by Ron Levitsky
Collinsby pulled into a parking spot where the street ended and the pier began. They stepped from the car and, for a moment, both men gazed into the ocean. Sunlight danced upon a horizon interrupted by an occasional fishing boat, its sail a speck of shimmering white.
“Sure can be pretty out here,” Collinsby said. He stretched broadly, lifting his face toward the sun. “Yeah, makes you remember the way you were as a kid. I could stand here all day.”
Rosen tried not to think of his childhood, as he looked out onto the water. The ocean was beautiful yet vast and immutable in its power, so that even the whale of Jonah was but a minnow in its midst. And the ocean, in turn, was the size of a raindrop to the Creator. A raindrop that could flood the world upon a whim, killing everything but a floating zoo. How could Man be expected to find justice in such a world? “Let’s get this over with,” Rosen said, but he too found it difficult to turn away. The ocean was so beautiful.
As the two men walked toward the tailor shop, Rosen noticed another Jaguar parked across the street. It was the same model as Collinsby’s, even the same color, but brand-new, glowing like fire among the street’s brown and greenish hues. From habit he made a mental note of the license plate.
He nodded toward the automobile. “I can barely tell it apart from yours. Pretty flashy for this neighborhood, wouldn’t you say?”
Collinsby laughed nervously. “Yeah, two peas in a pod. Look, Nate, I bet those people are gathered for some kind of service for the dead woman. Could even be the funeral. I don’t feel very good about disturbing the family just now. Know what I’m saying?”
Rosen turned to his companion. “Do you have any children?”
“A boy and a girl.”
“You must know how the parents feel. We should see them at least to pay our respects. If not for ourselves then as emissaries for our client, to give Basehart this one mitzvah—good deed—so that when he dies he won’t face God empty-handed.”
As soon as he spoke, Rosen looked away ashamed. Those were his father’s words, yet he said them with such conviction. And said, they could not be unsaid, so the two men continued up the street into the crowd which parted like leaves stirring in the wind. At the doorway stood a woman wearing a white garment; past her, other mourners mingled quietly inside the shop.
“Yes?” she asked, looking at Rosen.
She was slightly taller than the other women, with the fine delicate features common to Vietnamese; only her eyes were large and piercing. The white garment nearly touched her sandals but was open at the shoulders, revealing her arms. They were beautiful, very slender, as were her hands, though her fingernails were clipped short, and Rosen imagined her legs to be as shapely.
“We’re sorry to come at this time but, if possible, we’d like a few words with Mr. Nguyen.”
“Who are you?” Her directness surprised him.
“My name is Nathan Rosen, and this is Lester Collinsby. We’re representing Edison Basehart.”
She didn’t blink. “This is my sister’s wake.” The sentence was said as a statement not an accusation, and she waited for him to make the decision.
“If possible, we would like to see your father just for a few minutes. We’ll make it brief, I promise . . . Miss Nguyen.” He noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“I would rather you go away. This has been very difficult for my parents.”
“I know. We wouldn’t intrude if time wasn’t pressing. Right now an innocent man might be unfairly imprisoned while a guilty man, your sister’s murderer, is free. We’ll take just a few minutes of your father’s time. I promise.”
“Very well, then, just a few minutes. I will speak to my father. My mother will not speak to strangers—that is just her custom. This way.”
The two men followed her in a convoluted path past the mourners, until they reached the open casket. It had been placed on two work tables drawn together, and before it was an altar containing three bowls of rice, three cups of tea, and three smoking joss sticks emitting the heavy aroma of sandalwood. The entire area around the body was heavily scented with spices. The corpse was dressed beautifully in traditional Vietnamese attire—a white overdress form-fitting to the waist, with long tight sleeves and a high collar, and black satin pants. A white handkerchief covered the dead woman’s face, and resting on her stomach was a knife.
Collinsby leaned over and whispered to Rosen, “This gives me the creeps. I told you we shouldn’t have come. Let’s get this over with and get the heck out of here.”
Miss Nguyen said something in Vietnamese to an old couple standing near the coffin. The man nodded, approached the two visitors and smiled politely, not looking into their eyes.
“My father will speak with you,” the young woman said.
“Thank you,” Rosen replied. “Mr. Nguyen, we’re sorry for this intrusion, but there are some important questions we need to ask. I have the police report, so I won’t bother you with the same questions you answered for them. What I’d like to know . . . is there any reason why Edison Basehart in particular, or any of his friends should want to hurt your daughter?”
The man replied in his native language, and the young woman translated, “She was Vietnamese. For some that is enough.”
“Yes, but why your daughter? You and your wife also live in the building but weren’t disturbed, and there was no attempt to break into the shop itself. This seems to indicate that your daughter might have known her assailant. Do you have any idea whom this person might be?”
Mr. Nguyen shook his head.
“It’s important that we speak with your son, Van. Is he here?”
The old man, still smiling politely, fell into a deep silence. Finally his daughter said, “My brother is not here. He has not been home since the day before my sister was murdered, nor have we heard from him.”
“Isn’t that odd? He was supposed to have gone fishing early that morning, yet it seems he didn’t.”
“Apparently not, after all. Van was not always consistent in his actions. My brother often went away for several days at a time. As for his present whereabouts, perhaps he is grieving by himself. My sister and he were very close. Is that all?”
“Yes.” Rosen was about to turn, when he added, “Mr. Nguyen, I deeply regret what happened to your daughter. One of my holy books compares a man’s child to a precious jewel entrusted to him by a king. All the while in his possession, the man worries until the king repossesses what is rightfully his. Your daughter was a precious gift from God, and He has only reclaimed what is His.”
The old man looked up momentarily, nodded and returned his gaze to the floor.
“I’ll show you out,” the woman said. Rosen walked beside her, while Collinsby followed closely behind. There seemed to be an even greater crowd of mourners and, as they passed the counter, Rosen glimpsed a young white man wearing a crimson polo shirt. His hair was slicked back, which accentuated his fleshy lips and eyes green as emeralds. The man caught Rosen in his gaze then quickly ducked behind the crowd.
“Who’s he?” Rosen asked.
“No one. A friend of my father’s perhaps. I don’t know.”
“Lester, who was that man?”
“Who?”
“The Caucasian.”
“Didn’t see him. Come on, let’s go.”
Rosen looked back toward the counter, but the face in the crowd had disappeared. After they walked through the doorway, he said to Collinsby, “You go ahead to the car. I have to pick up something across the street.”
The other man hesitated then, shrugging, limped down the street in long strides, quickly distancing himself from the house of death.
Rosen asked the woman, “If I may impose one more time on your kindness. There’s a gift shop over there, and I’d like to buy my daughter something special for her birthday. Would you help me pick it out?”
“I really should . . .”
“Please.”
She pressed her lips together and looked up at Ro
sen. “Very well.” As they crossed the street she added, “That was a nice thing you said to my father. You’re the only outsider who seemed the least bit sincere. You sounded like a priest.”
He laughed. “Did I? I guess old habits die hard. I don’t know your name—your first name.”
“It’s Trac, Nguyen Thi Trac. Not very pretty-sounding in English, but very special to my people. My sister and I were named after two great sisters who fought the Chinese centuries ago. I’m the chi-mot, first daughter, and my sister’s the second, chi-hai. That is to say, she was.”
They entered the shop, which was crowded with aisles of dolls, incense, candles, cups, and rows of blouses, shirts, and slacks of the same type in which the dead woman was dressed. The proprietress, a wizened old woman smoking a long thin pipe, smiled a toothless grin and chatted loudly in Vietnamese, her voice sounding like an out-of-tune guitar. Trac replied—it was the first time Rosen had seen her smile—and led him to the counter, upon which were many rings and bracelets from brass to what appeared to be gold.
“Old Li says she has some special jewelry for your daughter. With Li it’s special if the gold doesn’t rub off in your hand. Many of us feel she missed her true calling as a used-car salesman. Don’t let her take advantage of you.”
Meanwhile the old woman had taken out a tray of gold-braided necklaces and draped one on Trac’s shoulder, clapping her hands with a squeal of delight.
“It’s very beautiful,” Rosen said, “but I think a little too grown-up for Sarah. She’s just twelve. What about the outfits over there?” He walked to the clothes rack. Removing the necklace Trac followed him, the old woman trailing behind.
“What do you call these?”
“That is the ao-dai, the ’custom dress’ which is our traditional outfit. Three pieces, the blouse covered by these panels front and back over the pants. They are all handmade, see—each embroidery is slightly different. Do you know your daughter’s size? These run small, as you’ve probably guessed.”
“I think this one, yes, with the white pants. It may be a little big, but she can always grow into it.”
“It is lovely. What’s her coloring?”
“She has dark eyes and long black hair, like yours.” For a moment their eyes locked.
“Yes, I think you’ve made a wise choice.”
Again the old woman clapped her hands gleefully, took the outfit to the counter and wrapped it carefully. Rosen paid for the gift, thanked her, then followed Trac from the store.
A large hearse, one entire side covered by a dragon, was parked across the street in front of the tailor shop. Some of the mourners were decorating the sides of the vehicle with flowers, slips of rolled paper, a portrait of the dead woman, and attaching an altar with more flowers, incense, and a flickering oil lamp.
“My parents still believe in the old ways,” she said. “Putting the knife on my sister’s stomach, and now the dragon—to keep away evil spirits. The pieces of paper are prayers for my sister to carry to our ancestors.”
“And the three bowls of rice and tea I saw inside?”
“They will be placed before the altar of my parents’ house three times daily for the next three years. For some of the old people, a hundred days of mourning is enough, but not my father. He believes we must offer prayers to our ancestors of the past five generations. It is a contract; you lawyers can understand that. We help assure them a place in heaven, and they in turn will protect us from evil.” She paused. “Some help they provided my sister. Well, we’re in America. Something must have been lost in the translation.”
“It’s a beautiful ceremony. Your parents must’ve loved your sister very much.”
Trac bit her lip. Only a momentary weakness, for she quickly cleared her throat and shook her head. “Nhi was a woman and therefore not of great consequence. Had it been my brother, their only son, it would have meant that the family line was broken and our souls and those of our ancestors would wander aimlessly in the spirit world forever. Yes, let Nhi and me go to hell, but let the gods protect Van by all means.” She was struggling not to cry.
“You’re worried about your brother, aren’t you?”
She broke into nervous laughter. “Do you worry about your cat when you let him out for the night? Van knows how to take care of himself. That is the first lesson all of us younger ones learned in the United States and something the old ones, like my parents, never understood. My father keeps praying to the dead as if they could hear and, if so, as if they would care. Van knows better; there is no one who will help you but yourself. He taught Nhi well, didn’t he?”
Rosen watched her angrily brush away the silent tears. Her parents’ ritual he could understand—the mourning clothes, the altar with candles, and most importantly the sense of community, of present mingling with the past as if old friends. It was the way of his people too—ripped clothes and ashes, the swaying of the congregation as they recited the kaddish, the yahrzeit candle flickering as fragile as life. But this grief of hers was different because it was so alone, a stranger wandering aimlessly in a world of strangers, and there was nothing he could say to assuage it. So he looked down at the gift under his arm, until she gained control of herself.
“Thanks again for helping me choose the present.”
She nodded.
“Well, good-bye.” Neither moved, and he said, “I’ll probably be in town for a few weeks. Could I see you again?”
“Haven’t you asked enough questions?”
“It’s not that.”
A long pause.
“I don’t think . . .” she began.
“I’m divorced, if that’s the problem.”
She gave a short laugh. “Morality is something I left behind in Vietnam, like the pagoda. Seems so old-fashioned in this town. It’s just, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I took a leave of absence from the Smithsonian to help my parents with the funeral arrangements and share their mourning.”
“Really? What kind of work do you do at the Smithsonian?”
“I’m a musicologist. I restore instruments for the museum.”
“That’s why you have short nails, so as not to scratch the wood.”
She smiled. “You’d make a good detective.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment, then Rosen said, “Musicologist. You wouldn’t happen to like jazz?”
“I like all music.”
“Good. I’ll call you, and perhaps we can get together. Let me walk you back to . . .”
A “bang” came from across the street, like someone striking a kettledrum. Trac fell against him and, inhaling her perfume, Rosen let a hand reach up to touch her shoulder. As she turned slightly, he saw that his hand was bleeding; a small glass shard was sticking where his thumb and forefinger met. The street had suddenly grown silent, but while cleaning and wrapping the wound in a handkerchief, he heard someone crying softly. Then, as if the street had a volume control, the cries grew louder into screams and shouts ringing against his ears.
Looking across the street next to the Nguyens’ tailor shop, Rosen saw that the display window of a grocery store had been blown apart. Torn heads of cabbages and other produce lay strewn across the sidewalk among pieces of shattered glass. Several of the mourners wandered into the street holding their faces or arms, too dazed to cry. Trac hurried alongside an old man with a deep cut on the side of his face and spoke to him in Vietnamese. He muttered something as she helped him back to the sidewalk, where a young couple took him.
Following Trac to the storefront, Rosen asked, “What happened? What did the old man say?”
She shook her head. “All he said was ‘Viet Cong attack.’ He was in shock, remembering how it was in Vietnam.” She looked around. “This was how it happened during the war. All the time. You would be walking and then . . .” Her eyes fixed on the broken window, and Rosen sensed her slipping away. He shook her, and she blinked, bringing a hand to her forehead. “I . . . I must see if my parents are all right.” S
he ran into the tailor shop.
He bent to examine the shattered window more carefully. There had been little damage to the store itself. The bomb must have been small and planted somewhere in the display, blowing the glass outward. It seemed that whoever placed it there wanted the explosions to scare not kill; in that he had been successful.
Rosen stepped inside to the counter, where a man and boy sat. “Are you the owner?”
The man stared straight ahead, not moving, but the boy answered, “My father is. He doesn’t speak English.”
“Is he hurt?”
The boy shook his head. “He is afraid . . . the explosion.”
“Ask him if he knows who did this.”
The boy exchanged a few words with his father. “He says they are bad.”
“Who?”
The man blinked and stared at Rosen, as if seeing him for the first time. He shook his head and muttered to his son who said, “My father wants to be left alone.”
“Sure, I guess it probably was the V.C.”
Father and son stared at one another but remained silent.
Back on the sidewalk, Rosen watched the Vietnamese busily cleaning the street; vegetables and broken glass were being swept into neat little piles, placed into garbage bags, and carried away. The injured people had disappeared into the buildings. He signaled to Trac, who walked from the tailor shop.
“How are your parents?”
“They were not hurt. The funeral will begin as soon as everything is cleaned.”
He looked at the hearse. There were a few scratches on the hood, which a boy was buffing carefully, and the photograph of Trac’s sister had been torn.
“The police should be here soon,” he said. “Maybe then we’ll find out what happened.”
“The police will not come. No one has called them. No one will call them.”
“But the bombing . . .”
“What bombing? Look around. Nothing has happened.”
Glancing up and down the street, Rosen saw that everything had been cleaned. From where he stood, he couldn’t even tell if the window was missing from the grocery store. Only the slight throbbing in his hand and the murdered woman’s torn picture proved something had happened.
