Dragon House

by John Shors

  “I will. And I’ll get word to you as fast as possible.”

  “Be careful what you do here,” Sahn warned, gazing into the gloom ahead.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Sahn stepped out of the shop. The sun brightened the fog before him. Following the line of the sidewalk’s edge, he moved ahead. Most shopkeepers stayed hidden, though several nodded as he passed, looking up from newspapers or antiques that they were repairing. Sahn said hello to no one. But neither did he trouble anyone. These merchants had already paid him for the month. And he wouldn’t ask for more than was expected.

  A tap on his shoulder served to break his train of thought. He turned, surprised to see two foreigners standing in front of him. The foreigners looked as if they were on safari, dressed in khaki-colored shorts and shirts. The man and woman wore sunglasses and oversize hats. “Excuse me,” the man said, pulling a map from his pocket. “But we’re looking for Ben Thanh Market. Is it near here?”

  Sahn grunted. The market was just a few blocks away. Shrugging, he pretended as if he couldn’t speak English. Why would he want to help foreigners, especially ones who sounded like they came from America? Though most of his countrymen were delighted to have Americans back in Vietnam, Sahn didn’t share that outlook. He knew what these people were capable of.

  “He can’t speak English,” the woman said, taking the map from her companion. “Let’s just hop on a cyclo and tell the driver to take us there.”

  “How can he stand the heat in that outfit?” the man asked.

  “He’s used to it. They all are.”

  Sahn watched the couple depart. Soon they were blurs like everyone else. Soon they were gone. But the memory of what their people had done was not. Sahn scratched at an old scar on his arm. He thought of his sisters, recalling their whimpers in the darkness. The memory weakened him, as it always did. He leaned against a streetlight, no longer concerned with elephants. Instead he wondered where his siblings had traveled to, and what they might have become. He still missed them, even after so many long years. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was a fool, he thought. Time has no such curative powers. Neither does revenge or victory. I’ve tasted both and they meant nothing to me.

  No, Sahn thought, such wounds are forever open, like the side of a mountain that’s been stripped of lumber and minerals. This mountain will never be the same, no matter how proud and noble it had once been. Nothing can change the ugliness of the past, and nothing can replace the beauty that’s been stolen from the world. Time doesn’t have the power to do either. Wounds don’t heal. They just fester and rot until the end.

  TO IRIS, HO CHI MINH CITY in the daylight was almost as incomprehensible as it was at night. She found it hard to believe that Chicago and Ho Chi Minh City were on the same planet. She’d once thought Chicago to be hectic, even frenzied. But Chicago’s streets were nothing like what she looked upon now. Every inch before her seemed to be defined by movement. The scooters were everywhere, swirling like snowflakes in a storm. They darted. They moved as one. They avoided one another in last-second swerves that were somehow almost graceful. Mingling with the scooters were tractors, trucks, and bicycles—hundreds of bicycles, often ridden by pairs of uniformed schoolchildren.

  Holding the directions her father had given her, Iris navigated the obstacles of the sidewalk. He’d often told her of the peace and sanctuary found at his center, but Iris found it hard to believe that anywhere in the city could be quiet. Too much of everything existed. Too many sights. Too many sounds. Even the immense tropical trees seemed to twist and lock branches, as if they too were trying to step through the crowds.

  Ten feet behind Iris was Noah, his eyes instinctively looking for danger. The torn and buckled sidewalk presented a myriad of problems for his prosthesis. Made of a steel spring that connected an artificial foot with a sleeve that fit around his stump, Noah’s prosthesis enabled him to walk but made doing so difficult. When he planted his injured leg, it felt as if it were pushing into the pavement instead of away from it. The result was an uneven, ungainly gait that gave him chronic and severe back pain.

  A flower market appeared beside them. The open-air market was comprised of scores of individual stalls that offered flowers rarely seen in the West. Many of the flowers sprang from branches, opening wide to the sky so their vibrant petals could gather as much sunlight as possible. Though they rose out of bamboo baskets that looked to have been woven at the dawn of time, the flowers were immaculately organized and presented. Brown or wilted petals weren’t in sight.

  Soon Iris passed Ben Thanh Market. She glanced inside the vaulted entry but didn’t stray from her path. An old woman with a girl on her lap managed to catch Iris’s eye. The woman held out a book and asked if Iris would buy it. She didn’t want the book, but seeing the girl’s thin legs and swollen joints, she placed thirty thousand dong—about two American dollars—into a coconut that the girl weakly held out. She would have liked to give more, but the operating budget for her father’s center was moderate at best, and she’d have to be careful with her resources.

  Continuing to follow her father’s directions, Iris turned down an alley. There was no sidewalk here, and, practically hugging the nearby buildings, she stayed as far from traffic as possible. Battered cars built by older generations rumbled by, often hitting potholes and sending brown water into the air. Aware of Noah struggling behind her, Iris walked slowly, pretending to study her surroundings.

  He tried to focus on the path before him but watched the locals watch him. Their eyes inevitably were drawn to his forehead and crippled leg, and he felt their stares as if they were hands pressing against his flesh.

  Iris turned left, stepping into a small courtyard. Behind this empty space rose a white, three-story building. The lower front of the building was open, resembling a two-car garage that one would find in the West. Above this entry, large, red letters spelled, THE IRIS RHODES CENTER FOR STREET CHILDREN. Having had no idea that her father named his center after her, Iris stood still. Her eyes immediately welled with tears. How long had the building carried her name? What other surprises were in store for her?

  “Let’s go in,” she heard herself say, her eyes still on the sign.

  Inside the open-air entry, a sizable room stretched toward the middle of the building. The room’s floor was checkered with green and white tiles. Its walls were also green, though the painted outlines of children dominated every surface. Some of the figures were playing soccer. Others were standing in a circle and holding hands. Iris couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as if the children were meant to be dressed differently, as if they came from many countries.

  “Hello?” she called out, unsure what to do.

  His back aching, Noah sat awkwardly on a plastic chair. “Maybe we should—”

  “Miss Iris?” an unseen woman replied. “Miss Iris Rhodes? From Chicago?”

  Iris glanced up, for the first time noticing a stairwell at the side of the room. A young woman came down the stairs. She appeared to be in her early twenties. Her black pants and yellow button-down shirt were covered in smears and drops of blue and white paint. She wore a black baseball cap with a pink koala bear on the front. A long ponytail emerged from the hole in the back of the cap. The woman’s face seemed out of place when compared with her untidy attire. Large, oval-shaped eyes complemented dark, arched eyebrows. Her nose was sculpted and pleasing, her lips full and bent into a half smile. Though her baggy clothes hid much, she appeared to have a lean, almost girlish figure.

  “I am Thien,” she said in a soft but confident voice, bowing slightly. “Your father’s assistant and cook.”

  Iris had heard all about Thien, about how she was indispensable and almost unfailingly upbeat. Iris’s father had been served by her at a hotel and had later hired her to help him. By his account, she nearly ran his fledgling center—buying supplies, dealing with the local bureaucracy, helping him renovate rooms, and spreading the word among street children about the center�
�s looming opening. He’d rewarded her as best as he could, and every month she sent money to her parents, who lived in the countryside.

  Iris stepped closer to Thien. “I’m Iris. It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Thien smiled, revealing a row of bright teeth. “You are so tall. Just as your father told me. I wish I could be so tall. That would help with the painting.” Thien scratched the side of her face, leaving a smudge of white paint on her smooth skin. “Is this your boyfriend?” she asked, glancing at Noah.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Iris replied. “This is my friend Noah. He came here to help us.”

  Again Thien smiled. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Noah.”

  Noah said hello, aware that her stare didn’t linger on his forehead.

  A few heartbeats of silence passed; then Thien asked, “Would you like to see your center?”

  Iris pocketed her directions. “Very much.”

  Thien took Iris’s hand. “This way,” she said, leading the American to the back of the room. They stepped through a doorway and an immense kitchen confronted them. Tile countertops stretched to stoves that bore empty, woklike cauldrons. Steel utensils hung from a wall. A new refrigerator dominated a break between countertops. The kitchen smelled of garlic and lemongrass.

  Most of the second floor was occupied by a classroom. Several large, battered tables stole much of the space. Wooden chairs surrounded the tables. On one wall was an unfinished painting of a world map. Shelves were piled high with books, art supplies, empty crates, old cameras, and rolled-up scrolls. Two ceiling fans spun listlessly, as if gathering their strength for the coming day.

  An office sat adjacent to the classroom. The office was almost as cluttered as Iris’s apartment. Tables held thick notebooks and two computers. An immense, old-fashioned safe supported a variety of potted plants and flowers. Ten feet outside the room’s only window, a dilapidated yellow building reached skyward.

  The children’s dormitory encompassed the top floor. Five sets of metal bunk beds spanned opposite walls. Between the beds ran a row of chests. Though a nearby bathroom featuring four showers sparkled with fresh tiles, the main floor in the dormitory was covered with newspapers, for paint cans were everywhere. Even with the room’s windows open and the ceiling fans twirling, the smell of fresh paint permeated the air.

  Thien pointed to the ceiling, which was blue and bore the white outlines of clouds. “Your father asked me to paint while he was gone,” she said. “So I have been painting. He thought the children would enjoy some clouds.”

  Iris bit her lip, wishing that her father were standing beside her, that they could help Thien finish the clouds. “He’d like what you’ve done. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  Nodding, Thien again took Iris’s hand. “I am so happy you came.”

  Iris looked from the clouds to Thien. “Thank you.”

  “You remind me of your father. Your eyes are the same.”

  “They are?”

  “Oh, very much so.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?” Iris said, surprised at Thien’s grip, but not minding it. “Then . . . may I ask you something?”

  “Of course, Miss Iris.”

  “Do you think he was happy here?”

  Thien glanced at Noah, then returned her gaze to Iris. “Not always. But sometimes, yes, sometimes he was very happy.”

  “When?”

  “When he was able to do something nice for the children.”

  Iris smiled faintly, remembering how her father’s face had sometimes seemed to blossom when he spoke about his center. “Maybe later you can tell me some stories.”

  “I would love to.”

  “Thank you . . . Thien.”

  “Come, I have something to show you,” Thien said, guiding Iris toward the stairs.

  Noah watched the smaller woman lead Iris forward. Though his back ached, and he wanted nothing more than to find a quiet place to have a drink, he followed them down the stairwell, which had been painted so as to make one feel as if he or she were climbing or descending a tree. As Noah studied a beautifully rendered green parrot, his prosthesis slipped from the edge of a step and he almost toppled into the women below. They glanced up at him, and he looked away, hiding his scar, his shame, his misery.

  Thien walked through the kitchen and a doorway that led outside. A large open space bordered this side of the center, which was opposite the main entrance. The square area was perhaps fifty feet across. The soil was hard and covered in tiny cement chips. A wooden fence had been erected around the area and painted so that it resembled distant rice fields. Propped against one side of the fence were scores of immense clay jars, which ran from one side of the area to the other.

  Thien lowered the bill of her baseball cap, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Your father, he enjoyed being out here.”

  “Is this the playground?” Iris asked, for she’d heard about his dream to add a park to the center.

  “Children used to work here, Miss Iris,” Thien replied. “In a shop where bicycles were repaired. The children were young. Sometimes less than ten years of age. One day your father bought the shop. And then he tore it down.” Thien led Iris to the clay jars, still holding her hand. “And another day he took three men and a truck, and we drove into the countryside. We filled all these jars with dirt.” Thien reached into her pocket, producing what looked to be a tangerine. “Are you hungry?”

  “You went with him?”

  Thien began to peel the fruit. “It was near my village, so far from here. A bomb from the war was there, not far from where children often played. Your father destroyed this bomb. Everyone was so happy. They helped us clean the dirt and fill the jars.” Thien looked into the distance, a smile dawning on her full lips. “Your father was a hero that day. I felt very lucky to be his assistant.”

  Iris reached into one of the jars and watched soil fall through her fingers. “He never got the chance to lay this dirt down, did he?”

  “He was so sick,” Thien said, shaking her head. “He went back to America to get better. But he never returned to Vietnam. He e-mailed me many times, telling me what to do next, what to work on. But he never came back. Even though he promised that he would.”

  Iris now understood why her father, on his deathbed, had asked her to scatter his ashes here, to bury him where children would someday play. She’d brought the urn with her, and thinking of scattering him over this soil, over the grass upon which children would run, brought tears to her eyes. He would be happy here. He’d hear the laughter of young voices, the patter of small feet, and maybe then he’d find her as he had promised.

  Not bothering to wipe her eyes, Iris continued to feel the dirt. Though the world around her remained foreign and incomprehensible, she felt powerfully connected to the earth that she now touched. Her father had failed her so many times. He’d broken her heart and her family. But she missed him, and he’d also touched this soil.

  “Your father, Miss Iris, he loved you so much,” Thien said, a gust of wind causing her ponytail to rise and fall. “He told me that. Many times. He showed me all of your newspaper stories, about books. He was so proud of you. And I am so, so happy that you are here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because his dream was good. And he tried so hard to make it real. And we can be friends. I can be your Vietnamese sister. Your little sister.”

  Iris stepped toward Thien. “Will you help me? Will you please help me?”

  Thien took Iris’s hands within her own. “Of course, Miss Iris. We will paint every wall, plant every seed. And your father, and the children, they will all be so very happy.”

  QUI CLOSED HER EYES AND LEANED backward on the bench, gently holding Tam against her chest. For Tam, some days were worse than others, and today was one of the bad days. A profound weariness enveloped her. Even breathing seemed hard, as if the air were too thick and heavy to pull into her lungs. She h
ad no appetite. Her head hurt. And her joints ached terribly.

  Aware that her granddaughter was suffering, Qui prayed that their fortunes would change, that someone would take pity on them and give them the money to buy more painkillers. So far, only one tall foreigner had placed thirty thousand dong in Tam’s coconut—enough for a pill or two. But nothing would be left over for food. And Qui knew that she needed to feed Tam something, even if only bananas and rice.

  Stroking Tam’s face, Qui asked, “How are you feeling, my sweet child?”

  Tam groaned faintly, pulling her tattered blanket up against her face. “I’m tired.”

  “I know, my love. I know. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Call Momma.”

  A tourist passed and Qui held out a book, trying to make a quick sale. The man avoided her eyes. “One book, please, mister?” she asked in English. The man walked onward, as if she didn’t exist. Perhaps we don’t exist, Qui thought bitterly. At least not to him. To most people. To them we’re no more than minnows in a river.

  Tam shifted atop her lap, bony hips pressing on Qui’s legs. Weakly rubbing her blanket against her face, Tam moaned. “Little Bird . . . will you sleep with me now?”

  Qui knew that Tam wanted to go home, but the medicine was almost gone. Home might mean temporary comfort, but tomorrow would be worse. Without enough pills Tam would writhe in misery. “Soon, I promise,” Qui replied, continuing to stroke Tam’s brow.

  “Is Thailand beautiful, Little Bird?”

  Once again Qui wished that her daughter would come home, that Tam would no longer have to ask about her whereabouts. “Thailand is known as ‘the Land of Smiles,’ ” Qui replied. “So your mother must be happy, though of course she misses you terribly.”

  “Do children get sick in Thailand?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Maybe Momma is taking care of one of them.”

  A group of travelers passed, and again Qui pleaded with them to buy a book. She said that her granddaughter needed medicine, that she was in pain. No one seemed to hear her.