The Lotus and the Storm by Lan Cao

Mrs. An’s sister, who is entitled to claim the money if she provides the correct password. There is no actual physical transfer of money. The woman and her counterpart will settle up later. Both are part of a subterranean import-export network. This proprietor in Virginia will sell goods to her counterpart in Saigon but under-invoice them by two thousand dollars to pay off the debt.
    Given its need to control, Hanoi can’t be too keen about flying money. But the American government would not appreciate such transactions either, I imagine, given their strict banking regulations, especially after September 11. The flying-money business is not shared with outsiders.
    Mai buys a CD and hands it to me. “Here, Ba. It has those singers you like.” It is a collection by an eclectic group of pre-1975-era singers, Thanh Thuy, Thanh Tuyen, Khanh Ly, and Thai Thanh. I am not particularly fond of the new crop of singers who mouth meaningless lyrics in mediocre voices camouflaged by a surfeit of synthesized drums, electric keyboards, guitars.
    I smile broadly on my way out and wave my hand over my head to the proprietor, who returns my smile.
    â€œOverbearing,” Mai mutters.
    â€œShe’s probably worried.”
    â€œSo she gets to spread nasty rumors about people?”
    It is true that what she said was unkind. “Is it only rumors?” I ask.
    â€œPeople talk. You know that. What else is there to do in a tiny little community like this?”
    As Mai pushes me from the warmth of the shop into the brisk air outside, I look around. The sun is out, its rays shining full tilt through the lot. Mai still has some more shopping to do. She will buy
pâtés chauds,
a French pastry filled with meat, light and flaky on the outside and crispy at the edges. There will be bags of
banh tieu,
a Vietnamese doughnut that is round, puffy, and slightly sweet with a hollow center. I admit it is not as rich or tasty as a Dunkin’ Donut, but it tugs at an old longing. I remind her to get Mrs. An a bag of roasted watermelon seeds. My teeth are no longer strong enough but I love to watch others maneuver teeth and tongue just so to crack the shell and get at the flesh, which has a salty and slightly nutty taste.
    There is activity all around: heels clicking on the pavement, doors opened and banged shut, muted laughter, children’s cries, greetings. Through closed eyelids, I imagine Mrs. An’s tightly rolled washcloth pressed against my forehead on cold nights, her hand cupped gently under my chin as she repositions my head on the pillow. And then I think of what the woman at the music store said about Mrs. An’s son and wonder if Mrs. An has been quietly suffering. I see her face, her long hair pinned back by combs, the tilt of her head, the open gaze of her eyes when she enters my room, and a wing beat of sadness flutters and settles in my chest, refusing to let go.
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    The day is almost over. I enjoyed the outing with Mai but it has also worn me out. I experience fatigue as a creeping, physical sensation moving from one part of my body to the next until it takes over completely.
    I turn my head toward the door. “Mrs. An, are you still here? I thought you would have gone home by now.”
    She grins. In the refracted light, her face shows lines of worry I hadn’t noticed until now. I feel some responsibility to look at her carefully, to search for clues I might have missed.
    â€œI popped home and put something in the oven. But I want to hear about your day and to thank you for the longans.”
    I nod. “We also sent your money home to your sister.”
    â€œShe needed more than the usual amount this month because of the doctor. If I send a little bit each month, she can even live off the interest. Banks over there have been paying over twenty percent interest, can you imagine?”
    â€œIsn’t it already late?” I ask.
    â€œMr. Minh,