Loc knew that he was cruel but didn’t regret it. His cruelty allowed him to survive, to enjoy his pipe and his women. Without his cruelty, he’d be reduced to a creature on the brink of extinction. He saw such creatures each day—beggars and cripples so battered that they seemed to seek death. And while Loc sought oblivion, he enjoyed its comforts and had no interest in death.
Now, as Loc searched Ben Thanh Market, he wondered where Minh and Mai had gone. Though they’d never missed a payment, he had seen less of them on the streets, and their absence troubled him, as they provided most of his earnings. He tried to remember their favorite sites, but his mind lumbered like an old elephant. Had the girl told him where they’d be today? Had he hit the half boy the previous night?
Loc wandered outside, the sun seeming to penetrate his skull. Uncertain of his steps, he moved toward a group of fair-haired tourists. One foreigner tried to refold a map, a silver watch sparkling on his wrist. Loc used to steal such watches, but those days were distant. Better to let the children worry about his money. If they ended up in prison, he could always find more.
The streets teemed ahead. The opium’s grip on him was diminishing, and Loc tiredly continued onward. He’d spent all his money that morning stuffing his pipe and buying a woman, and he needed to refill his pockets so that he could satisfy his hunger. The half boy would have won a game or two by now. Loc needed only to find him.
He took another few hundred steps. The haze that so pleasantly enveloped him began to waver. Soon his mouth and throat felt dry. His head hurt. The city seemed too loud. Needing to return to a den, but lacking the money to do so, Loc kept walking. He cursed the half boy and the girl for being so hard to find.
Opium usually held Loc’s temper in check, but he now clenched his hands and teeth tightly. He should be drawing from his pipe, not searching the hot streets for a pair of ungrateful brats. Wiping his face with the top of his Yankees jersey, he spat out the staleness in his mouth and increased his pace. Tonight, under the cover of the bridge, he’d hold the half boy’s face beneath the river’s surface until the girl promised to stop disappearing. He would scare them both badly, scare them until they pleaded for forgiveness.
His body craving oblivion, Loc abruptly ceased his search and turned into an alley that housed one of his favorite opium dens. He’d have to scrape the bowl and stem of his pipe to gather residue, which he could then roll into a ball and light and smoke. He didn’t enjoy such highs, as they tended to leave him lethargic. But he had no choice.
Loc spied the cracked door that led to a den, and was about to move through it when to his amazement he saw the half boy round a corner. Loc stepped into the shadows. The girl appeared next, her voice moving quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with excitement. The boy grinned—something Loc rarely saw. Holding his game in his good hand, he swung his stump to and fro.
The children passed. Loc started to follow them, eager for their earnings, but stopped. Where had they been? he wondered, knowing no hotels or tourist attractions were nearby. His curiosity growing, he moved in the direction from which they’d first appeared. He walked down the middle of the alley, heedless of the occasional scooter. At first he saw nothing but stained apartment buildings and shops. But then, to his right, his eyes fell on a large sign that was written in English. Like most everyone who lived on the streets, Loc could speak some English, though he couldn’t read it well. He wasn’t sure what the sign said.
Moving closer to the structure, Loc heard the voices of foreigners. His heart thumping quickly at the thought of the girl and half boy betraying him, he stepped toward a child playing in a puddle and asked what the foreigners were doing. The child told him all that he needed to know, confirming his suspicions, causing his anger to rise like mercury.
Loc moved closer to the building. The foreigners were trying to steal from him, and as he listened to them, he realized that he could never let their center open. He’d have to destroy it or them or perhaps both. He couldn’t allow them to succeed, because their success would ensure his demise. The half boy and the girl could never go free. He needed them. They gave him life.
Studying the center, Loc looked for weaknesses, for ideas. After a few minutes, he cursed the foreigners again, stepped into the opium den, and pulled his pipe from where he’d tied it against his calf.
Soon he had scraped the pipe clean and was sucking smoke into his lungs. Soon he was content. His aches were gone, he had a plan, and his future would be secure. The children would never escape him. They were his.
HER FATHER’S DESK HAD BECOME HER own. A half dozen bound, prepublication review copies of forthcoming novels sat atop one another. Index cards bearing various reminders and notes had been taped to the edge of her computer monitor. Résumés, official documents, receipts, bills, and office supplies covered seemingly every millimeter of available space. And a paper-clipped outline of her novel lingered, half buried, beneath this sea of paperwork.
Iris studied the chaos before her, trying to slow a mounting sense of panic. How had her father ever thought that he could manage the center alone? How could he possibly have envisioned housing, clothing, feeding, and educating twenty children? Had he been stronger than she’d imagined?
She rubbed her brow, knowing that her career as a book reviewer was at the very least going to be put on hold. Perhaps she could complete a few reviews to pay some bills. But many of her looming deadlines would soon come and go without being met. She wouldn’t get to do what she loved most—share her discoveries.
Iris also had to think about other details, now that her trip to Vietnam was going to be extended. For starters, she needed to break her apartment lease back in Chicago. Her mother would have to pack up all of her books and move her out. Iris had also decided to sell her prized collection of signed, first-edition novels that she’d managed to gather over the years. She didn’t want to sell the books but knew that they were worth five or six thousand dollars. Such money would go a long way in Vietnam and would, in fact, pay for a library that she wanted to build in the corner of the classroom. Selling fifteen of her own books, even if they were precious to her, was a sacrifice that she needed to make. Otherwise, she didn’t see how she could build a library for the children. And though a library hadn’t been in her father’s original design, Iris felt that she must build one. How could children learn without rows of wonderful books?
After writing an e-mail to ask her mother about the apartment lease, the first-edition novels, and to let her know that she was well, Iris began to review her father’s operating plan. Though he’d never had much success in business, he had obviously labored over his projections. Almost everything seemed to be covered. Still, her father’s thoroughness gave her little solace—she had no idea if the practical realities of running the center would stay aligned with his expectations.
Her breath tended to grow shallow when she was anxious, and Iris sought to slowly fill her lungs. The thought of the children’s fates in her untested hands threatened to overwhelm her. Suddenly the responsibility of running the center seemed too much. She closed her eyes in an effort to relax, but couldn’t as the strange sounds of the city made her long for home. She wanted to call her mother, though the differences in their time zones meant that by doing so, she’d awaken her. Feeling trapped and alone, Iris stood up. Before she could stop herself, she blamed her father for placing her in this predicament. He’d always left her, and even in death he seemed to have abandoned her.
Iris thought of her childhood, of never knowing whether he’d be home to kiss her good night, and she felt old wounds reopen. She didn’t want to feel herself bleed, and so she sat down again, sorting through résumés and notes, trying to determine whom she should hire as their teacher. But no matter how hard she attempted to focus, she couldn’t step from the shadows of her past.
Iris was about to leave the room when steps echoed in the stairwell. She turned, surprised to see Noah. His shirt and pants were covered in dirt stains. His scar seemed more livid than usual. But his face bore what might have been the faintest of smiles.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, shifting his weight to his good leg.
“About what?”
“About what you said to me. How you were frustrated with not being able to get around.”
“I am frustrated. Very.”
Noah nodded, unused to the edge that her voice now contained. “Let me show you something,” he said, turning toward the stairwell.
Iris followed him downstairs, wondering what was on his mind. Thien stood at the bottom of the steps, singing softly. She grinned. “Why are you so happy?” Iris asked.
“What a wonderful surprise Mr. Noah has for you.”
“He does?”
Thien took her hand and together they followed Noah, who limped into the tiled entryway. Outside the gate a red scooter was parked. Noah turned, offering Iris a key. “The locals seem to do well on these,” he said. “Seems like you might too.”
Giggling, Thien reached forward to take the key and place it against Iris’s palm. “He bought you a fast one, Miss Iris. A Honda. My brother has one just like it, and you are going to feel like a bird.”
Iris looked at the silver key. “But . . . but I’ve never driven a—”
“Come here,” Noah said, sitting down and grasping the handlebars. He maneuvered his prosthesis onto the black platform behind the front wheel. “Anyone can drive these. All you have to do is steer and twist the throttle.”
The seat was large enough to accommodate them both and Iris sat behind him. Thien inserted the key and pushed the start button. The scooter instantly hummed to life. “You should name it,” she said, stepping back.
Iris gripped a bar behind the seat. “Is it safe? Did you really buy it? For me?”
“We need to purchase a helmet,” Thien answered. “But then you will be safe.”
Noah twisted the throttle and the scooter edged forward. “Good-bye, Thien.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Noah. Watch out for the big trucks.”
Iris put her hands around Noah’s waist as the scooter moved ahead and he lifted his good leg from the ground. She let out a gasp when he pulled into the alley and their speed increased. She’d never ridden a scooter or motorcycle, and felt as if the contraption might fall to one side or the other. “Have you done this before?” she asked, speaking into his ear.
“Nope. Not before today.”
“Really?”
“Just trust me,” he replied, approaching a busy street filled with hundreds of scooters. He signaled, slowing down, letting his good foot skip atop the pavement. They turned and merged into traffic, their speed increasing. Suddenly scooters were all around them, some just inches away. “See how everyone moves together?” he asked.
“Kind of.”
They approached a roundabout and Noah circled to his right, moving in tandem with everyone about him. He drove a few more blocks and then turned toward her. “I’m going to teach you how to do this.”
She loosened her grip on him, feeling slightly more comfortable. “I know. But not yet. You drive first. Take me somewhere and show me something.”
He nodded, enjoying the freedom that the wheels gave him. For now, movement didn’t bring him pain, and that simple fact caused him to further twist the throttle.
“Noah!” she said, as they seemed to skip forward.
“Hang on.”
She laughed as they darted ahead. The city blurred around them, signs and shops and stalls merging into a flowing tapestry of color. In Noah’s hands the scooter seemed to dance, to soar down the streets, to glide with a grace that Iris wouldn’t have thought possible. Her hair flew behind her and wetness was pulled from the corners of her eyes. The wind whipped past, alive and potent. She held out her left arm and felt like a bird, rising against unseen forces, her body buffeted by billions of tiny fingers.
Noah turned, and the Saigon River was suddenly beside them. He raced along its contours, his shirt flapping against him. The scooter swayed to and fro beneath them as he weaved past slower scooters and cars. Iris laughed, having never felt such movement. She watched the river twist, saw children wave in her direction. She waved back, gripping Noah with her thighs and her right hand. She thought about her father, wondering if he’d ever sped along this same stretch of water. Perhaps he’d done so and remembered her.
Iris squeezed Noah’s shoulder. She thanked him, laughing as he nodded and increased their speed. Though she’d been free her whole life, she had never experienced freedom like this. She’d never flown across a foreign land, never felt as if she were a comet streaking through the heavens. “I’ll try it,” she said, surprising herself.
Noah slowed, pulling over to the curb, heedless of the chaos around them. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Soon Iris was driving. Soon she was laughing and soaring and her thousand pressing problems seemed so distant. At that moment all that mattered was that moment. Twisting back on the throttle, she watched the world become a blur and felt Noah’s grip on her tighten.
TEN
A Path Leads Away
A
s Iris sat on her scooter, the city seemed to have sprouted a new dimension. In the bright light of late morning, she maneuvered down a wide boulevard, trying to mirror the speed and movements of nearby drivers. She’d bought a helmet and a face mask, and with these items in place, her confidence level had risen. Noah had been right—driving the scooter was remarkably easy. All she had to do was be on constant guard for other vehicles, which sometimes moved against the flow of traffic or sought to cross congested thoroughfares. People tended to signal with their arms, and Iris was learning how to anticipate sudden turns and changes in position.
The city seemed more alive than ever as she returned from visiting the French doctor, who had agreed to stop by the center later in the day to examine Tam. Through a pair of oversize sunglasses she watched fellow scooter drivers navigate the chaos with amazing expertise. People drove one-handed while talking on cell phones, holding infants before them, and balancing long rods on their shoulders. Women sometimes sat sidesaddle behind their husbands or boyfriends, their tight skirts making it impossible for them to straddle the seat. Strangers often spoke at stoplights or while driving, their handlebars a few inches apart.