Glancing up as she read, Iris could see that Sahn was listening to her every word. Thien had told her about his promise to deliver the swing set and his desire to save four homeless girls. Though Iris still felt uneasy in his presence, she also was surprisingly pleased to have him listening to the story. As she read, she wondered why her father had been sent to fight such men. She couldn’t imagine Sahn killing her father or her father killing him. It just didn’t make sense.
Iris continued to read, now watching the children, aware that Mai and Minh were completely mesmerized by her words and that Tam was trying to stay awake but was drifting to sleep. Thinking of Tam’s fate, of what the doctor had said earlier that day, Iris felt weariness creep into her voice, even though she tried to keep it at bay. She did her best to inject excitement into her story—a story that she’d loved since childhood.
As Sahn listened, he heard her exhaustion and felt her strength. He saw how she continuously glanced at Tam, how she sought to make the children smile. And her passion, her commitment to the children were suddenly as tangible to him as the sun on his skin. She treated them as if they were her own.
Perhaps she is the mongoose, Sahn thought. She’s everything that he is, and she’s doing everything that he does. She’s saving those girls from snakes, and I’ve been nothing more than a grasshopper who watches from afar. It’s true that her country destroyed my family . . . and . . . I’ll never forgive that crime. Never. But she’s a mongoose in a world of snakes. In my world. And I think she wants my help. And I need to help her, even though I’m no longer a mongoose like her. I’m old and poor. I can’t see. I still have hate in my heart. But I’m not going to blame her. Instead I’m going to help her. Perhaps I can be the bird that warns this . . . Rikki-Tikki-Tavi of the snakes. If she can be the mongoose, I can be the bird. I don’t care if she’s American, if her father killed my countrymen. She’s doing what’s right and I’m going to help her.
THE OLD BUS MOVED CAUTIOUSLY THROUGH Hanoi’s crowded streets, as if its driver were afraid that a bump might cause it to spontaneously disintegrate. Sitting at the front of the Russian-built vehicle were Noah and Thien. Her camera on her lap, Thien gazed through a cracked window at the passing sights. The treelined boulevard on which they traveled brimmed with cyclos and scooters. Mothers and children dominated most of the scooters, though soldiers, workers, and monks also darted about like fish competing for a downed fly.
For several minutes, Thien saw the same sights she did in Ho Chi Minh City—block after block that combined century-old French architecture with bland, two-story shops. They passed a giant outdoor market where women sold everything from puppies to prawns, eels to onions. A few minutes later they approached Hoan Kiem Lake. Thien had studied Iris’s guidebook before the outing and knew that the lake was one of Hanoi’s most famous sights. Massive willow trees surrounded the large body of water. Students and lovers strolled around the lake, often walking hand in hand. At small courtyards men played board games and women practiced tai chi. A curved red bridge led to an island. This bridge was called the Flood of Morning Sunlight, and Thien was impressed by the aptness of these words. Upon the island was the Temple of the Jade Mound. She’d read that the temple had been created to celebrate the masters of literature. Famous writers had searched for their muses there for generations.
The bus turned slowly onto a wide road that led east. The pace of traffic was fast, and the bus gradually sped up, leaving downtown Hanoi’s presence behind. Concrete buildings transformed into cinder-block stores and then into stone and wooden structures. Before long they sped over gentle hills and across lazy rivers. Endless rice fields reached out in every direction.
When the road narrowed and was no longer smooth, the bus protested with creaks and groans. The driver tried to avoid potholes but might as well have attempted to steer around the dragonflies that struck the windshield. Beyond the roadside stalls, the land grew wilder, as if they were driving backward into time, away from the hand of humanity.
Soon Thien detected a strange scent in the air. “What do I smell?” she asked, lifting her camera to photograph three boys on the back of a water buffalo.
Noah tried to smile, though the lurching bus caused pain to race up and down his back. “The sea,” he replied. “You’re smelling the sea.”
“The sea? But how?”
“Well, you can’t smell the factories, the city. And the sea has its own scent.”
Thien breathed as deeply as she could. “When will we reach the water?”
“Soon.”
The bus driver increased their speed as they came upon a new road. The land around them blurred. Before long they approached a harbor. Fairly modern fishing boats mingled with listing military craft. Out in the water, solitary fishermen threw nets from large, circular vessels that resembled floating baskets. Thien and Noah absorbed these sights as the bus neared a wooden pier. At its end rose an old sailing ship that had a pair of masts. The ship was wooden and stout, its sides blackened by the sea.
Thien and Noah made their way to the vessel, walking across a wooden bridge to reach its deck. After handing a pair of tickets to a weatherworn sailor, Noah led Thien to the bow.
“How does it float?” she asked, in awe of her surroundings.
He leaned against a railing, watching how the sun struck her face and disappeared beneath her cap. “It’s wood, Thien. All wooden things float.”
“I know that, you silly man. But it is too big. It must be too big to float.”
“Just like you thought our plane was too big to fly.”
Thien shook her head in wonder, gazing about as other passengers filled the deck. Before long the ship was unmoored from the pier. An engine came to life and propelled the vessel into deeper waters. Once the shoreline had thinned to a nondescript track of green, the engine went silent and the two sails unfurled. The sails were ribbed and red and angular, resembling the top fin of a fish. A strong wind pressed against the fabric, effortlessly pushing the ship forward.
Now that other passengers were about, Thien moved closer to Noah. “I feel like we are flying,” she said.
“Me too,” he replied, watching her smile spread.
“I do not know what to expect. A dragon?”
“Just keep looking.”
“I am. Everywhere.”
Even though the sights around them soon blossomed into something unworldly, Noah rarely took his eyes from Thien’s face. He watched her gaze about, saw how she twisted this way and that, how her lips moved as she whispered in wonder. Thien was utterly transfixed by what unfolded before her, for countless limestone islands rose straight from the sea. Many of the islands were larger at the top and appeared as if they might fall to one side or the other. Most were immensely tall, reaching higher into the sky than the buildings of downtown Hanoi. The gray islands—which were topped with lush foliage—tended to rise in lines, as if indeed purposely placed to keep out invading ships. The islands were everywhere, as numerous as worshippers in a temple. The sun was low in the sky, and the islands cast enormous shadows that made Thien think of dragons swimming beneath the surface.
When Thien finally turned to Noah, she took his hand in hers and squeezed it tight. Something stirred deep within her. What do I feel? she asked herself. Magic? Love?
Whatever she felt, something new touched her. “Do you believe in the dragons?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied, listening to waves crash against the bow. “But there’s a lot of ugliness in the world too.”
“I know.”
“A lot of ugliness and pain.”
“But can you also see the beauty?”
He witnessed the extraordinary magnificence of the land, of her. “I saw beauty in Saigon,” he said. “And I see it now. Especially now.”
Thien wanted to smile, to hold his hand and run somewhere. But she was afraid of the future, of getting hurt. “When will you leave Vietnam?” she asked, fearful of his answer.
“I don’t know.”
She glanced away. Islands rose like a stone forest around them. She thought of the dragons spitting out their gemstones, of magical creatures swimming in the blue-green water. She longed to ask Noah to stay but knew that she’d never voice such words. To voice such words would betray him. She wanted him to walk on a path of his choosing, not hers.
The ship turned to the north, passing massive islands that seemed as if they’d topple over with the touch of a finger. Some of the islands had small beaches. Thien had never felt the sand on her feet, or the sea on her face. And though she’d seen beauty, she had never seen a world such as this.
A part of her wished that he’d say what she wanted him to say, just to please her for the moment. He had created the moment for her, and it was nearly perfect. She turned back to him and realized that he was looking at her. She sensed his longing and knew that it was as strong as hers. He needed her. And while she’d never needed anyone, she wanted to know what his love felt like. She sensed that it would take her to a higher place, to a place like what she saw now. Only this place would dwell within her heart.
To her delight, he squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For being here . . . with me.”
She had a sudden urge to touch the scar on his forehead, to tell him that he wasn’t alone. “There is no place I would rather be,” she replied, leaning toward him, so that more of their flesh met.
He smiled.
And to her, it was the first time she’d seen him smile without doubt, without fear. “We should look for dragons,” she said, her fingers stirring against his.
“The water . . . it’s flat. So they must be asleep.”
“Maybe. But remember, they can fly. So we should also look above.”
“And what if we see one?”
“If we see one . . . then we saw it together. And no matter if you stay . . . or go . . . we can always remember that we saw something magical together.”
FOURTEEN
Moonset
O
nly a few hours after Thien and Noah returned, Tam took a turn for the worse. She had been weaker than usual the previous day, and her pain had also increased. She’d gone to bed without dinner, clinging to Qui and Dung. Sleep had found her but was shallow and full of troubling dreams. The dreams reminded her of dirty streets.
She’d awoken in the dark, and discovered that breathing was difficult. It was as if she were trying to fill her lungs by sucking through a narrow straw. Panicking, she’d squeezed Qui’s arm and tried to rise from bed, but was unable to do so. Qui had called out for Iris, who quickly appeared, followed by Thien. Not far behind, Noah had managed to hop up the stairs on his good leg.
Iris had taken one look at Tam and decided that she should be seen at a hospital. Thien, Iris, and Qui had taken her. Someone had needed to stay with Mai and Minh, and Noah had been the logical choice.
Now, as they sat in a taxi and sped through dark streets, Iris tried to comfort Tam and calm Qui. Thien sat in the front, urging the driver to hurry. Iris was terrified of the way Tam appeared—with her eyes unfocused and her breathing so labored. Tam dropped Dung, and Iris picked up the doll, setting it on Tam’s lap. “Are we almost there?” she asked Thien, slapping the door through the open window, as if the taxi were a steed that she could urge onward.
Thien turned, sweat on her brow, her cap nowhere to be seen. “Yes. It is only a few more minutes.”
“That’s what he said before!”
“I know. I am sorry.”
“Please, Thien. Please tell him to hurry. We’ve just got to get there.”
While Thien spoke again with the driver, Iris saw that Tam’s head had started to roll with the motion of the car. “Oh, no,” she said, reaching over to hold her head in place. Qui, who sat on the opposite side of the taxi, had her arms around Tam and was whispering in Vietnamese. Qui looked shell-shocked. Her shoulders trembled. Her nose bled from when she’d bumped it getting into the taxi.
Still holding Tam’s head, Iris began to pray. She couldn’t imagine that God was about to take this sweet girl, and she pleaded with him not to. She also tried to speak to her father. Tears on her cheeks, she told him that she’d come to Vietnam to complete his dream, and that it was his turn to help her, to help her save Tam. Please, Father, she begged. Please don’t let her go. I’ve given you all that I can. Now please . . . please give me this.
The hospital—dark and foreboding—suddenly loomed in front of them. Putting her hands beneath Tam’s limp form, Iris forgot her father and her prayers. Nothing mattered now but getting Tam inside.
FOR NOAH, AFTER THE WOMEN HAD left with Tam, time ceased to move forward. Once he had gotten Mai and Minh back in their beds and whispered words of encouragement, he’d returned to his cot and put on his prosthesis. He had started to reach for his flask of whiskey but had stopped himself from such an escape. Instead, he’d walked outside and sat on the seesaw that Tam had so enjoyed.
Now, as he watched the moon through a barren sky and thought about Tam, he remembered how she’d clung to him when he had carried her, how she’d looked at him and asked that he be her friend. The memories brought tears. He didn’t wipe his eyes. Instead his hands found the handle that Tam had gripped. He recalled how she had smiled and laughed that day. Her pain had been forgotten. Her face had been young again.
Noah touched the edge of the elephant’s ear. Squeezing the wood tightly, he thought of the hardships of Tam’s life. He saw her begging. He envisioned her home. He closed his eyes when he remembered the little moans she made when her pain was acute.
Suddenly he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Even though Qui, Thien, and Iris were beside her, he knew that she would want everyone near. She’d look for him, and for Mai and Minh.