Hoa jumps onto Phuong’s motorbike and grabs the back rail as they swerve into traffic. He pulls out an ad in the Saigon Times. "There’s a new club in District One, near the Opera House."

Phuong checks his rearview mirror and switches lanes.

"We’ll go as soon as I pick up a client for tomorrow," he says.

Phuong looks at him sideways.

"Don’t worry," Hoa slaps Phuong on the back. "I’m the best tour guide in Sai Gon! I speak very good English!"

A group of Americans lingers outside the club, laughing and smoking. Two kids selling lottery tickets approach them. The boy is missing a leg. The girl’s arm ends in a stump where her elbow should be. "Uncle, buy a ticket to help us poor orphans." Phuong gives them each 1000 dong.

A Vietnamese doorman dressed in an expensive silk shirt with slicked-back hair stops them at the door. He looks Hoa and Phuong over. "Don’t hustle the customers," he warns.

Hoa shakes him off. They pass through the red velvet curtains and make their way downstairs. Cigarette girls wearing ao dai and Marlboro beauty queen banners smile demurely at them.

Techno music pumps out of the loudspeakers. The sound reverberates inside the cavernous club. Throbbing, pounding, flashing white rays of strobe light flicker like bolts of lightning across the dance floor, illuminating faces for a split second as the bodies slink and grind against each other, heads turned up and straining toward the light.

They head for the bar. Bartenders in black miniskirts and sleeveless tops tied into knots above their bellybuttons sashay behind the counter. The words "BOOM! BOOM!" are splashed across their chests in bold red glitter, emblazoned with the logo of a butterfly spreading its wings.

Hoa leans against the bar and surveys the crowd. Mostly Americans and Europeans. NGO workers dressed in khakis. Dirty backpackers in shorts and T-shirts. Pale white women in long skirts with bangles around their ankles. Stocky Americans with sun-bleached hair and muscular shoulders, Vietnamese women hanging off their arms. Taiwanese businessmen with much younger girls. Rich young Vietnamese, the privileged children of Party members.

Hoa spies two homely female tourists in a corner. Women like that are usually looking for an "authentic" experience. They’d appreciate an attentive local guide. Hoa searches his pocket for his last business card. Just as he’s about to approach the women, a man standing next to Hoa says something to him in thickly French-accented English.

"Pardon? Qu’est-ce que vous dîtes?" says Hoa, making use of one of the only French phrases he knows.

"Parlez-vous français?" says the man. He leans in and puts his hand on Hoa’s shoulder.

"No, just a little," says Hoa in English. "But I can help you," he quickly adds. "I am a tour guide."

"Ah, d’accord," says the man, disappointed. He’s in his forties. Gray hair, closely shorn. Slight build, and thin, except his belly bulges over the top of his pants. He has a long skinny face, red from too much sun.

"You come here a lot?" he says.

"No, not a lot," Hoa repeats, filing the phrase in his mental dictionary for later use.

They shout to hear each other above the noise and loud music.

The man tells Hoa it’s his first time in Viet Nam. He’s from France, but is living in Bangkok. "Terrible traffic," he says. "Worse than Ho Chi Minh City!" He laughs and puts out his hand. "I’m Jacques."

"My name is Hoa. This is my friend Phuong."

"Enchanté. May I buy you a drink?"

"No, thank you, Monsieur Jacques."

"Non, please call me Jacques."

Hoa tells Jacques he can take him anywhere he wants to go. He knows Sai Gon like the back of his hand. Jacques stands close, smiling. Hoa unconsciously rubs a thin scar below his left eye, a knife slash across his cheekbone that he got in a fight. He talks faster. He can tell Phuong’s ready to go.

"D’accord, d’accord. You show me Sai Gon." Jacques gives Hoa his hotel card. "And your friend? He comes too?"

"No. He is not a tour guide."

"Trés bien. I have another appointment, but I see you tomorrow." Jacques waves good-bye and weaves through the crowd.

Hoa turns to Phuong. "Can I borrow the Honda tomorrow?"

"I don’t like that guy."

"You don’t like any of them. You know me and Diem need the money, especially now with the baby."

"I know."

"Then help me out."

It’s almost midnight. Most of the expats and Vietnamese have left by now. The young tourist crowd moves on to the next destination recommended in their Lonely Planet guide. A useful reference. Hoa has been using it to track potential clients.

The dance floor clears out and a new crowd moves in. Much older white men in their sixties, overweight with thinning white hair, some with Vietnamese boys in their mid- to late- teens. Their hair sculpted and greased, bodies lean and muscular.

Fake fog rolls onto the dance floor. Multicolored lights beam down from the ceiling. Girls appear one by one, then in couples, some of them holding hands as though shy, their eyes to the ground. They gather on one side of the room, whispering and talking amongst themselves. They’re all made up like beauty queens, but they’re very young. Thirteen, fourteen, maybe younger. Slow music begins to play. The girls sway from side to side. Some stand in unnatural poses, tapping their sandaled feet, tiny red-painted toes peeking out beneath their gowns. Hoa can tell their dresses are worn from where he’s standing, even through the fog. Stained and ill fitting upon their little-girl frames. Like brittle baby birds. The song fades out, the pack moves in. The girls disperse. The men circle them. A few caresses. The touch of young skin.

Hoa’s throat is dry. The thought that Diem could have ended up like these girls makes him sick. He glances over at Phuong. The look on Phuong’s face angers him, as though he’s judging Hoa, too. "Let’s go," says Phuong.

They make their way up the stairs, groping the walls in the dark. Outside, flashing billboards for Coca-Cola and Nike illuminate the night sky. The CitiBank, the tallest building in Sai Gon, looms above the skyline. The stream of traffic surges on. Beams from the headlights of thousands of motorbikes flutter like fireflies.

Across the street at the Hotel Continental and the Caravelle, Range Rovers pull up to the curb, depositing Vietnamese Americans high on some new business venture. The embargo’s been lifted. Sky’s the limit, they say. Another land development. Another golf course. A new hotel. Hoa watches the drunk Viet Kieu with envy. They’re not much older than him.

Phuong and Hoa drive home in silence to the other side of town. When they cross the bridge over the Sai Gon River, Phuong begins to relax, his shoulders slouching forward. Sampans float on the murky brown water. Grass houses and tin roofs line both sides of the river. They head toward the swamplands, passing through night markets pitched on unpaved streets. The dirt roads are lit by the dim yellow lights of kerosene lamps suspended from food stalls. Xich lo drivers sleep in their rickshaws parked on the side of the road. Groups of people hunch over steaming bowls of pho at small tables around the noodle stalls, talking in low tones. Skinny stray cats wend in and out through people’s feet, picking up scraps and gnawing on chicken bones. The scent of anise fills Hoa’s nose and reminds him of his hunger. At the corner they stop for three scraggly children pushing an ice cream cart. Women crouch over charcoal braziers fanning grilled corn, the blue embers glowing in the dark. Over here the air is thick with humidity, punctured by the sour, sweet smell of rotting fruits and vegetables not sold that day.

At the turnoff to their block of tenement housing, Phuong and Hoa pass through another market. The wooden stalls are empty. Vendors are closing up for the night. They stack up small plastic stools and tables. Women wearing blue rubber gloves and white rags over their mouths collect garbage which they pile in one corner and burn in a magnificent trash heap. The flames leap toward the sky, the ashes swirling round and round. Two women pushing a wheelbarrow filled with garbage wave them through. Hoa does not recognize them. He is anxious to get home and spend a few minutes with his wife before she goes out to relieve these women of the night shift.

Phuong drops Hoa off in front of the housing complex marked D. Phuong recently moved down the block to a bigger place with tiled floors that he and his mother bought with the money Phuong’s father sent them from America before he died.

"Can I get the Honda tomorrow morning?"

Phuong hesitates. "Sure," he says finally. He lifts his feet back up on the foot pegs.

Hoa pats Phuong on the back, waving as he drives away.

Hoa climbs the stairwell up three flights and walks down the long dark corridor. The light in the hallway is smashed. Hoa can hear rats scrambling; broken glass crunches beneath his rubber sandals. He holds his breath to avoid the dizzying stench of urine. Music is playing in the apartment next door, drowning out the couple arguing, the tension in their voices rising. Hoa pauses and listens at his door. He can hear Diem moving about the room.

Hoa’s son lies in a hammock, drool gathering at the corner of his mouth. Hoa rocks him gently. He catches a glimpse of Bình’s face in the moonlight. His eyes are scrunched up. He looks troubled.

"Is he asleep?"

"I just put him down," says Diem. "He was really restless tonight. It was hard getting him to sleep."

"I think he’s having a bad dream." Hoa caresses Bình’s forehead. "My poor son."

Diem looks on, subdued. Her hair is thick and shiny. Hoa loves the way it falls down her back. She takes a rubber band and ties it in a knot at the nape of her neck.

"I met a new client."

Diem doesn’t respond. She’s not convinced of his latest venture.

"You wouldn’t believe the places they have now, Diem. They’re so modern—"

Diem interrupts him. "How much do you think you’ll get?" She bends down and picks clothes up off the floor.

"I don’t know. Maybe ten, fifteen dollars." Hoa turns away and looks out the window. He’s ashamed. Diem thinks he’s not trying hard enough.

"I didn’t sell very much pho today and Bình needs medicine. My mother says he has an ear infection."

"Can you leave him with her tomorrow?"

"Yes," says Diem, her voice tired.

"Diem."

She looks up at him, her large brown eyes dark and questioning. She seems so small. Her baggy clothes hang on her. She’s not a child anymore and neither is he. Hoa is twenty and he feels so old.

"Things will get better for us." He holds her and strokes her head, hears her soft breathing as she pulls away.

Diem checks on Bình and kisses him softly on the cheek. She stands before the altar, praying silently, then bows. She ties a handkerchief over her mouth. "Take care of Bình," she says, closing the door behind her.

Hoa lies awake. The pallet on the cement floor feels especially hard tonight. The smell of Bình’s diapers engulfs the room. The light is still on next door. It streams through the window, casting a yellow glow inside the room. Hoa stares at the shadows on the wall. He can see the outline of a lopsided table Diem propped up with an old newspaper, above it the makeshift altar—a wooden shelf he had tacked onto the wall displaying a photograph of his dead parents, Diem’s father in his army uniform, two half-melted candles, and three incense sticks planted inside a chipped teacup. Hoa hears water dripping from the faucet, the plop plop, slow and monotonous. Next door, the falsetto cries of cai luong music wailing in the night.

Bình starts to whimper and cough. Hoa gets up and goes over to him. He gazes at his baby’s sleeping form. He bends down to look closer. Bình’s cheeks are ruddy. The patch of hair on his head is wet with perspiration. Hoa touches his son’s clammy forehead. Hoa is alarmed. He picks Bình up and tries to soothe him. "There, there. Ba is here." Bình starts to scream, waving his tiny clenched fists in the air. Hoa holds him close and feels how thin he is. His stomach is bloated, but he has no fat. Bình’s tormented screams ring in Hoa’s ears. He carries Bình to the bed and lies down with him, cradling him in his arms.

~

In the morning, the streets are slick from rain. Hoa is riding the Honda Dream. He can hardly believe how smooth it is, how powerful. It’s like flying, he feels so free. The four-stroke engine purrs like a satisfied cat, its body glints in the sun. He weaves through traffic. Phuong is right, the Honda handles beautifully. Hoa’s got to have one, someday.

The sun beats down, heating up the asphalt. The roar of motorbikes fills the congested streets. Smog sits like a thundercloud over the city. Young women on Hondas whiz by, every inch of their bodies covered to protect them from the sun. They wear baseball caps and floppy hats with long white gloves up to their elbows and handkerchiefs over their mouths to keep out fumes.

Hoa turns on Pham Ngu Lao Street. Jacques’ hotel is next to Sinh Café, the meeting place for backpackers. A large air-conditioned bus loads up passengers. A group of chattering backpackers gathers on the sidewalk.

Jacques stands in front of the hotel, smoking a cigarette. He looks at Hoa but doesn’t seem to recognize him. Hoa waves. Jacques squints, hesitates for a moment, then waves back. He’s wearing a canvas hat, shorts, and leather sandals. His legs are white. He’s not carrying a camera or backpack.

"Hello, Jacques!"

Sweat glistens on Jacques’ face. He looks at Hoa more closely, examining him in the light.

"We have much to see today. We go first to the Reunification Palace, the Central Post Office, the History Museum—"

"Actually Hoa, I prefer to ride around and look at the city. I don’t care for museums."

"But Monsieur Jacques, this is where all tourists go—"

"This is what I prefer."

Hoa is reluctant to change the itinerary, but relents. "Okay, I take you for a ride."

Jacques stomps out his cigarette and gets on the back. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Hoa’s waist.

Hoa goes slow, knowing most tourists are afraid of city traffic. Other drivers fly by, ignoring pedestrians who have learned to maneuver around them.

"Go faster, Hoa! I’m used to it," Jacques shouts. "I live in Bangkok, remember?" Hoa laughs and speeds up.

They take the main streets and boulevards. Hoa points out monuments&mdashthe statue of Ho Chi Minh instructing children, their heads bowed in awed respect, or fear; it’s unclear which. Landmarks—Notre Dame Cathedral’s pink spires reaching toward the sky, built by the French. Dong Khoi Street, formerly rue Catinat, once an infamous red-light district, now a tourist trap with overpriced boutiques. The new U.S. Consulate built on top of the old one.

They pass a Baskin Robbins and a Lotteria where a hamburger, fries, and a Coke cost a little more than a week’s wages for most Vietnamese. Hoa tells Jacques about the new Kentucky Fried Chicken and Disneyland theme park out by the airport. Jacques doesn’t ask any questions, content to just watch the places go by.

Most clients are very demanding, especially the older ones. Some will even haggle prices. Not only do they want to be shown around, they expect to be entertained. They want stories and origin myths about customs and traditions, religious practices, things they read about in tour books. Dirt makes them uncomfortable, and so does poverty.

But Jacques doesn’t say anything. Hoa glances back at Jacques and sees him sucking up exhaust. The air is hot and humid. It whips their faces, burns their skin. Jacques pulls out a white handkerchief and covers his mouth. His eyes are red. Tears run down his face covered with a thin layer of black soot. The smell of meat seared over charcoal braziers fills the air.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes," Jacques coughs.

Hoa loops back around and heads to Cho Ben Thanh. He wrangles for a spot to park the Honda Dream, securing a space between the xich lo and motorbike drivers for hire. The market is teeming with people, pushing, peddling, bartering, and haggling. "You can get anything here!" says Hoa, making a sweeping motion with his hands. Rolex watches and designer knockoffs; TVs, stereos, and VCRs. Plump Western women order silk ao dai dresses custom-made. Others attempt to squeeze into pre-fabrications. Vendors have started putting sticker prices on the items in U.S. dollars. These are non-negotiable.

Unlike most of the tourists Hoa has encountered, Jacques is completely unfazed by the volume of choices and "how cheap" everything is. "You can find such things anywhere," says Jacques. "I only buy the things that interest me deeply."

They walk through the maze of vendor booths. Merchants come out of their stalls to greet them. "Have a jacket made today, brother, for the gentleman." The tailor bows graciously, a tape measure dangling from his neck. "Ready in one hour!"

"Buy a few meters and help a sister out," cries a young woman, flirting with Hoa. "I haven’t sold a single meter today."

"Uncle, please buy a T-shirt. Two for the price of one," says a little girl, tugging on Hoa’s sleeve. "How about American man? French man? You speak English? Parlez-vous français? Very cheap, Mister."

They head for the food stalls. Sacks of grains and spices spill over into the walkways. The musky scents of curry and cardamom mingle with the nose-burning sting of crushed red chili. Old Vietnamese women in conical hats shout to each other as they hang rice noodles out to dry on green banana leaves.

Hoa inspects a row of pickled fruits and vegetables. Remembering the salty-sweet taste makes his mouth water. He wants to buy some preserved plums for Diem, but decides not to keep Jacques waiting. Jacques looks impatient.

They sit down at a noodle stall in the center of the market. Hoa orders their food.

Jacques is sweating profusely. Wet stains blot his back and underarms. Perspiration drips off the tip of his nose. Jacques takes off his hat. The girl hands them two damp washcloths and goes to prepare their meal. Jacques takes the cloth and mops his face. Hoa wipes the dirt and grime caked between his fingers. His hands smell like diesel and are brown from street dust. The girl sets down two bowls of pho and cane juice and hands them spoons and chopsticks.

"What do you do in Bangkok?"

"What all foreigners do in Bangkok. I teach English. A little French. It’s easy for us."

"Why do you choose Bangkok?"

"Easy money! Very cheap to live there. But I hear Viet Nam is cheaper, so I come have a look around."

"For this you leave France?"

"Yes, and for something different." Jacques sips his juice. "Of course, it’s not just money." He pauses for a moment, his pale blue eyes vacant. "Here one recaptures French prestige."

"I see."

"Life is hard in France now," says Jacques, speaking as though to a child. "It’s much easier here."

Hoa is silent. Jacques’ entitlement angers him. Hoa swallows his disgust.

"Bon appétit, Jacques."

"Bon appétit."

~

It’s late in the afternoon when they stop for tea at a sidewalk café. Jacques suggests they go for a walk in the Zoo and Botanical Gardens. The park is nearly empty except for a small group of tourists and a few young mothers accompanying their children. An old woman with crinkly brown skin sweeps the grounds. Her head is covered with a thin black shawl tied in a knot below her chin. The old woman stoops over, dragging her straw broom back and forth in short rapid sweeps across the pavement. The bundle of straw makes sharp scratching sounds.

Jacques puts his hand on Hoa’s shoulder, massaging it lightly. Hoa pretends not to notice. He digs his fists inside his pockets.

Jacques breathes deeply, taking in the scent of gardenias. "Tell me about yourself," he says, draping his arm over Hoa.

Hoa doesn’t move away. "I want to start my own tour company."

"Very good, very good. You’re a nice young man, Hoa. You could go far. I can help. I have many connections." Jacques smiles and gives Hoa his card with his e-mail address. "I’ve helped many young people like you."

Hoa holds the card, grazing it with his palm.

They walk past an iron cage where the tigers are as lean as their keepers. Hoa looks sideways at Jacques, trying to read him, but Jacques is not paying attention. He continues to stroll, unperturbed, at a languid pace, stopping to admire the orange tiger lilies and lavender orchids nestled among green palm fronds. The zoo always depresses Hoa. He’s glad when Jacques suggests going back to the hotel. It’s getting late and Hoa’s tired.

Black clouds are gathering and the sky suddenly feels oppressive. The static charge in the air before the downpour is palpable. It makes Hoa’s skin tingle.

Hoa pulls up in front of the hotel. He catches a whiff of something rotten. Someone is eating durian at a sidewalk stall. Hoa turns his head away. He loves the fruit, but can’t stomach the smell.

"Here we are, Jacques."

Jacques looks over his shoulder then looks back at Hoa. His flat blue eyes focus on something on Hoa’s face. Hoa is anxious, worried Jacques won’t tip. He’s heard stories about tourists running off without paying.

But suddenly Jacques pulls out a clean $50 dollar bill and places it in Hoa’s palm. Hoa can hardly believe his good fortune. He is overwhelmed; it’s far more than he had hoped for. He puts the money in his pocket, gripping the handlebar of the Honda Dream. Just as Hoa is about to thank him, Jacques says, "I’ll give you one hundred dollars more, but I want you to stay here with me," he points to the hotel, "for the next two days."

Hoa flinches. He realizes he’s known all along what Jacques really wants. He lowers his eyes to avoid Jacques’ gaze.

"Think about it, Hoa. Come back after seven. I’m in Room 3." Jacques turns and walks into the hotel.

The rain comes down hard and fast. Hoa circles round and round. He thinks of his son. Is he still coughing? Does his ear hurt? What does he dream about? And he thinks of Diem in her school uniform, a long white ao dai, so young and beautiful when they first met, her shiny black hair flowing down her back. He sees her peddling soup in the crowded marketplace. Diem going out at night to clean up the day’s waste. And Diem looking older with each passing day. It would take him almost a year to make two hundred dollars. This is the New Viet Nam—there has got to be more for them than this.

When he was ten, after his father got out of re-education camp, they survived by eating newspaper soaked in potato water. After his parents died, he left his village and came to Sai Gon. He roamed the streets in search of food until Phuong befriended him and offered to share his government rations.

He might not have another opportunity to make this much money. Hoa doesn’t have any connections, no relatives in America who could send him money, not like Phuong. Hoa feels bitter thinking about Phuong. He remembers the look on Phuong’s face when the girls were dancing. Phuong can afford to be moralistic because Phuong has choices.

Hoa tells himself there is no other choice. Diem will never find out. No one will.

He finds a phone and leaves a message with Phuong’s mother, saying he needs the Honda for a couple more days. He leaves another message at a neighbor’s house for Diem, telling her he’s taking his client to the Mekong Delta. Not to worry. Everything’s fine. He gets on the Honda Dream and drives slowly through the downpour back to the hotel on Pham Ngu Lao Street.

~

The room is drab, almost shabby. There is a bed covered with a faded bedspread in a flower pattern. A chair, desk, and lamp. Stained carpet. Jacques is wearing a robe. No slippers. Wrought-iron glass doors open onto a balcony. The room is dark, lit by a green neon sign outside the window.

Jacques draws the see-through curtains and motions to Hoa. "I love Oriental bodies. They’re so smooth. Like children." Jacques laughs.

Hoa is silent.

"You’re different, Hoa. You’re an innocent. That’s why I like you." Jacques tells him to take off his clothes.

Hoa struggles to get his pants off. He stands there naked and shivering, his hair and body wet from the rain. Jacques comes up behind him. Hoa feels Jacques’ heavy breathing. He senses Jacques’ excitement, his fingers fumbling in the dark as he reaches for Hoa. Hoa presses his face to the wall. He’s dizzy. He tells himself it’ll be over soon. He’s silent as Jacques tries to enter him. Jacques begins to moan, quiet at first, then louder, frustrated. Hoa feels a sharp, excruciating pain. The pain is unbearable. He clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut, praying for it to be over. He hears Jacques whimpering, a sigh, and the release.

The street noise grows louder. The rain has stopped. People are laughing and yelling. Hoa cannot bear the sound of their voices. They’re laughing at him. He turns and looks at Jacques. Jacques’ eyes are closed. Sweat streams down the side of Jacques’ face. He leans against Hoa, his head resting on his shoulder.

Hoa pushes him off. Jacques slumps onto the bed. Hoa searches for his clothes. He goes into the bathroom and washes his face, his hands and body shaking. He gets dressed and comes back into the room.

"Jacques." Jacques doesn’t hear him. "Jacques!"

Jacques looks up at him, trying to focus.

"Give me my money."

Jacques stands up. Hoa sees the ugly contours of his face in the neon light.

"That’s not our deal, Hoa."

"Give me the money!" Hoa yells, his voice shaking. "All of it!" He looks around frantically. Jacques touches his shoulder. Hoa whips around, afraid of what he’ll do. He sees fear in Jacques’ eyes.

"It’s all I have," says Jacques. He presses three $20 bills into Hoa’s fist.

Hoa opens his palm and squeezes it tight.

~

It’s dark inside the apartment. Diem is sleeping. She doesn’t hear him come in. Hoa goes into the bathroom and takes off his clothes. He uses a plastic bucket to scoop water from a barrel under the faucet and pours it over his head, his face, his body, repeating the motion again and again. The water runs into a drain on the floor. Hoa listens to the water go down the drain. The rusty pipes make monstrous sounds. Like a man drowning. Blue-black moss creeps along the edges of the wall. Hoa leans his head against the wall, bracing himself with his arms. He is trembling. He can still smell Jacques on his skin. He feels empty and exhausted. He is frightened of the things he knows he is now capable of.

He changes his clothes and hides the money in a box. Diem stirs in her sleep, the baby nestled in her arm. Hoa touches Bình’s forehead. He’s hot. He lies down next to Diem and cradles her back, wrapping his arms around his wife and son.

"Why are you back so soon?" says Diem, her voice groggy with sleep. "Are you all right? What happened?"

"Nothing," he tells her, "nothing."

					End