Tâm stayed at a hotel near the temple that night. The next day, armed with a map of the city, she had tea and rice cakes at a nearby food stall and asked where the market was. It was within walking distance, so she made her way there despite her bad leg. She bought a used bicycle and started to ride back, but pressing down on the pedals was painful. She hadn’t realized how weak her wounded leg had become. She pedaled slowly, hunched over the bicycle like an old woman. She hoped her strength would return. She was only twenty years old.
Once she was close to the temple, she rode around the area on her bicycle, trying to suss out the grounds. The temple sat in the center of a large complex that included dormitories and kitchens for resident priests, a high school, and small hospital, plus a large clearing, probably for religious processions. She guessed the entire area was about two kilometers square.
The main temple—there were two—was a huge rectangular structure, not unlike the cathedral in Saigon. Here, though, were two graceful square towers, each with tiny balconies. The sides were flanked by arched walkways. The exterior was painted in warm beige tones, with blue and rose railings, flourishes, and windowpanes. It looked gracious and inviting, not at all pompous or overbearing.
She locked the bike around a small tree and wandered inside. Compared to the exterior, the interior was surprisingly elaborate. At least two dozen thick pink pillars supported the roof on both sides of the nave. Wrapped around the pillars were spirals of painted dragons with red tongues out, ready to swoop down on some unsuspecting creature. Patterned tiled floors, bright, airy stained-glass windows, and a vaulted ceiling of blue sky with puffy white clouds made her feel like she had ascended to a pastel heaven where angels, fairies, and even dragons frolicked together.
At the far end above the altar was a massive globe with one eye in the center. Several men knelt below it, two in everyday clothes, one in a white robe with a red hood and belt. What were they were praying for? Redemption? Forgiveness? Or something more practical, like a good harvest, a healthy baby, perhaps an end to the war?
Tâm watched for a while, then forced her mind back to her assignment. How was she supposed to discover who was leaking military information to the South? She would have to make subtle, indirect inquiries. Follow suspects without them knowing. Spy on their comings and goings. Tâm prided herself on being direct and honest, although some didn’t want to hear what she said. Now she would be cloaked in deceit. She would befriend people, gain their trust, only to possibly betray them later. What if the Caodaists discovered she was a spy? Caught her in the act? Despite the heat, an icicle of fear crept up her back.
She headed back to the entrance of the temple. Near the door, set back in an alcove, was a reception area. A woman about her age sat behind a high counter. Splayed across the counter were brochures in pastel colors. She approached the counter and saw the brochures were in different languages: English, Vietnamese, French, and Chinese. She picked up the Vietnamese version, which included a schedule of services.
She glanced at the woman seated behind the counter. Dressed in a traditional pale blue áo dài, the woman kept her face downcast, as if she preferred to glide through life without people, places, or situations clinging to her. Was she the messenger to the South?
Tâm thumbed through the brochure. Services were held every six hours, night and day. “Excuse me, but are services open to the public?”
The woman glanced up, nodded, and looked down again.
As Tâm rode her bike back to the hotel, the glimmer of a plan emerged. She would try to get a job in the kitchens where food was prepared for the residents, visiting priests, and church officials. Her restaurant experience should count for something, even if she only washed pots. And everyone knew kitchen workers loved to gossip. Working in the kitchen could yield valuable intel. Tomorrow she would attend the morning service.
But Tâm slept late the next morning, so she went to the noon service instead. Everyone sat cross-legged on the floor in a sea of white, men on one side, women on the other. Sporadically a slash of a red, blue, or yellow robed priest sliced through the throng of white. Birds swooped and dived from one end of the temple to the other. The light of the noon sun pouring through the windows seemed to make the tile floors glow.
After the service Tâm asked the young woman at the front to whom she could speak about working in the kitchen. The woman stole a glance at her.
Tâm needed a new Party name. She was, after all, conducting business, and she’d been taught to use a different one for every encounter. “I am—Linh. I come from a village south of here on the Mekong River. I was critically wounded by a Viet Cong land mine months ago and just got out of hospital. I am so grateful to be alive that I thought of coming here to express my gratitude to the god who protects the Cao Đài.”
The woman frowned. “You are Cao Đài?”
Tâm shook her head. “But I am so thankful that Buddha or Jesus or another deity saved me that I want to learn.”
The young woman nodded and looked down. Did she believe her? Tâm cleared her throat. “What is your name?”
“I am Yến,” she murmured.
Tâm nodded. “So who must I talk to?”
She pointed to a priest in white with a yellow robe who was just exiting the temple. “He is the one who supervises administration, but he will not be back until the start of the next service.” Which wouldn’t be until afternoon.
By late afternoon Tâm had a job in the kitchen. When she asked the priest about a room to rent, he said there was nothing on the temple grounds but suggested she talk to Yến, the girl at the front. She lived a few blocks away with an ailing mother. She might be able to help.
Tâm returned to the front desk. “You seem to be the one here with all the answers.” She smiled. “Do you know of a room or boardinghouse nearby? The priest suggested I ask you.”
Yến still refused to look her in the eye. Tâm decided that was progress. The girl seemed painfully shy. Or was it something else? Then she nodded. “Come back in an hour.”