The trip from the airport to the house in Mai’s car is about the scariest thing I’ve ever done, that is, until now. My legs are hugging the sides of the little Honda motorbike so tightly that I might crush the engine, and I’m bear hugging Mai’s waist like a drowning man. When we first took off, I was hugging her even more tightly until she shouted over her shoulder that I was interfering with her driving. Good point. I want her one hundred percent engaged as she zigzags through the tsunami of metal, rubber, and blaring horns. I don’t know if I’m sweating from stress or from my jacket and baseball cap Samuel wanted me to wear. It’s a light jacket but still hot. Mai is wearing a baseball cap, a jean jacket, and dark slacks.
I’m not a control freak per se, but I’ve never liked riding on the back of a motorbike at the mercy of someone else’s ability to keep a two-wheeler upright. Mai seems to be at one with the bike, though, leaning us hard to the left at the last second to avoid a bus, braking to avoid tangling with a mass of motorbikes that suddenly surge across our lane, goosing the throttle so that another truck passes behind us with just inches to spare, and swerving to avoid a large pothole.
“How are you doing, Sam?” she calls over her shoulder.
“I have to go pee-pee,” I say into her ear.
That cracks her up just before she leans hard to the right to miss a stalled motorbike stacked high with lumpy gunny sacks.
“Never mind. I just went.”
Mai’s hearty laugh is interrupted when another motorbike’s mirror clanks against her left one. She shouts something at the driver and he moves over, but not far because several other bikes are jamming his left side. A motorbike on our right has moved in so close that if he had a left mirror it would hit our right one. His knee brushes my thigh.
“Mai! The guy on the right just touched my leg,” I say in her ear, struggling to restrain my panic.
Mai gooses the bike to zip us between two taxis and into a small clearing where other vehicles are about three feet away on either side of us. After another fifteen minutes or so of zig-ging and zagging and braking and goosing, Mai announces that we’re almost there. I quietly thank God, Moses, Buddha, and my TV repairmen back home.
Phạm Ngũ Lão doesn’t look much different than the streets around Samuel’s place. Traffic is a little lighter, but the sidewalks are crowded with pedestrians, vendors selling anything and everything, and motorbikes parked every which way. There are lots of Caucasians walking around too, many with backpacks.
“This is a favorite place for travelers, American students, and European ones,” Mai says, pulling to the curb. “We are here now.”
She parks just inches from an elderly woman sitting on a low bench before three large pots of squirming eels. The woman laughs when I deliberately get off on the far side of the bike, and gestures for me to come closer to the pots. When I shake my head, she gives me one of those toothless, red-stained smiles. Mai says something and the woman laughs.
“This is our store,” Mai says, pointing to an open-front shop with a painted sign overhead that reads Kim Le Jewelry Four Seven Two in English and probably the same thing in Vietnamese. Mai muscles the Honda over to the curb and parks it at the side of the store. Two middle-aged women, both wearing red áo dài, call out a greeting to her from inside. Mai smiles and waves. “Come in, Sam,” she says.
“I can’t believe that a jewelry store would have no front wall like this,” I ask, slipping off my sunglasses and coat.
“Oh, the front rolls down at night,” she says, pointing at the overhead door. “And whenever the clerks have ng ủ tr ưa, uh, sleep, like siesta.” She pulls off her shades and cap. “It is like the garage door you have on your house. It is metal and very secure.”
Inside looks like a typical jewelry store with glass cases full of gold and silver pieces, and what I would guess are medium-range necklaces displayed on the wall behind the two women. Small, strategically placed lamps set a nice mood and accentuate the sparkle and glitter.
“Please meet Da`o and Hoa, our two best jewelry experts,” Mai says. “This is Sam, father’s son.”
The women nod several times. “Nice to meet you,” I say, not sure if they understand.
“Nice to meet you,” they both say in English, nearly in unison.
“It’s a most beautiful store.”
“Thank you,” Mai says, pointing at the lighting. “Da`o has worked here for twelve years and is responsible for the look.”
“Very nice”
“Thank you. I enjoy very much. Samuel, Kim, and Mai same my family.”
“You are part of our family, Do`a,” Mai says. She touches the other woman’s arm affectionately. “Hoa has been here for about one year and is an excellent sales person.”
“Very good,” I say.
Hoa drops her head into a slight bow. “Cám ơn.”
“Sam. I have something I have to talk with Hoa about in the back. I will be ten minutes, okay? Maybe you would like to look around out front. But do not go too far, please.”
“Sure, no problem. Nice to meet you ladies,” I say, and turn to step toward the store’s opening, nearly tripping over a squatting child, a girl, I think. “Sorry,” I say, touching the mop of dirty hair. Do`a speaks sternly to the kid who glares defiantly at her before standing and walking haughtily away.
I move out onto the sidewalk and decide quickly that the best defense against getting swept away by the fast moving passersby is to stand next to a weathered tree by the curb. There is no way I’d ever get bored watching the steady roar of passing vehicle traffic and the mass of people moving in all directions, and hearing the confusion of Vietnamese and American music coming from… not sure where, and the loud chatter from vendors verbally advertising their wares. It’s a mad circus and I wouldn’t be the least surprised to see elephants and jugglers.
I was in New York City once in July, a time when the heat and humidity was awful. I was doing the tourist thing in Times Square and the sidewalks were as packed as they are here. The heat was miserable, as were the crowds, but there was some semblance of order to it all. Here, it’s about the heat, the crowds, the traffic, the cacophony of sounds, the explosion of colors, the myriad smells, and the overall sense of confusion, madness even. Maybe if I were to live here for a while it would no longer be bedlam, but I’m not so sure.
“You!”
I look down. It’s the same kid who just got eighty-sixed from Mai’s shop. She’s a girl for sure, no more than ten or twelve with stringy black hair, wearing dirty tan shorts, blue, new-looking Nike shoes, and a yellow T-shirt that reads “San Diego Zoo.” She stands directly in front of me, hands on her hips, her expression serious.
“What about me?” I ask.
“You American, okay? Okay?”
“I am. How are you?” She has beautiful brown eyes.
“How long you be here now. Here. Ho Chi Minh City? How long?”
“Two days. How long you been here?”
“You funny, you. But I not laugh, you see?” Half a dozen backpackers, speaking what sounds like German, pass behind her, all the while her focus stays on me.
“I guess it wasn’t that funny.”
“No. Sorry.” She shrugs as if I were a hopeless case. “Not funny too much you.”
“Sam,” I say, tapping my chest. I point at her. “You? Your name?”
“Baby Cakes,” she says.
I tighten my lips to hold back a chuckle and extend my hand. “Baby Cakes is a very pretty name. Nice to meet you.”
“Hello, Sam,” she says, pumping my hand. Hers is as rough as a logger’s and about as dirty. “Why you stand here?”
“I’m waiting for a friend.”
Her dirt-smudged face smiles for the first time. “Okay, okay,” she says nodding with the wisdom of an old sage. She takes my hand. “You want fuck, okay?”
“Wha-at!” I say, at once shocked and trying to swallow a laugh.
“I get girl for you. Very pretty. She not fuck too much today already.”
“Uh, no Baby Cakes.”
“Boy? You want fuck boy? Okay, no problem. I take you now. To bar we go you.”
“No, thanks. But it’s been real, real nice meeting you. I have to go inside. To see my friend.”
“Okay, okay. Sometime you want girl, boy, you find me. I here all time. I fix you up good. No problem.”
I head back into the store, shaking my head. That was disconcerting. Kid must be a pimp for a bar or something.
“How you like Vietnam?” Da`o asks pleasantly, as I walk back in. I don’t think she heard the exchange outside.
“Uh, never a dull moment. I mean, I love it.”
She laughs and claps her hands. “No, never dull for sure. Mai very beautiful, no?”
I shrug indifferently and grin.
She points at me and tilts her head. “I know Mai long time.”
“I see.” I know where this is going.
“She is same as granddaughter to me. I take care of her many, many times when she little.”
I nod.
She taps her chest. “Big heart. Easy hurt. Sometime she care too much.”
“Yes.”
Da`o looks at me for a long moment, then, “You no hurt her, okay?” I lift my hands to indicate that that would never happen. “She tell me about you and I see how she be now. She like you.” Her hand is resting on the top of a display case. I pat it a couple times, not knowing if that’s out of line.
“Da`o, I promise you I will not hurt her. I am not that kind of person. She is very lucky to have someone like you watching out for her.”
She looks deep into my eyes. “I tough old woman,” she says. “Two bombs not kill me in American War.” She makes an arc in the air with her hand. “Rockets. Attack my village. They no kill me.” Her eyes mist over. “Mai, I love same-same daughter.”
I take her hand in both of mine and look into her eyes. “I care for Mai very much too. No worries.”
“You good man?”
“I like to think I am.” I guess this isn’t the time to mention that I’ve killed three people.
She studies my face. “I think so, yes.”
“I see you two are chatting,” Mai says warmly, emerging from the back room. “Sam, Da`o baby sit me many times when I was little. She is like my special auntie.”
“She told me. We have been getting along nicely.”
Mai puts her arm around the woman’s waist and speaks Vietnamese to her. Da`o nods and pats Mai’s face. Lots of affection going on there. Hoa comes out from the back.
“Father call when I was with Hoa,” Mai says. “He wants to show you the soldiers’ home. We will go there now.”
“Great.”
“Nice talking to you,” Da`o says, her tone that of an engraver making one more chisel mark in the stone. I nod that I concur and that I got her not so subtle point.
When I step to the side a little, Da`o’s eyes look at something below me. I turn to see Baby Cakes once again squatting by the entrance. Da`o and Mai both speak sharply to her, and the girl backs out the entrance, across the sidewalk, stopping next to the tree where I was standing.
“She and I were talking a while ago,” I say. “She’s a pretty tough kid.”
“Tough kids steal from shops,” Da`o says.
“That’s too bad,” I say, looking back over at Baby Cakes who is talking on a cell phone. She steps away from the tree, glances at me for a second, and joins the stream of passersby.
Mai and I bid farewell to the ladies, and five minutes later we’re once again rolling in the battle zone, both of us wrapped up as if it were winter in Montana.
“Da`o, Kim, and Tex are sure worried about you liking me,” I say into Mai’s ear. “Guess I have to be nice to you.”
“Yes you do. My family very much protects me.”
“And you protect them.”
“Yes. They protect my heart and I protect their bodies,” she laughs at that, while swerving our motorbike to miss a truck.
“That little girl who was watching us came up to me on the sidewalk and asked if I wanted a date, of sorts. She couldn’t have been older than twelve and didn’t pull any punches.”
“What does ‘pull punches’ mean?”
“She didn’t mince words. She came right out and said what I could do to the girl. How does a child even know about such things?”
“Some children have to grow up quickly in Vietnam,” she says. “It is very sad. The violence to young children—it makes me so angry.”
Mai maneuvers us through a throng of motorbikes crossing in our path. I know the subject angers her because I can feel the tension in her back.
“Well, I didn’t come over here to ‘have a girl,’” I say into her ear.
She navigates traffic for another block, then with a smile back in her voice, she asks, “Not even to have me?”
“I will make an exception for you,” I say softly in her ear. I pinch her butt.
“Hey!” she says with a giggle. “I know how to block that.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Correct.”
I push my chest tight against her back, put my lips against her ear again, and say, “I like you, Mai.” I nibble on her ear.
She honks her horn at a truck that is within inches of touching our right legs. It moves over a little and accelerates away.
“Not a good idea to bite your driver’s ear in this crazy Saigon traffic.”
“Sorry.”
She pushes back against me. “Later it is okay to do.”
*
Mai banks the motorbike to the left onto a narrow alley that’s just wide enough for one vehicle. She does an amazing job of maneuvering around large potholes for about a hundred yards before she slows and turns into a small cracked-cement courtyard. It fronts a one-story building, beige, old but kept up. The Volvo Mai drove when she picked me up is parked off to the side. Three motor scooters are parked next to it.
“Hi, Tex,” Mai calls as he slaps out the door wearing a sleeveless and faded green Army fatigue shirt and the same blue Nike shorts. His muscular, tattooed arms ripple with his every “step,” his torso rocking freely between them.
Out of the corner of her mouth, Mai says, “Tex always wears his old army shirt when he works here.”
“Happy you come, Sam,” he says, as I dismount. “Your father very happy show you house.”
“I’m excited to see it. I’m not really sure what it’s about.”
“Sam. Mai,” Samuel greets us at the door. “I am glad you are here. I was planning on showing you this tomorrow, but it turned out I did not have to go to the Hai Ba Trung store today after all. I hope I am not interfering with your plans.”
“It is fine, Father,” Mai says. “I was just going to show him some of the city and get something to eat. We will do that after.”
“Very well.” He takes my arm and gestures for us to go in. “Welcome, Son. I want you to meet some special men, some old warriors. As I told you, Ngo Bao Chau died a few days ago, so now there are only five. But a new man will move here in a week or so. Soon we plan to add a second floor so more can join us.”
We step into what appears to be a living room with sofas, chairs, lamps, and a television. A thin man in his mid sixties wearing black shorts, sandals, and a white tank top sits on one end of a sofa. Both of his arms end about an inch below his elbow joints.
“This is the sitting room, where the men can come anytime they want to talk, play games—”
“Play games means gamble,” Mai says, smiling.
Samuel nods. “Gamble, read, smoke, or watch television. Please meet Phouc.” Samuel speaks to the man in Vietnamese. I hear my name in the mix.
“Hell-o, son of friend me,” Phouc says, saluting with his stump. I smile, nod.
“He is a good man,” Samuel says. “I teach him kicking and how to fight with his stumps. He is pretty good. Stump-fu.”
“Stump-fu,” Phouc says, waving his stumps about. “Pow pow pow.”
“That is Dung across the room,” Samuel says, gesturing toward an immense man with thinning gray hair sitting at an empty table, his back to us as he gazes out a window. “Big, no? He is about your height and weighs over two hundred fifty pounds. He was mentally slow before the war and now he suffers from PTSD. One nurse said that he has a mental capacity of an eight-year-old.”
“Two times he has been violent,” Mai says. “Father have to use…” She looks at Samuel.
“Sleeper hold,” he says, touching the sides of his neck. “Carotid constriction. Very sad. When Dung gets angry, he can be quite violent. Fortunately, it does not happen often.”
“Mostly, he is kind,” Mai says. “He is like a mother to the other men.” She looks over at him. “Chào Dung!”
“Watch this,” Samuel says. “He loves Mai.”
Dung’s posture snaps up straight, his head still turned away. He remains frozen for a moment, as if he isn’t quite sure he heard correctly.
“Chào Dung,” Mai says again, her voice melodic and full of fondness for the man.
He spins around, his knee striking the table leg, scooting it at least three feet and knocking askew a chair on the other side. “Mai!” he cries, launching his big self up. His walk is a bit of a lumber, his right leg stiff, giving him a gait like Chester on the old Gunsmoke reruns I used to watch with my grandfather. Still, he reaches Mai in three seconds flat, embracing her in an enveloping bear hug that lifts her off the floor.
Mai and Samuel both laugh. Samuel says something to him and he sets her down carefully. The big man beams and so does Mai. He takes her hand, leads her across the room to where he was sitting, and points at something out the window.
“They clicked the moment they met,” Samuel says, smiling at them. “He is too childlike to do anything inappropriate. It is like she is his younger sister who he adores. Pity anyone who tries to harm her when he is around.”
“I bet,” I say. Actually, pity anyone who tries to hurt her when any of us are around. Or hurt us when she’s around. What a family.
“There are separate quarters in this house so each man gets his own room. There are five bathrooms, an exercise room, kitchen, and a courtyard in the back with a heavy bag.”
“A bag? Some men practice martial arts?”
“Four of them. Phouc, Phat Ho, Cong, and Viet. We will meet Cong and Viet in a moment. They have all trained a long time. It keeps them healthy and happy.”
“Wait. There is a guy named Viet and another named Cong? Like in Viet Cong?”
Samuel smiles. “Funny, eh. Here is what makes it funnier. Viet is from the North, born in Hanoi. Spent years transporting supplies on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Cong is from the South, Saigon. He fought against the Viet Cong for seven years before he was wounded and could no longer be a soldier.”
“They get along?”
Over by the window, Mai is laughing with Dung about something.
“Viet and Cong are best of friends. Both are serious Buddhist. They want to put the war behind them.”
“Incredible.”
“They are amazing men. Phat Ho is—”
“Oh,” I laugh. I quickly wave my hand apologetically. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Didn’t mean to… I heard you say that name a second ago but I thought I heard wrong.”
“Yes, the English translation makes it funny.”
“Sorry,” I repeat, getting control of myself. “I probably sound like a thirteen-year-old boy.”
Samuel smiles. “We all have moments of being a thirteen-year-old boy, no?” Tex, who has been outside doing something, hand walks up to us.
“You two have done an incredible job here,” I say.
“I am very happy to help a little,” Samuel says. “You see, the government does not take care of its old soldiers.” He looks at Dung for a long moment before continuing. “Maybe in a year we can buy another building somewhere. I would like to open one in the country. We can get more for our money there.” He looks at Phouc. “I want to help them.” Then, barely above a whisper, “I need to help them.”
Tap… tap… tap…
Coming from what appears to be the entrance to a hallway.
“Viet come,” Tex says from below us. “Do not be filled with shock, Sam.”
“Shock? Why would I…”
“Viet,” Samuel calls as a horribly disfigured man limps around the corner, a broad smile across his face. He waves.
Oh my…
The right side of his face looks to have been melted, as does his right arm and his right leg. His left leg ends at his knee to which he has attached the bottom portion of a well-used crutch, the source of the tapping. His brown shorts and pale blue T-shirt appear too large for his thin frame.
He continues to smile as he walks up to us and shakes hands with Samuel, left hand to left hand. Closer, I can see that he’s not smiling at all. The man has no upper lip and only part of a lower. “Viet,” Samuel says. “This is my son, Sam.”
“Oh,” he says, extending his left hand. “Nuth to neet you.”
“He says, ‘nice to meet you,’” Samuel says, placing his hand on Viet’s shoulder. “His English is quite good. Not having all his lips makes it hard to pronounce some letters.”
Suddenly my concerns pale in comparison. “I understood perfectly,” I say, smiling at him.
“Viet is a good kicker,” Samuel beams. “He is in his sixties but if he kicks you with his peg leg, you will remember it for a long time, and you will have a round indent in your head.” He laughs.
“Your ‘ather is a ‘under-ul teacher,” Viet says, looking at Samuel with respect and love.
“Wonderful? You don’t think he is too slow?” I ask, forcing my face to look serious.
Viet laughs, though his permanent smile doesn’t change. “Yes, yes. He need to ‘urk on his seed. Too slow ‘or sure.” His eyes twinkle at Samuel.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Samuel says with a grin. “Viet, where is Cong?”
“In ‘ack of house. I see hin out ‘indow. He ‘ractice kni.”
“He is practicing with his knife,” Samuel translates.
“And Phat Ho?”
I bite my lip.
“He go shaw-ing.”
“Shopping?”
“Yes. Cuh’ ‘ack soon.” He looks behind us, and points. “Oh, there Phat Ho already.”
Phat Ho also looks to be sixty-something, with a pockmarked, chubby face, and a soft middle under his white T-shirt. He’s carrying a large papaya in his right hand. He has no left arm, though I can see the impression of a stub against his sleeve. He acknowledges Samuel with a nod. There is strength in his bearing and an intensity in his eyes that convey danger, extreme danger.
Samuel says something to him while nodding at me. Without turning his head, Phat Ho glances my way, then looks back at Samuel. I wonder if Phat Ho translates to Mister Warmth. When Samuel speaks to him again, his verbiage is clipped, insistent. Mai turns and looks over at us. Phat Ho again looks at me, this time for about three beats before he nods slightly, his eyes like cold flames. I must have made a bad impression. He moves off toward what I’m guessing is the kitchen. A blue scarf protrudes from his back pocket.
“Chào, Phat Ho,” Mai says as he passes. He nods with a snap of his head without slowing and disappears around the corner.
“He…” Tex says something to Samuel.
“Shy.”
“He shy at Mai,” Tex says. “Maybe shy all womans, all peoples.”
That wasn’t shyness I saw in his face. I don’t think he’ll ask me to share his papaya with him.
“Follow me,” Samuel says.
“Nice to meet you, Viet,” I say.
“Nice to ‘eet you,” he says, his mouth ever smiling. He peg-legs his way over to a chair in front of the television, plops down.
“I stay here, Samuel,” Tex says. “I want to look at pipe in bathroom. Maybe fix if problem not big.”
“Thank you, Tex,” Samuel says. “Mai?”
“I will join you in a moment, Father.” She and the big man have scooted their chairs side by side so they can look out the window together. “Dung is telling me about a pretty bird he saw in the tree yesterday. He thinks it was a yellow Greenfinch.” She looks at me. “Dung knows the names of many birds.”
Samuel smiles. “When you are ready. Come, Sam.”
“Phat Ho doesn’t say much,” I say following Samuel down a long hallway toward a door that appears to go outside.
“He can talk,” the doctors say. “But he chooses not to most of the time. The doctors think it is because of his war experiences. Something happened many years ago. He is from the North and fought for the Viet Cong. Living here in the house was very difficult for him at first, and still is at times. For many years after the war ended, it was still nineteen sixty-eight in Phat Ho’s mind. He relived his many battles over and over in his head, sometimes when he was awake, sometimes when he was asleep, sometimes when drunk, sometimes when sober. He went to jail two times for fighting, once for almost killing a man with a garrote.”
“Garrote? You mean like a rope or piano wire to strangle someone?”
Samuel stops a few feet from a back door. “Yes. You hold onto both ends and wrap it around someone’s neck. Then you cross your arms to strangle your target. It was Phat Ho’s specialty in the jungle. He would sneak up on a sentry and take him out silently, and in seconds. He prefers to use a scarf, a rumāl.”
“Rumāl?”
“It is a long scarf used in India to wrap up a person’s hair. Phat Ho sews a coin in one end to give it weight so he can swing the scarf around the neck of his target, grab it, and strangle the person. This is what the thuggees, the highway bandits in India, would do. He still carries one or two. Where he learned it, I do not know.”
“There was one hanging from his back pocket.”
“He always carries at least one. Oh, and he does not like Americans.”
“Noticed. What about you?”
“I do not know. Maybe he accepts me because I have been here for many years and my wife is from the North. But I will not tolerate him being rude to you or anyone in this house.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. He must deal with his—”
“No, it is not okay, Sam. I am working to help the men come to terms with the war. The men here were trying to kill each other a few years ago, and now they are living under one roof. Sometimes it is a strain, but I work to teach them that we all live in the now, right here, right now. And we do it in harmony. That is what both sides fought for in the war, right?”
“I would imagine it’s a slow process.”
“Yes. War and all its horrors have a way of seeping into one’s bone marrow. Phat Ho’s kills with the rumāl were done so closely that he could smell their fear, see their eyes bulge, and hear their last choke. Only a psychopath could eradicate that from his mind.”
“About the scarves, how does he do it? He has only one arm. Using a garrote is a two-handed technique.”
“Not for Phat Ho,” Samuel says. “He uses one hand and his mouth.”
“He holds one end in his…”
“Mouth. Viet, who also fought for the North, told me that Phat Ho lost his arm in nineteen sixty-six, several years before the war ended. Although his superiors tried to muster him out of the army, he demonstrated his killing skills using his good hand and his mouth. They were so impressed, they allowed him to stay and specialize in sentry removal. Viet told me that during the war, Phat Ho killed twenty-six sentries and point men. I do not know how many were Americans.”
“My God! I wasn’t even in the war, yet I’m not sure how I feel about all this.”
“Understood,” Samuel says. “It took me a long time.”
“I can imagine.”
“But as I said before, things are simply the way they are. It is how we perceive them and label them, that causes us sorrow, anger, depression.”
“What happened to Viet?”
“He is a true warrior. He suffered many years from depression but has been happy in the last two. His Buddhism has helped and so has living here. He was burned and disfigured fighting for his people, but many of those same people have been cruel to him. Some still are. Understand that the face is the first thing a person notices when talking to someone. It is also the person that one sees in the mirror at the beginning and end of each day. You and I cannot imagine how hard that must be.”
I shake my head. “I can’t even begin to. It’s so sad. His face is…”
“Understood. It is bad. He says that it is his Buddhist practice— his efforts to look into the depths of his mind, to understand all the good and the bad that is there—that has helped him to accept who he is.” Samuel shrugs. “So if he can accept it, we should, no?”
We continue the rest of the way to the door, where he turns toward me. “Do not feel sorry for him or any of these men, Son. Just honor their sacrifice because it was great.”
“Yes.”
“That is Cong,” Samuel says, pointing through the small window in the door at a barefoot man out on the concrete patio. He is wearing only a pair of tan khaki pants, his finely-muscled upper body glistening with sweat as he moves about slashing and stabbing the air with a knife he holds in an ice pick grip. “He has only hinted about his war experience, but I have heard from his brother, who repairs motorbikes, that Cong killed many enemy soldiers with his blades.” The man quickly lunges forward then glides back, bobs, and weaves to his left, and then leaps to his right, all the while filleting his imaginary opponent with great speed. “He does not talk about his experiences fighting with the South because of Viet and Phat Ho. Some things are best left unsaid for the sake of peace.”
“He likes to target the face.”
“Oh yes. He says it takes the man’s spirit.”
“Agree. It also takes his eyes, nose, and cheeks.”
“Watch… there. Did you see how quickly he changed his grip?”
“He’s using the fencer’s grip now,” I say, noting how he grips the knife handle between his thumb and forefinger, his other fingers wrapped loosely around the handle. “A very smooth and fast switch.”
Now Cong is lunging forward and back, stabbing his imaginary target and retreating. Or maybe he is retreating as a ruse and then lunging forward when his suckered opponent follows. Only he knows for sure. He switches his grip again, smoothly, efficiently.
“Ice-pick grip again,” I say. “But with the blade held along his wrist to conceal it a little. He’s definitely fast.”
With the blade held next to his wrist, he’ll get less penetration but he can slash, which is exactly what he’s doing now. As if sanding a wall with extraordinary speed, his hand slashes back and forth, slicing his opponent’s head, torso and legs, all the while dancing in and out and from side to side with grace and deception. Sometimes his free hand blocks an imaginary hit and other times it covers his heart. This man has trained with a blade for a long time.
“He is seventy-one years old,” Samuel says fondly. “He moves well, eh?”
“Yes!” I say. “He moves incredibly well for a twenty-year-old and what a beautiful physique he has. Seventy! Amazing. You train him?”
“I help with his footwork a little and help him to cover himself better with his empty hand. But he was a good knife fighter before. He has more experience with it than I.”
“Was he injured in the war?”
“The war wounded Cong’s soul. Ask him when he fought in the war and he will say, ‘I still fight it, at night when I sleep.’ He has never been able to separate himself from those years. He is intense and he has had violent outbursts from time to time, though only once since he moved in with us. He finds comfort here being around other soldiers, though they seldom talk about the war.”
“Do any of the men have families?”
“Cong’s wife and children left him a few years after he came home. He never hurt them but they never felt at peace around him. Once when a teacher told him that his daughter was having trouble with mathematics, Cong kicked the teacher in the stomach and stabbed his knife into the woman’s desktop. His family loves him and comes to see him here; they just cannot live with him anymore.”
Stabbing the desk strikes me funny but I manage to hold it in. “How about Viet?”
“The napalm burns still give him so much pain, even after these many years. He says it is like getting hit with electric shocks every day. It hurts him to walk, to sit, to read, and especially to be touched. He rarely complains, though. He has a wonderful sense of humor. You saw how he likes to tease me. He is a magnificent warrior.”
Samuel looks back out the window, as if he doesn’t want me to see his face. “Viet was married when his unit was hit with napalm. He told me once that his wife came to the hospital and when she saw how badly burnt he was, she removed his wedding ring and left, never to be seen again.”
“Removed it?”
“She thought he was going to die, you see. She took it to sell.”
“Oh man. And Dung and Phouc?”
“Dung’s parents and siblings, six brothers, if I recall correctly, were all killed in the war. He spent many years either begging on the streets or in jail for stealing. Phouc lost his wife about fifteen years after the war ended. The doctors said it was natural causes but Phouc believes it was from her exposure to Agent Orange. She lived on a farm with her family, you see, and when our helicopters sprayed the nearby jungle, the chemical found its way into the farm soil. All of her family died young from lung ailments.”
“Shit.”
Samuel turns and looks into my eyes, the sadness in his profound. “War is indeed shit, Son. And it is wonderful people like these men that must clean it up and, in so doing, forever have their lives changed. War is shit, whether it is in a rice paddy in this beautiful country, in a rocky valley in Afghanistan, or in the streets of Los Angeles, or Portland. It has always been the warrior class, men and women, who must go toward the sound of gunfire while everyone else flees.”
He takes a deep breath as if collecting himself. “Sorry, I think I got off track. What was your question?”
“Actually, I didn’t have one.”
He goes on as if he didn’t hear me, the words spilling from his mouth as if held in for too long. “Those who are not in the warrior class do not always like us because we remind them that their societal graces are a thin veneer. When that veneer is threatened, it frightens them and they call upon us to make things better. They need us, you see, but they fear us. Sometimes they question our methods. That has always angered me, and I am a man who prides himself in being slow to anger. You saw A Few Good Men, right?”
“Yes, with—”
“There is a scene where Jack Nicholson, who plays a marine colonel, is being cross examined on the stand by Tom Cruise, and Nicholson says, ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, and then questions the manner in which I provide it!’ I almost cheered in the theater when he said that. In fact, I think I did.”
I believe it, but what I say is, “I can’t believe you remember that whole speech.”
“I am passionate about this, Son. Kim says I get carried away. Maybe I do.” He looks out the window at Cong slashing the air. “I am proud of these men and those I served with so many years ago.” He looks back at me. “And I am proud of you. I know you have guilt and your guilt will be part of you for the rest of your life. But know this: You will survive.”
Samuel and I stand side by side watching Cong. I’m watching the knife fighter, though it’s Samuel’s presence that I feel. His words have both depressed me and lifted me. As always, he never ceases to move me in some way.
“Dung seems lonely today,” Mai says walking up to us. “It is so sad. Sam, did Father tell you that Dung’s best friend died two nights ago?”
“Oh no,” I say. “The man who died here?”
Samuel nods. “In his sleep. Heart attack maybe or just tired of living. We may never get an official report because he was of no matter, you see, at least to the government. But he mattered to us, and he especially mattered to Dung. Ngo Bao Chau lost most of his sight in a blast outside of Củ Chi. Dung was his eyes and Ngo Bao Chau was Dung’s brain. They helped each other.”
“They were a good team,” Mai adds with a slow nod. “Such good friends. Dung is so sad by his death. I do not think he saw a bird outside that window. He just wanted me to sit with him for a while.”
“It looks like you two have a wonderful relationship,” I say.
Mai nods. “He is my very special friend.”
Samuel touches Mai’s arm. “Do you remember what Buddha said about friendship?”
“Yes,” Mai says. She collects her thoughts for a moment. Then, “‘Buddha said a friend will be a refuge to us when we are afraid. He will be there in our time of happiness and in our time of adversity and sorrow; he will not forsake us when we are in trouble. He will tell us his secrets, and he will not betray our secrets to others.’”
Samuel beams. “You see, Sam. She also remembers important quotations.”
“I like that one,” I say, thinking about my friend Mark. He is my lieutenant but we became fast friends the moment we met. He was there for me after my shootings, caring, sensitive, and on my side during the department investigation, and the media uproar. So how did I return his friendship? By putting his job in jeopardy, and worse, for not being honest with him about all that happened that terrible week. Yeah, I’m a real catch as a friend.
Samuel lightly punches my arm. “Then fix it.”
Okay, he read my thoughts again. “Buddha say that?”
He shakes his head. “I say that.” He pushes the door open. “Good one, no? You can quote me. Fix it. Come, meet Cong.”
“Want to be my special friend?” Mai whispers close to my ear as Samuel calls out to Cong.
I stumble into the door facing.
“Cong, this is my son Sam. Sam, Cong. Cong’s English is good. He worked with an American unit during the war and he has continued to study it since.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, returning his bow.
“Glad to know you. I like to speak English and I like English movies.”
“Sometimes I take Cong to see American movies at the cinema,” Samuel says.
“Platoon my favorite,” Cong says. “Your father and I see many times because they show Vietnam pretty good. “Last Samurai is good. Good sword fighting.”
“Both good ones,” I say. “You’re fantastic with the knife. We watched you from the window.”
“Oh,” he says shyly. “Thank you. I like the knife. You cut anywhere— arm, finger, nose, hip, leg—hurts. You can cut him so he dies slow or you can cut him so he dies fast. It is all… pretty nice?”
“The expression is ‘it’s all good,’” Samuel corrects.
“Oh yes,” Cong says. “Thank you. It is all pretty good.”
“Close enough.” Samuel points at Cong’s knife. “Cong owns several, but he prefers the Marine Corps Ka-Bar and its eight-inch blade.”
“Save my bacon too many times in war,” Cong says, spinning the knife in his palm. “Opinions for knives like assholes. Everyone have one. That how you say it, Samuel?”
“Close enough.”
Cong steps back two strides. “Ka-Bar good for far away.” He jabs it toward me several times. Then he spins it smoothly in his palm so that the blade extends along his wrist. “This grip to cut open gut.” He rips his arm back and forth horizontally, simulating cutting my stomach half a dozen times. “Also to ugly up face pretty good.” He pumps his arm up and down in front of my face, making it clear how each swipe would leave deep, vertical cuts on my features.
“Are you glad he is standing back a ways?” Mai asks.
“Very glad,” I say, impressed over the man’s intensity and finesse.
“I end life many Viet Cong with Ka-Bar,” Cong says, returning the blade to a leather sheath in his back pocket. He steps toward me and touches my throat, just below my Adam’s apple. “Cut here first, so Cong cannot scream. Then thrust blade here”—he touches me just below my navel—“to give him long death.” Cong smiles with some really bad-looking teeth, his eyes red, wet, and frightening.
“Ooooh boy,” I say. “Any chance you entertain at children’s birthday parties?”
Samuel laughs, and says, “Cong is a good warrior. He took lives but he saved lives too.”
“I was just teasing, Cong,” hoping that he got the joke, though he didn’t smile. “Your skill is amazing.”
He nods. “I hope you like my country.”
“Thank you. It was nice meeting you.”
“I go now, Samuel. Clean up and rest a little before meal.” He nods to each of us and heads toward the building.
“You have done a wonderful job here,” I say to Samuel after Cong goes in.
“Thank you. But I want to do so much more.” To Mai, “What are your plans now?”
“It is almost five o’clock. We will go eat and then I will show Sam a little of Saigon.”
“Okay,” he says. “Stay alert and please check in with me every hour or so as long as you are out.”
“I promise, Father.”