Chapter 4

The next morning, Hung came back to the room before the day had fully turned hot.

They called it morning, but morning in Binh Tan was not clear like back in the countryside. It was murky, yellowish, mixed with exhaust smoke, the smell of food fried again from last night, sewer water from the mouth of the alley, and worker uniforms hung up before they had dried. In the rental block, the doors had only just opened and already let out the smell of people. Slippers dragged over cement. Children cried. Somewhere someone cursed a broken fan. All of it mixed together.

Hung went up the stairs very fast.

That had been his habit for many months now.

When his shift ended, he went straight to the room. Did not stand in the yard. Did not sit talking with anyone. Did not look left or right. And especially did not get tangled in the rental block’s business.

In this place, before, all it took was walking a little too slowly and running into Thang Scar, and the whole day was ruined.

Hung had once seen Thang beat a worker just because the man had parked his motorbike blocking the way. One punch. Blood from the nose ran down the man’s shirt. From then on, Hung knew his place. A factory worker, a wife, monthly wages barely enough to breathe. Getting tangled with that kind was just stupid.

So every time Hung came home from work, he went straight upstairs. Closed the door. Bolted it. If he wanted to smoke, he smoked in the toilet. If he heard Thang laughing out in the hallway, he turned the TV down by himself.

A man who is scared is shameful.

But a poor man who does not know fear is dead.

Hung opened the room door and stepped in.

Mai was sitting there folding clothes. Her eyes were still dark underneath, her hair tied low at the back of her neck. On the clothesline inside the room hung several pale-blue uniforms from the garment workshop, a few of Hung’s faded T-shirts, towels, old children’s clothes begged from other people.

The wall fan turned with a clacking sound, its wind weak as a sick person’s breath.

Hung closed the door and, out of habit, pulled the bolt.

Mai looked up.

“You’re still locking it that tight?”

Hung took off his outer shirt and threw it onto the chair.

“If I don’t lock it, what bastard do I let in? This block wasn’t peaceful before.”

Mai looked at him for a moment, then said:

“Thang Scar got arrested.”

Hung’s hand froze halfway.

He turned sharply.

“Who?”

“Thang Scar.”

Hung thought he had misheard.

“Which Thang Scar?”

Mai frowned.

“Thang Scar on the second floor. Who else?”

Hung stood dead still for a few seconds.

Then he let out a dry laugh.

“You joking?”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Hung pulled over a chair and sat down, his face still disbelieving.

“Arrested how? Who dared touch him?”

Mai folded the shirt in her hand, her voice lowering.

“The new landlord.”

Hung looked at her.

“The new landlord?”

“Yes. The old man downstairs. And Hoang, the student who helps him keep the ledger. I don’t know how they did it, but the police came down and pulled Thang’s stuff out from where he hid it in the common restroom. They arrested the whole group.”

Hung opened his mouth and could not speak right away.

In his head appeared Thang Scar’s face: thick neck, tattooed arms, the scar on his cheek, the hoarse laugh. That bastard used to sit on the stairs like a vicious dog guarding the gate. Anyone passing had to move around him. Women feared being teased. Men feared being picked on. Even the old owner had not dared demand rent from him.

And the new landlord had handled him?

An old man?

Hung did not know the new landlord’s face clearly. He had only heard Mai say the rental block had changed owners, that downstairs there was some country old man who had come up to take the property, walking around with a student named Hoang. Hung worked long shifts. When he came back he slipped into the room. Sometimes he crossed the yard with his head down and went fast, not bothering to notice. And since Thang had still been hanging around a few days before, Hung had wanted even less to go downstairs.

Now hearing that the old man himself had taken Thang down, Hung felt strange in his belly.

Surprised, yes. Relieved, yes. But there was also something uncomfortable, like a tiny thorn stuck in his throat.

He was the man in the house. Yet all this time he had feared Thang so much that at night he did not dare go down to buy a bottle of water. When Mai came home late from work, plenty of nights he only texted, “Home yet?” and did not dare go down to meet her, because he was afraid of running into that bastard.

And the new landlord, old as dirt, had been here only a few days and done what the whole rental block could not.

Hung scratched the back of his neck.

“That old man ... is he that tough?”

Mai was quiet for a while, then said:

“I don’t know if he’s tough or not. But since he came, the rental block is different.”

Hung frowned.

“Different how?”

“Thang’s gang doesn’t sit blocking the stairs anymore. His underlings don’t smoke in the hallway anymore. The empty rooms are starting to get fixed. Yesterday a new family came to look at a room. Teacher Lan has even let her children come down to play in the yard a little.”

Hung looked at Mai. He recognized a little respect in her voice when she spoke of the new landlord.

Only a little.

But Hung heard it.

A poor man’s pride is very thin. Touch it lightly and it tears.

He asked:

“Has he given you trouble about the room money?”

Mai froze very quickly, then shook her head.

“No. He already let me delay. He isn’t pushing.”

Hung exhaled.

“Then that’s all right.”

Mai looked at her husband. She wanted to tell him more, about that night when Old Tu had given her a glass of water after she came back from entertaining clients, about how he had looked at her not with dirty eyes but with pity. But she did not tell him. Some things, once told, only make the listener more uncomfortable. Hung already had pride. If he knew his wife had been pitied by a strange old man, he would probably think all kinds of things.

Hung stood up and went to the window to look down into the yard.

On the ground floor, Hoang was holding a broom, sweeping old cigarette ash from the corner of the wall. An old man sat with his back turned, his back a little bent, holding a glass of tea and watching the workers repair the lights.

From a distance, Hung only saw an ordinary country old man.

Nothing frightening.

Nothing like someone who could get rid of Thang Scar.

Hung muttered:

“Looks like that, but scary.”

Mai heard him.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

Hung pulled the curtain shut.

He did not know why he felt restless. Maybe because from now on, the excuse “Thang is in the block, so I have to avoid him” was gone. Maybe because he was about to have to face the fact that he really had been cowardly. Or maybe because, in this cramped rental room, another man had appeared who made his wife feel safer than he did.

Hung sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette.

Mai frowned.

“Smoke less. The room is already hot enough to die.”

Hung stubbed the cigarette into an old beer can, his voice a little curt.

“I know.”

Outside in the yard, Hoang’s voice called to the workers:

“Hang the electrical wire a little higher. Kids running through can catch on it.”

Hung heard it and suddenly felt irritated.

That scholar kid really talked like a manager.

He lay down on the bed and turned his face to the wall.

Mai looked at her husband for a while and said nothing more.

The rental block below was beginning to brighten. But inside this small room, something had quietly gone dark.

Down on the ground floor, Old Tu was sitting with Hoang at the old plastic table.

On the table were the rent ledger, an old phone, several sheets listing the empty rooms, and a stack of money tied with a rubber band. After Thang Scar was arrested, the air in the alley changed completely. People looked at Old Tu with eyes very different from before.

When he had first come to Saigon, everywhere he went people looked at him like a lucky country old man. An old Con Tre man in a ba ba shirt frayed at the shoulders, honeycomb sandals, two missing fingers, suddenly becoming the owner of a rental block. People respected the papers, not necessarily him.

But now it was different.

The drink seller at the head of the alley saw him pass and called loudly:

“Mr. Tu, want iced tea? Today I’m buying you a glass.”

The workers who used to only nod at him casually now greeted him clearly when they saw him:

“Uncle Tu!”

Lan crossed the yard and looked at him with softer, more grateful eyes. Mai was still quiet, but she no longer lowered her head and avoided him like before. Thao, the girl doing the dirtiest work in the block, had sat in front of her room smoking yesterday, looked at him, and said one short sentence:

“Old man.”

Then she turned her face away, as if afraid she might soften.

Old Tu said nothing aloud, but inside his belly there was a strange warmth.

The feeling of being needed, of being looked at with respect, for an old man forgotten by his own blood children for decades, was both happy and painful. Happy because he felt he was still useful. Painful because he knew that if one day he could no longer do anything, people would easily forget him, just as his children had forgotten him.

Hoang sat across from him, reviewing the list of empty rooms. The kid was still in a white shirt, old jeans, neat hair. After days of running up and down, his shirt had faded more, the shoulders a little worn. But his writing in the ledger was still straight and pretty.

Old Tu looked at him for a long while, then called in a hoarse voice:

“Hoang.”

Hoang looked up.

“Yes?”

Old Tu pulled open the drawer, took out a stack of ten million dong, and set it in front of him.

Hoang froze, looking at the money, then at him.

“What are you giving me this for, Uncle?”

“From now on, you’re working for me officially.”

Hoang blinked.

“Officially how, Uncle?”

“Keeping the books, watching the rooms, watching the cameras, posting rental ads, receiving guests, seeing who’s decent and who isn’t. Basically all the things I’m stupid at, you handle.”

Hoang hurriedly shook his head.

“Uncle, I can just help you. Give me meal money each month and that’s enough. It doesn’t need to be this much...”

Old Tu frowned and snapped:

“Much, my ass. Ten million a month.”

Hoang stared.

“Ten million?”

“Yeah.”

“Uncle ... many workers don’t even make that much...”

Old Tu pushed the stack of money forward, his voice lower but firm:

“Workers are workers. You’re my strategist. You helped me bring down Thang, helped me collect money, helped me keep this house standing. I don’t exploit you. Work has to be paid properly.”

Hoang sat silent, looking at the money. After a moment, he nodded softly.

“Yes ... I’ll take it.”

He picked up the stack, but did not rush to put it in his pocket. He set it neatly beside the ledger, his voice light but certain:

“I’ll work so it’s worth the money you give me.”

Old Tu grunted, but the corner of his mouth loosened a little. He took out his pipe tobacco box, packed it, lit it, and drew a long pull.

Then he said, voice hoarse:

“Hoang.”

“Yes?”

“From now on, if anyone asks, you’re my man. Not the student helping out. Not a tenant. You’re my man. Anything in the rental block, you handle. If anyone needs something, you help. Any papers, you look first. I’m old now. My eyes are bad. I don’t know letters well. But I’m not so stupid I can’t tell who is helping me sincerely.”

Hoang bowed his head slightly, his voice small but clear:

“Yes. I understand.”

Old Tu looked at the kid sitting in front of him, and suddenly his throat tightened. This boy had no blood relation to him. Yet over these past months, he had stayed beside him more than his three blood children had in decades.

He was not good at pretty words, so he only muttered:

“Do it properly. Lose money and I’ll beat you first.”

Hoang smiled gently.

“Yes. Hit lightly, Uncle. I’m skinny.”

Old Tu laughed too. The laugh made the two scars on his chest ache, but his heart felt much lighter.

From the other side of the yard, the drink seller walked past. Seeing the two of them beside the ledger, she laughed loudly:

“Mr. Tu has himself a fine little secretary, huh!”

Old Tu called back:

“Secretary, my cock! He’s my strategist!”

The drink seller giggled.

“Fine, strategist! So Mr. Tu is the general?”

Old Tu sniffed, glanced at Hoang, and said with pride:

“An old general. But still able to fight.”

Hoang lowered his voice so only the two of them could hear:

“Fight with your head and you live longer, Uncle.”

Old Tu nodded, eyes turned up toward the second floor, the place that had once belonged to Thang Scar, then said quietly:

“Yeah ... fight with your head.”

After receiving his salary, Hoang got to work at once.

He did not spend it. Did not show it off. Did not change phones. Did not buy new clothes. He wrapped the ten million carefully and put it in the inside pocket of his backpack. Then he took out his phone and photographed each empty room.

Old Tu followed behind him, watching and muttering.

“This room’s wall is moldy.”

“Yes. Repaint it.”

“That room’s door sticks.”

“Replace the hinge.”

“The toilet at the end of the floor stinks too much.”

“Clear the drain, replace the toilet lid. Families look at the toilet before they look at the room, Uncle.”

Old Tu was surprised.

“How do you know?”

Hoang smiled.

“Poor people renting rooms still want a clean place to relieve themselves. Especially women and children.”

Old Tu nodded.

True.

He had been poor all his life, but being poor did not mean liking filth. Poverty often just meant having no right to choose clean.

Hoang wrote a repair list. He did not do it carelessly. What needed doing first, he did first.