by John Shors
“Halong Bay?”
“Is that okay?”
“Really? Really, Mr. Noah?”
“Do you want to go? With me?”
She smiled and stepped to him, hugging him tightly. “Of course. That would be wonderful! I have never visited Halong Bay and would love to see it.”
Noah felt all of her against him. Was she hugging him as a friend? As something more? “It’s an early flight,” he said, looking down at the top of her head. “We’d leave early and get back late. It’ll be a long day.”
“And our jobs at the center?”
He hoped that she couldn’t feel the speed with which his heart raced. “Iris said you haven’t taken a day off in weeks. It’s just fine with her.”
She looked up at him and suddenly her eyes were much closer to his. “I am so excited, Mr. Noah.”
“Please call me Noah.”
“Is it really true?”
“It is.”
“Thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Of course.”
Nodding, she moved slightly away from him, though her hands held his. She glanced at the tickets, wishing they were already there, thrilled by the prospect of seeing the dragons, of traveling with Noah. “Do you know the story of the bay?” she asked, griping his hands tightly.
“No.”
“Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“Halong Bay means . . . ‘Bay of the Descending Dragons.’ ”
“Why do they call it that?” he wondered, enjoying the link of their hands and not wanting it to end.
“A long, long time ago, Vietnam was at war with China. And the Chinese were sailing across the sea to destroy us. A family of dragons saw our troubles and came to our aid. The dragons started spitting out giant pieces of jade. These pieces struck the sea and turned into thousands of islands, creating a barrier that the Chinese ships could not pass.” Thien paused, smiling.
“And what happened?”
“And the Chinese sailed home. And later, when there was peace, the dragons so loved the bay they had created that they flew down and decided to live in the blue waters. They still live there. When the bay is rough they are said to be swimming.”
“You believe in them?”
“Most certainly. And I think you will too. After you see what they did.”
A scooter passed by on the road near the window. Thien glanced at the window, and then her gaze traveled back to his face. She remembered how he’d smiled at the sight of the children on the seesaw. She had rarely seen him smile and had wanted to do so again. She’d longed to help with his pain. Never had she experienced such pain, and she’d have liked to take some of his suffering and make it hers. One person, she often thought, one good person, shouldn’t have to endure such misery.
“Thank you for my gift,” she said quietly, feeling the heat of his hand in hers.
“You haven’t seen it yet.”
“I know. But you are going to show me.” She squeezed his hand. “Good night . . . Noah.”
He felt her fingers leave his, and suddenly he was alone. “Good night, Thien,” he said. He watched her step back to the sink and then he turned. Behind him, he heard her start to sing as she again began to clean. Though he wanted to sit on a step and just listen, he climbed the stairs until he reached the roof, until her voice was but a memory in his head, swirling around and filling him with warmth.
THIRTEEN
Into the Light
Thien awoke before the roosters. She was making fresh orange juice when she heard them announce the coming of dawn. She knew each of the three roosters—knew where each lived and recognized each distinct cry. Though most city dwellers despised the racket that roosters made, she didn’t mind. The noise reminded her of home, brought back memories of lying between her siblings on a thin mattress and moaning at the sound of roosters waking the world.
After Thien had prepared breakfast for everyone, she went outside and swept the stone path in the playground. The children had made a mess the previous day, when they’d enjoyed the seesaw for so long. She was pleased to see the muddied stones, the trampled grass. These sights told her what she wanted to know, that children had played and laughed in a place that she’d helped build.
Thien had already cleaned the playground and first floor of the center when the sun began to gradually illuminate the sky. As she had worked, she’d hummed quietly, her voice mirroring the mood of the morning. She had mused about Noah. So much of him is locked away, she’d thought. That bomb didn’t take only his leg. It took his hope, his joy.
Thien had realized that she hoped to discover the parts of him that had been stolen. She didn’t know if this longing was because she wanted to see all people happy, or if it was more than that. Did she want him to be happy because he was with her? Because she cared about him? Because she was a source of his joy?
Such questions had echoed in Thien’s mind while she’d worked. She had asked herself how she saw him, and what she wanted. She worried about falling for him, as she knew that in all likelihood he’d vanish in a few months. He would leave Vietnam and possibly never return. And when that happened she’d be hurt. The issue was—how much pain was she willing to endure?
Now, as Thien walked upstairs, she pushed thoughts of Noah aside. She wanted to ensure that the center would be fine in her absence. She worried about Iris having to tend to everything. It didn’t seem right to leave her without help, no matter how tempting the invitation. What if her American sister needed her and she wasn’t there?
Thien stepped into the dormitory. Mai and Minh appeared to have recently awoken. Still in their pajamas, they were playing a game of Connect Four on the floor next to their bed. Mai laughed, trying to remove a game piece that she’d dropped down the wrong slot. Minh blocked her fingers with his stump while attempting to place his own piece and win the game. Managing to slip his piece past Mai, Minh threw his hand up in the air, smiling while Mai giggled.
At the other end of the room, Tam lay in her bed. Qui sat beside her, gently combing her hair. Thien said hello and was surprised when Tam didn’t return the greeting. Making conversation with Qui, Thien glanced repeatedly at Tam, not liking the pallor that seemed to have seeped into her face. She looked as if she’d eaten old meat. Worried for her, Thien reached down, picked up Dung, and placed the doll in Tam’s hands. “I’m going to be gone for today,” Thien said, looking from Qui to Tam. “Will you please rest so tomorrow I can watch you more on the seesaw? No one can make that elephant jump like you. And I want to see him jump.”
Tam might have nodded. Thien wasn’t sure. Qui continued to comb her granddaughter’s hair. “She’ll ride tomorrow,” Qui said, doing her best to smile.
“Do you need anything?”
Qui shook her head and held up a postcard. “Do you know what came in the mail yesterday?” she asked. “A postcard from Bangkok. From Tam’s mother.”
“Really? May I see it?”
“Of course.”
Thien held the postcard before her. The card depicted downtown Bangkok and carried a Thai stamp. But Thien was certain that the card had never been mailed from Thailand to Vietnam. It was too clean, too crisp. She glanced at the back and saw barely readable handwriting. Words spoke of a mother’s love for her daughter, of how that love was as wide and deep as the sea. Thien didn’t have to wonder who’d written the card.
“You’re lucky to have such a loving mother,” Thien said, tucking the card between Tam’s arm and the sheet. “And she’s lucky to have you. We’re all so lucky to have you, Tam. You’re our first student and soon you’ll learn so many wonderful things.”
“Thank you,” Tam whispered, closing her eyes, weariness overcoming her.
Thien realized that Qui was trying to hold back tears. “She’s so brave,” Thien whispered, gently squeezing Qui’s arm. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so brave.”
Qui nodded, watching her granddaughter, almost unaware of Thien. Not
wanting to intrude, Thien said good-bye and slowly walked away. She felt weak and had to hold the handrail as she descended toward Iris’s office. She entered the room and saw Iris working at her computer, typing numbers into small boxes. The windows of the room were shut, and beads of sweat covered the back of Iris’s neck.
“Miss Iris, do you want me to open a window?” Thien asked, moving toward the wall.
Iris turned toward her, raising a hand. “No, no. Please don’t. I need some silence. I need to think.”
“May I help you?”
“Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
“Soon. We are leaving soon.”
Iris sipped from a glass of orange juice that Thien had brought her earlier. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look tired.”
“I am worried about Tam.”
“I know. I’m going to call the doctor just as soon as he gets to work. And I’ll have him stop by.”
“Will he help her?”
“I don’t . . . I’m not sure, Thien. I don’t know what can be done. He did more tests, you know. And the results weren’t good.”
Thien shook her head. “I should not be leaving you today, Miss Iris.”
Grasping Thien’s hands, Iris rose from her seat. “Please, Thien. Please don’t worry about us. We’re going to be fine. You’re just going for a day. That’s all. Everyone will be here when you get back, and it will be like you never left.”
“But there is so much work.”
“Please do this for me. For Noah. Go and see something beautiful. Please.”
Thien started to speak and then stopped. She felt the strength of Iris’s grip. She looked into her eyes. “We will be back tonight. And tomorrow I will work so hard. You can just rest.”
“That’ll be fine, Thien. Just fine. I’ll write a list of things for you to do.”
“A big list, Miss Iris. Please.”
The sound of a scooter’s engine springing to life echoed in the stairwell. “That’s him,” Iris said, leaning forward to hug Thien. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Are you sure? I think—”
“Go to him. Go and be happy.”
Thien nodded, rising on her tiptoes to kiss Iris’s cheek. “See you tonight.”
“See you then.”
Nodding, Thien moved to a nearby desk and picked up her Polaroid. She said good-bye and hurried to the stairwell, the beat of her heart moving with the speed of her feet. Now that she’d been released by Iris, she felt an unfamiliar sense of anticipation. Though she liked to visit beautiful places, Thien had done very little traveling. She’d walked throughout the valley where her father’s farm rested. She had been to the Mekong Delta and seen wondrous sights. But she’d never looked upon the sea, and from what she had heard of Halong Bay, it was a sight not to be forgotten.
Thien soon reached Noah. He sat at the rear of the idling scooter, a small pack on his back. “Are you ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She paused for only a second. Then she took his hand and sat in front of him. He reached forward and carefully withdrew the camera from where it hung about her neck. He put it in his pack, moving ahead until his chest touched her back. She felt something thump against her, and she wondered if his heart was beating as fast as hers.
“We’d better catch our plane,” he said, gripping the edge of the seat.
Thien saw his reflection in the side mirror and realized that he was looking into it, and at her. “Thank you, Noah,” she said, happy that the glass served to connect them. Though the mirror was pointed up too high and she couldn’t spot the road, she didn’t adjust it. She wanted to see his face.
“Let’s go find those dragons,” he said, smiling faintly at the glass, at her.
She twisted the throttle and felt him draw nearer to her. As their speed increased, the distance between them vanished. His hands wrapped around her waist, and he clung to her as they weaved around slower traffic.
TO NOAH, THE FLIGHT TO HANOI was like any other. The cramped conditions of the airplane cabin made his back and leg ache. He asked for a Tiger beer as soon as they left Ho Chi Minh City. The beer calmed his nerves—both mental and physical.
Thien had never been on a plane, and even the ancient Russian jetliner caused her smile to widen. She sat in the window seat, her eyes rarely straying from the sights below. She marveled at the shimmering sheets of rice fields, dozens of rivers snaking through lush highlands, and miles of coastline where frothing waves tumbled against deserted shores. Everything was so green, as if it had rained each day for a thousand years. Thien thought the undulating land looked like an emerald sea. At times she wanted the plane to go lower, so that she could more closely inspect this sea. But she also enjoyed the perspective that their great height gave her.
“I feel like I am on my father’s shoulders,” she said, turning to Noah.
“You do?”
“He used to carry me around our village, and I would feel so high up, like I was a bird.”
Noah saw her smile, and for the briefest of moments was jealous of her unburdened mind. “What did you see?” he asked.
“When farmers ride their elephants, they use a blunt hook to tug at their ears to tell them where to go. This is what I did with my father. I would gently tug on his ears and he would take me places.” She smiled at the memory and then reached into her pocket and withdrew a tangerine. “I saw so many things. People, streams, frogs in the rice field.”
“Why are you always eating those?”
She shrugged and offered him a slice. “Because I am hungry.”
“Why don’t you eat something that will actually fill you up?”
“Because then I would not be able to eat so many delicious fruits. And you would not get so many slices.”
He bit into her offering. “They are good. Thanks.”
The plane rumbled as it bounced through air currents. Thien glanced out the window, surprised to see that clouds surrounded them. “What is happening?” she asked, her tangerine forgotten.
“It’s just some turbulence. Nothing to worry about.”
“Turbulence?”
“The wind . . . or maybe your dragons . . . are making the plane shake.”
She searched the clouds. “If it is dragons, then we have nothing to worry about.”
“We don’t.”
“Do you want children?” she asked, still thinking about her father, about how many of her brothers and sisters he’d carried on his shoulders.
Noah moved his prosthesis so that less pressure was against his stump. “I thought Vietnamese were supposed to be private. And shy.”
“Whoever said such a thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do not believe they visited Vietnam.”
“Neither do I.”
The clouds parted, revealing a stunning shoreline of white beaches and green islands. Thien reached for her camera and took a picture. The camera ejected the photo, which she began to blow on. “Do you want them?”
“Want what?”
“Children.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Not now. And you?”
“I want many. Maybe five, six, or seven.”
“Seven?”
She smiled at his expression. “I want to laugh with them. To watch them grow. To feel the love between a mother and her children.”
He nodded, studying her face, knowing it would one day be filled with laugh lines. “You’ll be a wonderful mother,” he said, wanting to see her hold her child.
“How do you know that?”
“Because you love children. And I’ve never seen anyone as happy as you.”
She took his hand, her small fingers resting in his. “You can be happy, Noah.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.”
“You were happy yesterday, when Tam was on your seesaw. I saw you smile and I know you were happy.”
“But that’s . . . that’s just one moment.”
She continued to hold his
hand, her thumb making small circles around his knuckle. “Yes, but maybe yesterday you had one moment. And today . . . maybe today you will have two. And tomorrow three. Maybe that could happen. If your life went from good to bad, why cannot it go from bad to good?”
Noah wanted to hold her, to pull her close against him and let her take away his pain. He knew that she could comfort him, could carry him to a place where life could begin again. He closed his eyes briefly, imagining them together in such a place. “I’ll try,” he finally replied.
“I will help you.”
“I know. I know you will.”
A thump sounded from below as the landing gear moved into place. “Is that Hanoi?” she asked, pointing out the window.
“Must be.”
“And we will take a bus to the sea?”
“That’s the plan.”
She squeezed his hand. “I have never been to the sea. Thank you for my wonderful gift.”
He wanted to tell her that she was the gift—a gift to the world, a gift to him. But instead he simply sat and let her hold his hand. He didn’t want her to pull it away. And when they landed he let her guide him into the light of day.
THE STREET SEEMED QUIETER THAN USUAL, and Sahn wondered if the weather was responsible. Showers the previous night had burdened the air with moisture. There was no breeze to sweep the city’s scents inland or to the distant sea. On such days, Sahn’s eyes bothered him the most. The blurred objects before him seemed to emanate heat as if from the embers of a fire. He wanted to step from this fire and into a cool and dark place.
Holding a folded newspaper in one hand, Sahn proceeded to a small park near the city’s center. Massive trees cast long shadows on the sidewalk, and Sahn felt the touch of the shadows the way someone else might feel the fingers of a lover. He walked to a tree and sat down, resting his back against its trunk. Unfolding the newspaper, he pretended to read.
As he flipped through the pages, he listened carefully. Though the raid on the brothel would occur many blocks away, Sahn hoped he’d be able to detect the sirens. They’d tell him what he wanted to hear—that his fellow police officers were storming a brothel offering the services of young girls. Through his network of informants, Sahn had discovered the existence of the brothel and had notified his superiors. It had taken two days to organize the operation, and Sahn had barely slept those two nights, worrying constantly about a betrayal within his station.
