Noah wished he were still walking with her in his arms. “We should bring them here,” he said. “I’ve seen where they live, and I’ve been thinking about it. She shouldn’t be there. Not when we have so much room. Not when she’s so sick.”
Iris turned to look at the center. She saw her father’s dreams and hopes, and knew that they were close to being fulfilled, knew that they’d help many children. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I want to help her. Of course I do. But our license. We’re not supposed to house children until the first of the year. That’s the agreement. And they could close us down if we break it.”
Thien took Iris’s hands. “No one will close the center down, Miss Iris. The government supports what we are doing. We may have to pay a bribe, but that is only money.”
“Are you sure?” Iris asked, glancing from Noah to Thien. “We couldn’t get into trouble?”
Thien’s smile returned. “I think that we are lucky today, because Mr. Noah’s idea is a most excellent one. Qui and Tam can be our guests. We will not get into trouble for taking them in. I am sure of that.”
Iris felt the need to help someone. She’d been in Vietnam for almost a week and hadn’t done anything to aid anyone. She realized then that her father’s dream had become her own. She wanted to help Tam. She needed to help Tam. “Can you find them, Thien?” she asked. “Can you find them and explain what we want?”
“Yes.”
“Then they’ll come,” Iris replied, her voice picking up speed. “They can stay in the dormitory. And we’ll get a doctor. . . . We’ll get a great doctor to visit.”
Noah thought once again about the strength of the two women. He mused over this strength as he watched their faces blossom while they discussed the details of bringing Qui and Tam to the center—things like new sheets and toiletries and food.
Though his back and stump still ached, though he wanted a drink and knew that he’d soon reach for the bottle again, Noah felt a flash of happiness as he thought about Tam having a comfortable place to sleep. This feeling wasn’t the carefree bliss that consumes a child, but the simple gratitude for a moment of solace. With Tam staying in the center, he could try to do what she asked—to be her friend.
Thien sensed his mood. She reached for his shovel and stuck it in his hand. “This will be her park, Mr. Noah. And you must make it beautiful. Only you can do that.”
He glanced around the barren lot, unsure what to say. “I don’t move very fast.”
“Why does moving fast matter?” Thien replied, shrugging. “You think that mountains grow fast? But look how tall they are.” She smiled. “Now, Miss Iris, we should check on the dormitory. Which beds will they sleep in?”
Noah watched the women depart hand in hand. He then looked at the shovel, imagined Tam visiting their center, and began to dig.
THE SKY THREATENED A REENACTMENT OF the previous day but managed only to shut out the light. Noah worked within this infinite shadow until a thin layer of soil covered his skin and his body begged him to rest. He didn’t fight his body and walked into the kitchen, drinking deeply from a liter bottle of water. Iris was upstairs preparing the dormitory for Qui and Tam, and Thien had left to find them. Noah had grown accustomed to Thien’s soft singing, and in her absence the center seemed unusually quiet. To his surprise, he didn’t like the silence.
A knock at the front gate interrupted his thoughts. Setting the water bottle down, he awkwardly moved toward the entrance. A policeman stood a step or two within the open-air entryway. He wore an olive-colored uniform and cap. A baton hung from his side. His eyes were not friendly.
Noah watched the policeman inspect him from top to bottom. Unfazed by the sight of the man’s uniform, Noah asked, “Can I help you?”
The policeman shook his head. “You in Vietnam. You should speak Vietnamese.”
“Sorry. I don’t know how.”
“Your name?”
“Noah. Noah Woods.”
“American?”
“Yes,” Noah replied, aware that the policeman’s eyes roved around him, lingering on his scar.
“You with American military?”
“I was.”
“In Iraq?”
“For eleven months. Until I was wounded.”
The policeman grunted. “You Americans should stay home.”
Noah resisted the urge to shift his weight away from his prosthesis. “What do you need?”
“The woman in charge. Where is she?”
“I’ll show you,” Noah said, gesturing toward the stairwell. He led the policeman forward, trying not to hobble. But he struggled with the stairs and was certain that the man’s eyes were on his prosthesis.
“Why you limp?” the policeman asked from behind.
“A water buffalo stepped on my toe,” Noah responded, tired of the questions. He increased his pace, leading the policeman into the dormitory, where Iris was making a bed. “This man wants to talk with you.”
Iris set down a pillowcase. “All right.”
“Are you okay with that?” Noah asked.
“Sure,” she replied, though her body told him otherwise.
Noah walked back to the stairwell and leaned against a wall, listening.
“Thien isn’t here,” Iris said, watching the policeman gaze at the clouds she’d helped paint.
“That good. I no want to talk with her.”
“You came to talk with me?”
Sahn glanced at the tall American, wondering what she’d eaten as a child. He walked slowly to the other end of the room. It took him a moment to realize that the ceiling was covered with clouds. At first, he’d thought they were areas that hadn’t been painted. He was glad for the ceiling fans that swirled above. The day, though overcast, was already hot and humid.
He reached the window at the far end of the room and turned to the tall woman. “What you teach here?”
Iris brushed a fly from her shoulder. “Well . . . we’ll teach reading, writing, and math, for starters. And art. The curriculum’s already been approved.”
“Do boys or girls stay here?”
She had debated this question for many hours. Most of the street children were boys, but Thien had told her that girls were at even greater risk. “Girls,” she replied. “We’ll have twenty girls.”
Sahn nodded, pleased. “Then you teach sewing, cooking, cleaning, taking care of babies. You understand? Cooking jobs get them off street. Cleaning jobs get them off street. You can teach math and reading. But you teach cooking and cleaning first. Those skills are most important for their future. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, for the first time not sensing him as a threat. “And we’ve talked about those things. Of course, we want them to go to universities, to build on what they learn here.”
“That fine for some. But for most, they never go to university. You remember that. So you also teach how to cook, how to clean, how to take care of rich family’s babies. Then they not ever have to live on street again.”
“I—”
“If you buy Western washing machine, and teach them how to use, then you also teach them how to wash clothes by hand. You understand?”
Iris mused over his words. “I’ll do what you say.”
“Who is that man?”
She looked toward the stairwell and saw that Noah was still there. “He’s my friend. My childhood friend.”
“His purpose here?”
“To help me. He’s trying to build a playground.”
Sahn breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. “If abuse ever happen here, if children is ever abused, then you go to prison. You hear what I say?”
Iris shook her head, appalled by the thought of a man’s hands on a child. “That will never happen. Never.”
“You think this no happen in centers? We already close two centers. These criminals take children off street, then send them to center, which is brothel. Boys and girls. So you be careful who you let work here.”
Iris leaned against a wall, the clouds above no longer beautiful. “You have my word. I’ll never let—”
“I will interview children after you open. One time a month. I make sure everything is fine.”
“Good,” she replied, nodding. “I think that would be good.”
Sahn stared at the blur beyond the window, wishing that Vietnam could look after all of its people. “You must understand, I no like America,” he said. “But Vietnam is still poor country, so maybe your help is good.” He cleared his throat. “What you do in USA?”
Iris didn’t avoid his gaze, as she had several times before. She saw a chance to make an ally and didn’t want to waste it. “I write book reviews. For newspapers.”
“Reviews?”
“I tell people if I think books are good or bad.”
“And you get money doing this?”
“Not much,” she replied, smiling faintly. A horn sounded below. “May I ask you something?”
“Depend on what you ask.”
“How can I succeed here? I want to succeed. But I’m not sure how.”
Sahn gazed at the American, wishing he could properly see her face, pleased by her question. “These children, they no trust anyone. Their mother, their father, everyone leave them. So you must get them to trust you. If you get them to do this, then anything possible.”
Iris silently repeated his last words. “Thank you,” she said, bowing slightly.
“One day, I hope to thank you,” he replied. After glancing once more at the clouds, he stuck out his hand. “One hundred thousand dong, please.”
“What?”
“One hundred thousand dong.”
“But I thought—”
“You no longer in America. You in Vietnam. Pay money or go home.”
Iris didn’t know what to think. The man’s words were helpful, even insightful. But here he was with his hand out, eager to steal her money. She reached into her pants pocket and counted out one hundred thousand dong, roughly seven dollars. “I hope this lasts for a while,” she said, handing him the money.
He took the wad of bills. “You think you pay for nothing, for only bribe. But with me watching this center, nothing bad happen. The children be safe. And you have a chance to save them.”
IN THE HEART OF HO CHI Minh City stretched a treelined boulevard that housed dozens of galleries. These shops contained original works of art and countless reproductions. Most of the artwork was done with oil-based paints and depicted traditional Vietnamese scenes—floating markets, dragons, temples, women working in rice fields, cliffs jutting from the sea. Reproductions were also present—nearly flawless re-creations of the most famous works of Monet, Picasso, van Gogh, da Vinci, Matisse, Warhol, and Dalí.
Tourists frequented these galleries, often leaving with rolled-up pieces of canvas that could be easily transported overseas. On occasion, when Minh wasn’t in the mood to play Connect Four, Mai sold fans on the sidewalk outside the busiest galleries. She usually couldn’t make as much money selling fans as Minh could playing his game, but sometimes she had no choice. Today was such a day. The friends had been asleep in their basket, with dawn still an hour away, when Loc had thrown them out of their bed. His eyes were glazed from opium and his words nearly incomprehensible. He’d asked for more money, even though they’d given him five dollars the previous night. When they’d had none to pass to him, he’d torn through their belongings, certain they were hiding some of their winnings. In the mayhem Mai had fallen to the ground. Minh had moved to protect her, earning himself a cuff on the mouth. Unsatisfied, Loc had thrown Minh into the river.
Now, as tourists browsed in the nearby galleries, Mai eyed Minh’s swollen lip and wasn’t surprised that he wouldn’t play his game. He never would after such an encounter. Mai couldn’t tell if he was ashamed of being beaten or was trying to plan his revenge on Loc. In any case, the pressure fell on her to sell as many fans as possible. She had to sell about ten fans to earn five dollars’ profit. And selling ten fans, with so many other fan salespeople about, wasn’t easy.
Mai glanced from Minh to Tung, who’d been their companion for the past few hours. Tung often worked outside the galleries, and Mai had thought his company might raise Minh’s spirits. A boy of eight or nine, Tung wore a sleeveless shirt, shorts, and sandals. He didn’t live on the street. But his mother had died a few months earlier during childbirth and he had quit school to help his father earn extra money. Tung sold packages of postcards to tourists. His older brother had also left school and now carried passengers around the city in a cyclo he rented.
A Western couple emerged from a nearby gallery, and Mai and Tung descended on them, asking if they’d like to buy a fan or a pack of postcards. The woman reached into her bag, removing three fans and two sets of postcards. “Sorry, but you are too late,” she said, adding something in a language that Mai didn’t know.
Mai watched them leave. “Whose fans were those?” she wondered aloud. “I haven’t seen them before. They’re prettier than mine.”
Tung shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“What?”
“I’m supposed to bring home formula today. We run out tonight, and Long will have nothing to eat.”
Mai sat down next to Minh, who held his game box but wouldn’t open it unless she insisted. Tung stood nearby, kicking at a piece of loose concrete. Mai sympathized with him. With his mother dead, his baby sister relied on formula to survive. And formula was extremely expensive. “Will she eat anything else?” Mai asked.
Tung kicked harder. “She’ll drink cow milk, but she spits it up an hour later. Father’s tried everything. He even put a little sugar in it to make it sweet. But she just spits it up.”
Mai studied Tung, noticing his thinness. She guessed that he and his brothers hadn’t eaten for days. Most of what little money they had was probably used to buy formula, to keep their baby sister alive. “What about another woman?” Mai asked. “Can’t you find a woman with a new baby who’ll also feed your sister?”
“That costs money too, Mai. And it’s difficult to arrange.” The hunk of cement was resisting Tung’s efforts to dislodge it. Minh rose from the sidewalk and started to kick at it as well.