by John Shors
Wiping sweat from her eyes, Iris walked faster, a sense of panic building within her. Scooters and bicycles continued to dart around her, and she was suddenly envious of the Vietnamese. They could move so much more quickly. They didn’t have to deal with a language or cultural barrier. They could get things done. She’d just spent two hundred thousand dong and accomplished nothing more than wasting a huge chunk of time.
I have to do better, she thought, hurrying across a street, avoiding traffic. But how do I act like a local? How’s that possible?
A pair of girls on a scooter waved and Iris absently said hello. Her mind twisted and turned, searching for a solution. And then it occurred to her—she’d ask Noah. He’d traveled abroad. He’d been in a war, of course, and had seen what didn’t work on a scale never imagined. But surely he had seen some things that had worked well. And maybe he’d have an idea. And then she could put her time to better use, could really help those who so desperately needed it.
A smile dawned on Iris’s face for the first time all day. She glimpsed a familiar landmark, dodged a stray rooster, and began to run.
BY NOW NOAH’S HANDS WERE ACCUSTOMED to the shovel. His fingers and palms bore slightly raised calluses. His skin seemed rougher. He was able to thrust and swing the shovel more efficiently, reducing some of the strain on his back and stump. Still, his aches seemed as plentiful as the tiny particles that rose and fell as he cast the soil skyward. As always, the aches prompted emotions of guilt, remorse, anger, and betrayal to course through him. Noah wanted to take his shovel, dig a pit, and bury his rage and misery so deep that they’d never see daylight again. He wanted to be the person he once was, but he didn’t know how to be that person. Such evolution seemed impossible.
Noah emptied a jar and moved awkwardly to another. He reached into his pocket and found a painkiller, popping the pill into his mouth and swallowing it with a gulp of warm beer. He didn’t like taking such a steady stream of pills, but shoveling hundreds of pounds of soil was impossible without them. And he wanted to finish the playground for Tam as soon as possible. He had already covered more than half of the lot with dirt, and if he worked throughout the day, he’d empty all the jars. Tomorrow he could use the rest of the supplies that Iris’s father had already purchased to lay stone trails and to plant grass seed.
Setting his beer down, Noah picked up his shovel and pushed it deeply into the nearby jar. He was about to send soil sailing when he heard a woman singing. He paused, rising from his bent position. Thien emerged from the center, a tray in her hands. As usual, her clothes and baseball cap were splattered with paint. She walked over to Noah, still singing, and set her tray down on one of the big jars. She handed him a porcelain cup.
“I made lemonade for you,” she said, smiling. “Can you believe that it took ten lemons to fill only two little glasses?”
He wondered if she knew that she had a smudge of paint on her nose. “Thank you,” he said, sipping her drink, which was quite sweet.
“I put cane sugar and a drop of honey in it. What do you think?”
“I like it.”
Thien glanced about. “You are going to need a long shower,” she said, grinning, her full lips glistening from the lemonade.
Noah nodded, then looked toward the dormitory. “Is everything all right with Tam?”
“She is fine. When I told her that she no longer had to beg, she smiled and whispered to her doll.”
“She did?”
“She was so happy, Mr. Noah. And Qui, she picked up a broom and started to sweep the room as if the king of Siam were coming for a visit.”
Noah sipped more lemonade. “Good for her.”
“I know.”
“What about Iris? Is she back?”
“Not yet. She was going to talk with the French doctor. His clinic is rather far away, so I am sure that it will take some time.”
Through a gap in the fence, Noah saw a woman pushing a broken scooter down the adjacent street. He glanced from her to Thien, noticing for the first time that her eyes seemed unusually large and open, as if she’d never had to squint from the sun’s glare. He quickly finished his drink, setting his cup back on the tray. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for his shovel.
“What will it look like?”
“The playground?”
“Yes.”
Noah straightened, wincing as his prosthesis rubbed against his stump. “Well, I’m not really sure.”
Thien laughed. “Please do not be afraid of talking with me, Mr. Noah. I am so little. And you are so big.”
He tried to smile, aware that she acted big while he acted the opposite. “I thought about . . . about putting in simple things,” he said. “Like a few trees. And a slide. And maybe a seesaw.”
“A seesaw?”
“You know, a long board, with a triangle in the middle, so that when one end of the board goes up, the other end goes down? Kids sit on either end and go up and down and up and down.” Noah looked at the ground. “I used to love doing that . . . as a kid.”
Thien took his hands. “This is how we used to do it,” she said, crouching low and then springing upward.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
She grinned, pulling a small fruit from her pocket and offering it to him. He declined, so she bit into it with her straight white teeth. At a window above, Qui came into view, dusting with a bundle of feathers. “Tam used to talk more,” Thien said, thinking as she often did about the girl upstairs.
“She did?”
“Yes. Before the pain started to come. Before she was so tired every day.” Thien finished the fruit, then wrapped a finger around her ponytail and pulled it farther out of the hole in the back of her baseball cap. “She talked about her mother, about how she once saw a falling star. She told me that she wanted to ride an elephant. She had seen a picture of some tourists on one and thought it looked like fun. For many months I wanted to take her to my village, where we still have elephants. But then she got so sick. And she stopped talking about anything.”
“She’s too young to be so sick.”
Thien nodded, wishing that she’d taken Tam to her village, that she’d ridden an elephant through the nearby rain forest. As she imagined Tam atop an elephant, an inspiration struck. “Do you think we could build her one?” Thien asked, once again grasping Noah’s hands. “On your seesaw?”
“An elephant?”
“Yes, yes! An elephant on one end and . . . and a water buffalo or something on the other. You could make big elephant ears out of wood, and I could paint them. And we could let Tam sit on her elephant and she could go up and down. Oh, that would make her so happy, Mr. Noah. I know it would. Could we please build it?”
Noah felt the strength of her grip and noticed how she stood on her tiptoes. “Of course we’ll build it,” he replied, aware that her eyes seemed even more alive than usual. He understood then how much she wanted to make Tam smile, to make the world a better place for a girl who seemed destined not to dwell in it much longer.
As Thien continued to hold his hands, Noah saw so many things in her eyes. He saw hope. He saw heartache. He saw desperation and love and a kind of purity that he didn’t think remained in the world. He wanted to somehow touch this purity—to see if it was real. But he didn’t know how to touch it, and so he just stood and stared, listening to her talk about plans for the elephant—her ideas for its tusks, how its head might dip into a puddle as if to drink. And as she spoke her voice carried him somewhere distant, into a place in his past where he was still a boy and a seesaw could make him laugh for an afternoon.
IN THE DORMITORY, THE DAY DRIFTED by. Tam slept off and on. Qui cleaned. And Iris, Thien, and Noah made multiple appearances. Dusk momentarily filled the room with muted red light, making it seem as if the clouds on the ceiling were illuminated from a distant sunset. Thien brought up a simple dinner of rice and grilled fish, and everyone ate from wooden bowls while sitting on the floor. Only Noah was absent—still shoveling dirt and spread
ing it on the ground.
Qui enjoyed dining with Thien and Iris, mainly because Tam delighted in their company. Though Tam wasn’t talkative, Qui was aware of how she watched the older women, how her hands often stroked her doll’s hair. Of course, she still moaned softly and ate nothing but a few spoonfuls of rice. But she also looked often at her new pajamas, marveled out loud about Iris’s height, and didn’t seem quite as exhausted as usual.
Later, after Qui washed Tam and then herself, they slipped into bed. The sun had disappeared and their room was dark. In the nearby stairwell a light flickered, casting a forest of shadows from the bunk beds around them. Tam put her head on Qui’s chest and Qui stroked her brow. Voices drifted up from a floor below—two light and one heavy. The lighter voices moved quickly and often. The heavy voice rumbled like a bout of distant thunder.
Qui gently pulled Tam tighter against her. “Did you get enough to eat, my sweet child?”
“I’m so full.”
“Do you have Dung?”
Tam pressed her doll against Qui’s hand. “She’s tired too.”
Qui turned, kissing the top of Tam’s head. “Do you like our new home? Our new bed?”
“It’s soft.”
“Yes, yes, it is,” Qui replied, kissing Tam again as a horn sounded outside. Qui offered a prayer of thanks to Buddha. She felt such relief over not having to beg, to worry about whether Tam would be safe at night. Even though Qui’s heart would be forever broken by Tam’s illness, she felt blessed that Tam was clean, warm, filled with the priceless medicine, and wasn’t on the street. A few days earlier, Qui would have traded away her legs for such a blessing.
“Little Bird?” Tam asked quietly, tugging on Qui’s finger.
“What?”
“Tell me a story.”
“What kind?”
Tam toyed with Dung’s hair, closing her eyes, trying to remember her favorite tale. “The day at the beach.”
Qui’s body stiffened for the briefest of moments. “With your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . it was a beautiful day,” she said, beginning the lie that she had repeated a hundred times, a lie that she’d once told while racked with guilt, but now told readily, as it brought Tam comfort. “Your father, bless him, had died only a few months before. And your mother needed to get out and do something.”
“What did she do?”
Qui stroked Tam’s cheek. “She put us all on a train. We had just enough money for the cheapest tickets. The seats were steel, but she didn’t mind. She held you for the whole trip, against her chest, just like you hold Dung. It took four hours to get to Phan Thiet. She talked to you the whole way and fed you a banana, piece by piece.”
“A banana?”
“Sure, sweet child,” Qui replied, remembering feeding Tam many such fruits. “You always loved bananas. Bananas and mangos.”
“And at the beach?”
“We’d never been to a beach. None of us. Your mother and I didn’t know what to do. So we walked down to the water and just put our feet in it. The ocean went on forever, like the sky at night.”
“And me?”
“You might as well have been a little crab. How you loved that sand.”
“Was it soft?”
“Like this bed.”
“Warm?”
“Like the sun.”
The corners of Tam’s mouth rose as she remembered her favorite part of the story. “Tell me about the boat.”
“Ah, the boat.”
“Yes, Little Bird.”
“So, just as we were about to leave, a fisherman came in from the deep. His small boat was full of flopping fish, so full that he couldn’t drag it into the shallows. When your mother saw his predicament she handed you to me, and she waded out into the water and helped him drag his boat to the shore. And he was so pleased with her help that he let her choose one fish for us to take home for dinner. To my surprise, your mother took your hand and let you point out the fish.”
“And what did I get?”
“You picked such a tiny fish, Tam. And how we laughed. We laughed and laughed and laughed. And that night we ate your tiny fish for dinner. And even you had a bite.”
A spasm of pain pulsated through the base of Tam’s head, and she moaned softly. “Momma is so brave,” she said, closing her eyes.
Qui ran her fingers through Tam’s hair. “You inherited her bravery. Every last drop of it.”
Tam snuggled closer to Qui. “I love you, Little Bird,” she said, her voice slow and moving toward sleep.
“And I love you, sweet child.”
“Will you stay with me? Always?”
“Of course.”
“Even when I go to the new world? Where I’ll meet the other children and get to run with them?”
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll run beside you.”
Tam smiled at this thought, having never seen her grandmother run and wanting to do so.
NINE
Awakenings
Sahn could see somewhat better in the light of morning, before the sun sought to subjugate the land through its brilliance. Moving slowly down the sidewalk, he peered into stalls and schools, hotels and hair salons. He wanted people to see his face, for the more they saw of him, the less likely they were to end up in prison. And while Sahn was happy to send some people to prison, most he’d rather steer in another direction.
Across the street, the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral rose like twin mountains. To Sahn, the towers were nothing but tapering blurs. But he knew that tourists and locals gawked at them from dawn to dusk. Sahn didn’t like that French architecture dominated so much of his country. It was bad enough that the French had occupied Vietnam for a century, and he hated being reminded of that occupation every day of his life. Perhaps his lack of vision wasn’t so bad, after all.
Sahn walked deliberately, his hand on his baton. Every block or so, he’d stop and ask questions of an informer. His queries were invariably brief and without preamble. He spoke in such a manner to as many people as possible, so that criminals might not easily determine who was on his payroll. Beggars, shopkeepers, construction workers, and cyclo drivers all knew to pay attention when Sahn approached. Most were happy to pass a secret his way. If that secret led to an important arrest, at some point they’d be rewarded.
Unlike his beloved Hanoi, at all times of day Ho Chi Minh City seemed busy, and morning was no exception. Sahn walked carefully. Even on the sidewalk a misstep could land him directly in the path of an approaching scooter. And such a misstep would reveal that his eyesight had failed. Then he’d be nothing more than a disabled old man without employment, respect, or a means to make Vietnam a better place. Then he’d be forced to sell rice cakes or sunglasses to live. And Sahn’s pride would never permit such a future.
Even after his eyesight had been damaged in the fighting, Sahn had continued to help drive the Americans from his land, and then had battled the Khmer Rouge until the villainous Pol Pot was sent into hiding. Sahn had killed in two wars and had been victorious in two wars. He’d sent murderers to prison and had saved children from unspeakable fates. If confronted with the choice of selling rice cakes or putting a bullet through his head, he’d do his best to die with dignity.
Few men of Sahn’s age remained in Vietnam, as most had been killed in the American War. As he pretended to scrutinize the outside of a massage parlor, he was glad that Vietnam was moving on without his generation. Yes, his generation had defeated the greatest power on Earth and unified a country that had been pulled apart by the Americans and the Russians during their epic battle for world domination. But his generation had done nothing but fight. And though Sahn would never forget the rage, power, misery, and euphoria that could be found on a field of battle, he was glad that the young men of today’s Vietnam didn’t know such feelings. Better to let the poets, writers, and moviemakers try to bring these emotions to life. Better to let such people guess at f
eelings they could never understand than to see these artists foul themselves when fire fell from the sky.
Sahn stepped off the sidewalk and slowly made his way down an alley. He heard a bird singing. Though he’d have liked to see it, he could never stop and try to locate such a creature and so he simply listened. Clearly, the bird didn’t care about his musings. Perhaps its ancestors had sung for the French and the Americans. Perhaps the bird was telling him something.
The alley was littered with potholes. He wished they could be fixed but knew that far more important concerns faced Vietnam. His government was wise to let the potholes grow to the size of sinks. Better to cure a man of his disease, Sahn thought, than to cut away tissue and hope for the best.
He rounded a corner and saw the destination of his walk—the American woman’s center for street children. He studied the three-story building as much as his vision allowed. To him, the structure resembled a lifeless stone cube. Thinking of the woman’s efforts to create clouds on the ceiling, he wondered if she’d paint the exterior.
Sahn walked around the entire site. He wanted people to know that he was interested in the center, as his interest would make it less likely that twisted minds would seek to exploit the facility’s future inhabitants. He knew that children could be lured to their doom by nothing more than the offering of pretty things and promises. But with his shadow often looming, those providing such temptations would be forced to think twice.
His feet hardly stirring the gravel beneath them, Sahn moved to the fence that surrounded the lot behind the facility. Squinting, he looked through a hole and thought he saw the American soldier. The man appeared to be lifting stones and placing them on the ground. Either the work was hard or the man was weak, for he often paused. Sahn realized that the foreigner frequently drank from what might be a beer can. Pursing his lips, Sahn left the fence and proceeded to the front of the building.