by John Shors
“Thank you.”
Qui started to rise from the bed. “I was about to start working. I know there’s so much to be done.”
Thien put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Please don’t get up. There’s plenty of time for chasing spiders, and I’d like to show Mai around.”
Bowing slightly, Qui offered her thanks and again opened her Thailand guidebook. Tam’s gaze drifted back to a photo of turquoise waters and an unbroken sky. Qui had been telling her a story of dolphins that lived in the waters, of how they secretly knew how to fly. By flying only at night, they kept their secret from everyone but the stars.
Taking Mai’s hand again, Thien led her to the center of the room. They paused beside a bunk bed, and Mai leaned down to touch the bedding, which was soft and clean and so unlike what she slept upon. She wanted to lie on the bed and wrap herself in its sheets. She’d stay there all day, listening to the city below, protected by the walls around her. Maybe she’d dream about flowers too.
“Did you see our clouds?” Thien asked.
Mai glanced from Thien’s face to the ceiling. She gasped as the clouds seemed to billow before her. Smiling, she reached up as if to touch them. Beautiful and wondrous, the clouds made her feel as if she were somewhere very distant, at a place outside the city where clouds were untainted and free to roam about the sky. She laughed, wanting to show Minh. “Who painted these?” she asked, looking from cloud to cloud.
“Miss Iris and I.”
“Could you teach me to paint like that? Please? Maybe I could paint one under our bridge. It wouldn’t be as pretty there, but I could look at it. And Minh could too.”
Thien removed a paintbrush from her back pocket and set it in Mai’s hand. “Maybe you could paint one here.”
Mai turned to Thien. Had Thien somehow read her mind? For her whole life Mai had longed for things she didn’t have—things like a father, a family. She’d longed to go to school, to ride a bicycle with a friend sitting behind her, to fill her belly each night with warm food. She’d pleaded silently for such things and yet they had never fallen before her. Now, as she looked at the clouds and soft sheets, Mai wanted nothing more than to try to paint something within this magical building. She wanted to take a brush and stroke bright colors on a surface that had been dull and lifeless.
Even better, if something like an old ceiling could be turned into a beautiful sky, then perhaps people could be painted too. Perhaps Thien could take her miraculous brush and paint Minh’s voice back into his body. Perhaps this same brush could cover up Mai’s fears and sorrows.
“Could . . . could we stay?” Mai asked quietly, fearing an answer.
Thien saw the want and desperation in Mai’s eyes. She was afraid of breaking Mai with the wrong answer, but she couldn’t mislead her. “Only girls . . . will stay here,” she replied, once again holding Mai’s hand. “So you could stay. But Minh would have to—”
“No,” Mai interrupted, the clouds above her suddenly gray, her world once again full of wretched truths. “I won’t leave him,” she said, her eyes tearing. “He has no one else . . . and . . . and I won’t ever leave him. He’d never make it by himself.”
Thien felt Mai try to pull away from her, but she wouldn’t let the girl step back. Instead she drew Mai closer against her. “Wait, wait, wait,” she said, stroking Mai’s shoulder.
“Why wait? I won’t leave him. Never. So go paint your silly clouds with someone else.”
“I want to paint them with you.”
“No.”
“I do, Mai. I—”
“No, you don’t,” Mai replied, tears dropping to her cheeks. “You don’t care about me.”
Thien continued to hold Mai tight, not letting her flee, afraid of what might happen to her. She’d seen too many girls ruined by the streets, and she knew that Mai was close to such misery. “I want you to keep my brush,” Thien said, stroking Mai’s cheek, needing to stem her desperation. “It’s my only one and I have so much more to paint. Flowers for the kitchen. An ocean for the washing room. There’s so much to paint, Mai. But I won’t paint again until you’re beside me and we can work together. That’s why I want you to keep my brush. My lucky brush.”
“What . . . what about Minh?”
“Did you see the children, Mai, the children painted in the entryway who are holding hands?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think that we’d ever pull such children apart? That we’d take you from Minh?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, we won’t. Not today or tomorrow or ever. So don’t worry about that. I’ll talk with Miss Iris. She’s very clever and determined, and I’m sure that she’ll think of something. And when she does, you can bring my brush back and we’ll paint whatever you want.”
Mai rubbed her eyes with her free hand. She wanted to believe the older woman, but she’d been disappointed so many times in her life, and to her a promise was only a series of meaningless words. “I should go.”
“Take the brush, Mai. Please take it with you and come back in a few days.”
“It’s just an old brush.”
“No, it’s not. Believe me, it’s not.”
“I don’t—”
“When you feel it moving in your hand, Mai, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“How?”
“Because that old brush could paint a beautiful rainbow.”
Mai glanced at the brush. She felt its bristles with her fingers, moving them back and forth. “You’ll teach me?”
“I’d love to.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m here, Mai. And I’ll teach you. So you and Minh come back to us. Stay safe and come back to us.”
Mai looked at the clouds, wanting to believe the woman’s words, wishing that words couldn’t cut so deeply, couldn’t weaken her knees. She pocketed the brush, pleading silently that words wouldn’t once again betray her. She didn’t know if she could endure another betrayal. The mere thought of it caused her eyes to again dampen. The clouds blurred. They soon seemed to pulsate with the cadence of her heart.
Mai took a deep breath. She steadied herself. She’d have to hide her hope and fear from Minh. Perhaps she would let him see a sliver of her hope, just to keep him going for the coming days. But beyond this sliver, she’d show him nothing, because betraying him was something she’d never do.
If this woman betrayed her, Mai knew that another piece of her would die. And then, there would likely be too little of her to hold together. The strings that she had tied around herself would sever and she would break apart like a bottle cast on stone. She’d never paint a rainbow or feel a soft bed. She’d never hope or dare or dream. She’d simply walk into blackness and lie down, and whatever happened to her, she wouldn’t fight it. She was too tired to fight anymore, and if she found herself in darkness, she’d let its waves wash over her until what little memory she had of light was gone.
THOUGH THE PIPE HAD LEFT HIS lips an hour before, Loc’s senses were still dominated by opium’s heavy hand. The drug simultaneously managed to slow his mind yet heighten his abilities to see and hear and smell. Colors and lights filtered into his brain as if his eyes had been fitted with magical lenses that enriched the hues before him. Sounds permeated his ears the way they might underwater. Scents of diesel fuel, flowers, and spices powerfully infused the air he drew into his lungs. His face and body glistened—his altered environs a womb that kept him warm and free of pain.
For the last eight of his twenty-nine years, Loc had visited opium dens each day. The discovery of these dark and quiet refuges had altered his life. With opium in his system, he no longer feared the streets. Nightmares ceased to torment him. Memories could be pushed away. Food and women became appealing, and he grew to crave each almost as much as his pipe.
Loc spent his days in opium dens, collecting his money, and in the company of women for hire. In the dens he was left alone and would bathe himself in the drug’s c
omforting waters. On the streets he protected a handful of children in exchange for most of their earnings. And in the grasp of women he momentarily became a god.
The children were the key to fulfilling his cravings, and Loc treated them accordingly. He’d beaten each multiple times, but never so badly that they’d been unable to work. Though sometimes he took joy in these beatings, he mainly hurt the children because he needed them to fear him. As important, he needed them to fear a world without him in it. And he often let them know what would befall them without his protection. A child had once run from him, and Loc had made an example of the incident, letting the city’s most deviant minds know that the boy was no longer under his protection. Three days later the child was found dead and broken. And in the months since, Loc had muttered the boy’s name whenever his children seemed ready to wander.
Loc knew that he was cruel but didn’t regret it. His cruelty allowed him to survive, to enjoy his pipe and his women. Without his cruelty, he’d be reduced to a creature on the brink of extinction. He saw such creatures each day—beggars and cripples so battered that they seemed to seek death. And while Loc sought oblivion, he enjoyed its comforts and had no interest in death.
Now, as Loc searched Ben Thanh Market, he wondered where Minh and Mai had gone. Though they’d never missed a payment, he had seen less of them on the streets, and their absence troubled him, as they provided most of his earnings. He tried to remember their favorite sites, but his mind lumbered like an old elephant. Had the girl told him where they’d be today? Had he hit the half boy the previous night?
Loc wandered outside, the sun seeming to penetrate his skull. Uncertain of his steps, he moved toward a group of fair-haired tourists. One foreigner tried to refold a map, a silver watch sparkling on his wrist. Loc used to steal such watches, but those days were distant. Better to let the children worry about his money. If they ended up in prison, he could always find more.
The streets teemed ahead. The opium’s grip on him was diminishing, and Loc tiredly continued onward. He’d spent all his money that morning stuffing his pipe and buying a woman, and he needed to refill his pockets so that he could satisfy his hunger. The half boy would have won a game or two by now. Loc needed only to find him.
He took another few hundred steps. The haze that so pleasantly enveloped him began to waver. Soon his mouth and throat felt dry. His head hurt. The city seemed too loud. Needing to return to a den, but lacking the money to do so, Loc kept walking. He cursed the half boy and the girl for being so hard to find.
Opium usually held Loc’s temper in check, but he now clenched his hands and teeth tightly. He should be drawing from his pipe, not searching the hot streets for a pair of ungrateful brats. Wiping his face with the top of his Yankees jersey, he spat out the staleness in his mouth and increased his pace. Tonight, under the cover of the bridge, he’d hold the half boy’s face beneath the river’s surface until the girl promised to stop disappearing. He would scare them both badly, scare them until they pleaded for forgiveness.
His body craving oblivion, Loc abruptly ceased his search and turned into an alley that housed one of his favorite opium dens. He’d have to scrape the bowl and stem of his pipe to gather residue, which he could then roll into a ball and light and smoke. He didn’t enjoy such highs, as they tended to leave him lethargic. But he had no choice.
Loc spied the cracked door that led to a den, and was about to move through it when to his amazement he saw the half boy round a corner. Loc stepped into the shadows. The girl appeared next, her voice moving quickly. It seemed as if she spoke with excitement. The boy grinned—something Loc rarely saw. Holding his game in his good hand, he swung his stump to and fro.
The children passed. Loc started to follow them, eager for their earnings, but stopped. Where had they been? he wondered, knowing no hotels or tourist attractions were nearby. His curiosity growing, he moved in the direction from which they’d first appeared. He walked down the middle of the alley, heedless of the occasional scooter. At first he saw nothing but stained apartment buildings and shops. But then, to his right, his eyes fell on a large sign that was written in English. Like most everyone who lived on the streets, Loc could speak some English, though he couldn’t read it well. He wasn’t sure what the sign said.
Moving closer to the structure, Loc heard the voices of foreigners. His heart thumping quickly at the thought of the girl and half boy betraying him, he stepped toward a child playing in a puddle and asked what the foreigners were doing. The child told him all that he needed to know, confirming his suspicions, causing his anger to rise like mercury.
Loc moved closer to the building. The foreigners were trying to steal from him, and as he listened to them, he realized that he could never let their center open. He’d have to destroy it or them or perhaps both. He couldn’t allow them to succeed, because their success would ensure his demise. The half boy and the girl could never go free. He needed them. They gave him life.
Studying the center, Loc looked for weaknesses, for ideas. After a few minutes, he cursed the foreigners again, stepped into the opium den, and pulled his pipe from where he’d tied it against his calf.
Soon he had scraped the pipe clean and was sucking smoke into his lungs. Soon he was content. His aches were gone, he had a plan, and his future would be secure. The children would never escape him. They were his.
HER FATHER’S DESK HAD BECOME HER own. A half dozen bound, prepublication review copies of forthcoming novels sat atop one another. Index cards bearing various reminders and notes had been taped to the edge of her computer monitor. Résumés, official documents, receipts, bills, and office supplies covered seemingly every millimeter of available space. And a paper-clipped outline of her novel lingered, half buried, beneath this sea of paperwork.
Iris studied the chaos before her, trying to slow a mounting sense of panic. How had her father ever thought that he could manage the center alone? How could he possibly have envisioned housing, clothing, feeding, and educating twenty children? Had he been stronger than she’d imagined?
She rubbed her brow, knowing that her career as a book reviewer was at the very least going to be put on hold. Perhaps she could complete a few reviews to pay some bills. But many of her looming deadlines would soon come and go without being met. She wouldn’t get to do what she loved most—share her discoveries.
Iris also had to think about other details, now that her trip to Vietnam was going to be extended. For starters, she needed to break her apartment lease back in Chicago. Her mother would have to pack up all of her books and move her out. Iris had also decided to sell her prized collection of signed, first-edition novels that she’d managed to gather over the years. She didn’t want to sell the books but knew that they were worth five or six thousand dollars. Such money would go a long way in Vietnam and would, in fact, pay for a library that she wanted to build in the corner of the classroom. Selling fifteen of her own books, even if they were precious to her, was a sacrifice that she needed to make. Otherwise, she didn’t see how she could build a library for the children. And though a library hadn’t been in her father’s original design, Iris felt that she must build one. How could children learn without rows of wonderful books?
After writing an e-mail to ask her mother about the apartment lease, the first-edition novels, and to let her know that she was well, Iris began to review her father’s operating plan. Though he’d never had much success in business, he had obviously labored over his projections. Almost everything seemed to be covered. Still, her father’s thoroughness gave her little solace—she had no idea if the practical realities of running the center would stay aligned with his expectations.
Her breath tended to grow shallow when she was anxious, and Iris sought to slowly fill her lungs. The thought of the children’s fates in her untested hands threatened to overwhelm her. Suddenly the responsibility of running the center seemed too much. She closed her eyes in an effort to relax, but couldn’t as the strange sounds of the city made
her long for home. She wanted to call her mother, though the differences in their time zones meant that by doing so, she’d awaken her. Feeling trapped and alone, Iris stood up. Before she could stop herself, she blamed her father for placing her in this predicament. He’d always left her, and even in death he seemed to have abandoned her.
Iris thought of her childhood, of never knowing whether he’d be home to kiss her good night, and she felt old wounds reopen. She didn’t want to feel herself bleed, and so she sat down again, sorting through résumés and notes, trying to determine whom she should hire as their teacher. But no matter how hard she attempted to focus, she couldn’t step from the shadows of her past.
Iris was about to leave the room when steps echoed in the stairwell. She turned, surprised to see Noah. His shirt and pants were covered in dirt stains. His scar seemed more livid than usual. But his face bore what might have been the faintest of smiles.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, shifting his weight to his good leg.
“About what?”
“About what you said to me. How you were frustrated with not being able to get around.”
“I am frustrated. Very.”
Noah nodded, unused to the edge that her voice now contained. “Let me show you something,” he said, turning toward the stairwell.
Iris followed him downstairs, wondering what was on his mind. Thien stood at the bottom of the steps, singing softly. She grinned. “Why are you so happy?” Iris asked.
“What a wonderful surprise Mr. Noah has for you.”
“He does?”
Thien took her hand and together they followed Noah, who limped into the tiled entryway. Outside the gate a red scooter was parked. Noah turned, offering Iris a key. “The locals seem to do well on these,” he said. “Seems like you might too.”
Giggling, Thien reached forward to take the key and place it against Iris’s palm. “He bought you a fast one, Miss Iris. A Honda. My brother has one just like it, and you are going to feel like a bird.”
