Читать книгу Dukkha Reverb - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

Mai is laughing as she leans on the horn and brakes to avoid a young girl on a motorbike who streaked out from a side street and passed by our hood just inches from earning a grave. The sky is in twilight mode and the streets and sidewalks are beginning to light up like a carnival.

“That’s considered funny here?” I ask.

Mai laughs again. “The girl? No, not funny.” She shrugs. “Of course it is dangerous but it is also like I said: It’s just the way it is.” She gestures at the vehicle riot outside our windows. “I was laughing because for a moment I was seeing all this through your eyes. How mad it must seem compared to Portland.”

“It’s un-freaking-believable,” I say. “I heard about it, but nothing prepares you for the enormity of the mass confusion of thousands upon thousands of vehicles going every which way. And the roar!”

She nods. “I said ‘how mad it must seem,’ but you must understand that it is not mad at all, it is not as you say, ‘mass confusion.’ There are about a thousand traffic deaths a year in Saigon, but that is not many when you consider that there are millions of motorbikes and other kinds of vehicles on the streets. It is not mad because all, well, most drivers pay attention to where they are and where they are going. We all cooperate. This is most important when you have to cross the street. Okay, look over there. See that little girl at that far corner?”

We’re parked at a red light, actually hundreds and hundreds of us are parked at a red light at the entrance of what appears to be a traffic circle of some kind with about five streets feeding into it, each of them jammed with thousands of vehicles. Traffic on a couple of the feeder streets appears to have stopped for a light, while motorbikes on streets that have the green light move in mass into the circle, then regurgitate haphazardly onto feeder streets where they battle with oncoming traffic trying to get into the circle.

“No,” I say. “How can you see one little girl in all this.”

“Over there, to the right,” she says, pointing. “Black pants, blue top. She looks about six years old.”

I see her, a tiny thing on the corner of one of the feeder streets. “Yes, cute. What about—” She steps off the curb. “Mai! She’s walking out into traffic. My God, she’ll be killed.”

Mai laughs. “She is fine. Watch how every driver is paying attention and how the little girl crosses through the traffic very smooth.”

My heart is pounding as hundred of motorbikes swarm around her, some passing in front, some behind. One slows just enough for her to finish a stride and then accelerates through where her leg had just been. It’s almost as if they’ve practiced it.

“See,” Mai says. “Her mother taught her well. Because she is walking very smooth, without hesitating or speeding up, the traffic can, uh, estimate where they have to go so they do not run her down.”

“But she’s a little girl!” I half shout.

“Yes, one who has to cross the street. See how everyone works together? If she stopped suddenly, it would cause much confusion to the traffic. Some would swerve into others and some would be forced to stop, which would make others hit them from behind. Do you see how some motorbikes are carrying large loads, like that one with many baskets piled high into the air? Or that one there with three riders on the back? See the one with two women on in it, one holding a baby? They do not want to crash. So it is important that everyone cooperates.”

The little girl steps up onto the curb and begins skipping to wherever she is going.

“Unbelievable. Have you ever been in an accident?”

“Yes. I have not crashed in a car but I have three times on my motorbike. Not for a while, thank Buddha, God, and my ancestors.”

The light changes and a thousand of us move into the circle, the roar of engines all consuming. About half way around, Mai works the car to the right, her hand steadily tapping the horn. She finishes the merge successfully and now we’re on a street with much lighter traffic.

As has been the case with all the streets I’ve seen, the sidewalks are cluttered with what appears to be food carts, card tables, and spread blankets where people sell everything from toilet paper to tires to perfume to boiling pots of whatever. The buildings on both sides of the street are three of four stories high, the top floors appearing to be apartments, while most of the ground level spaces look to be shops and eateries—the aroma is making me salivate.

“I’m liking this,” I say. “The traffic? I’m not so sure about yet, but the rest of it—the architecture, the extraordinary variety of smells, the crowds—yeah, I really like the feel here. And it’s getting dark already.”

“It gets dark here earlier this time of the year compared to Portland,” Mai says, accelerating around a motorbike piled high with—eggs. “We are close to the equator.” The stacked egg crates extend at least three feet over his head. “I am very happy to hear that you like this. I think my stays in Paris and in Portland helped me see Saigon as a… unique?… yes, a unique place. I love it because it is my home but I also love it because it is so unique. Unique is the right word, yes?”

“Definitely. I certainly can’t argue with that assessment because… Hey! That man!” I twist hard to look out the back window.

“What is the matter, Sam?”

“That man sitting on his motorbike back there. I’m sure of it.”

“What?”

“That’s the same guy who was riding so close to yourwindow. The one who made the shooting gestures.”

Mai giggles and says in a funny voice, “You know all us Oreo-entals look alike.”

For some reason that irritates me. “I know what I saw. I’ve been around Asians all my martial arts career. And for the last fifteen years my job has been to watch people, to read them.”

Her smile disappears.

“Sorry Mai. Jet lag’s making me grumpy.”

“What was the man doing?”

“Looking at me. His bike was on the kickstand and he was sitting on it with one foot on the ground and the other resting across the seat. He was smoking. Made eye contact and deliberately blew his smoke toward me.”

“I do not know what to say. What do you call it… oh, yes, worse case scenario. The worse case scenario is that Lai Van Tan knew you were coming. Or, okay, do not get mad again, that man just looks like the shooter man. Look around, many men wear white shirts, blue shirts and gray slacks. Everyone has sunglasses.”

“If they know I’m coming, why are they in the open? Harassment? Terrorism? A promise of things to come?”

“Yes, yes. Father say that they are not like the Viet Cong. They don’t live underground, pop out, do something terrible, and then go back underground again. They like to be seen. And feared. Terrorism. You are right.”

I know Lai Van Tan is still a threat, but I was hoping like a child hopes that it was over. I still haven’t gotten everything that happened in Portland sorted out in my head.

“Sam?”

As awful as it was in Portland, at least I was on my own turf, in my city, my state, my country. Here, in a Communist country, or whatever it is, where Americans are… What? I don’t know how I’ll be perceived yet, but I got a feeling it won’t be as peachy as the travel brochures claim.

“Sam?”

I look over at her.

“I can see you worrying. Do not do that, okay? Right now, we really do not know anything about that man. I know you are an expert on how to look at people, but I would bet that he was not the same one as before. Even if he was, maybe it was a coincidence. He is on the street and we are on the street in a car that stands out from all the bikes and other cars. Maybe right now he is afraid because he thinks we are following him.”

I chuckle. “Okay, I’ll stop with the paranoia. Not a good way to start out as a guest in your country. But if I see him again…”

Mai laughs as she makes a right onto another street. “Then we would truly be in the shit bucket.”

“Nicely put.”

“Thank you, sir. Oh, how is Chien?”

“Your kitty is fine, sort of. I was actually planning on bringing her with me to surprise you but she got sick about a week ago. So one of my students is taking care of her.”

“Oh no. Very sick?”

“Something with its lungs. The vet gave her a couple of shots and he gave me some pills to give daily. Said Chien would be fine in a week or so but that she shouldn’t travel.”

“Very sad. I miss Chien a lot.”

“And Chien misses you. This area is nice, do you live around here?”

“We are almost there. I live upstairs in a space that is about as big as the apartment I had in Portland. Father and Mother live downstairs, and Ly, Mother’s nurse, lives in a room in the back of the house. Since I’m a modern woman,” she says, overacting an air of sophistication, “I would have my own apartment somewhere else.” She abruptly frowns. “But Mother is sick, so I like to be there to help Ly and help when Ly takes time off to see her family.”

“I’m so sorry about Kim.”

“Yes, I am very sad. Mother is not doing very well. TB is a difficult disease. She suffers from fever sometimes and she coughs very hard.”

“She going to be okay?”

Mai goes inward for a moment, then softly, “I do not know.”

We turn into a short cobblestone driveway and stop before an ornate, black double gate that’s lit by lamps on each corner post. She lowers her window and exposes her face. The gate swings open.

“Video surveillance?”

Mai smiles. “Father will explain everything,” she says, guiding the car into a brick-covered parking area big enough for a half dozen limos. The two-story house is gorgeous: dark brown tile roofing, light beige siding, lots of glass, bricks, stones, potted trees, and well-placed lighting to show it at its best. This would be considered upscale even in the Hollywood Hills; I didn’t expect to see it here.

“Wow!” I say. “The jewelry business has been very good.”

“Father is a good businessman, a rare one because he ishonest. But this house— Oh, there. He is coming.”

Samuel waves from the top of about a dozen steps, his face beaming. He is dressed the same as he did in Portland: white overshirt, gray slacks, and red Converse shoes.

I wave back. “I am so happy to see him,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “He looks really good. Less stressed than when… What—the—hell?”

Mai covers her mouth and giggles. “I just thought something. I do not think you know about best friend of Father. He did not tell you?”

“That would have to be a no,” I say, gawking at a middle-aged Vietnamese man following Samuel down the steps, hand over hand, his legless torso swinging back and forth between arms that look disproportionately too long and too big for what remains of his body. He’s wearing a black tank top and blue Nike shorts; the empty pant legs drag on the cobblestone. If he does have legs, they don’t extend more than a couple inches from his pelvis.

“Son,” Samuel says, as I climb out of the car. He presses his palms together against his chest as if in prayer, his face beaming. “I am so happy to see you, so very happy you are here.”

Should we hug? I decide to err on the side of caution and extend my hand. “I’m happy to see you too, Samuel,” I say. He takes my hand into both of his, squeezes it gently, nodding his head several times. He’s either affirming his happiness or doing a series of short bows. Maybe both. He might be Caucasian, but he has spent the majority of his life here in Vietnam. Mai once said that he is more Vietnamese than American and what little I saw of him in Portland, I’d have to agree. His slight build, clothing choice, sun-browned skin, stilted speech, and demeanor all add to the confusion.

“Son, this is my very good friend, Tex Nguyen,” Samuel says, stepping aside so I can see the legless man whose head is no higher than my pant’s zipper and who seems to be resting—balancing?— on his torso. Should I offer my hand? Wouldn’t one less support limb make him fall over? Did he say Tex Nguyen?

The man leans on his left hand and extends his right, which is about as big as a dinner plate. Tattoos cover his thickly muscled arms from his fingers to his thick shoulders. “Okay to meet son of best friend mine,” he says, his voice soft, gentle, the accent thick but understandable. “Many things hear about you.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” He appears to be in his sixties, with a gray buzz cut and a wispy, gray Fu Manchu moustache that extends down the sides of his mouth to dangle in tight, three-inch braids of ornate knots below his chin. Some cops have a way of looking at people, sizing them up in an instant. Tex’s eyes do that. I’ve been told mine do. “Father and Tex have been friends since the war,” Mai says. “He is Father’s assistant at the…” she says something in Vietnamese to Samuel.

“Rest home,” he says.

“Rest home,” Mai repeats. “I do not remember if we told you that Father owns a rest home for old soldiers.”

Samuel smiles. “I do not think we talked about it. We were busy that week in Portland.”

I nod, feeling a little like I just walked into the middle of a movie.

He laughs, hooks his arm into mine, and guides me toward the steps. Tex hand-walks along behind us. “I think maybe all of this is a little overwhelming to you, Son, and you must be tired. It is much cooler inside. And my Kim is anxious to meet you.” He looks around me toward Mai. “Did you mention that Mother speaks freely? Bluntly?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Mai says, smiling. “Mother says what is on her mind.”

He chuckles. “It is at once refreshing and disarming. Be warned.”

We climb the brick steps to an open red door. He points at a spot by the entrance where there are sets of shoes and sandals laid out. “Please remove your shoes here.”

We pass through a foyer lined with large, gray stone pots of black bamboo that form a canopy of delicate green leaves, and walk into the living area. The floor is gray slate, softened with a large red, blue, and black Oriental rug, its main design focus a blue dragon, its mouth open, talons reaching. The room’s atmosphere is modern expensive, complete with a long, black leather sofa, a matching black love seat, glass tables, and a black entertainment center. Three large ceiling fans stir the air.

My eyes are drawn to a large painting over a flat screen TV of an achingly beautiful Vietnamese woman. She is standing in a grove of sun-filtered bamboo, the shifting shades of green around her a stark contrast to the radiant red of her high-necked and long-sleeved fitted tunic. There are slits along each side revealing wide-legged white trousers, the fabric painted to fall caressingly over her form. I can see Mai in the woman’s beautiful face, especially those eyes that even from twenty feet away, reveal intelligence, warmth, and a not-so-subtle sensuality.

“That is Mother,” Mai says, walking over to the painting. “Father hired a friend to paint her two years ago. The dress is called áo dài. You have seen it already on the sidewalks.”

“Kim is still angry that I insisted it be displayed up there,” Samuel says with a mischievous grin. “She is shy, you see. Very humble.”

Mai smiles. “But I think she is also pleased that Father likes it so much that he wanted it in this room.”

“It’s an amazing painting,” I say. “I can see where you get your…” My face flushes.

“Mai’s good looks?” Samuel teases.

“Father!”

Tex giggles as he cartwheels himself up onto the leather love seat. He leans into its corner and rests his muscled arm on the rest. “Mai be a fish out of ocean missing you,” he says, looking at Mai for a reaction, his fondness for her obvious.

“Tex!”

Samuel places his hand over his heart and sighs dramatically. “It reminds me of a poem. ‘If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.’” He sighs again.

“Okay, boys. I am going to go check on Mother. You stay here and have a giggle party.” She looks at me as she passes, winks, and disappears through a doorway.

Samuel snorts a laugh and points toward the sofa. “Please sit down, Sam.” He remains standing. “Let me say first off that Tex is privy to everything that happened in Portland. Everything. He has been my friend for over forty years. We met in hell. Somehow he pulled me away from certain death and did so just minutes after losing his legs.” My mouth drops open. “You heard that right, Son. He pulled me to safety right after his legs had been blown into a fine, red mist.”

I look at Tex, who looks embarrassed by the story. He shrugs and smiles, his eyes not so much. “Tea? I go talk to Ly to make.” He launches himself off the sofa and scoots hand over hand across the floor, faster than I walk, and disappears through an arched doorway that must lead into the kitchen.

“He’s amazing,” I say.

“I sometimes forget how much so,” Samuel says with admiration as he looks at the doorway. He looks back at me and smiles as if I caught him at something. “He is a good friend, and a good fighter.”

“Fighter. Really?”

“He has a great teacher—me.”

I laugh, remembering how Samuel has a way of blending humility with singing his own praises. In this case, the humility is real and the boasts are based on fact. Like my grandfather used to say, if you can brag without lying, then brag. That’s Samuel.

“I have seen legless martial artists before,” I say. “I know of two who lost theirs in Iraq. They were amazing and made me appreciate what I have. For sure they made me stop complaining about my old knee injury and weak ankles. How long has Tex trained with you?”

Samuel thinks for a moment. “Over thirty years. His skill is quite unique.”

I chuckle. “Coming from you that means a lot.”

“Did you get in much training after we left?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. There was the grand jury to contend with, three long days on the stand. After each session, I would go home and sleep from six at night until seven the next morning. I had to talk about the shooting everyday, relive it everyday, and I’d dream about it every night. I knew that if I could train a little, even just stretch, it would be helpful, but I had no energy for it. None.”

Samuel sits silently, looking at me for a moment, his hands folded on his lap. “The fourteenth Dali Lama said, ‘Through violence, you may solve one problem, but you sow the seeds for another.’ In your case, you did solve the problem of the evil person, but other problems were created by that action.” He raises his palm. “Do not take that as a condemnation of what you did. Your intention was right action, which is one of the aspects of Buddha’s Eight Fold Path. But even with right action—well—sometimes shit happens.

“Remember in Portland when I told you that when I was with the Green Berets, I got fourteen confirmed kills? There were more but that is the number confirmed. Each one was in the heat of battle; each enemy soldier was trying to kill me or my brothers. I was using right action, but each one caused me great problems; each one haunted me for a long time… sometimes they still do.”

Samuel pauses and looks at Kim’s painting for a moment. “Each man had a family, you see, who suffered when he did not come home to them. But with the death of each enemy, one or many of my men lived. But someone who loved those I killed suffered pain of the heart. But with each life saved, another wife, another child, another mother did not suffer.” He shrugs, glances toward the foyer and back to me. “But but but, eh? This is the terrible burden the warrior must carry.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, as the full impact of his words hit me.

“And Buddha,” Samuel says. “Both great men.” He leans forward as if to emphasize his next words. “Son, there are no magic words that will make the pain go away. What I just offered is nothing more than another way to think about it.”

We sit silently for a few moments. Sitting together without speaking is something we did a couple of times in Portland. It was never awkward or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt… right. I know he is letting me digest what he said, though it will take a lot longer than a few quiet moments. A lifetime?

“Or longer,” he says.

“Dang! I keep forgetting that you can do that.”

“Samuel bobs his eyebrows. “He-he. Not all the time and with only a few people. Like I told you before, it is easier with you because we are blood.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you know who Pema Chodron is?”

I shake my head.

“She is an American woman, in her eighties now, I think. She is an ordained nun in Tibetan Buddhism. She wrote, ‘It isn’t what happens to us that causes us to suffer; it is what we say to ourselves about what happened.’”

“Hmm, I like that.” I chuckle, thinking about my shrink. Samuel knows about her. “Doc Kari would agree.”

“Did she help you?”

I nod. “She’s a tough gal who takes no prisoners and suffers no b.s. from her patients, which is good since she has to deal with pig-headed cops all the time. Seriously, she’s good, and she always seems to find the right thing to say to make me feel better.”

“It sounds like she is a good sensei, a good guide. You probably know this, but one of the definitions of sensei is one who points the way.”

“I do. Sort of like a wise father.”

Wow, I just referred to him for the first time as my father. His eyes flicker with surprise, while mine, I’m sure, are less subtle. To be accurate, I didn’t actually say, you’re my father, but it was pretty darn close. Straight from the subconscious, I’m guessing.

“Tea come,” Tex says, slapping quickly across the floor toward the love seat.

“More on this later, Son,” he says, his eyes blinking rapidly.

“Before you sit back down, Tex,” Samuel says. “I told Sam about your martial arts and he doesn’t believe me.”

“What?” I say loudly. “Tex, I never—”

Samuel laughs. “I am kidding, Tex. But would you mind a short demonstration?”

The legless man plops his lower torso on the floor, leans on one hand, and makes little chopping motions with his other hand. “Heee-yah! Your father teach me that.”

“Everyone is a comedian,” Samuel says. “How about you throw a roundhouse kick at Tex?”

“Uh…”

“Well said, Son. But give him a kick and do not go easy.”

Tex nods, “Fast better,” he says. “Easier for me.” He centers himself on me, his torso planted on the floor, arms raised, palms forward. When he smiles, it’s with his mouth, not his eyes.

I’m not a stranger to Samuel’s somewhat freaky fighting style, so I’m a tad reluctant to do this. But I’m the son so I have to. I stand and shake my legs a little to rid some of the stiffness from twenty-some hours of flying. Tex is motionless, still doing that stony-eyed smile thing.

I skip up with my back leg and snap out a lead-leg roundhouse to the man’s head. He ducks it easily and steps hand over hand behind my kick.

He nods a couple of times. “Pretty kick. Pretty slow. More fun time for me when kick fast. You can do fast, right?”

“Yes,” I say, my machismo tweaked a little. “I wasn’t sure how fast you wanted.”

“Fast, Son,” Samuel says. “Do not insult Tex. You will not like it if he gets insulted. That is a variation from what David Banner says in The Incredible Hulk.”

I was just thinking that I’ve yet to hear a movie quote from him.

“I was going to wait a while,” he says, unnerving me. “Now kick him!”

I shuffle step to confuse him as to which leg is kicking, then fire a fast lead-leg round at his waiting, smiling face, which is no more than three feet off the floor. He ducks again, but this time snaps up an arm and hooks my leg in the crook of his elbow as it passes over him. The weight of his hanging half body pulls my kick to the floor, but not before he swings on it like a monkey on a vine and loops around it to slam his torso stump into my chest. The impact feels like I’ve been hit by a battering ram and I’m the Middle Ages’ castle door he’s trying to break down. It sends me sprawling onto my back. Fortunately, I tuck my chin to keep the back of my head from colliding with the stone floor.

Tex is standing now, or whatever he calls what he does, on my abdomen. He’s actually heavier than he looks making it hard for me to get a complete breath. Just as I think that he is going to jump up and down and screech in triumph, he reaches out and tweaks my nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“That is what Mr. Miyagi did in Karate Kid,” Samuel says excitedly. “You saw that one, right, Son?”

I choose to ignore the question. Tex scoots off me and pulls my arm to help me sit up. “That was amazing,” I wheeze. “Very creative. You might have mentioned that it involved a takedown on a stone floor.”

“Sorry,” he says, dusting off my back.

“That is a good point, Tex,” Samuel reprimands. Then to me, “Usually when he does that defense, he climbs up the kicker like a spider and makes like Buddy Rich.”

“Who?”

“Old time band drummer. He was known in music for having the world’s fastest hands.”

Tex apologizes again, and says, “Kick very fast. Surprised me. I did not expect you to kick a man with no legs so fast.”

Samuel laughs at that and helps me to my feet. “He is a real card, no?”

“Samuel,” Tex says. “You please tell panther story.”

Samuel chuckles. “Okay.” He looks at me and winks. “He identifies with this. It is a story about a wise old dog and a hungry panther. One day an old German shepherd dog was in a forest chasing rabbits when he discovered that he was lost. As he tried to find his way back, he spotted a panther moving quickly in his direction with a look in its eyes like he just found his lunch.

“The old dog thought, ‘Oh, oh. I’m in deep poo-poo.’”

Tex laughs uproariously. “‘Poo-poo.’ That funny.”

Samuel smiles patiently at his friend. “Anyway, about then, the old dog found some bones on the ground. He quickly laid down with his back toward the approaching panther and began chewing on them. Just as the panther was about to leap, the old German shepherd smacked his lips, and exclaimed, ‘Boy, that was one delicious panther. I need to find another to eat.’

“Hearing this, the young panther, with a look of terror on its face, stopped in mid-attack and slinked quickly away into the trees.

“As he was trying to calm himself after such a close call, a squirrel who had witnessed what had happened, saw a way to put his new found knowledge to use and trade it for protection.

“So the squirrel went to the young panther, told him what the dog did, and made a deal with him.

“The panther was embarrassed and angry that he was made a fool of, and said, ‘Get on my back, squirrel, and watch what I do to that old dog.’

“The old German shepherd once again spotted the panther creeping toward him, this time with a squirrel on his back. So the dog quickly devised a plan. Instead of running, the wise dog sat down with his back to the panther and the squirrel, and acted as if he hadn’t seen them.

“Just as they were close enough to hear, the old German shepherd said, ‘Where’s that squirrel? I sent him away an hour ago to bring me another panther to eat.’”

Tex laughs hard, a sort of high-pitched cackle. “Understand, Sam? It means… I do not know how to say. Tell him what means, Samuel.”

“Okay,” Samuel says, smiling at his friend. “The moral of the story is you should not mess with old dogs because the years have given them much smarts, much b.s. ability.”

I laugh and Tex extends his hand for a fist bump.

A middle-aged woman dressed in a white áo dài and white pants enters the room carrying a tray of cups, a teapot, and what looks like white face masks, the kind that fit over the mouth and nose.

“Thank you, Ly,” Samuel says, picking up the masks. He hands one to Tex and one to me. “Mother is coming to meet you so we need to put these on. TB is very communicable.”

I wear these when I mow my lawn because of my allergies, but I didn’t expect to wear one here. Mai enters a moment later, pushing a woman in a wheelchair, both are wearing masks. The woman’s eyes find mine.

*

“Please sit down, Sam,” Kim says, with just a touch of an accent. She’s wearing a rich burgundy áo dài over white satin pants. She’s more frail than in the painting, but the TB hasn’t dimmed her beauty. Actually, her mask underscores her incredible eyes. I sit on the long sofa and she gestures for Mai to push her up until we’re nearly knee to knee. Sam has joined Tex on the love seat and Ly is nearby preparing the tea. “Mai did not exaggerate. You are quite handsome and your body is well developed.”

About to sit, Mai quickly straightens, her face suddenly crimson. “Mother!”

“Sit down, Mai,” Kim says with merriment in her voice. “I love to tease my girls.”

Mai sighs and does as she’s told.

“I am glad to meet you, Sam. Your father has been very excited since he found you.” She gestures with her chin. “So has my daughter.”

Mai sighs again, plops herself down and folds her arms across her chest.

The delicate white cups filled, Ly carries the tray over, stopping in front of me. I’m not sure of the protocol. Shouldn’t Kim take one first?

“Please,” Kim says, apparently seeing my awkwardness. “Take a cup. It is a very special green tea. Mai said that you would like it. It is most good for you.”

“Thank you. I love green tea.”

When everyone has a cup, Kim lifts hers. “Một, hai, ba, yo!” she says loudly. Everyone takes a drink from their cups. I follow.

“That means one, two, three, down the throat,” Mai says. “It is said when drinking alcohol but Mother says it to welcome you.”

“It is more fun with alcohol,” Kim says with a wink. “It is sad, but my doctor says that I cannot drink because of all the medicine I take.”

I’m liking this woman. Bet she was a feisty one when she was younger, a trait I can see Samuel liking, and one I like in Mai. He seems to have relinquished the floor to his wife.

“You will be staying with us, of course,” she says.

“Oh I don’t want to be a bother. I have a reservation at the Majestic Hotel that—”

“No, no,” Kim says, waving me off. “Your father has fixed a room in the small building in the back of the house. It is very comfortable. This will allow more time for you to visit and for us to know each other.” She looks over to Ly who has been standing dutifully by the tea tray. “So sorry. This wonderful lady is Ly. She lives with us. She makes things run smoothly around here and she…” She says something to Samuel.

“Doubles,” he says.

“Sorry,” Kim says to me. “I did not know that word. She doubles as my nurse.”

Ly’s eyes crinkle into a smile. She nods.

“Ly,” I say.

“She helps me and so do my wonderful daughters. And of course my Samuel.” She smiles at him. “Tex is responsible for everything outside the house, the parking area, the back garden, the fish pond, and he helps Samuel with the old soldiers. We consider Ly and Tex important members of our family. Loved members of our family. Now we also have you, and I welcome you.”

I bow slightly. “Thank you so much. I am excited to be here and honored to stay with you. I have been looking forward to it for weeks.”

Kim returns my nod, her eyes studying me. Clearly, this woman is the hub of the wheel around here. The power of her presence when she first came into the room camouflaged for a moment just how pale she is, and how deep the lines are around her eyes. But there is no hiding the clarity in them, the intelligence, and the watchfulness.

“Mai is my oldest daughter, Sam, and she is everything to me.” Kim’s tone is just short of driving home a point. “She is much more than a beautiful woman. She is attracted to you—”

“Mother, please,” Mai says, without raising her downcast eyes.

“Aaaand,” Kim continues, hushing her daughter with a raised palm, “because she is attracted to you I have concerns. I can tell you that a mixed-race relationship is not easy. There are many, uh, obstacles. Problems. Your father and I have experienced them all, and still do occasionally. I want to protect my child, all of my children, but I also recognize that she is a thirty-three-year-old woman, one who is highly intelligent, educated, and experienced. I trust her judgment. Still, I am a mother and mothers worry.”

“Thank you for explaining your feelings, Kim. I’m not a mother but I understand as much as is possible. My mother worried about me all the time, especially when I joined the police department.” Kim’s eyes don’t just look at me; they watch me, like a mother lioness. “I promise you that my intentions are honorable.” Okay, that sounded stupid. “What I mean is that I’m very fond of Mai, and I will treat her with respect and kindness.” That was lame too, but it’s all I got on such short notice.

“What year were you born?” she asks.

Curious question, and abrupt. “Uh, nineteen seventy-four.”

She nods, looking intently at me. “In the Vietnamese zodiac, you are a tiger. Quick to anger, indecisive, but you can easily, uh…” She looks at Samuel but figures it out before having to ask. “Accommodate. You can easily accommodate your personality to fit the situation. Is that you?”

I chuckle, but cut it off when she remains serious. “I think that is about right. I do see the negative things in myself and I’m trying to fix them.”

“I see,” Kim says, not giving away if she thought that answer was a little too good, which it kind of was. “Mai is a dragon. Interesting that you are a policeman, because it is dragons that are the protectors and usually a symbol of the male. Dragons are short-tempered and stubborn.”

“Uh oh,” I say, glancing at Mai. She smiles then raises her eyebrows threateningly.

Kim watches me as she sips from her cup. “Tigers, dragons, pigs. I think the zodiac is a lot of bullshit, but it is interesting, is it not?”

I start to smile, but stop myself when she doesn’t. “Yes, very. I don’t believe in it much either.”

“I see,” she says, eyeing me. “That answer was very tiger. What if I had said that I believed in it? What would you have said?”

I swallow hard. “I uh… I would have probably agreed with that too.”

She nods. “I like your honesty, Sam. It is rare these days, is it not? I like you, so understand that you do not have to, what is that phrase? Kiss up?” Samuel nods. “Do not kiss up to me. Be honest and we will be fine, you and I.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kim nods once and watches me a moment longer before turning to Ly. “I am tired and would like to go back to my room now.” She looks back to me. “Your father will inform you of the, uh, situation with Lai Van Tan. I am afraid you have come at a dangerous time.” When Ly starts to back up her chair, Kim raises her hand to stop. “I am happy to meet you, Sam. I am happy that Samuel has his son.”

I stand quickly, bow. “I am very pleased to meet you. Thank you for welcoming me to your home. I look forward to talking with you again.”

She nods regally and wiggles her fingers at Ly.

“Subtle, is she not?” Samuel says, after Ly has rolled Kim through the archway. “But do not worry. She likes you. If she did not, she would have eaten your face down to your skull.” He stands. “Mai, Tex, I am going to take Sam to the garden.”

Tex scoots off the sofa and, incredibly, lands softly on his hands. He extends his right one. “Nice for you to meet me,” he says. I try not to smile and I say the same thing in return. He hand-slaps out the front door.

“Sam, you must be exhausted,” Mai says.

“More than exhausted. I got a thick fog in my head, and my stomach feels like I’ve eaten a bushel of green apples. I could go to sleep right now but I’m too excited to see both of you, and to see Vietnam.”

Samuel and Mai both nod. “It is seven thirty now,” Samuel says. “I want to show you the layout in the back, then we will move your things into your room and you can crash if you want. Do they still say ‘crash’ for sleep?”

I smile. “It’s a little dated but I think most would understand.”

“Mai, please finish the books for the Cholon store. I need to take them to Lin in the morning. Then join us in the dining room in thirty minutes. Sam, would you like a bowl of phở before you crash?”

“Yes, that would be wonderful.”

“See you in thirty minutes, Sam,” Mai says with a smile that makes my heart rev up like one of those motorbikes.

*

I follow Samuel through the archway.

“This is the dining room,” he says, moving around a gorgeous, black lacquered dining room table that must be ten feet long. One entire wall has been painted an abstract of what looks to be Saigon at night. The artist has used reds, yellows, and blacks to depict a chaotic scene of excitement, movement, and happy faces jammed in a congestion of pedestrians, cars, and motorbikes.

“I think I was in that a little while ago,” I say.

“No doubt,” Samuel says. “You will eventually get used to it as well as to the noise. Come this way.”

I look out a sliding glass door at the darkness beyond. “It would still be light in Portland.”

Samuel laughs as he slides open the door. “Many differences here.”

I follow him out onto a small cobblestone porch that overlooks a walled yard that is at least twice the size of my backyard. Artfully laid ground lighting follow stone paths that wind around groves of bamboo, illuminate large stone lanterns, show off towering palm trees, and encircle a large pond. On the left side of the yard, sparser lighting reveals a one-story building, beige, I think, separate from the main house and partially concealed by a long hedge. The structure extends to the rear of the yard. That must be where I’ll be bedding down.

“Beautiful, Samuel, absolutely incredible. It reminds me of Hawaii. Are there koi in the pond?”

“Yes, come look.” He points at a cluster of sandals at the side of the porch. “Please choose a pair. The bigger ones are mine. I think they will work for you.” They’re too small but I don’t say anything. We move down the half dozen steps and follow the lit stone pathway to the pond. “I know how much you like to play in koi ponds” he says.

I nod, remembering the desperate “playtime,” slip-sliding around while trying not to get clobbered by a drug-crazed behemoth.

“Here,” he says, gesturing to a single stone bench. “Let us sit. There are nine koi. Three of them are over fifty years old; one is my age, sixty-five, that one there, the mostly white one with the black spots on its head.”

“They’re magnificent,” I say, looking at the color-splashed fish twist and turn.

“Yes, they are. In Japanese folklore, the koi represents a symbol of strength and bravery. It is said that it first shows its courage by battling its way up a waterfall. When it is caught, it shows its bravery again as it lies still on the cutting board, awaiting the knife like a samurai facing a sword. In ancient China, legend tells of how any koi that succeeded in climbing the water falls, a point called Dragon Gate on the Yellow River, would be transformed into a dragon. The koi represents the will, you see, the will to go against hardship to reach its destiny. And the dragon, of course, represents power and ferocity.”

“Interesting,” I say, watching the white one swim circles around the others. When Samuel doesn’t say anything for a moment, I look up at him. He’s watching the white koi too.

“Their journey is like ours, no?” he asks. “Yours and mine?”

My eyes mist over. Hope he doesn’t notice.

“My sifu, Shen Lang Rui, has taught me many things over the years. I was a mess after I was released from prison. My head case… is that still the expression?”

I nod. “Dated. Very nineteen sixties, but I understand.”

“Thank you. My head case was not because of the four years I spent in prison. My experience there was hard but not impossibly so. In fact, it led me to my teacher, and for that I am grateful. No, it was the haunting of the men I killed. Sifu’s training me in the martial arts and teaching me meditation techniques helped me through the pain. After about three years, I think it was, when my head was on straight again, he told me to get a tattoo of a koi, to celebrate my progress.”

“For overcoming obstacles.”

“Yes. Sifu is a Buddhist… actually, he’s Christian too… but speaking from the Buddhist part, he said that the koi represented my struggle against suffering. So I did as he told me.”

“You did?”

“Yes, and about ten years after that, which was about twenty years ago, he told me to add a dragon tattoo to it.”

“To represent your power and fierceness.”

“No, I am a pussy cat. It was to represent my journey with him in the martial arts, my training in the way of the Temple of Ten Thousand Fists style.”

“Like a belt promotion.”

“It was. And the tattoo had to be specific.”

“Where is it?” It’s not on his arms or his upper body. I know because I saw him with his shirt off. I shudder slightly remembering the old bullet hole scars all over his chest and the long-healed whip marks on his back.

“On my leg,” he says, standing. He moves over next to a ground light and, without a moment’s hesitation or an ounce of modesty, drops trou. With his slacks bunched up around his ankles—thankfully he’s wearing boxers, white ones with little red hearts—he pivots his right leg, revealing muscles that aren’t large but are quite defined. The tat has faded some but the myriad colors are still breathtaking. The fat, red- and black-scaled koi, its body curved in mid-zig, covers Samuel’s entire calf, its tail overlaps his Achilles tendon, its open-mouthed head just below the bend of his knee. Circling the koi is a ghostly serpentine body of a lightly tinted red- and green-scaled dragon. “The dragon is emerging, you see?”

“Beautiful. Makes the black belt seem rather drab.”

“No, no,” he says pulling up his pants. “By the way, Kim bought these boxers for me.”

“Suuure.”

He sits back down next to me. “The black belt and my tattoo are both about struggle and conquering it. Facing weaknesses and overcoming them. Learning about ourselves and fixing what needs to be fixed.”

What a pleasure it is to listen to him. The week we spent together in Portland was insane and didn’t allow for much time to get to know each other. Fate dropped us back into each other’s lives and then all hell broke loose. Before we had a chance for a sit-down, he and Mai had to fly home. When I thought about him here, I imagined something like we are doing right now: talking, listening, being together. It’s also how I imagined that he lived, not the opulence of this house, although Mai told me that they owned a number of jewelry stores, but rather him surrounded by family and enjoying his life.

“Do you like this?” Samuel asks, gesturing at the yard.

“It’s such a peaceful place,” I say. “I can barely hear the traffic. You no doubt meditate out here?”

“At least once a day, usually two times. I sometimes work out over there behind that far grove of bamboo.”

“That a heavy bag?” I say squinting toward a part of the yard where there are fewer ground lights. “It’s huge.”

“Yes, three hundred pounds. We will play on it when you are rested. When I train with Sifu, we often go to a nearby cemetery. We have trained in many of them over the years. He likes cemeteries because they are usually shaded and quiet. He also says that they are convenient because if he kills me by mistake, he doesn’t have to carry me anywhere. That is his idea of humor.”

I laugh. “Fun guy.”

“Well, sometimes not so much.” Samuel stands. “Let us walk a little.”

He clasps his hands behind his back and looks around the yard, his face relaxed, at peace. I start to mimic his posture, but stuff my hands into my pants pockets instead. He moves along the side of the pond and hesitates when he reaches the end. He looks at the swirling creatures, frowns, and studies them for a moment.

“Peace starts within, does it not? Even when it is hard to find externally, in the world I mean, there is always one quiet place to seek refuge.” He taps his chest. “That place is inside of us.” He smiles. “I am touching my fingers to my heart, but in reality, the peaceful place is here.” He taps his head. “Sometimes we need help to reach that quiet place. I have found that this small backyard helps me get there. I have also found it sitting on a river bank, resting under a tree and, a few times, I have found it sitting in the middle of a traffic jam.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready to seek it in one of your traffic jams, but I can see how it would work in this garden. Palm trees, even. I never thought of them in Vietnam.”

“Oh yes,” Samuel says looking up at the closest one. “And these are particularly interesting, they grow video cameras.”

He points toward the top of a lofty palm that reigns over the yard a few paces in front of us. “Look between the two lowest limbs there on the right. It is hard to see in the dark.”

“I see it. Video security?”

“It is one of twelve cameras. Come.” He leads me around the hedge, and onto a cobblestone pathway, toward the beige building. Each of the three doors is illuminated by a yellow bug light. “The structure is somewhat like a triplex, you see. You will stay in the center one. We will move your luggage in there shortly. Tex stays in the first one. It is the last cottage I want to show you right now.”

“Chào Samuel,” a short, stout man says opening the door before Samuel knocks. He looks to be older than Samuel, wearing tan shorts, sandals, and a white tank top. The skin on his left forearm is lighter colored and smooth in some places, darker and heavily wrinkled in others—scars of a severe burn. Tucked into his waistband, a Glock 9.

“Chào Lam,” Samuel says returning a bow. “This is my son Sam. Sam, this is Lam. He works the day shift but he is working a few extra hours tonight. He’s an old soldier.”

Bet that’s where he got the burn. Lam extends his hand.

“Please meet you,” he says with a nod. I say the same.

“Lam is my main security man.” Samuel jerks his head toward the room. “He set this up for us.”

“Beaucoup monitor, number one,” Lam says, with a smile that reveals only a couple of teeth. He steps aside and gestures toward all the screens. “Plenty monitor. No muther fuck get inside.”

“Fuck-er,” Samuel corrects.

Lam nods, embarrassed. “Fuck-er. Sorry, English bad.”

I fight a smile. “No, no. Your English is very good. My Vietnamese is nonexistent.”

Lam frowns and looks at Samuel who says something in Vietnamese, probably translating. Lam smiles and shakes my hand again. “No sweat. I help you.”

“Okay,” I say. “Cám ơn.”

“Yes, yes,” Lam says, nodding. “You say ‘thank you.’ Very good.” He turns to the large flat screen monitors, six of them evenly spaced around a long semicircular desk. He gestures for me to follow him to the other side to see the screens. “See everything,” he says, pointing at them. He sits and centers himself on the six screens.

“Each screen is split vertically to show two locations,” Samuel says. “For example, the one on the right shows the outside gate where you came in. When one of us walks or drives up, we just show our face and the man in here opens the gate. The next one shows the outside doors to the living room. Each of these other screens show various locations around the backyard, and the other three show different angles on the outside wall. We have cameras mounted on four outside buildings, you see.” The screen changes to another view. “We get a new angle every fifteen seconds, and we can freeze a shot for as long as we want. There, that is the gate you and Mai came through earlier. Watch.” He clicks the mouse and the camera zooms in so tight that I can see the bumps in the black paint.

“Very impressive,” I say. “What happens if Lam sees someone trying to get in somewhere? Do you call the police?”

“It depends. I’ll explain more about that later. I do have people on the outside of the walls.”

“Will your people confront intruders?”

Samuel smiles. “You are always the policeman.” He steps over next to Lam and touches his shoulder with affection. “We are all getting old, but we are still soldiers. Lam served in the same unit as Tex. Both worked with my Green Berets near Cambodia.” Samuel turns toward me, his face chiseled, eyes like those in a stuffed deer. “If someone comes onto this property to hurt my family or my friends, that person’s heart will cease to beat where we find him.”

I saw that look on his face in Portland. He isn’t blowing smoke.

“So all this is to defend against Lai Van Tan?”

“Mostly, yes,” he says, his face softening. “If it were just me, I would live in a small village somewhere by the sea. I do not need a house like this, or this kind of high tech security. But I have a family—a wife, children, friends who stay or live here, part time and full time. I must protect them from Lai Van Tan and, of course, from others who want what is in the house.

“Sometimes in life we have to make concessions, do we not?” he says, leaning against the desk and folding his arms. “My family is everything to me, Sam. I will do anything to make them happy and safe. Buddha said, ‘If you light a lamp for someone else it will also brighten your path.’ Very true. It makes me happy to make my family happy.”

A blink ago, his eyes were those of a predator, now they are filled with love. I wonder what it would have been like to have been raised by him. I bet I wouldn’t have been the obnoxious teen that gave my mother such a hard time. On the other hand, to quote Popeye, “I am what I am.”

Lam says something in Vietnamese and Samuel turns to look at an exterior screen. It shows two men, both wearing dark pants and white overshirts, standing side by side, their backs to the wall. The one on the left is smoking a cigarette and the other is drinking from a can. The exterior lighting bathes them in tungsten orange.

“Maybe just two men taking a break from whatever they are doing,” Samuel says, his eyes watching the screen intently. The one smoking says something and the other laughs and pats the smoker’s shoulder. They hang out for a few minutes, talking, laughing, before shaking hands and walking off in opposite directions.

Samuel turns to me. “It appears to be nothing. We have only been in this house for a few weeks so we are still new to it and maybe a little hypervigilant. Much of our tension is because we are unclear about what is happening with Lai Van Tan. Kim’s brother, Lu, has an inside source who says that the man is hungry for revenge. It doesn’t matter to Lai that the death of his son resulted from the orders he gave, or that his son and his partner were the cause of their own demise. His twisted reasoning makes him even more dangerous.”

“You said in our last email exchange that he hasn’t done anything since you’ve been back from Portland. Why do you think that is?”

Samuel shrugs. “Maybe he is just stewing on it, maybe he is making plans to do something and he doesn’t want to bungle it as his people did in Portland. Maybe maybe maybe. I do not know. That said, I do not believe that he will make a big attempt, such as storming our walls, because it would get too much attention from the government, the police, and the media. I think he will try to pick us off when he thinks we do not expect it, and he will do it low key. That is another maybe. Desperate people are capable of desperate things, like storming walls.”

I watch Lam zoom in on a woman walking by the front gate. She stops, looks through the bars, and moves on. Lam restores the screen to normal view and moves his gaze to another monitor.

“Just wondering,” I say, looking back to Samuel. “Mai picked me up at the airport by herself. No worries about that? I mean, you have all this video security but then she is driving around town.”

“Good concern. As we saw in Portland, these people are terrorists, but we choose not to be terrorized. We go about our daily business, but always in high alert. I trust Mai’s abilities. She has been well trained.”

“I remember,” I say. She caught me off guard two or three times in my school with her extraordinary speed. Her techniques were a bit fancy-smancy for my taste, but she did them flawlessly and made them work. And when she had to use her techniques in a real fight for our lives, her skill and viciousness were disturbing. When the timing is right, I want to ask her about that. Or maybe I’ll ask Samuel.

“Mai has great skills,” Samuel says proudly. “I know my daughter was alert to everything around her on her journey to the airport, at the airport, and on her way back. But I wonder, Sam,” he says with a slight smile, his head tilted a little. “I wonder how observant you were.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you notice anything about Mai when she picked you up?”

Oh man, did I, but I’m guessing that’s not what he’s talking about. “Not sure what you mean.”

“Good,” Samuel says. “She even fooled the veteran police officer, a trained observer. She was carrying a Glock 26, nine millimeter handgun in an ankle holster.”

He laughs at the surprise on my face. “You were in good hands, Son.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “She never fails to amaze me.”

“I would have gone with her, but one of the old soldiers in the home died two days ago. I was attending his funeral. He had been a member of the Thủy Quân Lục Chiến, the Republic of Vietnam Marine Corps. He served in the two hundred fifty-eighth Marine Brigade, fifth Battalion. The ‘Black Dragons’ they called themselves. Poor man had never got over the horrors he had seen. That is, until the last five years of his life when Alzheimer’s removed his terrible memories. The disease was a blessing of sorts, I think.”

“I am anxious to hear more about the soldiers’ home, and see it.”

“Tomorrow. You look like you could sleep a week.”

“Two weeks, actually. About Lai Van Tan, do you think he knows that I’m here now?”

“I think he knows the color of your underwear.”

“Oh man.”

“About those ‘maybes’ I mentioned earlier?”

“Yes?”

“There is one more. Maybe he will act now, be more motivated now that you are here.” I must have a pained expression on my face because Samuel adds, “I am sorry. I know you came here to help clear your head.”

“Yes, and get to know you and Mai better, and meet Kim and my sisters. But I don’t want to add to the risk. I don’t want anyone to be hurt because I’m here.”

Samuel smiles. “We will deal with it, Sam. That is what warriors do, no? And we will deal with it as a family, and you have a big family here. Besides, even if you had not come, he would have done something eventually. Your presence might hurry him up. Or maybe not. Maybe, maybe.”

I get what he’s saying about the inevitable, but it still bothers me that my presence might be the cause of someone getting hurt, or worse. I don’t need any more of that.

“You hungry? I think the phở is ready for us. Lam, Ly will bring you some shortly.”

“Cám ơn,” Lam says with a salute. “Oh, Sifu come tonight?”

“No,” Samuel says, opening the door. “We will let Sam rest. I think tomorrow my teacher will come.”

“Trời ơi!” Lam says shaking his head. “Sifu same like wind.”

Samuel smiles. “He is indeed, sir. He is indeed.”

Samuel closes the door behind us and once again we’re out in the wet heat. Alex, a Vietnam veteran-cop-partner, used to say that it would get so hot here that the water buffalo would evaporate. I believe it.

Samuel is chuckling. “Lam gets frustrated because Sifu has shown up three times without being seen on the monitors.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

Samuel shrugs. “I do not know how he does it. I come out into the backyard and there he is, feeding the koi. I think he does it because he can and to annoy Lam. Sifu likes jokes.”

*

Mai enters the dining room and kills in her black satin pants and white blouse. I saw lots of women wearing the same thing on our way here this morning but none looked so breathtaking.

“Mother is sleeping,” she says, sitting down. “Ly will take her something when she awakens.”

“I hope my presence has not tired her,” I say.

“On the contrary… that is the right word?” I nod. “On the contrary. She looked forward to meeting you very much. And she insisted on doing so dressed and out in the living room.” She smiles shyly. “Mother liked you very much.”

I smile at that and Mai’s smile fills the dining room.

Samuel shakes his head with mock disgust.

Ly sets steaming bowls of phở in front of us and a plate heaped with spring rolls in the center of the table.

Mai points at my bowl. “This phở contains vermicelli noodles, sliced beef, bean sprouts, chopped peanuts, and mint leaves.” She picks up a small bowl of red sauce and places it in front of me. “Please add bean and chili sauce to your taste, and squeeze in the fresh lime wedge juice to your taste. Oh, and please have the spring rolls. They are called gỏi cuốn in Vietnamese. The outside is rice paper and inside is sliced cold shrimp, mint leaves, and cold vermicelli noodles.” She sets a small bowl of nearly clear, orange liquid next to my bowl. “Please dip the rolls in this sauce called nước mắm.”

“Oh, man,” I say around a mouthful of spring roll. “I could get used to eating this way.”

“You will have to,” Mai and Samuel say simultaneously.

Twenty minutes later, as Ly removes the dishes and Mai fills our cups with green tea, I ask Samuel how long he has lived in this house.

“Only since we’ve been back from Portland,” he says. “It is not my house; it belongs to a friend.”

When Mai and I had pulled into the driveway, she said that her father got it from a friend but I assumed that he had bought it.

“He is quite wealthy. This is just one of four he owns, the other three houses are much larger than this one. He is kindly letting us stay here until the problem with Lai Van Tan is settled.” He gestures toward the ornate backyard. “I prefer a small condo to all of this. A small place better suits my personality and is less conspicuous. And inconspicuous is a wise choice when you are a Caucasian living in Vietnam, married to a local woman, and running a successful business.”

Mai says, “Father and Mother will retire someday to Châu Đốc, a small town on the water at the edge of the Mekong delta near the Cambodian border.”

“We have visited there many times over the years,” Samuel says smiling. “We love its quiet, at least quiet compared to the frantic insanity of Saigon. It’s a picturesque place known for its fish sauces and catfish export business. Kim and I…” Something passes across his eyes. He looks out into the blackness beyond the sliding glass doors then back to his tea. His voice is softer now, pensive. “We want to spend our remaining years in a peaceful place surrounded by beauty, friendly people, and wonderful food.”

Samuel seems so much more in his element here than he was in Portland. For sure, thirty-five years in one place will do that to a person, but in his case it seems like the connection is more… spiritual? Yes, I think that’s it. His connection here is more than him being used to the traffic, noise, and crush of humanity. There’s something else.

“I love Vietnam,” he says, sipping from his cup. “I love the country, the people, the heat, and the intensity of how we live here. I have spent over half my time on earth in this country, and I hope to remain for the rest of my days. In my mind, I am Vietnamese.” He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes dancing with remembrance. He looks down at his soup and back to me. “It’s ironic,” he says softly. “This country that enveloped me in such incredible violence, is the place where I have found an inner peace.”

“I’m pleased to hear that, Samuel,” I say. Mai lovingly pats his hand. “But why? Why here in Vietnam?”

“A good question, Son. To be clear, I did not need to be here to find peace. It was within me all the time, you see, and it is within you.” He is thoughtful and doesn’t rush his words. “But Vietnam is where I was when I found it, and I think being here helped me find it sooner. I do not know for sure because I have only here to compare it to.” He smiles at me. “Am I confusing you?”

“I think I understand,” I say, meaning it.

“Then maybe you can explain it to me,” he says with a chuckle. “What I do understand for certain is that now I must be mindful of doing good, doing it every day. I cannot change what happened in the past, but I can do what is right today.”

We slurp our tea, comfortable without words. I know that there will never be a sudden “aha” moment that makes everything all right for me, but I’ve learned over the years that words are powerful, that they can heal, or at least start the healing process. Samuel has been there, done that, and come to terms with it. I hope to learn from him and come to terms with what I’ve done.

“Have I showed you my teacup trick?” he says nonchalantly, munching on a spring roll.

“Yes you have, Father,” Mai says, pretending exasperation, “And you know very well you have.”

“I did?” he says, holding back a grin. “Must be getting old. No memory and I am getting slow.”

I snort. “I don’t recall you being slow when you switched those teacups… I’ve never seen such extraordinary speed in my life.”

“Really? How about my coin trick? Did I show you that one?”

“Father, I think Sam probably wants to get some rest. Maybe show it to him tomorrow.”

“Mai thinks she is clever. She is trying to distract me because she knows that tomorrow I will forget.”

I laugh at Mai’s feigned innocence, and say, “I am tired but I’d like to see it.”

“Good good good,” he says, enthusiastic as a child. “Do you have some change in your pocket? Oh, very good. Put all of it on the table here.”

I set two nickels, a dime, and two quarters on the bamboo place mat.

“Pick up the dime,” he says. “We should stand.” We both get up and he moves directly in front of me. “Okay, place the dime in your palm, please. Then hold your open palm out toward me.”

I do as he says.

“Mai will count to three. When she says ‘three,’ I will try to grab the dime before you close your hand into a fist. This is a demonstration of speed from Temple of Ten Thousand Fists style.”

When he showed me the teacup trick in Portland, I didn’t see him move at all. I perceived something, a sense of air being displaced, I think, but I didn’t actually see him move his hands toward the cup.

“Okay, Sam. When Mai says three, close your hand as fast as you can so I don’t get the dime. Okay? Ready? I think I can beat you but I am not sure.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, looking at Mai who shoots me a you-won’t-believe-this look.

“Mai, begin the count.” I’ve seen people play the snatch the coin trick before, but they did it by hovering their hand over the coin. Samuel positions his right hand about eighteen inches away in front of mine, palm down, and his left palm on the table. “I used to do this demonstration with both of my hands on the table,” he says with a shrug. “But Father Time is a cruel beast.”

“One,” she says.

His hands are too fast so it would be useless to watch them. So I’ll watch his shoulders. No matter how a person moves, they give it away by moving their shoulders first.

“Two.”

My muscles are at a relaxed ready. I talked with Bob –Munden once, a guy who holds multiple world records in quick draw with a handgun. He said that he relaxes to about ninety percent before the buzzer sounds the signal for him to draw his gun and fire. He said that any less, like eighty percent, he would be too tense, and any more, like ninety-five percent, he would be too relaxed. He knows what he is talking about: He can draw, fire, and hit the target in less time than it takes to blink.

“Three!”

I snap my hand closed.

I don’t see Samuel move, but similar to what happened during the teacup trick, I detect something, a change in the air, a disturbance in the space between our two hands, I’m not sure. Samuel’s left hand is still resting on the table and his right is still floating palm down a foot and a half away. It remains open so it couldn’t hold a coin, unless he’s really good at pinching it somehow in his hand. Wait. Isn’t his… yes, I’m sure of it. His right hand is a tad to the right of where it was a moment ago and I think his right shoulder is a little higher. So he did move, it’s just that—

The coin. I can still feel the coin in my hand. He didn’t get it. I beat him.

I lift my fist in the air and bob my eyebrows at him.

“You are indeed fast, Son,” he says seriously, though I detect a twinkle in his eye. “Fast like lightning.”

“Oh, Father,” Mai says, shaking her head.

I frown. “Uh, okay?” I’m not understanding the demonstration.

“Look at your change on the table, Sam,” Mai says.

“A nickel and two quarters. I’m still not understanding…”

Samuel turns over his palm. Empty.

“I know,” I say. “I still have the—”

He lifts his left hand off the table, revealing a dime resting on the table. He bobs his eyebrows at me. I look back at the table. Wait. Didn’t I set down two nickels?

I slowly uncurl my fingers…

Jefferson’s profile mocks me. I’m holding a nickel.

“No—Damn—Way,” I breathe.

“Father switched the coins before you closed your fist, Sam.”

Wait, he would have had to have grabbed the dime with his right hand because it was closest. But how did he transfer it to his left that was resting on the table? And he would have had to pick up the nickel from the table with his left and transfer… How is it possible that someone can move that fast?

She laughs. “Your mouth is hanging open.”

I look back at Samuel.

“But I didn’t see you move.”

“Good,” he says sitting back down. “My vitamins are working.”

*

“Did you bring earplugs?” Mai asks, her lips tickling my ear.

“Yes,” I manage, nuzzling the silkiness of her hair. “I did as you told me.”

“That is good because the new noises might keep you from sleeping.” Her nose is making little circles on the side of my neck. “And it is also good that you obeyed me.”

“I must obey you, huh?” I ask, nibbling her earlobe.

“But of course.” Her body leans into me. “You have a problem with that?”

“Not even a little bit,” I squeak, just before our mouths meet and my head roars like one of the rocket attacks that slammed into Saigon forty years ago.

After we finished our tea, Samuel, Mai, and I sat at the table chatting about Vietnam’s weather, politics, crime, customs, and food. When I started to bring up what happened at Portland State University, Samuel lifted his palm, and said, “Let’s not talk about that your first day here.” And that was fine by me. I just brought it up because it seemed like an elephant in the room.

I was starting to slur my words, and was grateful when Samuel suggested that we carry my luggage to my room and say goodnight. He said it was an hour past his bedtime. He grinned when I asked him if he moves more slowly when he’s up late.

That “coin trick” was an amazing feat of speed. I refuse to think that his hands were invisible, but the more I think about it, it’s hard not to. I saw, or perceived, or felt, some kind of movement, plus there was evidence that he had moved. But the fact remains, he carried out a complex maneuver of picking up the nickel, snatching the dime out of my hand, replacing it with the nickel, handing off the dime to his other hand, and moving his grabbing hand back to where it started, hovering about eighteen inches from mine.

After we hauled my luggage to the triplex and Samuel showed me where things were, he shook my hand, and said, “Jet lag is demonic. Get up when you feel like it.” As he headed away, he shot Mai a fatherly look that I interpreted as: Listen up, soldier girl. Have your goodnight kiss and then move out sharply to your own room.

For the past half hour, we have been standing outside my door under a bug light chatting, laughing, and laying some lip action. The hedge blocks the view from the house, but we’re still under video surveillance by whoever is watching the monitors tonight.

Finally, we separate slowly and painfully as if we were Velcro. Not because we want to, but because we’re losing our balance and about to fall onto the cobblestone walkway. It makes us giggle. Yes, euphoric from jet lag and from all that is Mai, I actually giggle.

“I better go in, Sam,” Mai says.

I hold her upper arms and step back. “I agree, but I don’t want you to. But I agree.”

“English is such a hard language to understand.”

“I need a cold shower.”

“That I understand. And I agree.”

Neither of us move.

“Are you going in?” I ask.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

Neither of us move.

Finally, Mai extends her hand. “I will be the stronger person. Good night, Sam. In Vietnamese good night is chúc ngủ ngon.”

“Chúc ngủ ngon,” I say, shaking her hand.

“Yes, very good.” She pulls me into her for one final, all-too- quick kiss, and a whispered, “Chúc ngủ ngon.” Oh man. I’ve never heard anything so sensual.

She walks quickly to the end of the walkway, turns and shoots me that heart-stopping smile, and disappears beyond the hedge.

“Die-amn!” I say, and step into my room for an ice cold shower.