The elevator doors open and we step in. We begin descending “At least the black belt story was true. Did you see his kicks? Hit two guys in the head without putting his foot down.”
“Not just guys, Sam. Policemen. They will be hunting for him now harder than before.”
“I wonder then if he will call me… wait. I didn’t tell him that I’m a policeman and I don’t remember if the magazine article he read about me mentions it. So maybe he will call. You know, for a while on the plane, I thought he might be connected with Lai Van Tan.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, I don’t think so. Just a… running away, no, runaway. Lots of people come here when they run away.”
“I was just being paranoid.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m on suspicion overdrive, I guess.”
“I understand,” she says, squeezing my hand.
“When I’m not suspecting Bobby of being a Russian secret agent, I see him as a great kid. Apparently one with some big problems. I’d like to help him. He’s got my cell number, and yours.”
Mai moves into me. “Always wanting to fix things, right, Sam?” she kisses me before I can answer.
Mai is laughing as she leans on the horn and brakes to avoid a young girl on a motorbike who streaked out from a side street and passed by our hood just inches from earning a grave. The sky is in twilight mode and the streets and sidewalks are beginning to light up like a carnival.
“That’s considered funny here?” I ask.
Mai laughs again. “The girl? No, not funny.” She shrugs. “Of course it is dangerous but it is also like I said: It’s just the way it is.” She gestures at the vehicle riot outside our windows. “I was laughing because for a moment I was seeing all this through your eyes. How mad it must seem compared to Portland.”
“It’s un-freaking-believable,” I say. “I heard about it, but nothing prepares you for the enormity of the mass confusion of thousands upon thousands of vehicles going every which way. And the roar!”
She nods. “I said ‘how mad it must seem,’ but you must understand that it is not mad at all, it is not as you say, ‘mass confusion.’ There are about a thousand traffic deaths a year in Saigon, but that is not many when you consider that there are millions of motorbikes and other kinds of vehicles on the streets. It is not mad because all, well, most drivers pay attention to where they are and where they are going. We all cooperate. This is most important when you have to cross the street. Okay, look over there. See that little girl at that far corner?”
We’re parked at a red light, actually hundreds and hundreds of us are parked at a red light at the entrance of what appears to be a traffic circle of some kind with about five streets feeding into it, each of them jammed with thousands of vehicles. Traffic on a couple of the feeder streets appears to have stopped for a light, while motorbikes on streets that have the green light move in mass into the circle, then regurgitate haphazardly onto feeder streets where they battle with oncoming traffic trying to get into the circle.
“No,” I say. “How can you see one little girl in all this.”
“Over there, to the right,” she says, pointing. “Black pants, blue top. She looks about six years old.”
I see her, a tiny thing on the corner of one of the feeder streets. “Yes, cute. What about—” She steps off the curb. “Mai! She’s walking out into traffic. My God, she’ll be killed.”
Mai laughs. “She is fine. Watch how every driver is paying attention and how the little girl crosses through the traffic very smooth.”
My heart is pounding as hundred of motorbikes swarm around her, some passing in front, some behind. One slows just enough for her to finish a stride and then accelerates through where her leg had just been. It’s almost as if they’ve practiced it.
“See,” Mai says. “Her mother taught her well. Because she is walking very smooth, without hesitating or speeding up, the traffic can, uh, estimate where they have to go so they do not run her down.”
“But she’s a little girl!” I half shout.
“Yes, one who has to cross the street. See how everyone works together? If she stopped suddenly, it would cause much confusion to the traffic. Some would swerve into others and some would be forced to stop, which would make others hit them from behind. Do you see how some motorbikes are carrying large loads, like that one with many baskets piled high into the air? Or that one there with three riders on the back? See the one with two women on in it, one holding a baby? They do not want to crash. So it is important that everyone cooperates.”
The little girl steps up onto the curb and begins skipping to wherever she is going.
“Unbelievable. Have you ever been in an accident?”
“Yes. I have not crashed in a car but I have three times on my motorbike. Not for a while, thank Buddha, God, and my ancestors.”
The light changes and a thousand of us move into the circle, the roar of engines all consuming. About half way around, Mai works the car to the right, her hand steadily tapping the horn. She finishes the merge successfully and now we’re on a street with much lighter traffic.
As has been the case with all the streets I’ve seen, the sidewalks are cluttered with what appears to be food carts, card tables, and spread blankets where people sell everything from toilet paper to tires to perfume to boiling pots of whatever. The buildings on both sides of the street are three of four stories high, the top floors appearing to be apartments, while most of the ground level spaces look to be shops and eateries—the aroma is making me salivate.
“I’m liking this,” I say. “The traffic? I’m not so sure about yet, but the rest of it—the architecture, the extraordinary variety of smells, the crowds—yeah, I really like the feel here. And it’s getting dark already.”
“It gets dark here earlier this time of the year compared to Portland,” Mai says, accelerating around a motorbike piled high with—eggs. “We are close to the equator.” The stacked egg crates extend at least three feet over his head. “I am very happy to hear that you like this. I think my stays in Paris and in Portland helped me see Saigon as a… unique?… yes, a unique place. I love it because it is my home but I also love it because it is so unique. Unique is the right word, yes?”
“Definitely. I certainly can’t argue with that assessment because… Hey! That man!” I twist hard to look out the back window.
“What is the matter, Sam?”
“That man sitting on his motorbike back there. I’m sure of it.”
“What?”
“That’s the same guy who was riding so close to yourwindow. The one who made the shooting gestures.”
Mai giggles and says in a funny voice, “You know all us Oreo-entals look alike.”
For some reason that irritates me. “I know what I saw.
