by John Shors
He moved into the depths of the slum. A part of the alley’s floor had been covered in boards, and people slept here, wrapped in old tarps. Noah saw children poking their heads out from within the tarps and he began to cry again. Moving carefully, so as not to step on anyone, he proceeded forward. The tin shanties—rusting and tied together with wire—seemed endless. The rain pounded against their roofs, the noise loud enough to hurt Noah’s ears. Many of the shanties had open doors, and he glanced inside the entryways, amazed to see families huddling together in closet-size spaces. Some of the families seemed happy—talking loudly or waving at him. But other doorways revealed the sick and crippled—men, women, and children too besieged by disease and misfortune to even note his passing. One woman had giant, ruptured boils on her face and arms—leprosy, perhaps. A few feet outside her doorway, a dead cat was being eaten by rats. Piles of trash rose along the edges of the alley, as if the residents tried to keep things as tidy as possible.
Noah kept walking, passing a skeleton of a man who was attempting to fix a scooter that looked beyond repair. After a few more steps, Noah came to a shanty that had only three walls. Inside, a woman squatted and sewed. Beside her, a young girl, maybe four or five, sat on a newspaper. She’d wrapped a cloth around a can and acted as if the can were a baby. When her eyes found Noah, she smiled. “Hewwo,” she said, waving.
He managed to wave but didn’t pause to talk, as she might have liked. He was suddenly consumed with the knowledge that the world would never know she existed, and that she seemed almost destined to a life of misery. She might be happy now, when she could entertain herself with an old rag and a can, but wouldn’t such happiness fade?
Thinking of what he’d seen in the alley, Noah knew that the little girl would never have a voice, would never be heard. He knew that she wouldn’t dream about birthday presents, warm beaches, or a beautiful wedding. She’d never know such things, never escape the cycle that she was born into. She’d only grow older, and whatever dreams she had would lose their luster. In time her dreams would evoke only bitterness, and within this bitterness she’d walk until she could walk no farther.
Noah’s prosthesis hit a slick, unseen object, and he fell awkwardly into the mud. He didn’t bother to get up but drew his knees to his chest and wept. He wept not for himself, but for those he’d seen who had no one to weep for them.
BEGGING HAD NOT GONE WELL FOR Qui and Tam. Qui had dragged her bench into Ben Thanh Market, and for the entire morning and early afternoon she’d sat next to a jewelry stall and tried to sell books. She’d sold only one and had given half of the profit to the nearby proprietor, who’d demanded a share of the sale. The rain was keeping tourists away, and Qui had repeatedly wished for the skies to clear.
Off and on throughout the day, when tourists weren’t in sight, Qui had shown Tam more pictures from the Thailand guidebook. Tam loved looking at the photos, searching for her mother among the many Thais. She didn’t remember the shape of her mother’s face but was certain she’d recognize her if given the chance.
Tam needed breaks from gazing at the photos, because her weariness was more pronounced than usual. She often lingered between consciousness and unconsciousness, a place where the aching of her bones seemed less overwhelming. She didn’t understand why she felt so tired today, or why her aches were so intense. Qui had said that the rain was dampening her bones, weighing her down. Tam wished it would stop raining. She didn’t like to hurt, to feel as if her elbows and knees were too sore to touch.
Moaning softly, Tam rubbed her blanket against her arm, trying to take the pain away. For as long as she remembered, her blanket had soothed her hurts. Yet today her blanket also seemed tired. It didn’t whisper to her as it usually did. Tam wondered if the rain had dampened its spirits as well.
Qui turned, noting the misery on Tam’s face. She’d already given her granddaughter a painkiller that morning and didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps they should go home. Then at least Tam could stretch out on their bed. And Qui could tell her stories until night fell.
About to leave, Qui saw Sahn approach from the distance. As always, his uniform was immaculate. More impressive, it was dry, as if thousands of raindrops had somehow missed him completely. Qui watched him study his surroundings. She wished she had some tidbit of information that he’d find useful. He paid for such information, and his money would be more welcome now than ever.
Thirty feet away from her, Sahn moved slowly, pretending to scrutinize his environs when in truth he could discern very little. As always, everything in front of him was clouded by a bright fog. Once, Sahn had feared this fog, but he’d learned that wading through it wasn’t so difficult. He just needed to move slowly, to rely more on his memories than his sense of sight. Fortunately, no one knew about his condition. If such knowledge were common, he’d be jobless and soon destitute. And so he caught criminals and pretended to see.
Sahn headed in Qui’s direction, finally recognizing her. He wasn’t surprised that she was indoors. The weather would be terribly hard on Tam. “Grown tired of the rain?” he asked, studying Qui’s face.
She shrugged. “How do you stay so dry?”
Sahn raised his folded umbrella. “I’m careful.”
“And how is your health?”
“As it was when I was a boy.” He glanced around, the fog shifting within his field of vision. “I’m looking for poppy. It shouldn’t be this far from the Golden Triangle.”
Qui knew about the opium dens, which traveled around the city, usually one step ahead of the law. “I heard that long pipes were being smoked on riverboats.”
“We captured those boats. They now belong to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.”
She shook her head. “I have nothing else for you.”
“No matter,” Sahn replied, reaching into his pocket. He produced a piece of hard candy and set it in Tam’s coconut.
Tam smiled, placing her blanket on her shoulder so she could unwrap the candy. “Thank you, Captain,” she said softly.
Sahn was proud of Vietnam. His people had defeated the Chinese, the French, and the Americans. They had rebuilt a land destroyed by war. But Vietnam had also failed. Gazing at Tam, Sahn was powerfully aware of this failure. The poverty he saw each day shamed him. And no shame was greater than the sight of Tam, of a sick girl whose fate rested on whether tourists felt charitable or not. Suddenly Sahn wished that he were young again, that he didn’t understand such suffering.
“Have you ever been to Hanoi?” he asked Qui, her conical hat a white triangle before him.
“Never.”
He remembered watching puppet shows by the lake. How perfect those days had been. “Nothing moves there,” he said. “So different from this beehive.” Sahn set twenty thousand dong in Tam’s coconut. “Keep listening. I need to have ears in this market.”
“Thank you, Captain. Bless you. You’ll always have four ears right here.”
Sahn wished them well and moved slowly forward. He opened his umbrella and stepped into the rain. Qui watched him go, deciding that it was also time for them to leave. She asked the nearby jewelry vendor to help place Tam in her carrier. The woman didn’t mind and was careful.
Unfurling her umbrella, Qui held it above Tam and left the market. The rain immediately drenched her, but she was concerned only with keeping Tam dry. Qui moved down the sidewalk without haste, circumventing idle cyclos, white-painted tree trunks, and pedestrians. Her sandals often disappeared beneath the surface of brown puddles.
Normally Qui was able to carry Tam many blocks before growing tired. But now, with the rain soaking her clothes and weighing her down, she quickly faltered. She hadn’t eaten or drunk for hours, and she stuck out her tongue, trying to collect as much rainwater as possible. Tam moaned softly, and Qui tried to walk faster. But her knees trembled. Her breaths came in gasps. A truck drove too close to them, sending up a curtain of water. Qui managed to turn so that the water struck her front. This wetness seemed colder than wh
at was falling from the sky. She shivered but kept walking.
Not many traffic lights existed in Ho Chi Minh City, but Qui came to one and paused. Scooters darted past like water bugs. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Qui struggled not to fall over. She reached for a lamppost, realizing that a foreigner was gazing at her. He had no umbrella and looked as if he’d just stepped from the sea. An ugly purple scar rose from his brow to his hairline.
The foreigner continued to watch her as the light bled red. “I’ve . . . I’ve been following you,” he said in English. “She’s sick, isn’t she?”
The light turned green, but Qui didn’t move. “Yes.”
His head swung slowly from side to side. “Can I get you a taxi?”
“Taxi no can go where we live. Streets is too little.”
“A cyclo?”
“Same problem.”
“Then . . . can I carry her?”
Qui started to speak and stopped, unsure what to say. She asked Tam her opinion, and Tam whispered that it would be all right. Qui nodded. “Please keep her dry.”
“Use your umbrella.”
The foreigner carefully removed Tam from her carrier. He held her against his chest, so that her legs wrapped around him. Qui thought he looked strong, but when he stepped forward he winced. He walked awkwardly, swinging one leg forward as if it were a pole. She worried that he’d drop Tam.
But he didn’t drop her, and Qui stood tall, holding the umbrella above her granddaughter. The man didn’t speak, only nodding when she told him which way to go. Qui alternated her gaze between Tam and the stranger. To her immense surprise, she realized that he was crying. His lips were pressed together and he seemed to struggle, to clasp Tam against his chest. He stroked her back as he walked. Tam must have sensed something happening, for she wrapped her arms more tightly about his neck. She pulled herself closer to him.
Qui watched Tam’s response to the stranger, and her own tears mingled with the rain. Tam had stopped moaning. She seemed asleep. The man continued to walk unsteadily. He now grimaced, as if a thorn were pressing deeper into his foot with each passing step. Qui thought about asking if he needed help but found herself speechless. She kept pace beside him, wondering why he’d followed them.
Before long, Qui led the man into their room. He bent over and carefully laid Tam atop her bed. He helped Qui dry her off and then cover her with the sheet. He studied Tam’s face, as if committing it to memory. Qui noticed that his tears still fell.
Tam opened her eyes, gazing around the room and then focusing on the tall stranger. “You so strong,” she said tiredly in English, the pounding of the rain against the tin roof nearly drowning out her words. “You sit with me? Please?”
He nodded, positioning himself next to her bed.
Tam reached out to him and their fingers met. “Maybe I call you Big Bird.”
“Big Bird?”
Pointing to Qui, Tam said, “My grandmother is Little Bird. She carry me everywhere. We fly together.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“You have baby girl? You father?”
“No.”
“My father . . . he dead. He wait for me, in new world. I can run there. Go to school. Little Bird and me, we always talk about this.”
He closed his eyes. “Is your mother . . . Is she in the new world too?”
“She in Thailand. She make money for medicine. She come home soon.” Tam looked at the wound on the stranger’s forehead. She coughed, grimacing. “You get hurt?” she asked, trying to pull the sheet up closer to her chin.
He helped her as thunder rumbled. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Someone . . . someone hurt me.”
“That too bad. I so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I think this person make mistake. I think they no mean to hurt you.”
Qui watched the man nod slightly, as if repeating Tam’s words. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sure it was a mistake.”
“You be my friend, mister? Please?”
“I’d love to be your friend.”
“That wonderful. I so tired now. Maybe I go asleep. See you again later.”
“What’s your name?”
“Tam.”
“I’ll see you later, Tam.”
“Good night.”
Qui rubbed Tam’s brow with her thumb. The stranger didn’t move, continuing to hold Tam’s hand. A tear fell from his chin, disappearing into his wet shirt. His eyes remained on her face as the rain fell, seeping into a corner of the room and pooling on the floor.
Finally the stranger looked around, appeared to steady himself, and reached into his pocket. He handed Qui a thick wad of dong notes and stood up, careful not to disturb Tam. As he rose, his pant leg lifted, and Qui saw that he walked on a leg of steel. “Why?” she asked, looking from his leg to his face.
He shook his head. “Does she dream?”
“What?”
“Dream about happy things?”
“Oh. Sometimes she do.”
“That’s good.”
Qui followed him to the door. “Thank you, kind sir. Thank you for helping us.”
“Can I come back sometime?”
“Yes. Tam like that.”
The foreigner looked down. “She’s beautiful.”
Qui watched him step into the rain. He walked unsteadily over the planks leading away from their room. Then he moved into the alley. Qui said good-bye, but he didn’t seem to hear her. His footprints remained in the mud for a moment, but then the water filled them up and he was gone.
SEVEN
Milk Money
Noah lifted the shovel, driving it into the soil-laden jar and then spreading the dirt on the nearby ground. The sky had finally ceased to shudder and cast rain, though clouds were still numerous and thick. The damp soil was hard to move, and Noah paused to wipe his sweaty brow. His back and stump ached. He reached for his bottle, taking his first swig of whiskey for the day. The bottle didn’t linger against his lips. He set it down and began working again.
He thought about what he had seen the previous afternoon. The little girl seemed to still cling to him. She’d been so light and frail, so eager to draw her hands tighter around his neck. Watching her fall asleep against him had been one of the most gratifying experiences of his life. She had been in pain, and then she was at peace. And all he’d done was carry her home.
Noah emptied a jar. He pushed it against the fence and picked up his shovel. Grunting, he again began to move soil. His prosthesis slipped on his stump and a searing pain shot through him. He swore, feeling a familiar sense of dread welling within him. He didn’t want to think about his pain, but now, like countless times before, he didn’t have a choice. That was what people failed to understand about his demons. He couldn’t pretend that they didn’t exist. He couldn’t ignore them. They reminded him of their presence constantly.
“You’re up early.”
Turning, Noah was surprised to see Iris and Thien standing a few feet away. Both wore their painting gear. Thien stepped forward, carrying a tray laden with croissants, jam, and butter. “You should eat breakfast, Mr. Noah,” she said, setting the tray down on one of the jars.
“Oh, I’m not hungry.”
Thien picked up a croissant. Noah watched her slender fingers cut the flaky pastry in half and spread butter and jam on each side. Her movements were remarkably graceful for someone who always seemed covered in paint. “We are lucky the French gave us croissants,” she said, handing Noah his breakfast. “Such a lovely way to start a day.”
Noah thanked her. He took a small bite, watching her prepare and hand a croissant to Iris. “Did you finish the clouds?”
Iris nodded. “Thien finished them. I wasn’t much help. We spent more time fixing my mistakes than anything else.”
“That is not true,” Thien replied, smiling, preparing additional croissants.
Noah had returned late the previous night and hadn’t see
n Iris or Thien. “Thank you both . . . for . . . for yesterday,” he said, glancing from face to face. “I was glad to see . . . what I saw.”
“So was I,” Iris responded, aware that she’d never forget the museum or the slums.
Noah set his second croissant aside. “I met someone. A little girl and her grandmother. The grandmother was carrying the girl around on her back.”
Thien stopped spreading jam. “Qui and Tam?”
“That’s right. Tam was the little girl’s name.”
Thien’s smile, such a permanent fixture, was suddenly gone. “Qui was begging, in the rain?”
“I don’t know. She was walking home.” Noah again thought about Tam, about how she’d so welcomed his presence and asked him to be her friend. “Is Tam . . . Is she dying?” he asked, his voice barely audible, as if a question unheard would also be unanswered.
Thien bit her lower lip. “Yes.”
Iris stepped closer to Thien. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“You were happy, Miss Iris. You were happy that you came to Vietnam. I did not want to change your mood.”
“But . . . she’s dying? Really?”
“Tam is very ill.”
“She’s so young,” Iris replied, remembering how Tam had held her tattered blanket. “She’s too young.”
“I know.”
Iris shook her head. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“I am sure. Qui told me—”
“Well, if that’s true we need to take her to a doctor,” Iris said, the jam on her fingers forgotten. “Right away.”
“She already went,” Thien replied. “But she went too late. I have spoken with Qui about it. Tam has cancer. And it is already in her bones.”
Noah wished he were still walking with her in his arms. “We should bring them here,” he said. “I’ve seen where they live, and I’ve been thinking about it. She shouldn’t be there. Not when we have so much room. Not when she’s so sick.”
