“Where are we going?” Tâm asked when she returned to meet Yến. “Should I bring my bicycle?”
Yến nodded, walking quickly. “It’s not far away.”
Tâm followed with the bike, walking as fast as she could, but within moments her limp put her behind. Yến slowed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t walk so fast.”
Tâm, surprised Yến had voluntarily chosen to initiate a comment, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Still, she was relieved to slow her pace.
A few blocks from the temple grounds, the city of Tay Ninh began to thin out. Homes and shops on the ground floor of tube houses popped up between buildings. Similar to Saigon, narrow cobblestone alleys cut across streets.
Yến led Tâm down one of the alleys. They turned left about thirty meters down, then right. Deep in the bowels of the city, many of the passages were no longer paved with cobblestones, just sandy dirt. Women stirred pots filled with phở; men squatted nearby, slurping the soup or chewing fruit. Children dashed back and forth, and cats slinked by prowling for scraps. Doors on both sides of the alley marked the entrances to small dwellings crammed together, peeling paint and uneven thresholds attesting to their age and disrepair. Odors that Tâm couldn’t identify wafted through the air.
The narrow passageway they walked down abruptly opened up to a sandy lot surrounded by some bushes, a scrawny tree or two, and some random heavy boulders. About five or six young men huddled, their conversation heated. Near them on the ground were two wire crates with a rooster in each.
A cockfight. Tâm hadn’t seen one since before the massacre. A popular form of entertainment, cockfights were a staple of rural life. Men usually gathered in teams, each team betting on a rooster who, when the gate was opened, would fight the other to the death. And provide dinner for its owner. The excitement, pitched shouts, and competition during the fight itself used to fascinate Tâm. Now, though, she felt indifferent.
Tâm and Yến watched as the crate doors opened and the birds emerged from their cages. Both had bright red combs; one was nearly white with brown splotches, and the other was all brown. After an initial period in which the birds circled each other with clawed feet, the brown one hopped forward, invading the white bird’s turf. The white bird pecked him defensively. The brown one retaliated with a peck. Soon they were pecking each other over and over, fluttering their wings, hopping forward, backward, and to the side, all the while issuing high-pitched guttural chirrs.
The men cheered and shouted and exchanged money throughout the fight, until, about twenty minutes later, the white rooster succumbed. Exuberant shouts erupted from the winning team; bills and coins were exchanged again, and five minutes later, the men dispersed.
Yến approached one of them and started an earnest conversation, occasionally pointing at Tâm.
At last they both sauntered over. “This is my cousin Lý Viên Đức,” Yến said. “His mother lives alone but likes to rent out her extra bedroom. No one is there at the moment.”
Tâm’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds perfect.”
“She is my mother’s sister and looks after my mother sometimes,” Yến said.
“We’ll go there now,” Đức said.
The priest had told her Yến’s mother was ailing. Tâm was curious but decided it would be impolite to ask for details.
As they walked, Đức was still exhilarated by the fight. “Did you see that, cousin? I bet on the brown, and I won!”
Yến nodded. “I hope you will save your earnings and not waste them on beer or”—a flush crept up her neck—“more of these games.”
Đức laughed. “Of course not.” But he turned to Tâm and gave her a wink. Tâm rolled her eyes.
“Who were the men?” Yến asked. “I only recognized you and Lành, but the others were new faces.”
“I didn’t know them.” Đức shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Yến kept her mouth shut.
Tâm took the room. On the second floor of the house, it was tiny, no bigger than a closet, but it was clean and dry and had a small window that looked out on a field littered with beer cans, broken glass, and garbage. She reminded herself to be grateful that it wasn’t a tent in Cholon with mud seeping up through the ground. Or a pup tent covered with mosquito netting she’d shared during her training.
Bà Thảo, the woman who rented the room to her, looked to be in her sixties and was hunched over from arthritis, but she was friendly enough. Bà Thảo had moved from Trang Bang village when the North Vietnamese first moved into the area. She wasn’t around much during the day; she either babysat or took care of an elderly sister who was blind. Yến’s mother, Tâm realized. That was her “ailment.”
Bà Thảo would provide breakfast if Tâm wanted; for the other two meals, she was on her own.
Tâm brought her things over the next day.