Dragon House Page 16

“Don’t look at me like that, Minh the Curious,” Mai said, wishing that they could meet the opera singer again, having never heard such a beautiful thing as her voice. “Do you expect me to be quiet forever? I’m not like you.”

  A mosquito drifted between them and Minh struck swiftly.

  “I don’t think he saw that coming,” Mai said, glancing for other such pests. A baby cried somewhere in a nearby shanty, and Mai thought of Tung’s little sister. The shields Mai had encircled herself with that morning cracked and started to sway, but she quickly patched them up, forcing thoughts of Tung and her own lies toward a distant place. “I think we should stop by that American’s street center,” she said, voicing what she’d mused over during the long hours before dawn.

  Minh paused from wiping the mosquito from his palm. Mai had spoken of the center several times, but never about visiting it.

  “It can’t hurt to say hello, can it?” she asked. “We’ll be careful, and make sure that Loc’s not following us. If he doesn’t know about it, he can’t hurt us for it.”

  Instinctively, Minh glanced around, not only to ensure that Loc wasn’t nearby, but also to see that they were beyond earshot of anyone else. He thought of Mai’s suggestion, wondering about the street center. He had heard about it many times, of course. He’d heard that it was to house girls, though, and so he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He couldn’t imagine being separated from Mai, and she wouldn’t be safe there anyway. Loc would track her down.

  Minh took his good hand and grabbed Mai’s wrist, pretending to drag her away.

  “I know he’d find us there,” she said, her tone suddenly angry. “But what’s the harm in looking? Maybe they can help us, Minh. Did you ever think of that?”

  He put a finger to his lips.

  “Tung was going to steal that formula, wasn’t he?”

  Minh looked away, wishing she’d lower her voice.

  “And do you know what would have happened then? We’d have been caught. Oh, Minh, we can’t keep doing this. I’m getting too old for this, for selling fans and worrying about the police. Do you know what happens to girls like me who stay on the street for too long? Do you know what they start to sell? That’s right. They sell themselves . . . until there’s nothing left of them.” Mai’s eyes started to tear as she imagined such a fate.

  Moving beside her on the tire, Minh put his arm around her. He saw that she was staring blankly at a bush, which didn’t surprise him. Better to look at something green than the ugliness that surrounded them. They both did that in the city above, avoiding the areas where older street girls worked, where the girls beckoned to passersby from dimly lit buildings. Minh knew that Mai hated the sight of such buildings. She’d refused to walk by one once, even after Loc had threatened to beat her. Loc hadn’t hit her. But he’d smiled.

  “Can we go to the center tomorrow?” Mai asked softly, still staring at the bush, which was draped by several dirty plastic bags from when the river had been even higher.

  Minh nodded, wondering how the bush managed to live amid all the filth.

  “And can you win today, Minh? Please? I’m too tired to sell fans. If you won a lot today, we could take some time off tomorrow and visit the center. And do you know what? I heard there’s a room full of painted clouds.” Mai looked up and saw nothing but the stained and pitted bottom of the concrete bridge. “They say you can just sit and look at the clouds. Let’s go there. Please. I’ll say hello to everyone. You won’t have to do anything.”

  Nodding once again, Minh rose from the tire. He moved along the water for a few paces, coming to the bush. Carefully he removed the plastic bags from where they’d wrapped themselves about weathered branches. He set the bags aside and then followed Mai toward their basket. He’d found a discarded roll of packing tape the previous night and had tried to cover his entire game box with the tape so as to waterproof it. The box glistened in the faint light, and Minh picked it up and placed it under his arm.

  Minh watched Mai tidy their bedding. He wanted to tell her that he’d never let her become one of those girls, that despite his fears he also hoped to go to the mountains. He wanted to tell her so many things—that the bush reminded him of her, that sometimes he hated leaving their basket, that he was trying to devise a plan for how to trick Loc. But not having the courage to bring life to such words, he simply pointed to his game box and then held his forefinger in the air.

  Mai shrugged. “So, you’re going to be number one today?”

  Minh pretended to grab a basketball rim and pull it down.

  “You’re going to be the Shaq?” she asked, smiling.

  He set his game down, and pulled even harder at the imaginary rim.

  Mai giggled softly. “And the Shaq’s going to be even more powerful than usual? Even more dominant?”

  He nodded, gesturing for Mai to speak more.

  “And he’s . . . he’s going to stomp on his opponents. And break their feet. And dunk shoot over them. And take the ball and . . . and step back and shoot a three-point shot. And when his opponents try to score . . . well, then . . . the Shaq is going to . . . He’s going to grab the ball out of the air and pop it like a balloon.”

  Minh grinned, pretending to do whatever Mai was saying.

  Soon she was laughing. Soon the two friends were walking along the city streets, pretending to play basketball, to do things that their bodies were incapable of doing but their minds were not. As an imaginary ball bounced between them and their sandals rose higher than usual above the cracked cement, they didn’t notice that their bellies were empty. And for a while they were like any other children out for a stroll.

  IRIS LAY IN BED, STRETCHING. HER body was still somewhat unaccustomed to the time change, and she had worked late the previous night, ensuring all her father’s paperwork was in order. Drinking Vietnamese tea and listening to Thien sing in the background, she’d hammered away at an oversize calculator until the tips of her fingers ached. The number six button on the calculator often stuck and then repeated itself, making her start over on whatever problem she had been tackling. Math had never been one of her stronger suits, and she’d rechecked her work time and time again, finding more mistakes as the evening progressed. One thing soon became clear—the center had enough money to sustain itself for about a year. But beyond a year, a budget didn’t exist.

  Iris rubbed her brow, which was already damp with sweat. She yawned. As tempting as it was to remain in bed, she put her feet on the tiled floor and dressed in light pants and a T-shirt. She pinned her hair up, wanting to keep it off her neck in the coming heat. Slipping her feet into sandals, she walked upstairs to the dormitory, eager to hear how Qui and Tam’s first night went.

  To her surprise, the room was empty. Qui’s and Tam’s beds were made and their pajamas were folded neatly and set atop a pillow. Confused, Iris looked around the room. She walked back downstairs. Nothing moved in the office but the overhead fans. The classroom was almost as barren, though Noah slept on his cot. Worried for her guests, Iris hurried back to the stairwell and descended to the ground level, making her way into the kitchen. Thien stood next to a counter, cutting fruit and singing quietly.

  “Where are they?” Iris asked, putting out her hands, palms up.

  Thien paused, a slice of mango falling slowly onto a chopping block. “Qui and Tam are not upstairs?”

  “No, Thien. Their beds are made and they’re gone.”

  Setting down her knife, Thien wiped her hands on a towel. “We should go to the market.”

  Iris sighed, wishing the day had begun better. She followed Thien out of the center. The city’s smells greeted her—a striking combination of diesel fuel, roasting garlic, mildew, bougainvillea, animals, thatch, and a thousand other things. Iris didn’t recall it raining the previous night, but the streets were littered with puddles. Scooters dodged the puddles the way fish swim in fast currents, darting from side to side.

  Normally Thien stopped and chatted with many people she passed, of
ten taking their photo with her Polaroid. Iris hadn’t seen her move with the sense of purpose that she did now and was pleased to watch her sandals kick up so much gravel. “Why would they go back to the market?” Iris asked, wondering if Thien should be heading somewhere else.

  Thien circumvented a pair of snarling dogs without a second glance. “It was my mistake, Miss Iris. I was not clear with them. Qui will still think that she needs to earn money for food.”

  “But we told them they were welcome to live with us. That we’d feed them.”

  “And Qui will think that she has to pay us for the food. And for everything else. She will worry that if they become a burden to us, we will put them back out on the street.”

  Iris thought about Qui lifting Tam from her warm bed and carrying her to a distant corner to begin a long day of begging. The image made Iris feel as if she’d failed Tam. Surely she must be miserable. “Let’s hurry,” Iris said, noticing the market’s yellow facade in the distance.

  Thien stepped into a broad boulevard. Taking Iris’s hand, she zigzagged her way through traffic. When a scooter didn’t pause to let her pass, Thien took off her baseball cap and swiped at the driver, muttering something in Vietnamese. Almost immediately upon hitting the sidewalk they spied Qui and Tam, who occupied their usual spot atop the bench in front of the market. Tam appeared to be sleeping, her new doll resting against her chest. Qui held three books and was trying to get the attention of a group of tourists.

  Iris walked to Qui and knelt before her. “Qui, you don’t have to do this,” she said, angry at herself when she saw how Tam lay asleep on the bench, how two flies were perched near her nose. Iris waved the flies away and took Qui’s hands within her own. “You’re to live with us now. Do you understand?”

  Qui blinked repeatedly, unsure what to say. She’d awoken early, wanting to earn as much money as possible, so that she and Tam could contribute to the center. Tam had slept so well in the soft bed. Qui couldn’t imagine returning to their little room by the water, where cockroaches and rats were often their bedfellows. “Please, Miss Iris,” she said, lowering her head. “Please no make us go back. We work so hard. I make money. One or maybe two dollar each day. It enough for food. I only eat a little. I—”

  “Sssh,” Iris said, shaking her head. “If you want to work for money, that’s fine. You can work at the center. You can clean. I’ll pay you. You’ll clean the dormitory and Tam can rest where you can see her.”

  Qui looked from Iris to Thien. She wasn’t sure if she’d heard the tall foreigner correctly. Qui had never held any sort of paying job. The thought of someone giving her money to clean was difficult for her to comprehend. Again she glanced from face to face, seeking some sort of clarification.

  Thien sensed Qui’s confusion. “We’d be honored to have your help,” she said in Vietnamese. “Miss Iris doesn’t have time to sweep, to wash the sheets, to keep the spiders from spinning their sneaky little webs. She’s been worried about keeping the dormitory clean enough for all those girls.” Thien smiled, leaning closer. “Between us, it would be a great relief to me if you’d come and work for her. She’d have one less thing to worry about. And she so worries these days. You should have seen her last night, fluttering around the rooms like a bird looking for its fallen nest.”

  Qui nodded, the prospect of working next to her sleeping granddaughter nearly too wonderful to imagine. “And Tam?”

  “Our center is for girls. For girls to learn. Tam will learn like everyone else.”

  Qui put her hands together and bowed again. “Then please tell Miss Iris that I’ll clean that room as if it were my own home.”

  Thien smiled, adjusting her cap. “You tell her, honored guest. You should practice your English. And let me say thank you for taking this pressure from Miss Iris’s shoulders. As her friend, I’m so relieved that you’ll be working with us.”

  Lowering her head to Iris, Qui proceeded to accept her kind offer, not believing that such miracles continued to befall her. As she spoke, Tam stirred in her sleep, muttering softly. Qui watched her granddaughter, eager to bring her back to the room with the clouds, the quiet fans, and the soft bed.

  Relieved that Qui would soon be working for her, but worried about other pressing matters, Iris handed Thien some money and asked that they take a cyclo back to the center as soon as Tam awoke. She then said good-bye.

  The previous night Iris had spent several hours online, researching doctors who specialized in treating cancer patients at nearby hospitals. She’d found a French physician who was a renowned expert in childhood leukemia and who also ran a local clinic. She wanted to stop by his office and talk to him about visiting Tam. Thien had written down directions to his clinic, and Iris strode to a nearby cyclo driver and handed him the piece of neatly folded paper. He opened it, pursed his lips, and said, “One hundred thousand dong.”

  Iris shook her head. “Seventy-five thousand.”

  The man scowled. “That too little. But for you, okay.”

  After climbing into the cyclo, Iris waved good-bye to Thien and Qui. The driver put his hand out, signaling traffic that he wished to pedal across the boulevard. Iris thought that taxis and scooters might honk at being forced to stop so abruptly, but no one seemed to mind. The sun already appeared to steam the city, and Iris wished that she hadn’t rushed off without her sunglasses or hat. Her face glistened. Her lips tasted of sweat. A bus rumbled past, spewing black exhaust. Iris held her T-shirt over her mouth, breathing through the thin fabric. Eyeing the masks that many of the locals wore, she resolved to buy one at the next opportunity.

  It wasn’t hard to imagine how riding in a cyclo could be an incredibly romantic or exciting experience. She felt quite worldly, like an explorer from some forgotten era when empires were still discovered and lost, when novels like A Passage to India were researched and written. She’d have liked to sit in the cyclo and pretend she was writing such a novel. In a world of her making, she’d have spent the morning doing just that.

  But the world wasn’t of her making, and she had a hundred things to do, and the cyclo suddenly seemed like a very slow means of transportation. She watched enviously as scooters and even bicycles sped past them as the city drifted by. Glancing behind her, Iris saw that her driver seemed to be in no particular hurry. His sandaled feet pressed leisurely on wooden blocks that comprised his vehicle’s pedals. He often chatted with other cyclo drivers, and sometimes seemed to talk to himself.

  After about fifteen minutes had passed, her driver pulled in front of a gated shop that looked like all the other shops around it. Only a sign bearing a red cross gave Iris any indication that they were at the right address. Stepping from the cyclo, she pulled out seventy-five thousand dong.

  He shook his head. “More far than I think before. Cost you two hundred thousand dong.”

  “What?”

  His face tightened. “Two hundred thousand dong. Very far to go here. You pay two hundred thousand dong.”

  “But we agreed on seventy-five!”

  “Your directions no good,” he said, raising his voice. “You pay two hundred thousand.”

  Iris stuck out the seventy-five thousand, which he ignored. “The directions were fine,” she said. “You take this money. It’s what we agreed on.”

  The man stepped from his seat, approaching her, his stained teeth bared. “You pay me two hundred thousand. I have to take you very far. Next time you give good directions and you no have problem.”

  “I gave you—”

  “Those no good! Pay me two hundred thousand!”

  Glancing around, Iris saw not a single friendly face. She realized she was shaking. Feeling more defenseless than she had in years, she quickly paid the man. Even after he took her money, he scowled at her, and she hurried to the clinic, afraid that he’d follow her.

  Only when her hands were on the clinic’s gates did she recognize that it was closed. “No,” she muttered, trying to see inside, her heart still thumping wildly. Several h
andmade signs had been glued to the door. One of the signs was in English and gave the clinic’s hours. To Iris’s dismay, she saw that the doctor was out on Tuesdays, and it just happened to be a Tuesday. “Damn it,” she said, disbelieving her luck, wondering why she hadn’t asked Thien to call the clinic. She leaned on the gates for a moment, pressing her head against the iron.

  Frustrated by her disagreement with the cyclo driver and her failure to contact the doctor, Iris gave the gates a shake. She then willed herself to turn around and eye the street, which was narrow and by no means catered to tourists. Fortunately, a different cyclo and driver rested nearby beneath the paltry shade of an almost limbless tree. Iris approached the man and asked how much it would cost to go to the Rex Hotel, a landmark not far from her center.

  “Ninety thousand dong,” he replied in well-spoken English, a toothpick between his teeth. “But if we stop at my friend’s silk store, and you go in, then my ride will only cost forty thousand dong.”

  “What?”

  “It is very beautiful silk. And would look lovely on you.”

  “I don’t want to go to a silk store.”

  “No? What about pearls? Or some paintings? Or maybe a massage?”

  Tired of wasting time, Iris shook her head. “Which way?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which way to the Rex Hotel?”

  “It is very far.”

  “Which way?”

  The driver pointed into the distance. “Okay, I will take you for only—”

  Iris started walking. She guessed it to be almost eleven o’clock and felt that she hadn’t accomplished a single thing. Discouraged, she increased her pace, glancing into shops in hopes of seeing some supplies that she could buy: a stack of notebooks, a tin of colored pencils—anything she could take with her to ease the failure of her outing. The shops seemed more foreign than ever, however, and her level of annoyance continued to increase. Her father had promised local officials to have a grand opening at the center by Christmas, which was just over three weeks away. And with some six million Christians in Vietnam, Iris knew that this date wasn’t insignificant. Several officials were expected to be present for the grand opening, and if the center wasn’t ready, she would have to answer difficult questions.