She’d done it. By herself. Yes, the fish odor was putrid and would linger in their hair and clothes for days. Yes, the accommodations were hardly better than the sampan—which was now tied to the back of the trawler. But they’d arrive in Saigon in hours, not days. Even through the grief and trauma, Mai sensed a hint of what life might be like going forward. A hint that said she could make decisions and control her destiny as well as her sister.
Tâm nodded at the man on the deck, whose name, he told them, was Phong. “Who else is on the trawler?” she asked.
“Just my father,” Phong said. “He’s asleep below.”
Tâm checked her surroundings. They were alone on deck. She took the blanket he offered and lay down near the bow, instantly asleep. Mai sensed she was relieved her burden had been lifted for a few hours.
“Neither of us has slept in days,” Mai said.
Phong nodded. He handed her a blanket. “We will talk in the morning. You can sleep on the deck.”
Mai took the blanket with a smile. He smiled back.
The sun had climbed high in the sky when Mai woke. Happily, the breeze from the trawler’s forward motion kept the worst of the heat away. Unhappily, the pervasive odor of fish had intensified overnight and permeated the air. Trying to ignore it, Mai stretched and got up. Tâm was still asleep.
Phong and an older man were seated in the stern drinking tea from a thermos. They faced the river behind them, rather than the girls’ makeshift bedroom in the bow. Courteous, Mai thought.
“Good morning.” She approached them.
The men turned around. “Good morning,” Phong said. “This is my father, Bác Quang.”
Slim and slight, he was losing his hair on top, and it was gray on the sides. When he smiled, she saw he was missing one of his front teeth. “Some tea?”
Mai nodded. He poured the tea into a cup and handed it to her. “We are grateful your son rescued us last night,” she said, taking the cup.
“In these times, we follow in the steps of Buddha. He has shown us the path to travel.”
If he was as devout as he sounded, he was probably a good man. She began to relax and peered over at the bank of the river. An occasional water buffalo stared back. The foliage wasn’t as thick here, and fewer trees edged the shore. Here and there were groups of huts, some of them built on stilts. A few sampans with fishermen casting nets or lines dotted the water. It was hard to remember that just beyond the shores, a war nobody wanted was taking the lives of young Vietnamese men.
“The closer we get to Saigon,” Quang said, as if reading her mind, “the fewer bombs and fire smoke we see.”
Mai was glad. With every revolution of the engine, the horror of the massacre, the killings, guns, and blood, slipped further away. Saigon would be a better place. It had to be.
Tâm stirred. She lifted her head and saw Mai with the fishermen. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair, then rose and went over. After introductions, Quang poured tea for her. He bowed his head as he handed it over. “Cháu, you are the firstborn in your family.” A statement, not a question.
Tâm nodded.
Mai chafed at his courteous attitude toward Tâm. Mai had managed to get them on the trawler, not Tâm. Of course, Bác Quang was just observing the custom. She bit back her irritation.
“What are your plans when you get to Saigon?” he asked.
Mai and Tâm exchanged glances. They had been so focused on surviving the massacre that they’d had no time to make plans. Saigon was their beacon, blinking in the distance like a golden light. It was the reason they’d stolen the sampan, fed themselves with whatever they could scrape together, and exhausted themselves. And yet, neither knew much about the city or what they would do once they arrived. Tâm had chosen it only because the U.S. soldiers were heading in the opposite direction.
Tâm answered honestly. “We have no plan. We’ve been living from moment to moment. The Americans . . . destroyed our village. Our parents and little brother are dead. We lost our family. Our home. Everything.”
“Ah.” Quang sipped his tea, studying the cup as if he could see their ordeal and trauma in the tea leaves. Then he looked to the shore of the river. “I have an idea. We’ll dock near the fish market and sell our catch. Near it is the Binh Tay market. In the Chinese district. It’s Saigon’s biggest. You’ll find everything you need. Clothing. Food. Perhaps even work.”
“But we have no money,” Tâm said.
“You have the sampan,” Quang said.
Tam understood what he was saying. “It is yours. With grateful thanks. But it could not possibly be worth enough to buy what we need.”
Phong whispered to his father. His father nodded. “We know people in the market. They’re good souls. They understand we are at war.”