Bello & Ciampi had a suite on the second floor of an undistinguished loft building otherwise devoted to galleries and the sale of oriental rugs. The firm name was painted in gold on the large semilunar window around the portrayal of a staring eye, with investigations-security below, which Lucy thought unbelievably tacky. Her mother had surrendered part of the space when the firm had contracted with Osborne and Harry Bello had moved uptown. She had an anteroom for her secretary-receptionist, one large room behind the big window with the sign on it, a toilet with shower, and a couple of windowless cubbyholes in back. One was fitted out as a kitchen, and Tran lived in the other.
Crying out a greeting in Arabic to Mr. Habibi, who ran the rug emporium on the ground floor, she ran up the steps and pounded on the door. She knelt and shouted through the brass mail slot and peeked through it, and shortly she saw a pair of feet in rubber zoris approach.
Tran greeted her and walked back through the office to his room, which contained a neatly made-up iron cot, a particle-board wardrobe, a pine table, a wooden swivel chair, and a small block-and-board bookcase, its lower shelves full of books, mainly paperbacks, in French, English, and Vietnamese. On its top shelf sat a twelve-inch black-and-white TV, with a coat hanger antenna, and a cheap clock-radio cassette player. The walls were bare and white. Tran sat in the chair, and Lucy perched herself on the edge of the bed. The office, and Tran’s quarters within it, were among Lucy’s favorite places. She had been coming here since early childhood, and it was here that she had developed her taste for snooping. She still came to snoop into Tran’s doings, and to spy on her mother, that sink of iniquity, and it did not occur to her that her presence here also allowed her mother to keep tabs on her, both directly and through Tran. Lucy was a capable conspirator, an extraordinary one for her age, but she was not quite ready for the major leagues, where both Mom and the Vietnamese had long been players.
“What are you doing?” she asked after the usual long silence.
“I am playing pyramid, as you see. Is there something wrong with your vision?”
“I meant, what are you doing today?” Silence, the flap of cards. Peevishly she said, “You always play that stupid game. You never win.”
“So you imagine. I like this game because it is almost impossible to cheat at it, and almost no hands play out. It is thus a good model of real life in both respects.”
“One can cheat in real life,” said Lucy. Tran raised his head from the cards and gave her one of his famous looks. Lucy had trained herself to meet her mother’s gaze, which was powerful enough, but Tran’s eyes were in a class of their own, with a range that ran from Santa-like merriment to the matte black merciless gaze of a large shark. For an instant it was like staring at hot anthracite; then it softened and he said, “Only about trivial things, money or romance. I was speaking of the essentials, that is, life itself. In any case, today I must see the boyfriend of one of our clients, who has persisted in unpleasant behavior.”
“Will you pound his lights out?”
“Certainly not,” replied Tran prissily. “I am a feeble and elderly oriental person and do not, as you say, pound out the lights of people. No, I will simply indicate to him in a variety of ways that he is being followed, and that neither his home, nor his place of work, nor his auto, is secure, should anyone wish to do him an injury, and I will further indicate that such intrusions will cease when he ceases his unwanted attentions toward his former mistress.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“In that case, we will threaten him with a visit from you. He will crumple like a dry leaf. Please be careful with that book.”
Lucy had been examining the objects set on the shelf affixed to the wall behind the head of the cot, in perfect disregard of her host’s privacy. She palmed a couple of Camels from a pack there, flipped through a little notebook, and opened the book in question, an octavo volume printed on vellum paper like a good Bible, bound in soft blue leather, much battered and stained. She had seen it innumerable times but had never focused upon it until now. It was, she saw, in the Vietnamese language. She read the title aloud, “Truyen Kieu.” Someone had written something on the flyleaf in ink, but it had run and faded and she could not make out its meaning.
“ ‘The Tale of Kieu,’ ” she translated. “What’s it about, refugees?”
“In a way. Vietnamese who have fled Vietnam are called Viet-Kieu because kieu means migrant, but the association is there, because Kieu had to flee her home also. She is our patron saint, you might say. A girl who suffered much.”
“It’s about a girl?”
“So the title suggests. It is the Vietnamese national epic.”
“Yeah? Can I borrow it?”
Tran pinched his nostrils and looked uncomfortable. “Hmm. I don’t know. Except in prison, it has not been out of my possession for many years. It was a gift.”
“Who from?”
“From Linh. My wife.”
“Oh. Did she write in the front? What does it say?”
He spoke in Vietnamese. “It says, ‘Naturally, when two kindred spirits meet, one tie/Soon binds them in a knot nothing can tear loose. From your kindred spirit, Linh. Tet, 1956.’ The lines are from the poem itself.”
Lucy put the book carefully back on the shelf. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought it was just a book. I don’t really read Vietnamese very well either.” She was acutely uncomfortable now. Some vast and heavy and awful thing seemed to lurk at the corners of her consciousness, like a formless bogey out of a dream. It was once again the faint apprehension of the suffering of Asia, something she touched a dozen times a day, and drew away from, and ignored like other Americans. She wished very much to pull away from it again, to resume the persona of a cheeky little girl poking about the room of a crotchety old uncle, but a feeling came over her then, a feeling like watching the odometer of a car turn over to produce a clean line of white zeros, and she understood that this was no longer possible for her.
“You must have been really sad when . . .” she began, and then stopped, appalled. She didn’t know how to talk about stuff like this, as she had just at the moment realized. The times when she had chattered on, casually asking him about his life, now recollected, filled her with hot shame.
He sensed this and was kind. “I was sad, of course, but I did not find out about it until some time later. I was buried alive for four days, in a tunnel. When I came out, I was not the person I was before. Perhaps I could not have gone back to being a husband and a father in the same way, or at least that is what I told myself. And they were simply gone; it was not as if I had to bury them. They were in the canteen at Bac Mai Hospital, and it received a direct hit from a thousand-pound bomb. From a B–52, you understand. They fly so high that there is no warning. Alive and unafraid at one instant, dead the next. There are many worse deaths.”
“Then why did you come here?” Lucy demanded angrily, tears starting. “Why don’t you hate us?”
Tran’s eyes were mild and somewhat surprised, and he answered, “As to why I came here, this is the land of opportunity, and I badly needed opportunity. My life in my country was over in a way that I hope you will never be able to comprehend. Also, when my family was killed, my country was at war, the whole country, not a small band of confused young men as with America. My wife and daughter were part of the war. The Americans bombed a hospital. Why should they not? I assure you that had I access to a B–52, I would have bombed every hospital from here to California.”
She started to object, but Tran turned on her a riveting stare. He said, “Listen to me, because this is important. Peace is best. You should make every sacrifice to secure peace. When you absolutely must go to war, however, you must try to kill all the enemy you can as quickly as you can, holding nothing back, until they have surrendered or you have been defeated utterly. It is a great fraud to think otherwise, as the Americans did, and it prolongs the agony. It would be better if people said, if we fight, we are going to boil babies in thei
r own fat and blast the skin off nice old ladies, so that they die slowly in great pain, and we are happy to do this, because what we fight for is so important. And if they conclude that it is not as important as that, then they should fight no more. Your mother understands this, which is why I am able to work for her. With these men, you know, she asks, she pleads, she begs them, she warns them so that they can have no doubts, she offers help. Then, if this is to no avail, suddenly, overwhelming, merciless violence.”
At the mention of her mother and how terrifically great she was, again, Lucy felt herself withdrawing attention. Tran sensed this as well, and resumed snapping his cards.
“I have to go to Chinese school,” said Lucy, getting up.
“If you like, I will go with you. I have business in that area.”
They walked in companionable silence to Mott Street and the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association Building, where they had the Chinese School. Tran said, in English, “Watch yourself, beautiful. Don’t take any wooden nickels,” and was rewarded by the astounded look on her face as she passed in through the door. He watched a great deal of TV late at night, for he had slept badly for a very long time, and when his eyes were too tired for reading he switched on the set. He preferred the films of twenty-five years ago and earlier, because the actors spoke more slowly and the plots were simpler and the violence was not so lovingly portrayed, and sometimes a phrase would stick in his mind and he would repeat it to hear how it sounded in his mouth. He was slowly learning American, of an antiquated type that, as it happened, was well suited to his personality.
Tran went over to an address on Bayard Street, where he squatted against a wall near a grocery store and waited. It had not been particularly difficult to find Leung; gangsters have office hours like other professionals. It was necessary only to know where to inquire, and Tran knew.
The grocery opened for business: the proprietor and his sons set out bins and stocked them with fresh vegetables, and hosed down the shining produce and the sidewalk in front of the store. The man noticed Tran but ignored him, only taking care not to get him wet. All along the street, shopkeepers were doing similar things, moving window grates back, setting racks of clothes or boxes of cheap items out on the street, adjusting awnings, accepting deliveries from the usual worn, stinking trucks painted with big characters.
At just past eight, a short, stocky man wearing white cook’s pants and a dark zipper jacket came to the door of Li’s, opened it, and began moving in the crates that had been delivered earlier in the morning. Tran crossed the street and spoke to the man in Cantonese. The grocery store owner, coiling his hose, watched the interaction with mild interest. The short man appeared to object. Tran leaned closer, took something from his trouser pocket, and slid it into the pocket of the man’s jacket. He gripped the man’s shoulder in either reassurance or menace; it was hard to tell from across the street. After a few moments, however, the short man nodded and smiled, and then both men worked together to take the cartons into the restaurant. The grocer knew what had happened. The older guy had asked for a job, and the restaurant guy had turned him down, because he didn’t need a guy, because, as everyone on the street knew, Li’s was a tong place and not a serious restaurant at all, but the old guy had slipped him some cash so that the restaurant manager would carry him on the books, so that the old guy could claim employment, so he could bring relatives over, or people he said were relatives. It was wan shai kaai, making a living, the usual mild chicanery of Chinatown. The grocer himself had done any number of similar things. He forgot the incident, and began pricing his vegetables with little paper signs.
In the kitchen of Li’s, Tran put on an apron and began to set up for the day. He filled the tea urn and loaded the rice cooker. Mr. Li was surprised to see that the fellow seemed to know his way around a kitchen. Mr. Li decided to tell his employers, if they should ask, that the man was his wife’s cousin, a Viet-Ching from Saigon, which would explain his accent and features. He thought the man was in actuality a Vietnamese illegal on the run, and he thought he could milk additional funds out of him without anyone being the wiser.
Tran made a pot of juk, or congee, the rice gruel that is the corn flakes of China, and served out two bowls of it accompanied by pickled vegetables, pickled ginger, sliced salt eggs, and white bean cheese. Mr. Li was further astounded, because it was very good juk, creamy and smooth, and he rather liked being served breakfast in his own restaurant. It was almost like owning a real restaurant. He left Tran to chop and clean, while he sat at the little table at the front of the place and added columns of figures.
Leung came in at his usual time and sat in his usual place. Mr. Li went to the kitchen and poured an urn of tea and laid some steamed buns on a plate and set it before Leung. He thought for a moment of offering Leung some congee but decided against it. He was not interested in interrupting any detail of the man’s routine.
A half hour later another man came in, this one a smooth-looking elderly fellow in a gray sharkskin suit and a patterned tie. Mr. Leung got up from his seat and greeted this man deferentially, because of both his age and his position in the community. He addressed him as Venerable Yee. Mr. Yee was a wealthy clothing importer and the president of the Háp Tài Business Association. Háp Tài means “benevolent ladder” in Cantonese, which more or less summed up the purpose of the organization, which was, in fact, a tong, although no longer involved in criminal activities, except when necessary for benevolence or for climbing the ladder of success, as now. The Chen family was also a member of this association, which was why Mr. Yee was here this morning.
Mr. Li ushered the tong leader to Leung’s table and hurried off to fetch a fresh pot and more delicacies. He returned and went back to his stool. Leung and Mr. Yee saw a thin man in an apron come out of the kitchen with a mop and bucket and start to wash the floor, but they saw him not. Leung poured tea. They began to converse, beginning with the usual compliments. Both men understood jo yan, a term that means “behave like a human” and which stood for the norms of behavior expected of a Chinese, even if that Chinese is a very bad human. When Leung had been a Red Guard, he had done his best to destroy the idea of jo yan, but had failed, and so here they were, Leung being deferential to this old jerk, Mr. Yee, confident in his ability to condescend to a man nominally more powerful.
Mr. Yee had the privilege of raising the point of their meeting, which he did after all ceremony had been satisfied.
“An unfortunate event occurred in the Asia Mall, one that brought shame upon my associates.”
“The shame is mine,” said Leung, “for arranging the meeting. Nevertheless, spilt water cannot be recovered. The question is what to do now. I would welcome your suggestions.”
“You clearly know more than I do about such things, but would it be possible to assure the associates and family of the lamented Sings that the Háp Tài were not involved in this affair? As you know, we were simply asked to provide a private place and we did so, without in the least expecting such a disturbing event.”
“I understand,” said Leung, “but rest assured, the Woh Hàp Toùh have no doubts about your honesty. It is perfectly clear that this was not done by you, or even by a Chinese. It is obviously the work of the Italians. Indeed, this is why they desired the meeting with the Sings.”
Mr. Yee allowed himself to appear startled, so startled was he. “The Italians? But we have never ever had any trouble with them; they have their things, we have ours. Are you certain you are not losing an ax and suspecting a neighbor?”
“My information is correct and comes from a source that cannot be impeached,” said Leung.
The older man busied himself with pot and teacup to gain time to arrange his thoughts. “If that is truly the case, then we must bend the chimney and shift the firewood, and without delay. I am grateful for this information.”
“I am happy to provide this small crumb if you think it is of value. Let me say this, however: as usual, these killings have attracted t
he attention of the police. This presents a separate danger. The Woh people will deal with the Italians in their own way and in their own time, but if it is thought that the Háp Tài were party to an official investigation, one that might reveal almost anything, then their rage would be considerable and then it would be directed at you, both here and in China.”
Leung let that sink in, and then added, almost offhandedly, “I suppose the Chens can be relied upon?”
Mr. Yee was quick to answer, “Without a doubt they will say nothing.”
“I wonder. The elder daughter seems to spend all her time with a gwailo girl. No doubt her head is being filled with pernicious notions. It may make her unreliable.” Leung had made discreet inquiries about all the Chens and was trying to confirm this odd information.
“Oh, no, that is just Lòuhsì,” Mr. Yee exclaimed; then, under Leung’s questioning, he explained Lucy’s provenance, and finished by saying, “So, you see, she is not a real gwailo, she’s practically Chinese herself. There is no need to worry about her.”
“If you say so, and take the responsibility. But suppose I was describing her to someone, say someone in Hong Kong. I would say, perhaps, yes, yes, everything is fine here. For example, the Chens—above reproach! The Chen daughter is always in the company of an American girl who is the daughter of a public prosecutor, and the daughter of a woman, an Italian woman, an armed Italian woman who interferes with the proper disciplining of wives. Wah! This person might say, but surely this is yet prudent, for being a gwaileui, she could never learn anything of moment from the Chen. Now I must inform this person that this girl speaks Cantonese and Mandarin perfectly, and who knows what she has heard and passed on to her so-interesting parents? What do you suppose this person would say then?”
Mr. Yee was growing pale around the nostrils. His voice dropped half an octave. “Perhaps he would say that you were mistaking the shadow of a bow in the cup for a snake.” He looked at his watch, a calculated rudeness, and moved his teacup aside with a sharp gesture. “I have business elsewhere, so let me say this: if you should have the honor of conversing with your elders in Hong Kong or China, please inform them that the correct behavior of the Chens and their friends is guaranteed by the Háp Tài. Also, please convey to your superiors the honor our little organization experiences in being associated with your glorious and powerful brotherhood, and assure them that our behavior will be as exemplary as our inferior abilities permit.”
Act of Revenge Page 17