Chapter 26

Old Tu did not know where Minh had gone.

His calls would not connect. His messages got no answer. This city had too many turns. If a person truly wanted to disappear, all he had to do was climb onto a bike, cross a few bridges, turn into a few alleys, and mix himself into the crowd. Saigon did not hold anyone back. It only swallowed people into its belly, ground them down among horns, dust, red lights, drinking shops, rental rooms, and uneasy sleep.

Maybe Minh did not know Ngoc was dead yet.

Or maybe he had come back somewhere near the rental block, stood outside the alley looking at the police car, the crowd, the white stretcher, and understood everything. And if he had understood, then he would go. Go farther. Go like a dog beaten so badly it no longer remembered the road home. Go like a man who knew that if he stepped inside, Ngoc’s death would fall on his head, on his shoulders, on every breath he had left.

Old Tu understood Minh.

Because he understood, he could not be angry with him.

But also because he understood, he knew this son of his was as good as dead.

A man standing at a fork in the road, instead of choosing one way forward, had backed up and run.

Not dead in the way people cover a face with white cloth and call a vehicle to carry him away. Dead in the way a person pulls himself out of life. Still breathing, still running somewhere, still able to eat, able to sleep, able to sit under some strange porch and watch the rain fall. But the part of him that had once come home, once called out to his father, once had a place in the family, that part was dead.

Three children.

In the end, only Van was left.

That thought made Old Tu feel cold in the chest. He sat in the yard of the rental block, looking at the empty space where the stretcher had just been carried away, looking at the tile floor still marked by people’s footprints, looking at the old hammock swaying very lightly in the wind. Everything was still there. The room was still there. The kitchen was still there. The basket of vegetables was still there. But people kept falling out of his hands one by one, like water leaking through his fingers.

He did not know whether he had been right or wrong.

What if...

What if he had stayed in the countryside?

What if that day he had never come to Saigon, never stepped into this rental block, never let the past, his children, debts, and old ties all drag themselves into one place?

Maybe Hung would still be a worker. Poor, rough, tired, but at least not in prison. Maybe Minh would still have his own life, not dragged into the tangled lines of grown people, not vanished in one night after the death of the woman who had taken care of him. As for Van, even now, Old Tu still did not know why Tung had killed himself. He only knew that son-in-law had once existed in the house like a shadow, sending money, caring for the child, enduring, then one day leaving behind keys, papers, a will, and walking out of life like someone putting out a lamp.

Old Tu’s heart tightened.

Sad.

An old, slow sadness, but heavy enough that he could not push it anywhere. Old Tu had always been a carefree man. All his life he had thought that as long as he could eat, sleep, laugh, as long as women still looked at him and he could still drink liquor, everything would pass. Family, to him, had once been something far away, blurred, something he did not need to touch too much. Children grew up and lived on their own. Husband and wife had their own sadness and joy to bear. Whoever suffered had to grit their teeth.

Then every time he began to feel comfortable, every time he had just laid his back down in the hammock and thought, well, my life like this is good enough, everything came rushing in very fast.

Fast as a black rain.

Fast as a truck flying through an intersection.

Fast as a police siren in the morning.

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Two days later, Quynh came to see Mai. It was late at night.

She did not bring much. Only a handbag, a small backpack, a few clothes shoved inside in a hurry. She came to find Mai before leaving the rental block. She did not call anyone else.

Mai opened the door and saw Quynh standing in the hallway.

Under the weak yellow light, Quynh’s face was bruised in many places. One cheek was still swollen. The corner of her mouth had a small split where the blood had dried. Her hair was tangled in clumps, as if someone had yanked it hard and she had not bothered to comb it again. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but when she looked at Mai, she forced a smile.

That smile hurt Mai worse than the bruises.

“I’m leaving,” Quynh said.

Mai was silent.

She wanted to ask: where?

Wanted to say: stay.

Wanted to say: I know you aren’t the kind of person they say you are.

Wanted to say: I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you more that morning.

But every word stuck in her throat. Because Mai knew staying would not be any better. This rental block had become a place where there was no room left for Quynh to breathe. Every look was a thorn. Every whisper was another slap. There were places where, even if no one officially chased you out, you still had to leave if you did not want to die slowly under the crowd’s judgment.

Quynh looked at Mai, then said softly:

“Don’t worry about me.”

Mai knew that was a lie.

But she still nodded.

She did not hug Quynh. Not because she did not want to. Because she was afraid that if they hugged, both of them would cry, and Quynh would not be able to leave. So Mai only stood there, hand gripping the edge of the door, silently lowering her head.

Quynh lowered her head back in goodbye.

Then she turned away.

Her figure disappeared slowly at the end of the hallway, small, thin, silent, like a streak of smoke blown apart by wind.

After that, the rental block became strangely dull and sad.

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.

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One month later, Old Tu began to feel the weight.

After Tung was gone, Van was still the same. She still kept her old way of living, as if her husband’s death had only gouged one empty space in the house while every other habit stayed intact. In life, saving money was hard. Spending money was the easiest thing. A person only had to get used once to the smell of air-conditioning, leather seats, restaurants, perfume, handbags, meetings with liquor and laughter, and it was very hard to go back to cold rice, flip-flops, and the rattling sound of an electric fan.

Van still drove the expensive car.

The car took up one corner of the rental yard, glossy, clean, black-windowed, looking out of place among the old cement floor, the wilted potted plants, the beat-up motorbikes, and the clotheslines of the tenants. Every time the car sat there, Old Tu felt it prickle his eyes. Not exactly because he hated it. It was like something too expensive had been placed in the wrong life, making all the poverty around it show more clearly.

Van still bought designer things. Still met friends. Still ate at places where Old Tu only wanted to curse after hearing the prices. The only difference was that she no longer slept around with other men. The old flirtatious, eager, hunting look had eased. But eased did not mean cheaper.

A woman used to spending money was still a woman used to spending money.

And money terrified Old Tu.

After everything that had happened, he handed the rental block over to Mai. She managed income and expenses, collected room money, recorded electricity and water, found tenants, called repairmen when something broke. Mai also handled meals for Old Tu, Vy, and Cu whenever the boy was home. Everything in the house passed through Mai’s hands: rice, gas, fish sauce, cooking oil, laundry powder, cold medicine, trash fees, money to fix lightbulbs, money to replace locks, money for water pipes.

Mai once said quietly:

“We have to save a little, sir. In case you get sick, or something urgent happens.”

Old Tu nodded.

“Yeah, save some.”

That was what he said. But life did not wait for people to finish saving before it brought trouble.

One morning, Van walked into the house. She wore a cream-colored dress, her hair clipped neatly, light makeup on her face, a bright watch on her wrist. Cu followed behind his mother in an international-school uniform, white shoes, a backpack almost half as big as his body. He walked while sucking the straw of a milk carton, eyes glued to the little game machine in his hand.

Old Tu was sitting outside at the tea table. Mai was in the kitchen, quietly picking vegetables.

Van set her handbag down on the chair and spoke as if it were a normal thing:

“Dad, give me money for Cu’s tuition.”

Old Tu looked up.

“How much?”

“Only fifty million.”

The old man put down his cup, thinking he had misheard.

“Motherfucker, what? For a year?”

Van looked at him, a little awkward, but still said:

“No. One month, Dad.”

Old Tu’s eyes bulged.

“Fuck no. What the fuck is that much for?”

Cu looked up from his game machine. He looked at his grandfather, then at his mother.

Old Tu still had not recovered from the shock.

“Back then I raised all three of you through school and it didn’t cost shit. Walked to school in the morning, came home for cold rice at noon, got old books from other people. Did any of you die?”

Van exhaled.

“Dad, that was back then. Things are different now. It’s an international school.”

“What the hell is international that it costs fifty million a month? He studies there and comes out talking to foreigners right away?”

“At least the environment is better. I don’t want the boy learning all kinds of messy things.”

The old man gave a dry laugh.

“Good environment. Motherfucker, that sounds fancy.”

Cu heard him curse so much that he got scared. He put the milk carton down, his eyes beginning to redden.

“So I don’t get to go to school anymore, Grandpa?”

That sentence stopped Old Tu short.

He was angry, he felt the money like a wound, and he wanted to curse a few more lines to ease the choking in his chest. But looking at the boy’s face, he softened. Cu was plump and pale, still tender, knowing nothing about money. To him, school was only a place with friends, teachers, a playground, good lunches, air-conditioning. He did not understand what fifty million was. He did not know how long a person had to bend his back to get that much.

The old man looked at him for a while, then snapped softly:

“Why are you crying? Who said you couldn’t go to school?”

Cu blinked.

“So you’ll let me keep going, Grandpa?”

Old Tu grimaced.

“Yeah ... I’ll pay.”

Van breathed out in relief.

The old man stood up, his old body moving clumsily into the room. Each step felt heavier than usual. The room was dark and hot, smelling of old clothes and medicated oil. He pulled the iron box out of the cabinet and set it on the bed.

That box had once made him feel at ease. Every time he opened it and saw there was still money, he felt he still had a way back. Old people feared nothing more than having no money in their pocket. Sick with no money meant death. A broken house with no money meant taking it. An emergency with no money meant humiliation. A little money left in the box meant he still had a little right to decide his own life.

But now, every time he opened the box, it felt like opening his own belly.

The money lay in several stacks. One stack was the room money Mai had just given him. One stack was the amount Hoang had sent. One stack he meant to keep aside in case the weather changed and his back or chest started hurting. He looked at it for a long while, then reached in.

Fifty million dong.

He counted slowly.

His fingers were rough, the nails a little black, the skin wrinkled and thick. That hand had once scooped mud, pulled rice seedlings, carried paddy, held a hoe, led buffalo. In the old days money never appeared this easily. To get money, you had to bend down to the earth. Bend from morning to afternoon. In burning sun, bend. In cold rain, bend. At harvest time, tie bundles of rice, carry each sack up to the bank, then after selling it still get squeezed by traders.

Fifty million used to be a huge number.

Several seasons of fields.

So many mornings waking before the sky was light.

So many meals of rice with fish sauce.

So many fights between husband and wife over fertilizer money, seed money, school money for the children.

Now Van said one sentence, and it became one month’s tuition.

One month.

When he finished counting, he held the stack in his hand. Paper money was light, but his arm felt heavy. Heavy as if he were holding a wet sack of paddy. Heavy as if something invisible had been loaded onto his old back.

He carried the money out and set it on the table.

“Here.”

Van reached out, took the stack, and put it in her handbag. She secretly glanced around. Cu had wandered out to the yard and was sitting there playing games, his back against the car wheel, paying no attention at all to the adults’ business.

Van stepped closer to Old Tu. She gently put her arms around his neck and leaned in to give Old Tu a light kiss on the cheek. The mild smell of perfume from her neck hit his nose.

“Thank you, Dad...” Van whispered into his ear, her voice sweet and husky.

Old Tu had not had time to react when Van’s hand slid down, pushed straight into his pants. Her five fingers, soft but sure, grabbed his old soft cock, squeezed hard two or three times, then gently stroked it up and down.

“Poor Dad ... I’ll make it up to you later...”

Van’s whisper was very soft, both dirty and sweet, her warm breath brushing Old Tu’s ear. She squeezed once more around the head, rubbed lightly with her thumb, then pulled her hand out.

Done with that, Van turned, swung her round ass hard under the cream dress, and walked leisurely out of the house as if nothing had happened.

Old Tu stood still for a long time. In the end he could only sigh heavily, pull out the chair, and drop down into it. His cock was still hard in his pants, refusing to go down, the head rubbing against the rough fabric and making him terribly uncomfortable. He sighed heavily again, rubbing his thigh with one hand, trying to press down the desire rising in him.

Right then, Vy came out of her room.

She wore her dark-blue bank dress, hugging close to her body, her chest and slim waist clear. The dress came just to her knees, showing off her long slender legs. After her mother’s death, Vy had become less gaunt, and her face had brightened again, though there was still a little sadness in her eyes.