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  Anthony's phone rang again but the call only lasted a few seconds. "That was my driver," he said, glancing at his watch. "He just pulled into the driveway."

  A shadow passed in front of the white furniture inside. Nathan turned and saw Huong approach them. She was barefoot, her tan legs disappearing beneath the high-thigh hem of her shorts. Her toenails were painted a liverish red that had started to flake off. Seeing this, he remembered how she used to paint her toenails after sex. Sitting naked on his bed, she would sing to herself and paint them gold. "It's my lucky color," she told him when he'd asked about it. Gazing at her feet he wondered if she still did this. He couldn't guess what that deep red color might signify to her.

  She sat between them and looked at Nathan warmly. "I heard you talking from inside," she said as a way of explaining her presence. "You surprise me, Nathan. I never thought you'd want to work in real estate."

  "Right?" Anthony said, giving Huong an appreciative glance. "He just wants to pay me back. Which is good, but I need someone who wants to build up my company, someone with a genuine interest in real estate."

  Huong laughed. "But you've told me hundreds of times that you're the only one at the company who cares about it."

  "In three years, not a single one of my employees has quit. I was really talking about their incompetence."

  "Anyway," Nathan said, "I am interested in helping your company."

  Anthony shook his head as if he didn't believe him.

  Huong clicked her tongue at her husband. "Who have you ever hired that was qualified?"

  "Lots of people. And all my staff knows something about business. I make sure of it. But Nate here's a writer. He has no business instincts. And what would he do? I'd have to pay him for something."

  "You said yourself that you spend too much time at work writing reports and communicating with clients. Just hire Nathan and have him do it for you."

  "It wouldn't work," Anthony said. "He knows it as well as I do."

  "Give me one chance," Nathan said. "A trial run or something."

  "We'll see." Frowning again, Anthony glanced at his watch. "We'd better go."

  Huong held on to Nathan as he followed Anthony inside. "Don't give up," she whispered in his ear. "Together we can change his mind." She hugged him quickly before he left.

  He followed Anthony into the back seat of his Land Rover.

  Nathan couldn't understand why Anthony opposed him joining his real estate company. If there was no position to offer, that was one thing, and if in the past Nathan had proved himself unreliable, then that was another. But Anthony never mentioned these as reasons. It seemed more like he didn't want Nathan around. Perhaps he mistrusted Nathan's past with Huong, though it should have been clear that Nathan had no interest in her now. And besides, she and Anthony had two children and a home together. Nathan's life was such a mess that no woman, especially Huong, would give up all she had for him.

  He could only hope that Anthony changed his mind. Nathan needed the money, and the pick-pocketing had made him more desperate. For it wasn't only Anthony he owed. Creditors in the U.S. were clamoring for money he'd borrowed to pay his mother's medical bills. If he ever returned to America, he risked being arrested. He'd lost track of the amount he owed, but by now, with interest, it was at least equal to what he owed Anthony.

  Hien, the driver, said, "Train station, sir?"

  "Train station, then back to my office." He turned to Nathan. "You sure we can't drop you off at your hotel?"

  "No, thanks. The International Red Cross is near the station and I need to pick up some Agent Orange material from them."

  "It's a free ride. But suit yourself."

  As they drove through Anthony's neighborhood, something on the lake caught Nathan's eye. No more than fifty meters from shore, a group of peasants treaded water while holding what looked like butterfly nets.

  Late March had in fact brought out butterflies: clouds of them, orange and yellow, fluttering around the weedy border of the lake and blown like confetti by the breeze. None, however, appeared the least bit threatened by these ten (he'd counted them) peasants.

  The peasants treaded in formation, fanning out from one in front like migrating birds in a flooded sky. Above the black surface of water, their conical hats bobbed up and down.

  As the road turned from the lake, Nathan asked Anthony's driver what the peasants on the water were doing. When he heard the answer, it made perfect sense, and he was surprised he hadn't figured it out on his own.

  "Catching snails. The market for them this time of year is good."

  "I didn't see anyone out there," Anthony said.

  "With the weather warming up, they're there every day, sir."

  "How much do you think they make?"

  Hien suggested a figure approximating a dollar per pound.

  Anthony shook his head in wonder. "It can hardly be worth the effort. If I didn't know they were poor I'd say they were fools."

  As they approached Ba Dinh Square, Anthony took another call — the fifth, at least, in the hour Nathan had spent visiting his home. Half a dozen years had gone by since he and Anthony lived in the same place, and again Nathan was taken aback by how his friend handled himself now. Nathan never could have predicted the changes he saw in Anthony. Nor could he have predicted his success as the head of a real estate company.

  And yet Nathan wasn't surprised that Anthony had succeeded in business. He was clever without having had a conventional education, and was better read than almost anyone Nathan knew. He was able to incorporate the most useful aspects of what he'd learned into how he lived, and on several occasions Nathan felt nothing short of enlightened after talking to him.

  Listening to Anthony was fascinating; he was astute as well as entertaining. Extemporaneous by nature, it was nothing for him to gather together a group and string them along for half an hour. But that was the old Anthony. Though still brilliant in flashes, this Anthony was more subdued. He was part melancholy, part resigned, and part plain angry at the world around him. It was an Anthony he'd never known. And the newness of this man made Nathan shy, as if he were trying to determine how much to trust him.

  Nathan looked out the window at Ba Dinh Square. Here, he recalled, at the end of the Second World War, Ho Chi Minh had declared Vietnamese independence.

  Anthony pointed to the towering monolith of Ho Chi Minh's mausoleum. A long line of people waited to see Ho's body, embalmed beneath a glass case. Guards in white uniforms stood before the marble building, rifles at their sides, staring straight ahead.

  Spread in front of the mausoleum were plots of grass where elderly people performed tai chi, parents played badminton with their children, and vendors sold kites painted as dragons and fish. The open space here and around West Lake was as much of a contrast to Saigon as the cool spring weather he'd enjoyed the last three days. Even the traffic here flowed in currents less swift, less dangerous, less overwhelming than in Saigon.

  Absorbed in thought, he didn't hear Anthony speak.

  "You with me?" He waved a hand before Nathan's face. "I asked what that writing job in Saigon pays you."

  "It depends. Usually around one hundred dollars per piece."

  "What are you getting for the article you came here to write?"

  "One-fifty. For a thousand words that's decent money."

  "They're taking advantage of you."

  "Money's not why I do it. Anyway, if they like what I write they'll want more."

  "Money should be why you do it, considering your financial situation."

  "That's why I asked you for a job. One-fifty's okay for one article, but it's not enough to get ahead."

  "You're worth more than that," Anthony said, scowling.

  A few minutes later Hien pulled up to the train station, forcing food vendors and cyclo drivers out of the way. Nathan dragged his s
uitcase to a spot of unclaimed asphalt.

  A crowd of onlookers quickly gathered. Foreigners evoked strong curiosity in Vietnam, and in Hanoi people had the same tendency to stare as the Saigonese, though the latter were more muted about it, more polite. Turning, Nathan found Anthony waiting to shake his hand.

  "Why don't you use some of the money I lent you for a first class room. I hate the thought of you sitting on that train for thirty-plus hours in the cheap seats."

  Nathan nodded. "Thanks again for helping me."

  "Forget it. Just have a good trip. Is your employer reimbursing you for the travel or is this another case of them taking advantage of you?"

  "They'll reimburse me. At least they said they would."

  Nathan reached for his suitcase but Anthony stopped him.

  "How serious are you about working for me?"

  "I'm serious."

  "I may have an opening coming up. It won't be anything glamorous, but it can't be worse than what you're doing now."

  Someone in the crowd imitated Anthony's speech, causing titters all around. Anthony had never been good at ignoring this sort of attention, and Nathan saw annoyance crimp his expression.

  "The advantage you have, of course, is that Huong's on your side. But I'm not going to promise anything."

  Nathan was tired of talking about a job he felt he had little chance of getting, and Anthony's jibes were hard to ignore. "I understand." Nathan hesitated. "I guess it goes without saying that I owe you."

  "Let's not talk about that now. You better buy your ticket before the night train sells out."

  After shaking hands again, Nathan hurried into the station.

  By the time he'd finished buying a ticket, a light shower had begun to fall. A taxi driver spotted him in the station entrance and waved at him. Nathan waved back and then ran through the rain and hopped in the back seat.

  As the taxi pulled away, Nathan looked at the sky above the station. Over the rooftop were layers of grey clouds and vertical lines of rain. He hoped the shower would continue as long as possible. It had been almost three months since he'd seen rain.

  Three

  Nathan had a few hours to kill before his train departed. Rather than continue working on his article, he decided to make the short walk from his hotel to Hoan Kiem Lake, in the centre of Hanoi.

  Although the rain had let up two hours before, the skies were threatening again. Gum tree canopies along the lake's perimeter shook from the gusting wind. The surface of Hoan Kiem trembled, making the pagoda on the lake's grassy island seem isolated and frail.

  When a few sprinkles started falling, Nathan hurried to a store and bought its last umbrella. Just then it began to pour. There was nothing to do but seek shelter and, as he passed beneath the long protective overhang of connected buildings, he came across several galleries.

  A horn blared as a motorbike splashed onto the sidewalk where Nathan walked. The driver parked in front of a gallery, and a young woman ran out to help him with the cardboard packages tied to the back of his vehicle. Rain had turned the cardboard dark and limp, and Nathan heard the girl ask why the man hadn't covered his delivery.

  "I thought I'd beat the rain."

  "Why would you take the chance?" she scolded. "You'll be in trouble if they're damaged."

  "I'm wet, too. Why don't you show me some concern? A painting can't catch pneumonia, but I can."

  The man laughed when she called him foolish. She, too, was smiling as she carried a painting inside.

  Nathan stopped there as the rain continued. Along the sidewalk and across the street, people huddled under storefronts. He was a bit uncomfortable trapped like this where everyone could stare at him, but he was used to it.

  Soon the wind changed direction so that rain lashed the sidewalk where he stood. His umbrella didn't help much and to stay dry he stepped inside the gallery.

  He set his umbrella against the wall beside the door and wiped his wet hands on his pants. While the motorbike driver and girl stood by the counter filling out a delivery form, Nathan casually inspected the paintings on the wall. It was an upscale gallery, though not the most upscale he'd seen. The quality of the paintings was comparable to those he'd come across elsewhere, and even the style of the works was similar.

  A second girl he hadn't noticed came up to him.

  "You want to buy Vietnam lacquer painting?" she asked.

  "I'm just browsing."

  In a few minutes, when he'd finished looking at the paintings and was staring out at the rain sparking off the sidewalk, the girl touched his arm. She pointed at the delivered items, untied but still wrapped in cardboard.

  "You want to see?"

  "That's okay. There's no need to . . ."

  But she'd turned and was commanding her colleague to unwrap the paintings.

  "You don't have to do that," he said. "I was just looking around."

  The other girl produced a cutting knife and sawed open the wet top. Nathan watched her slide it down one side and then the other, knowing he was obligated now to feign interest.

  With the driver's help she pulled the painting from the cardboard wrapping. A protective layer was affixed to the picture, and she squatted down to remove it. As she scooted aside to let Nathan gaze at the image, the driver cut into the other covered paintings.

  The painting was of the Vietnamese countryside, the colors deep and rich, the whole suffused with green. The second was a landscape, too: a trail of H'mong women carrying firewood on bent backs down a mountain. The third was of Hanoi, though it wasn't a good likeness. To him it was merely a series of old Vietnamese houses transported to a Western street.

  The room fell suddenly quiet, and he looked outside. The rain had let up as quickly as it started, and he didn't want to stay here longer.

  "Thank you," he said. "I have to go."

  "Wait. Only one more."

  The girls snapped at the man to hurry up. He was having trouble cutting the cardboard, and in the end he was forced to rip it apart. The girls clicked their tongues in disapproval.

  Nathan waited patiently, ready to decline their final sales attempt. He was looking again out the window, where the only sign of rain now was what kept dripping from the overhang, when his cell phone rang. When he pulled it out and looked at the screen, he saw it was Anthony. He answered and said hello.

  "Well," Anthony said, "you won."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You wanted a job at my agency, didn't you? I'm calling to offer you one."

  Nathan stiffened in surprise, then walked to the gallery window. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Anthony was drunk. The slight slurring of his words wasn't a surprise, but if he were in fact drunk Nathan wasn't sure how sincere his offer could be. "I didn't think a position would be available right away." He stopped short of admitting that he never thought he'd be given this chance.

  "The need became more urgent after Huong forced the discussion."

  Anthony took his time describing the position. Nathan's responsibilities would be to help give a public face to the company and to manage the other employees. The Vietnamese staff and the subagents he had to go through would take care of the grunt work. Nathan just had to make sure they got it all done. And the salary, not counting commissions, would be more than double what he'd ever earned in a year.

  "What changed your mind?" Nathan said.

  "You've lived in Vietnam a long time. I never gave you proper credit for the experience you have. Besides, Huong thinks you're the best candidate. And since the agency's registered in her name I have to give her a say once in a while."

  "I guess it's easy being the best candidate when I'm also the only candidate."

  "You weren't the only one. I had three or four others in mind, too. But compared to them, she thinks you'll be a better influence on me."

  "Then
she's crazy."

  "If she's crazy then so am I. I'm not offering you this just because she wants me to."

  "Then why are you?"

  "I've got my reasons." Anthony paused before adding: "I have big plans for you. For you and me both."

  Squatting by the painting she'd helped unwrap, one of the salesgirls tugged Nathan's pant leg and invited him to take a look. He nodded and held up a finger to indicate he needed a minute. On the other end, Anthony was still talking.

  "I love my work, Nate. I love making good money. But it's hard to meet good people here. You know how the expats are all either on vacation without knowing it or are just wandering through life. They have no stakes in the relationships they make."

  Something reminded Nathan of Anthony's refusal to learn Vietnamese, but Anthony didn't give him time to develop the thought.

  "I'd really like to have you in Hanoi. I don't need a partner in crime to be happy, but . . ." To Nathan's bewilderment Anthony took a moment to compose himself. "Call me selfish, but things would be better with you around. You know what I mean, don't you?"

  Nathan said that he did. It was like that for him, too. Still, he felt wary about this flattery. Anthony had a particular talent for being persuasive. In others this kind of persuasiveness might verge on bullying — he knew because he'd seen it so many times among people desperate to get something, from more attention at a seedy bar to loyalty from friends — but in Anthony it showed his commitment to their friendship. He wondered why none of this had come out during his visit. Was it because Huong was always within earshot?

  Still squatting, the salesgirl, perhaps impatient with Nathan, turned the painting so he could see it in full view.

  A feeling of sickness washed over him. The painting was of a nude woman standing in the middle of a flooded field; rain was falling, and women covered from head to toe in straw outfits were bent over planting rice. "It's her," Nathan said, stepping closer. The nude in the painting looked just like Le, though her hair was black and her neck was grotesquely long.

  "Hold on," Nathan told Anthony, pressing the mouthpiece of his phone into his chest. He bent down to inspect the painting. In the lower right corner the artist's name was stamped illegibly in red ink. He grabbed the scraps of cardboard off the floor and searched for some clue as to where the painting had come from.