Chapter 3

That morning, Old Tu woke earlier than usual.

Not because of the traffic in the alley. Not because of the water pump coughing on the roof. It was because there was something strange in his belly. A small dull happiness, not much, but it kept wriggling in his chest like a perch caught in a basket.

He lay on the iron bed in the management room, eyes wide open, staring at the stained ceiling.

A few days ago, he had still been the old man from Con Tre. A thatched house with mud walls. Living alone at the edge of the village. In the morning he hoed the earth. In the afternoon he went to the stream to fish. At night he smoked pipe tobacco and listened to the radio crackle. None of his children remembered him. When people pitied him, they pitied him the way they pitied an old dog curled up on the porch.

But now he was lying in Saigon. Under his hand was a rental block. Not a crooked thatched house, but real property. Rooms. Tenants. Monthly rent. Ledgers. Keys.

Old Tu rolled over and sat up, reaching for his old ba ba shirt and putting it on. The two missing fingers of his right hand touched the shirt pocket where he kept the key to the management room.

The key was small.

But holding it felt heavy.

Heavy because for the first time in his life, he felt he was not someone life had left behind.

He washed his face outside in the yard. Cold water slapped his face and woke him fully. The rental yard in the morning was still damp, a few trails of water from some room or other pooling on the cement. At the head of the alley, the woman selling banh mi was cursing a dog for carrying off a piece of pork roll. A few workers were leaving early, walking and yawning. One of them saw Old Tu and nodded.

“Uncle Tu.”

Old Tu nodded back.

It felt good in his belly.

“Uncle Tu” sounded different from “old man” back in the village. In the village, people called him that out of pity. Here, at least there was a little respect. Because he was the landlord.

He sat down at the plastic table on the ground floor and opened the rent ledger. The lines Hoang had written yesterday were still straight and clean, pretty as print. Which room had paid, which room had delayed, which room still needed electricity and water added. Everything was clear.

Old Tu looked at it and smiled to himself.

“Goddamn this life ... starting to look like a boss now.”

After he said it, he found himself funny. What kind of boss wore a ba ba shirt frayed at the shoulders, worn-out honeycomb sandals, two missing fingers, and sat there in the morning scratching his back from mosquito bites?

But anyway, he was the boss.

Old Tu took the ledger and walked a round through the rental block. He was not really collecting money today. He just wanted to look. Look at the stairs. Look at the shut doors. Look at the electric wires running along the wall. Look at the small yard where tenants hung clothes to dry. Everything was old, messy, hot. But all of it was his.

He had just reached the second-floor landing when he heard heavy footsteps coming down from above.

Those footsteps were not like workers dragging slippers. Not like the light shoes of girls going to work. They were heavy and solid, each step pounding down the stairs as if someone were carrying a sack of sand.

Old Tu had just looked up when a wide body turned down from the stair corner.

It did not move aside.

It did not slow down.

The man’s shoulder rammed straight into Old Tu’s shoulder.

“Bam!”

Old Tu was old, and his legs were weak. One hit sent his whole body tilting sideways. The ledger flew from his hand. The ballpoint pen rolled down several steps. He put his hand on the floor, but his maimed hand slipped. His knee struck the cement hard.

Sharp pain.

He cried out once and scrambled up.

Before he could curse, he saw a broad black shadow in front of him.

The man stood one step higher than him. Shirtless. Tiger back, bear back. Broad shoulders, short neck, skin black and shiny as if rubbed with oil. Both arms were covered in tattoos, dragons and tigers twisting together. On his chest was an old knife scar, long and white. His face was square, his jaw heavy, his eyes small but cold. From his left cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth ran a long scar, making his mouth always look like it was smirking.

He held an unlit cigarette between his lips and bent down to look at Old Tu.

“New old man just came up?”

Old Tu could not stand steady. His knee hurt, his hands shook, his chest heaved. He wanted to say, “What kind of walking is that?” But his throat suddenly went dry.

The man used his foot to push the ledger back toward him. Slow. Contemptuous. Like kicking a rag.

“Hold your book tight. Stairs here are slippery. Keep falling and you’ll die.”

Old Tu heard the word “die” clearly.

Not loud. No cursing. But it was a threat.

Old Tu had been through war. He had heard bullets hiss past his ears. He had seen comrades fall. He had once used his own body to shield Mr. Dinh. Yet now, in front of this tattooed man standing right above him on the stairs, his lower belly went cold.

Scared.

Truly scared.

Not the fear of dying on a battlefield. The fear of an old man with a young beast standing close to his face, knowing if the beast raised one hand, he could not block it.

The man smirked.

“New owner is new owner. But here, you learn slowly. Don’t just come up here and think everything is yours.”

After saying that, he tilted his shoulder and walked past. This time he deliberately scraped Old Tu again.

Old Tu stepped back and almost fell a second time.

The man went down to the yard, spat on the floor with a wet “ptooey,” then disappeared out into the alley.

Old Tu stood motionless on the stairs for a long time.

His knee burned. His hand was dusty. The ledger lay at his feet.

He bent to pick it up, brushed it off, and suddenly felt all the happiness from that morning vanish clean.

Goddamn this life.

He had just started thinking he was the boss, and someone had already rammed him down like an old dog.

By noon, Old Tu learned the man’s name was Thang.

People in the block called him Thang Scar behind his back.

The woman selling drinks at the head of the alley told him. She was about fifty, small, her hair tied behind her neck, her betel-chewing mouth bright red. Old Tu had gone out to buy a packet of pipe tobacco and asked in passing:

“You know that scar-faced tattooed bastard on the second floor?”

The drink seller looked up. Her eyes changed a little.

“You mean Thang Scar?”

“Yeah. He rent a room here?”

She gave a thin smile.

“He rents one, sure. Whether he pays rent or not, I don’t know. The managers before you never dared ask him.”

Old Tu frowned.

“Why didn’t they dare?”

She looked around and lowered her voice.

“You just got here, so you don’t know. Your rental block is empty because of him. Women are scared of him. Students are scared of cops. Workers are scared of trouble. He sits there like a vicious dog guarding the gate. Who decent dares move in?”

Old Tu said nothing.

The drink seller went on:

“You have the house papers, but in this alley, people have heard Thang’s name more than the owner’s name for a long time. If you want to run the place, you gotta get rid of him. And getting rid of him won’t be easy.”

Old Tu swallowed.

“The police don’t know?”

She snorted.

“Of course they know. But that kind is like an eel. Here today, gone tomorrow. He isn’t some big boss, but he’s dirty enough for ordinary people to stay away. You’re old. I’m telling you the truth. Don’t get tangled with him.”

Old Tu took the pipe tobacco and went home.

On the way, his rental block looked completely different from that morning.

In the morning, he had seen it as property.

Now it looked like a snake nest.

That afternoon, Mai came home from work.

She wore the pale-blue garment-factory uniform, the shoulders wet with sweat, her hair stuck to her neck. Tired face. Dark eyes. An old cloth bag in her hand. She crossed the yard and gave Old Tu a small bow.

“Uncle Tu.”

Old Tu nodded. He was sitting at the table on the ground floor, holding an unlit pipe in his hand. Since morning, that scarred face had kept drifting around inside his head.

Mai had just reached the stairs when Thang Scar stepped out from his second-floor room.

He wore a tank top and shorts, a beer can in his hand. Seeing Mai, he immediately stood in the middle of the way and smirked.

Mai stopped, her voice small.

“Please ... let me pass.”

Thang did not move. He looked her up and down, then gave a dirty little laugh. When Mai tried to slip past, he shot one hand out and squeezed her round ass hard through her uniform pants.

“Ah!”

Mai jumped. Before she could react, Thang bent down and planted a hard kiss on her cheek, his laugh hoarse.

“Fuck, that ass is tasty as hell. You smell this good every day, Mai?”

Mai panicked, her face flushed red with shame. She shoved him hard with both hands. Trembling, she hurried upstairs, not daring to look back.

Thang stayed where he was, lifted his hand to sniff the smell on it, laughed loudly, then finally turned back into his room.

Down in the yard, Old Tu sat frozen. He gripped the pipe so tightly the stumps of his two missing fingers went pale. His heart pounded, angry and helpless at the same time.

Before going inside, Thang glanced down at Old Tu, smirked at him in provocation, then spat a glob of saliva onto the floor.

Old Tu sat still and took a deep pull from his pipe. Bitter smoke rushed into his eyes, making them redden.

Maybe from the smoke.

Maybe from shame.