by John Shors
“Momma must like it.”
“Yes, though she misses you terribly.”
The following page showed tourists atop elephants, moving through a rain forest. “They are so pretty,” Tam said, eyeing the elephants.
“Maybe in your dreams tonight, you’ll ride one.”
“With Momma?”
“Imagine that before you go to sleep.”
“I’ll try.”
Qui pointed to a white-sand beach. “I bet your mother has been here. Look how beautiful it is.”
“Maybe she’ll send me a postcard. Oh, I hope she does.”
Biting her lip, Qui turned the page. A photo of smiling Thais graced the paper. “These people look nice, don’t they? And happy.”
Tam searched the photo. “Is Momma with them?”
Qui wondered if Tam remembered what her mother looked like. It had been so long since she’d left. “I don’t see her,” Qui replied. “But I see her in you, Tam. Do you want me to describe what I see?”
“Yes.”
Qui studied her granddaughter’s face. “She has beautiful eyes, round and with long lashes. Her nose is wide and slightly upturned. A nose that you want to pinch. Her skin is as soft as silk. And her smile . . . it’s the best part of her. Her smile makes me so happy.”
“Are there more pictures, Little Bird?”
A train was revealed. A vegetable market. Ornately dressed dancers. Tam studied each image, wondering if her mother had seen such things. She asked more questions. She looked for a familiar face. In time, weariness overcame her, despite her interest in the book. Moaning softly, she closed her eyes.
Qui gave Tam her medicine. “Good night, my love,” she said, stroking Tam’s brow.
“I’m . . . thinking about elephants.”
“Good.”
“You think about them too.”
“I will,” Qui replied. “And I’ll ride with you tonight.” She kissed Tam’s forehead, continuing to stroke her flesh. Soon Tam was asleep, taking shallow breaths. Qui wished that she’d breathe deeper, fill her lungs with air and power. But her chest barely stirred.
Qui looked above, begging Buddha for a miracle. She prayed for Tam’s health, that her mother would return, that she might know the joy of a friend. She beseeched Buddha to take something from her own body and give it to Tam—strength, perhaps, or years left to live.
Her belly aching from a day with no food, Qui carefully placed the guidebook in the corner of their room. She knew that Tam would study the book every morning and night. She’d memorize its pages, search repeatedly for her mother.
“Why don’t you come back?” Qui whispered, closing her eyes, remembering Hong’s abrupt departure. The death of Hong’s husband, and the poverty that dominated all of their lives, had been too much for her. She had withered and blown away before Qui’s eyes. She’d disappeared—figuratively and then literally.
“Tam needs you so much,” Qui added, looking toward the doorway, toward where Hong had often rested. “Please come back to us. And please hurry. You shouldn’t have gone for so long. But I’ll forgive you. Just come back. Please, Hong. Please come back.”
Qui listened for a reply but heard only distant horns and sirens. Suddenly pain shot from her chest to her side, so powerful that she dropped to the ground, rolling silently on her back. She clutched at her ribs, wondering if Buddha had heard her, if he’d taken some of her strength and given it to Tam. She prayed that he had and begged him to take more.
Finally her chest ceased to throb. She peered outside and saw that somewhere the sun was setting. Once, she had loved sunsets. But now they served merely to remind her that Tam was one day closer to death. Again she prayed for a miracle. Then she lay next to Tam, stroked her cheek, and tried to think of elephants.
SIX
The War Museum
In Chicago, with the wind blowing from the lake, Iris had seen plenty of hard rains. But as a storm unfurled in Ho Chi Minh City, and she looked from the window of her office, she realized that she’d never seen streets saturated with rain, never witnessed what rain could do to a city with few sewers. The water filled up streets until they looked like manicured rivers. Scooters sped through these ankle-deep waterways, casting up spray on either side. Most of the drivers wore yellow ponchos, which billowed behind them, flapping like uncertain sails. Children stripped off their shirts and ran through the water, kicking it at one another. Sounds of laughter drifted up to Iris, mesmerizing her. She tried to remember if children in Chicago played in the rain and wasn’t sure.
Smiling, Iris continued to watch the children, and how the raindrops left dimples in waterways. Lightning cracked overhead. A gust of wind drove the rain almost horizontally. Reaching out, she felt droplets on her palm, surprised at their warmth. She recalled Thien’s words about dragon tears and looked up, as if she might see the mythical creatures weeping among the clouds.
After a few more minutes of gazing at her first tropical rainstorm, Iris dressed for the day. She walked toward the stairwell, heard a noise in the classroom, and entered it impulsively. Noah lay with his hand over his eyes, yet he was clearly awake, his foot tapping against the wall. Beside him on the bed was a half-filled bottle. Iris wondered what it contained. Noah reached for it, pausing when he saw her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling like an intruder.
He put his hand on his belly, watching her. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I just came in.”
“Oh.”
“Should I go?”
Noah started to speak and then stopped, unsure what to say. “This is your place. You should do whatever you want.”
She glanced at the bottle, once again feeling as if it defiled the classroom. “May I ask you something, Noah?”
“I suppose.”
“What do you find in that bottle?”
He sat up. His head ached from the previous night, and he rubbed his brow. He glanced at her, remembering that he’d once longed for her. He wished he still did. “Sometimes . . . it takes away the pain.”
Iris knew of pain. She’d faced it as a child and a young woman. Her escapes had been books, faraway worlds that she’d gladly stepped into. “Can you tell me about your pain? I’d like to know about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to understand.”
He bit his lower lip. “Can I have a drink first?”
“What?”
“I need to relax . . . to talk about something like that.” After Iris nodded, Noah took a gulp from the bottle. The liquid warmed him. “Sorry,” he said, screwing the lid back on.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
He listened to the rain.
Iris watched him, wondering what was going on inside his head. “Hemingway used rain to signify death,” she said, remembering the end of A Farewell to Arms. “And war.”
Noah set the bottle aside. “He must not have been to Baghdad. It never rained. And there was plenty of death.”
She thought more about Hemingway’s words. “Why did you enlist anyway?”
“Would you hand me my prosthesis? It doesn’t feel right . . . talking like this.”
Iris did as he asked. She saw the scars that encircled his stump, and his grimace as he pulled the sleeve over his thigh.
He stood unsteadily and walked toward one of the big wooden tables. They sat opposite each other. “Are you sure you want to hear?” he wondered. “Most people . . . they ask about it . . . but they really don’t want to hear about it.”
“I want to. Very much.”
Noah took a slow and measured breath. He didn’t like talking about the past, for bringing it to life was like cutting himself. “After the trade center fell . . . I wanted to do something. Do something for my country.”
“So you enlisted?”
“In the marines. I’d been in the city selling cars. And not many of them. So the timing was right.” He twisted the sleeve of his prosthesis, trying to get som
ewhat comfortable. “After my training I was sent to Afghanistan. I’d never been overseas, so I had no idea what to expect.”
“What was it like?”
He remembered the voice of a comrade. “A friend told me once that good people died and went to heaven, and that bad people died and went to Kabul.”
“Really? Was it that bad?”
“Well, at first it was. Everyone was scared. Really scared. And the city was a mess . . . like some kind of World War Two movie set.”
She leaned forward, her chair creaking. “And what happened?”
“A lot of good happened. We did things right. And it felt . . . it felt great.” He watched a fly beat itself against a nearby window. “Are you sure you want to hear about this? I feel like I’m talking too much.”
“You’re not.”
He took a sip of whiskey. “We routed the Taliban and had bin Laden cornered in the mountains. Trapped like the rat he is. Our intel said he was there. And I know he was. Because his men fought like they were protecting something priceless. They ran screaming at us and we cut them down.”
“You . . . cut them down?”
“When you’re scared, it’s easy. Later it’s hard.”
She followed his eyes as he looked away. “And then?”
Noah remembered how a man he’d shot had fallen like a tipped domino. “And then we weren’t allowed to finish the job,” he replied, shaking his head, still dumbfounded by the decision. “We didn’t have the troops, the resources, to get bin Laden because Bush wanted Saddam. So we left that rat in his corner, redeployed, and a few months later I was in Iraq. In the desert. And that seemed good too. Watching them pull statues of Saddam down, watching them dance. I’d never felt better. I was with the bravest, best group of soldiers in the world. And we’d won.”
“But you hadn’t.”
“No. Not by a long shot. We spent months in that desert. Sweating. Searching. Getting shot at. But we couldn’t find any weapons of mass destruction. Couldn’t find a link to al-Qaeda. It was all a lie. One lie told after another. And I believed them all. Like a fool.”
“A lot of people believed them. It wasn’t your fault.”
Noah glanced at her, wondering if she’d also been duped. “Then I lost my friend. And my foot. On the same goddamn day.” He adjusted his prosthesis again, the mere sight of it causing his stump to ache. “And after that . . .”
“What?”
“After that I was so angry. I still am. I sacrificed everything . . . for a lie.” He closed his eyes, trying to listen to the rain, to settle his emotions.
“And your pain? Is it more physical or mental?”
“The physical comes first. But the mental is just as bad. Maybe worse. It’s like . . . your own mind becomes a prison. Pain does that to you. You can’t escape it.”
Iris was about to speak when footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Thien entered, a lacquer tray in her hands. The tray bore two cups of tea and two plates of sliced fruit. “Good morning, Miss Iris,” she said. “And to you, Mr. Noah.”
He glanced at his prosthesis, feeling naked even in his shorts and T-shirt.
“Do you like the Vietnamese rain?” Thien asked, setting the tray down.
“I’ve never seen streets flood like this,” Iris replied, still thinking about Noah’s words.
“Oh, wait until the monsoon. Then it will seem as if you have come to Venice.”
Iris took a cup of tea. “Thanks for breakfast, Thien.”
“It is my pleasure.” Thien pulled a paintbrush from her back pocket. “Today will be perfect to finish the clouds. We can look at the sky and . . . be inspired.”
“I’ll come up in a minute.”
Thien nodded, turned, and walked upstairs. She began to sing softly, her voice floating down the stairwell.
“Why don’t you ever speak to her?” Iris asked, sipping her tea.
Noah turned from the stairwell. “I . . . I don’t know. She seems so happy. Maybe I don’t want to interfere with that.”
“There’s a lot more to her than a smile,” Iris replied. Thunder boomed, and she glanced outside. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Feel free. Everyone else does.”
Iris lowered her tea. “I guess I’ll see you—”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like that.”
She nodded, and though not hungry, took a bite of fruit for Thien’s sake. “I know that you’ve . . . lost yourself. Lost who you were. But my father lost himself too, and he somehow found himself.”
“After thirty years?”
“Maybe you won’t need so long.”
Noah shrugged, not believing that he’d be alive in three decades. “I know you’re trying to help me,” he said. “And I wish I could say and do what you want. But I can’t. I live in hell. And for me, every day is just about . . . survival.”
Iris tried to imagine his pain. “You’re in a whole other war, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Maybe the first one never ended.”
She moved toward the door. “All wars end, Noah. Just remember that. Remember where you are and look around.”
He watched her disappear. When she had, he moved to the stairwell, listening to her talk with Thien. To his surprise, Thien didn’t ask about him, but about the clouds they’d almost finished. The women spoke of the clouds as if they were all that existed in the world. And as Noah listened to them, he realized that they were so much stronger than he. Iris, whose father had just died and who was in a foreign country for the first time, and Thien, who rose to his shoulder and probably couldn’t lift fifty pounds—these women were strong and resilient and everything that he was not.
Disgusted with himself, he glanced at the whiskey bottle, longing for a drink. The bottle beckoned to him the way a lover might from an unmade bed. Noah looked at the bottle, unconsciously licking his lips. He stepped toward this temptation but managed to stop himself. Glancing at one of the office computers, he decided to e-mail his mother and tell her that things were better. She’d be waiting for such an e-mail, and its arrival would lift a weight from her shoulders.
Noah knew that he needed to write the e-mail now, before he picked up the bottle again. The bottle might rescue him at times; it might bring him to a warmer place. But it would muddle his thoughts. And then he’d be in no condition to write his mother. With his mind clouded, she’d see through his lies and even more weight would press on her.
The computer flickered to life before him. The rain continued to fill the streets. His body ached as if he’d fallen from a high balcony. Wishing that he possessed the strength of the women above, Noah began to type. His fingers moved quickly as he spoke of worlds that he didn’t believe in.
Though he hated the liars, he’d become one.
THE RAIN FELL HARD ON THE roof of Ben Thanh Market, creating an endless drumroll for everyone inside. Normally abuzz with activity, the market seemed eerily empty. Vendors swept their shops until the cement floors glistened. Items were dusted and rearranged. Chipped pieces of lacquer were touched up with carefully blended paints. While such duties were performed, vendors chatted amiably, sipping soft drinks or nibbling on strips of dried squid.
At a plastic table near the rear of the market, Mai and Minh sat and stared. They didn’t like rain, for it tended to keep tourists in their hotels and off-limits. Luckily, a few foreigners would brave such weather and head for markets and museums. Depending on the weather and the day, Mai and Minh could often predict where these tourists would venture. Upon awaking under the bridge, the two friends had debated where they might find a good game and sell fans, finally settling on Ben Thanh Market.
Mai and Minh hadn’t eaten since the day before, and the smells of grilled shrimp, roasting duck, and simmering lemongrass made their mouths water. Both found it maddening to be hungry with so much food nearby. It was better, they agreed, to be hungry sitting at a busy corner or lying in a park.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” Mai said, her
chin propped up by her elbows. “There’s no one here. And everything smells so good.”
Minh tugged on his shirt, which was finally dry.
“Oh, would a wet shirt really kill you, Minh the Particular?” Mai asked. “Maybe we could drink the rain. Put some fish sauce on it and drink it down. Anything would be better than sitting here, watching people eat. You’d think they were pigs being fattened for the market.”
Shrugging, Minh looked again for tourists. He wondered what it was like to sit in a fancy hotel room and listen to the rain. Still imagining, he slumped when Loc shuffled into sight, heedless of who was in his way. Loc’s baseball jersey was filthy. He looked as if he’d rolled down a muddy riverbank.
“Here comes our water buffalo,” Mai whispered, pretending she didn’t see Loc.
Minh glanced at his game, wishing that he were playing someone.
Loc stopped at a food stand, gave a girl some bills, and then moved toward their table. He sat on a plastic chair, unaware that its legs bent beneath him. Mai risked a glance at his eyes and saw that they were bloodshot. “You brats better make some money today,” he said in his hole-in-the-throat voice, his words lacking intonation, but his face hard and unforgiving. “Win it, beg it, steal it. I don’t care how. But get my five dollars. Don’t get it, and my protection is gone. And everyone will know it.”
Mai shifted in her seat. “Where should we go? The tourists are all inside.”
Loc ignored her. Instead he watched a girl bring him a steaming bowl of pho. He was soon slurping up broth and noodles. Minh tried not to look at him, breathing through his mouth to avoid the smells drifting around him. Loc belched. Bits of shrimp and noodles were visible between his teeth. “I’ll come tonight, to the bridge. And you better have my money. I’ll put your heads in the river if you don’t. Hear that, half boy?”
After finishing his pho, Loc stood and left.
“He paid for that pho with our money,” Mai said, pushing the empty bowl away from her. “And he’ll come tonight, just as he said. He’ll be full of opium and he won’t . . . he won’t know what he’s doing. Oh, Minh, we have to get his five dollars. But how are we going to get them today?”