, the first thing he did was install an automatic alarm system. But in his nightmares, the VC could always disable it.

  Sitting on the bed, Linda studied her red and swollen knees. “I couldn’t sleep on the planes at all, could you?”

  He shook his head, reached into her handbag for the tube of Bengay. He brushed the hem of her dress high up onto her thighs and felt a stir of desire. It had been months since they last made love. His nerves before the trip hadn’t helped.

  He lathered a layer of the medicine onto her knees and massaged them. “Make sure you drink enough water. The last thing we want is you getting sick.”

  As Linda took out her phone and snapped picture after picture of the view, Dan rested his head on a pillow. He wanted to close his eyes for a minute, but on the wall opposite the bed was an oil painting of children in a field of flowers. The children were running toward him, laughing. An image of Kim, pregnant, flashed in his mind. Was the child he’d had with Kim a boy or a girl? Had his child been forced to run for its life from the Communists’ revenge? His child. It was the first time he allowed himself to use those words. His child.

  A long time ago, when his sister Marianne left home leaving only a note saying that they were not to look for her or contact her ever again, he had sworn to his mother that he would be a good father. Marianne had blamed them both for enabling the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of his dad, a drunk who often hit his wife and two children. But at least his dad had been there for him throughout his childhood, had brought food home and kept a roof over their heads, had helped send him to school.

  He feared he had turned out worse than his father. What kind of person was he to have walked away from his own child, from his pregnant girlfriend?

  Being here was pushing him toward the course of action he’d been thinking about since agreeing to go on this trip. He should look for Kim. He should try to find out what had happened to his child. If his child had survived, he or she would be forty-six this year. He might already have grandchildren. Maybe even great grandchildren. They might be here somewhere, within his reach.

  He had to find them.

  Sài Gòn Tea

  Sài Gòn, 1969

  Trang stepped off the shuddering bus at Xa Cảng Miền Tây Station. Around her, passengers streamed out of different vehicles, their shoulders drooping like withered leaves. Unlike them, she wasn’t tired. Her eyes were open wide, watching. Quỳnh’s were, too. The station was in the outskirts of Sài Gòn, surrounded by ricefields, and to venture into the city, they took two other local buses, then a cyclo. The cyclo seat was too small for the three of them, so Quỳnh sat on Trang’s lap, holding their bag of clothes and several of her books.

  “Trương Minh Ký Street,” Hân told the driver, who leaned forward, powering the cart attached behind his bike. His arms were wiry but muscular. Trang’s father used to have arms like those. Arms that had carried her to school, picked fruits high up on trees for her, hoed, and watered, and harvested. She had to do well at her job, send money home to free her parents from their debts, and allow her father to get the treatments he needed so he could walk and his arms could once again be the pillars of her family.

  She held on to the cyclo’s steel frame as cars, motorbikes, and xe lam—three-wheeled mini buses—rushed past. She wondered who got to live inside the brick houses that lined the road. She admired the graceful áo dài dresses worn by the women walking on the pavements, and gasped at those wearing short, revealing miniskirts. Her mouth watered at the sight of colorfully decorated street stalls that sold all types of food, from noodle soup to desserts.

  She searched for the con man. Perhaps here in Sài Gòn, she and Quỳnh could find him. They’d agreed that if they spotted him, Trang would follow him and Quỳnh would run and get the police.

  A truck filled with foreign soldiers approached. They looked young and relaxed, very different from the men she’d seen patrolling her village. They flashed their smiles at the women, calling out something, laughing.

  Hân called back something, and the men roared with laughter, clapping their hands.

  “They say we’re beautiful girls.” Hân giggled as the truck sped away.

  “What did you say?” Quỳnh asked.

  “That they’re sexy boys.”

  “Get out of here.” Quỳnh thumped Hân’s shoulder. “If you’re not careful, they might kidnap us and take us to America.”

  “Oh, I wish.” Hân continued to laugh.

  Trang gestured toward a group of Vietnamese military police in green fatigues and steel helmets. “They come to your bar, too?”

  Hân shook her head. “They go to their own. Our bar is only for white men. Sometimes Black men come to ours, but it’s very rare.”

  “So each group of soldiers has their own territory?” Quỳnh asked.

  “You’re so clever.” Hân knocked her curled finger against Quỳnh’s head.

  They passed a school. A group of girls dressed in white áo dài and matching white pants chased each other around a phượng tree whose flowers bloomed like red flames against the blue sky. Trang closed her eyes, wishing she could go back to her life as an innocent student. She promised herself that she would, once she’d earned enough money.

  The cyclo chimed its bell as it entered a small alley. Street peddlers knitted their ways through the tiny lanes branching off it, their singsong voices urging people to buy sticky rice, mangoes, and steamed cassava.

  Hân lived on the second story of a concrete building. As they removed their shoes, Trang was suddenly conscious of her brown feet and yellowish toenails against the cement floor. Near the entrance stood a small wooden altar where a statue of the Laughing Buddha sat behind a vase of marigolds and a plate of red dragon fruit. The lingering perfume of incense lifted Trang’s spirit.

  Light poured into the room from a window. Two wooden beds stood on opposite corners and between them hung such beautiful clothes, Trang couldn’t take her eyes off them. Three girls were lying on a bed, singing a vọng cổ folk song.

  “My roommates,” Hân said. “They also work at the bar.”

  Trang nodded and listened to the vọng cổ soaring and dipping. The girls were good, their voices clear, coated with Mekong Delta accents. Trang knew the lyrics. It was “Lan và Điệp,” a tragic love song she’d often sung, swinging in her hammock. Trang wondered why love stories, especially beautiful love stories, had to be sad.

  Would her blossoming love for Hiếu meet the same fate?

  The girls finished singing and jumped down from the bed. One was tall, another had short hair, and the third girl had a dimple opening like a tiny flower on her right cheek.

  “Trang and Quỳnh . . . from my village,” Hân told her roommates. “They’ll be joining us at the Hollywood.”

  “First day in Sài Gòn?” the girl with the dimple looked her up and down.

  “Yes, Sister.” Quỳnh smiled.

  “They’ll find their own place, but need to make some money first,” Hân said. “Do you mind if they stay here for the time being?”

  “Here?” The short-haired girl arched her eyebrows.

  “Not a problem for me.” The tall girl shrugged. “We were new to this city once, and somebody helped us.”

  “But you’ll have to sleep on the floor, we have no space on the beds,” the short-haired girl said.

  “On this beautiful floor? We’d be glad.” Quỳnh beamed. “In return for your help, perhaps we can cook and clean?”

  Trang wished she could have her younger sister’s quick thinking and confidence.

  “Can’t say no to that.” The girl with the dimple clapped her hands.

  The short-haired girl sniffed. “Perhaps something is wrong with my nose . . . but I’m smelling food . . .” She eyed the sedge bag next to Hân’s feet.

  “Nothing can escape you, can it?” Hân laughed. “My mother wanted to spoil us, again.”

  They sat on the floor, in a circle. As the stewed cá lóc fish and sticky rice melted in Trang’s mouth, she thought about her mother, alone now in their kitchen.

  The short-haired girl picked up a piece of fish with her chopsticks. “You know the best thing you can do for yourself while in Sài Gòn?” She turned to Trang. “Find yourself an American boyfriend.”

  Trang glanced at Quỳnh. There were many things she was not sure about, but she was certain about one thing: she wouldn’t want a soldier as a boyfriend. She’d witnessed some soldiers’ violent acts and being a soldier made her father miserable.

  “American men . . . they can be generous, let me tell you.” The tall girl winked. “But beware. Some are big. They might break you.” She lowered her voice, and the others burst out laughing.

  The girl with the dimple scooped sticky rice into her own bowl. “Your boyfriend doesn’t have to be an American. There are some Australians around, too. Any of them will do.”

  Trang’s mouth fell open. Back home, Hân only mentioned Sài Gòn Tea and now—a foreign boyfriend? She was certain she could drink tea, and if she had a boyfriend, it could only be Hiếu.

  “Don’t move too fast, you’re making them dizzy.” Hân laughed. “First things first. . . . Time for some training.” She turned to Trang and Quỳnh. “Now, listen carefully. When a soldier comes into our bar, he’ll want to talk to a beautiful girl like you. To do that, he must buy drinks for him and Sài Gòn Tea for you.”

  “You get paid by the drinks he buys, so if he doesn’t purchase new ones after half an hour for himself and for you, tell him he should. And if he still doesn’t, leave him for another guy,” the tall girl said.

  “Seriously?” Trang stopped chewing.

  “Sure,” the short-haired girl said. “Flirt with as many soldiers as you want, but not when they’re already with another girl.”

  Trang didn’t want to flirt with men. She’d talk to them and drink tea with them, and that’s all.

  “Got it.” Quỳnh sounded enthusiastic. “First, we get the guys to buy us drinks. Second, we don’t steal customers from each other.”

  The tall girl nodded. “In the bar, we drink from this.” She held up a tiny glass. “There’s no salary, but for each tea you get a man to buy you, you’ll get a share, and if he likes you, he’ll give you a tip.”

  “Fantastic.” Quỳnh clapped her hands.

  “But . . . Sài Gòn Tea is only tea, right?” Trang recalled the hesitation in Hân’s voice when she’d explained about the tea.

  “Well . . . it’s supposed to be tea mixed with whiskey, that’s why the price for each glass is so high.” Hân giggled. “The soldiers who come to our bar are Americans, and American men are easy to cheat, you see? So there’s only tea in our glass. That way, we don’t get drunk; we can flirt with many men and get them to buy lots and lots of drinks. The bar makes money and so do we. A win-win situation.”

  “Hold on,” said Quỳnh. “Don’t the men find out?”

  “Nah, all the liquor that they swallow makes them so distracted, they don’t notice.” Hân shook her head. “And you also need to flirt, get their full attention so they don’t stare at your glass. . . . Hey, don’t look so worried. Whiskey and tea have the same brown color. Anyway, some Americans know that we cheat them, but they don’t care. They just want to talk to pretty girls. So the prettier you are, the better.”

  Trang’s eyes widened. The idea of cheating Americans sounded dangerous. After all, they were big men who had weapons.

  The short-haired girl filled the tiny glass with water. “It’s all about acting, really. . . . Be cool and you’ll be alright. Just pretend you’re drinking whiskey instead of plain tea.” She picked up the glass, held her head back, poured the water into her mouth, swallowed, winced, and banged the glass onto the floor.

  The girls clapped. The short-haired girl wiped her mouth and filled the glass. Quỳnh’s turn. She tossed the water into her mouth, screwed up her face, and let out a big “ah.” Watching her, Trang was reminded about the men from her village after they’d swallowed mouthfuls of rice liquor.

  Everyone clapped. The glass was again full. Trang thought about standing up, dragging Quỳnh out of the room and telling her to go home. But images of the lenders flickered in her mind. Just a few days before, they’d pushed her crying mother aside and carried off the family’s piglets.

  Heat rose to Trang’s face. She poured the water down her throat and banged the empty glass onto the floor.

  “Be more convincing.” The girl with the dimple filled the glass. She held it up, took a sip, shuddered, and put it down. She picked it up again, took another sip and clucked her tongue. “This American whiskey is damn good.” Her voice slurred and the other girls cheered.

  “Now eat up,” said the tall girl. “We need to get ready for work soon. You have better things to wear?” She looked Quỳnh and Trang up and down.

  Quỳnh eyed Trang. “We’re wearing our best clothes.”

  “Ôi trời ơi.” The tall girl exclaimed. “But you look like grannies in those.” She stared at Trang’s white shirt and black pants.

  “There’s no way you can come to work with us dressing like this.” Hân turned to the other girls. “But we’ll help them, right, Sisters?”

  The girls nodded, giggling.

  As Quỳnh and Trang washed the dishes, Hân checked their shoe and dress sizes. When the dishes were done, short skirts, high-heel shoes, and blouses had already been brought out and laid on the two beds.

  “Where did you get these?” Quỳnh fingered a pink dress.

  The material appeared so elegant, Trang didn’t dare touch it.

  “My ex-boyfriend bought it for me, from Australia. He was there for R & R.” Hân looked proud.

  “What’s R & R? Did you get to go to Australia with your boyfriend?” Quỳnh asked.

  “R & R means Rest and Relaxation,” said the short-haired girl. “American soldiers get to go on holiday once a year. They can choose from many nice places . . . Hawaii, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Tokyo. . . . Your boyfriend can’t take you, but he might buy you presents.”