and you have a big family here. Besides, even if you had not come, he would have done something eventually. Your presence might hurry him up. Or maybe not. Maybe, maybe.”
I get what he’s saying about the inevitable, but it still bothers me that my presence might be the cause of someone getting hurt, or worse. I don’t need any more of that.
“You hungry? I think the phở is ready for us. Lam, Ly will bring you some shortly.”
“Cám ơn,” Lam says with a salute. “Oh, Sifu come tonight?”
“No,” Samuel says, opening the door. “We will let Sam rest. I think tomorrow my teacher will come.”
“Trời ơi!” Lam says shaking his head. “Sifu same like wind.”
Samuel smiles. “He is indeed, sir. He is indeed.”
Samuel closes the door behind us and once again we’re out in the wet heat. Alex, a Vietnam veteran-cop-partner, used to say that it would get so hot here that the water buffalo would evaporate. I believe it.
Samuel is chuckling. “Lam gets frustrated because Sifu has shown up three times without being seen on the monitors.”
I shake my head, not understanding.
Samuel shrugs. “I do not know how he does it. I come out into the backyard and there he is, feeding the koi. I think he does it because he can and to annoy Lam. Sifu likes jokes.”
*
Mai enters the dining room and kills in her black satin pants and white blouse. I saw lots of women wearing the same thing on our way here this morning but none looked so breathtaking.
“Mother is sleeping,” she says, sitting down. “Ly will take her something when she awakens.”
“I hope my presence has not tired her,” I say.
“On the contrary… that is the right word?” I nod. “On the contrary. She looked forward to meeting you very much. And she insisted on doing so dressed and out in the living room.” She smiles shyly. “Mother liked you very much.”
I smile at that and Mai’s smile fills the dining room.
Samuel shakes his head with mock disgust.
Ly sets steaming bowls of phở in front of us and a plate heaped with spring rolls in the center of the table.
Mai points at my bowl. “This phở contains vermicelli noodles, sliced beef, bean sprouts, chopped peanuts, and mint leaves.” She picks up a small bowl of red sauce and places it in front of me. “Please add bean and chili sauce to your taste, and squeeze in the fresh lime wedge juice to your taste. Oh, and please have the spring rolls. They are called gỏi cuốn in Vietnamese. The outside is rice paper and inside is sliced cold shrimp, mint leaves, and cold vermicelli noodles.” She sets a small bowl of nearly clear, orange liquid next to my bowl. “Please dip the rolls in this sauce called nước mắm.”
“Oh, man,” I say around a mouthful of spring roll. “I could get used to eating this way.”
“You will have to,” Mai and Samuel say simultaneously.
Twenty minutes later, as Ly removes the dishes and Mai fills our cups with green tea, I ask Samuel how long he has lived in this house.
“Only since we’ve been back from Portland,” he says. “It is not my house; it belongs to a friend.”
When Mai and I had pulled into the driveway, she said that her father got it from a friend but I assumed that he had bought it.
“He is quite wealthy. This is just one of four he owns, the other three houses are much larger than this one. He is kindly letting us stay here until the problem with Lai Van Tan is settled.” He gestures toward the ornate backyard. “I prefer a small condo to all of this. A small place better suits my personality and is less conspicuous. And inconspicuous is a wise choice when you are a Caucasian living in Vietnam, married to a local woman, and running a successful business.”
Mai says, “Father and Mother will retire someday to Châu Đốc, a small town on the water at the edge of the Mekong delta near the Cambodian border.”
“We have visited there many times over the years,” Samuel says smiling. “We love its quiet, at least quiet compared to the frantic insanity of Saigon. It’s a picturesque place known for its fish sauces and catfish export business. Kim and I…” Something passes across his eyes. He looks out into the blackness beyond the sliding glass doors then back to his tea. His voice is softer now, pensive. “We want to spend our remaining years in a peaceful place surrounded by beauty, friendly people, and wonderful food.”
Samuel seems so much more in his element here than he was in Portland. For sure, thirty-five years in one place will do that to a person, but in his case it seems like the connection is more… spiritual? Yes, I think that’s it. His connection here is more than him being used to the traffic, noise, and crush of humanity. There’s something else.
“I love Vietnam,” he says, sipping from his cup. “I love the country, the people, the heat, and the intensity of how we live here. I have spent over half my time on earth in this country, and I hope to remain for the rest of my days. In my mind, I am Vietnamese.” He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes dancing with remembrance. He looks down at his soup and back to me. “It’s ironic,” he says softly. “This country that enveloped me in such incredible violence, is the place where I have found an inner peace.”
“I’m pleased to hear that, Samuel,” I say. Mai lovingly pats his hand. “But why? Why here in Vietnam?”
“A good question, Son. To be clear, I did not need to be here to find peace. It was within me all the time, you see, and it is within you.” He is thoughtful and doesn’t rush his words. “But Vietnam is where I was when I found it, and I think being here helped me find it sooner. I do not know for sure because I have only here to compare it to.” He smiles at me. “Am I confusing you?”
“I think I understand,” I say, meaning it.
“Then maybe you can explain it to me,” he says with a chuckle. “What I do understand for certain is that now I must be mindful of doing good, doing it every day. I cannot change what happened in the past, but I can do what is right today.”
We slurp our tea, comfortable without words. I know that there will never be a sudden “aha” moment that makes everything all right for me, but I’ve learned over the years that words are powerful, that they can heal, or at least start the healing process. Samuel has been there, done that, and come to terms with it. I hope to learn from him and come to terms with what I’ve done.
“Have I showed you my teacup trick?” he says nonchalantly, munching on a spring roll.
“Yes you have, Father,” Mai says, pretending exasperation, “And you know very well you have.”
“I did?” he says, holding back a grin. “Must be getting old. No memory and I am getting slow.”
I snort. “I don’t recall you being slow when you switched those teacups… I’ve never seen such extraordinary speed in my life.”
