“You’re not from Saigon,” the woman in the restaurant said after Tâm introduced herself and Mai. “Your accent is—You’re from the country.” Mai sensed the woman was trying to be polite and wondered what Saigon natives were supposed to sound like. The woman looked to be in her early forties, her mother’s age, but not as pretty. Streaks of gray were threaded through her black hair, which was pulled back in a tight knot. She wore Western-style clothes except for her sandals, which had soft soles. Was she the owner?
“We are from a village in the Mekong Delta,” Tâm explained.
The woman looked them up and down. “There is fierce fighting in the delta.”
Tâm’s lips tightened. “Mai and I are the only survivors of our village. Everyone was killed in a massacre.”
“The NVA?” The woman looked concerned.
“Americans,” Tâm replied.
The woman’s hand rose to her forehead. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Then she crossed herself. Catholic, Mai thought.
“My son enlisted in the South Vietnamese army. He left a few days ago. That is why we need help.”
“We would be honored to take his place. Until he returns,” Tâm said.
She eyed Tâm. “He washed dishes. Set up tables. Waited on customers on busy nights.” She eyed them more intently. “Have you waited tables or worked in a restaurant before?”
Tâm hesitated. Mai wondered if she was going to lie. Mai would. But then Tâm said, “No, but we are fast learners.”
“I need experienced workers. We’re open for lunch and dinner. And many of our customers are Americans who only speak English.” She gazed at Tâm as if she was asking a question.
Tâm winced. The idea of serving the people who had killed her family was abhorrent. It was clear, however, that she had no choice. At least for now. Aloud she said, “We need a job.”
“Do you speak any English?”
“No. But we will learn.”
The woman peered at them. “At least you’re honest. Most of the girls who come pretend they can speak English. But apart from ‘Yankee,’ ‘baseball,’ and ‘how much,’ they lie.” She laughed at her little joke.
Mai smiled politely. What was Tâm thinking? How were they supposed to learn English?
“Who told you about us?” The woman crossed her arms.
“A woman at the Binh Tay market who gave us lunch.”
“Ah. I know who you mean. A nice woman.” She dropped her arms and looked them over again. “Well, you don’t need to speak English to work in the kitchen. By the way, our customers do not like Vietnamese food, so we serve mostly Chinese. My husband, who is Chinese, is the chef. He knows many dishes, but Americans love their egg roll and chow mein. Peasant food.” She shrugged as if to say, What can we do?
She looked them over, then tipped her head to the side. “I’ll give you two a chance.
You”—she pointed at Tâm—“will wash dishes.” She turned to Mai. “You will help my husband. Chop vegetables. Cut up fruit. Stir soup.” She paused. “You’re pretty. If you learn enough English, you could be a waitress.”
Mai smiled. She imagined herself in a beautiful silk kimono gliding around the restaurant taking orders, dispensing food, chatting with customers.
“The pay is 200 đồng per hour. Each.”
Mai’s face fell. “But that isn’t enough. We need—”
The woman folded her arms. “How do I know you won’t work just one or two days and then disappear? You stay, you learn, then we’ll see about salary.”
“But—” Mai pleaded.
Tâm cut in. “That will be acceptable.”
“My husband’s name is Wang. But you may call me Cô Cúc. You will meet my husband later.”
“Pardon me, Cô Cúc,” Mai said. “I did not see a stream or river nearby. Where will we wash the dishes? Is there a pump?” As soon as it was out of her mouth, she felt Tâm’s elbow in her ribs.
Cô Cúc, taken aback, tapped her fingers on her arm. “You had no running water in your village?”
When Mai shook her head, Cô Cúc let out a doubtful breath. “We have indoor plumbing. Running water. Hot and cold.” She hesitated. “Perhaps we shouldn’t . . . ”
“When do we start?” Tâm said, an anxious smile on her face.
“Do you use an indoor toilet?”
The girls exchanged a glance and nodded. “They had them at our Catholic school,” Mai said.
“Catholic?” She nodded. “Good.” Cô Cúc fingered a gold cross on a necklace. Mai didn’t mention that although they attended a Catholic school, they were Buddhists.
“So when do we start?” Mai repeated Tâm’s question.
Cô Cúc looked at Mai, at Tâm, and then at her watch. “We reopen in twenty minutes. You have enough time to get an English dictionary at the bookstore across the street.” She went to the cash register and pulled out a few đồng. “This will be deducted from your wages. She handed the money to Tâm. “When you return, I’ll show you around the kitchen.”