you up and down Saigon River. You see many beautiful things. Maybe you even find lovely girlfriend. You look like you could use lovely girlfriend. If I find one for you, you give me five dollar? My friend, she sell noodles near Park Hyatt hotel. She very, very beautiful. And so nice.”
“I’ll never beat him,” Noah said, dropping another piece.
“Where you stay anyway? Sheraton? Omni? Sofitel?”
“Do I look rich?”
“No five-star hotel for you? Maybe three-star? What about Continental? Empress? Metropole?”
“I’m helping a friend open a center for street children. I sleep there.”
Mai looked from the game to Noah’s face. “The Iris Rhodes Center?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Sure, sure. Everyone on street hear such things. Is Mr. Rhodes your friend?”
Noah thought about telling her that he’d died. But instead, he replied, “I’m here with his daughter, Iris.”
“Wow. Then you like a famous man in Vietnam. Maybe you give me autograph.”
“I won’t be here long.”
Mai started to fan Noah after noticing beads of sweat on his face. “Why not? You no like it here? Maybe it too hot?”
Suddenly tired of the conversation, Noah lost the game on purpose. “That’s three dollars I owe you,” he said. “What if I give you five and take that fan?”
“Good idea,” Mai replied, handing him the fan.
Noah watched the boy put away his game. “You’re smart. I don’t think I could beat you if we played ten games.”
Minh nodded, wishing that he could sit and play with the man for the remainder of the day.
When the children didn’t rise from the bench, Noah knew that he’d have to leave. And so he rose awkwardly. “Good-bye,” he said, looking from face to face.
“You break your leg, mister?” Mai asked.
Noah locked eyes with Minh. Impulsively, he pulled up his pant leg, exposing his prosthesis. “Good luck,” he said, for the first time openly staring at Minh’s stump. Then he turned and limped away.
THE KITCHEN SIMMERED WITH THE SCENTS of dinner. Thien held the handle of a large pan and used an oversize bamboo spoon to stir a concoction of garlic, pepper, bok choy, and prawns. Occasionally she added a few squirts of fish oil to the dish. At the counter, Iris peeled rambutan fruits. Once she’d peeled a score of the lime-size fruits, she cleaned the firm, white flesh that remained. “I’ve never seen these,” she said, glancing at the discarded skins, which were red and hairy.
“Try one,” Thien replied. “They are as sweet as candy. But bite gently, as a seed is inside each.”
Iris sampled the fruit, which, once torn by her teeth, seemed to cast sugary juices into her mouth. “Wow,” she said, surprised by the taste. “That is sweet.”
Thien nodded, starting to sing softly as she continued to stir the dish. By now Iris was used to her singing. Thien’s voice had the remarkable ability to relax Iris, almost as if it were classical music emanating from a speaker. “Why do you love to sing so much?” Iris asked, cleaning up her cuttings.
“I sing of happy things, Miss Iris. And that makes me happy.”
Iris heard a noise behind her and, expecting Noah, turned. Her heart skipped when she saw a policeman standing nearby. His uniform was an olive green, and a yellow star sat prominently on his cap. His face was stern and unfriendly. He began to speak in Vietnamese, and though Iris couldn’t understand what he said, his words seemed harsh. Thien lowered the heat on the stove and set her bamboo spoon aside. She didn’t appear intimidated by him and spoke much faster than Iris had ever heard her.
When their conversation paused, Iris looked to Thien. “What does he want?”
“I speak English,” the policeman replied. “So ask your question to me.”
Iris wiped a small piece of rambutan from her lips. “Oh. I’m sorry. Why . . . why are you here?”
Sahn scrutinized the American, her features muddled by the haze that perpetually dominated his
“I’ll never beat him,” Noah said, dropping another piece.
“Where you stay anyway? Sheraton? Omni? Sofitel?”
“Do I look rich?”
“No five-star hotel for you? Maybe three-star? What about Continental? Empress? Metropole?”
“I’m helping a friend open a center for street children. I sleep there.”
Mai looked from the game to Noah’s face. “The Iris Rhodes Center?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Sure, sure. Everyone on street hear such things. Is Mr. Rhodes your friend?”
Noah thought about telling her that he’d died. But instead, he replied, “I’m here with his daughter, Iris.”
“Wow. Then you like a famous man in Vietnam. Maybe you give me autograph.”
“I won’t be here long.”
Mai started to fan Noah after noticing beads of sweat on his face. “Why not? You no like it here? Maybe it too hot?”
Suddenly tired of the conversation, Noah lost the game on purpose. “That’s three dollars I owe you,” he said. “What if I give you five and take that fan?”
“Good idea,” Mai replied, handing him the fan.
Noah watched the boy put away his game. “You’re smart. I don’t think I could beat you if we played ten games.”
Minh nodded, wishing that he could sit and play with the man for the remainder of the day.
When the children didn’t rise from the bench, Noah knew that he’d have to leave. And so he rose awkwardly. “Good-bye,” he said, looking from face to face.
“You break your leg, mister?” Mai asked.
Noah locked eyes with Minh. Impulsively, he pulled up his pant leg, exposing his prosthesis. “Good luck,” he said, for the first time openly staring at Minh’s stump. Then he turned and limped away.
THE KITCHEN SIMMERED WITH THE SCENTS of dinner. Thien held the handle of a large pan and used an oversize bamboo spoon to stir a concoction of garlic, pepper, bok choy, and prawns. Occasionally she added a few squirts of fish oil to the dish. At the counter, Iris peeled rambutan fruits. Once she’d peeled a score of the lime-size fruits, she cleaned the firm, white flesh that remained. “I’ve never seen these,” she said, glancing at the discarded skins, which were red and hairy.
“Try one,” Thien replied. “They are as sweet as candy. But bite gently, as a seed is inside each.”
Iris sampled the fruit, which, once torn by her teeth, seemed to cast sugary juices into her mouth. “Wow,” she said, surprised by the taste. “That is sweet.”
Thien nodded, starting to sing softly as she continued to stir the dish. By now Iris was used to her singing. Thien’s voice had the remarkable ability to relax Iris, almost as if it were classical music emanating from a speaker. “Why do you love to sing so much?” Iris asked, cleaning up her cuttings.
“I sing of happy things, Miss Iris. And that makes me happy.”
Iris heard a noise behind her and, expecting Noah, turned. Her heart skipped when she saw a policeman standing nearby. His uniform was an olive green, and a yellow star sat prominently on his cap. His face was stern and unfriendly. He began to speak in Vietnamese, and though Iris couldn’t understand what he said, his words seemed harsh. Thien lowered the heat on the stove and set her bamboo spoon aside. She didn’t appear intimidated by him and spoke much faster than Iris had ever heard her.
When their conversation paused, Iris looked to Thien. “What does he want?”
“I speak English,” the policeman replied. “So ask your question to me.”
Iris wiped a small piece of rambutan from her lips. “Oh. I’m sorry. Why . . . why are you here?”
Sahn scrutinized the American, her features muddled by the haze that perpetually dominated his
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