Dukkha Reverb. Loren W. Christensen
just enough for her to finish a stride and then accelerates through where her leg had just been. It’s almost as if they’ve practiced it.
“See,” Mai says. “Her mother taught her well. Because she is walking very smooth, without hesitating or speeding up, the traffic can, uh, estimate where they have to go so they do not run her down.”
“But she’s a little girl!” I half shout.
“Yes, one who has to cross the street. See how everyone works together? If she stopped suddenly, it would cause much confusion to the traffic. Some would swerve into others and some would be forced to stop, which would make others hit them from behind. Do you see how some motorbikes are carrying large loads, like that one with many baskets piled high into the air? Or that one there with three riders on the back? See the one with two women on in it, one holding a baby? They do not want to crash. So it is important that everyone cooperates.”
The little girl steps up onto the curb and begins skipping to wherever she is going.
“Unbelievable. Have you ever been in an accident?”
“Yes. I have not crashed in a car but I have three times on my motorbike. Not for a while, thank Buddha, God, and my ancestors.”
The light changes and a thousand of us move into the circle, the roar of engines all consuming. About half way around, Mai works the car to the right, her hand steadily tapping the horn. She finishes the merge successfully and now we’re on a street with much lighter traffic.
As has been the case with all the streets I’ve seen, the sidewalks are cluttered with what appears to be food carts, card tables, and spread blankets where people sell everything from toilet paper to tires to perfume to boiling pots of whatever. The buildings on both sides of the street are three of four stories high, the top floors appearing to be apartments, while most of the ground level spaces look to be shops and eateries—the aroma is making me salivate.
“I’m liking this,” I say. “The traffic? I’m not so sure about yet, but the rest of it—the architecture, the extraordinary variety of smells, the crowds—yeah, I really like the feel here. And it’s getting dark already.”
“It gets dark here earlier this time of the year compared to Portland,” Mai says, accelerating around a motorbike piled high with—eggs. “We are close to the equator.” The stacked egg crates extend at least three feet over his head. “I am very happy to hear that you like this. I think my stays in Paris and in Portland helped me see Saigon as a… unique?… yes, a unique place. I love it because it is my home but I also love it because it is so unique. Unique is the right word, yes?”
“Definitely. I certainly can’t argue with that assessment because… Hey! That man!” I twist hard to look out the back window.
“What is the matter, Sam?”
“That man sitting on his motorbike back there. I’m sure of it.”
“What?”
“That’s the same guy who was riding so close to yourwindow. The one who made the shooting gestures.”
Mai giggles and says in a funny voice, “You know all us Oreo-entals look alike.”
For some reason that irritates me. “I know what I saw. I’ve been around Asians all my martial arts career. And for the last fifteen years my job has been to watch people, to read them.”
Her smile disappears.
“Sorry Mai. Jet lag’s making me grumpy.”
“What was the man doing?”
“Looking at me. His bike was on the kickstand and he was sitting on it with one foot on the ground and the other resting across the seat. He was smoking. Made eye contact and deliberately blew his smoke toward me.”
“I do not know what to say. What do you call it… oh, yes, worse case scenario. The worse case scenario is that Lai Van Tan knew you were coming. Or, okay, do not get mad again, that man just looks like the shooter man. Look around, many men wear white shirts, blue shirts and gray slacks. Everyone has sunglasses.”
“If they know I’m coming, why are they in the open? Harassment? Terrorism? A promise of things to come?”
“Yes, yes. Father say that they are not like the Viet Cong. They don’t live underground, pop out, do something terrible, and then go back underground again. They like to be seen. And feared. Terrorism. You are right.”
I know Lai Van Tan is still a threat, but I was hoping like a child hopes that it was over. I still haven’t gotten everything that happened in Portland sorted out in my head.
“Sam?”
As awful as it was in Portland, at least I was on my own turf, in my city, my state, my country. Here, in a Communist country, or whatever it is, where Americans are… What? I don’t know how I’ll be perceived yet, but I got a feeling it won’t be as peachy as the travel brochures claim.
“Sam?”
I look over at her.
“I can see you worrying. Do not do that, okay? Right now, we really do not know anything about that man. I know you are an expert on how to look at people, but I would bet that he was not the same one as before. Even if he was, maybe it was a coincidence. He is on the street and we are on the street in a car that stands out from all the bikes and other cars. Maybe right now he is afraid because he thinks we are following him.”
I chuckle. “Okay, I’ll stop with the paranoia. Not a good way to start out as a guest in your country. But if I see him again…”
Mai laughs as she makes a right onto another street. “Then we would truly be in the shit bucket.”
“Nicely put.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, how is Chien?”
“Your kitty is fine, sort of. I was actually planning on bringing her with me to surprise you but she got sick about a week ago. So one of my students is taking care of her.”
“Oh no. Very sick?”
“Something with its lungs. The vet gave her a couple of shots and he gave me some pills to give daily. Said Chien would be fine in a week or so but that she shouldn’t travel.”
“Very sad. I miss Chien a lot.”
“And Chien misses you. This area is nice, do you live around here?”
“We are almost there. I live upstairs in a space that is about as big as the apartment I had in Portland. Father and Mother live downstairs, and Ly, Mother’s nurse, lives in a room in the back of the house. Since I’m a modern woman,” she says, overacting an air of sophistication, “I would have my own apartment somewhere else.” She abruptly frowns. “But Mother is sick, so I like to be there to help Ly and help when Ly takes time off to see her family.”
“I’m so sorry about Kim.”
“Yes, I am very sad. Mother is not doing very well. TB is a difficult disease. She suffers from fever sometimes and she coughs very hard.”
“She going to be okay?”
Mai goes inward for a moment, then softly, “I do not know.”
We turn into a short cobblestone driveway and stop before an ornate, black double gate that’s lit by lamps on each corner post. She lowers her window and exposes her face. The gate swings open.
“Video surveillance?”
Mai smiles. “Father will explain everything,” she says, guiding the car into a brick-covered parking area big enough for a half dozen limos. The two-story house is gorgeous: dark brown tile roofing, light beige siding, lots of glass, bricks, stones, potted trees, and well-placed lighting to show it at its best. This would be considered upscale even in the Hollywood Hills; I didn’t expect to see it here.
“Wow!” I say. “The jewelry business has been