As they neared Saigon, fields gave way to homes built on the river itself. Those grew closer together until they formed a continuous ribbon of huts, most of them on stilts. In back of them trucks, cars, military vehicles, and motorcycles thundered by on the road. The huts gradually disappeared, and in their place, beyond the riverbank, were a series of tall, skinny houses, about five stories high but no wider than a few meters.
“What are those?” Tâm asked.
“Tube houses,” Phong answered. “As Saigon grew there was no room to build out, so people built up instead.”
Tâm studied them. “But they are so narrow. How can there be more than one room on a floor?”
“There aren’t,” Quang said. “Often there’s a shop or restaurant on the ground floor, a kitchen and bath on the second, and bedrooms on the others.”
“The top floors are often rented out,” Phong said hopefully. “Perhaps you can find a place to live.”
When we have money to pay the rent, Tâm thought.
They navigated off the Saigon River and docked in a busy shipping canal just after noon. Neither Tâm nor Mai had ever been to Saigon, and while they weren’t in the center of the city, the din of traffic, loud horns, and hordes of people on bicycles and cyclos unnerved Tâm. The war had brought nearly one in five Vietnamese citizens to Saigon as refugees, and the air was layered with the odors of gasoline exhaust and urine and the scent of cooking. Mixed in was the pervasive stench of fish. Tâm breathed through her mouth.
While Phong and Bác Quang talked business, Mai and Tâm went belowdecks to freshen up and change into their only remaining clean white tunics and black pants. When they returned, Phong and his father had sealed their deal. Three other men materialized to relieve them of their catch. The nets held mostly catfish, but there was carp, too. The men hoisted the nets out of the boat into huge bins filled with ice.
Afterward Phong and Quang washed up in a men’s room behind the dock. Tâm and Mai still reeked of fish, but there was nothing they could do, since there was no corresponding room for women. Women worked just as long and hard as men. Some, like the woman in the neighboring village who wove nón lá, were astute in business matters. Generally, though, women were second-class citizens, at least in South Vietnam. Tâm had been told it was different in Communist North Vietnam. Women were equal to men. She wasn’t sure she believed it. Men were men, no matter where they lived. Most were driven by power and sex and not much else.
The four of them twisted through narrow streets filled with people, many of them children in threadbare clothes who looked hungry. Mai, wide-eyed and cautious, clutched Tâm’s arm. “Who are they? They look younger than Sáng.”
Quang answered. “They are in Saigon because of the war. They build tent camps in the outer rings of the city, as well as Cholon, the Chinese district. Their families come to the market, and the children beg.”
As if on cue, two boys approached, imploring them for a few đồng. Tâm threw up her hands and shook her head, but Quang fished a bill from his pocket. The boys practically snatched it from him, which made him laugh.
“They’ve won the prize,” he joked. The boys bowed their thanks, ran back to a woman squatting on the sidewalk, and handed the bill to her. She caught Tâm’s eyes and smiled. She must have thought Quang and Tâm were a couple. The woman wore the same white tunic and black pants as Tâm and Mai. Tâm swallowed. What would they do if they couldn’t find work? Would she and Mai be forced to beg?
“The market is just ahead,” Phong said.
The narrow sidewalk became more congested. Throngs of people pushed and shoved past one another. A few women, having staked out a patch of concrete at the edge of the street, cooked phở in pots with makeshift hot plates. In exchange for a few đồng, other people squatted down beside them, wolfing down the fragrant noodle soup with chunks of pork. Another woman wrung the neck of a chicken and calmly started to pluck out its feathers.
Mai nudged Tâm. “Mama taught us how to do that, remember?” She bit her lip.
Tâm kept her mouth shut.
When they reached the entrance to the Binh Tay market, Tâm realized it didn’t matter that they smelled of fish. The scents of the market overpowered them: fish, phở, rancid body odor, and a sickly sweet smell she couldn’t identify. She had seen markets before; her parents had taken her to Chau Doc, a two-hour oxcart ride away, where a larger, floating outdoor wet market bustled with fruits, flowers, cooked food, fresh fish, and cheap toys.
But she had never seen anything like this. The Cholon market occupied an immense two-story building that looked bigger than their entire village. Inside, more than a hundred stalls exploded with sights, sounds, colors, and scents. Food was packaged in cans or bags or just arranged on a counter. There was sticky candy. Household goods. Furniture. Carpets. Clothing. Paintings jostled for space with cheap plastic dolls, cars, and other toys. Jewelry with leather goods. American cigarettes, toothpaste, whiskey, and chewing gum. Covering everything, like a giant blanket, was a cacophony of noise from the brisk nasal tones of Vietnamese merchants selling, bartering, negotiating.
Phong and Quang led the way through the maze of stalls with confidence, twisting and turning at strategic points. Several merchants waved as they passed. The fishermen stopped when they reached an area where the aromas of cooked food like phở, bún thịt nướng, and other dishes overwhelmed everything else. Tâm was dizzy with hunger. Mai gazed ravenously at the food.
“Now you’ll eat.”
Tâm began. “But—”
Quang held up a hand and cut her off. He turned around and waved at one of the women serving phở. She waved back. He approached her and started talking. Tâm couldn’t overhear. But when Quang pointed at them, she knew. A moment later, both men returned with steaming bowls of bún cá, rice noodles with large chunks of fish thickening the broth. Dumplings too. The fishermen gestured to a counter in front of the stall. Tâm and Mai squatted and attacked their meal. Tâm did not see money change hands. She must have missed it.
Tâm spoke around a mouthful of fish. “I don’t know how we can repay you.”
“I didn’t pay. They buy our fish at a good price. We eat their bún cá. It’s a fair trade.”
“Thank you.” Tâm templed her hands at chest level in gratitude.
Quang motioned her to go back to her meal. Within seconds, the noodles disappeared from their bowls.
“More?”
Tâm bowed her head.
“Don’t be shy,” Quang said. “You haven’t had a solid meal in days.”
Mai looked up. “Yes, please. And another dumpling.”
Quang nudged Phong, who returned with another bowl, a dumpling, and chopsticks. Mai ate slowly, as if relishing every bite.
With a full belly, Tâm’s mood improved. She might even have to revise her attitude toward men. Decent and generous, Quang was not seeking power or sex. He and his son seemed to be made of finer stuff. Karma had brought their paths together. Why? What made them so special? She didn’t know, but she was grateful.
“The Buddha will honor you. As do we,” she said.
Quang templed his hands at chest level, as if to pray. “You were in need. You will do the same for others, and the circle will be complete.”