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Authors: John Shors
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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repairing. Sahn said hello to no one. But neither did he trouble anyone. These merchants had already paid him for the month. And he wouldn’t ask for more than was expected.
A tap on his shoulder served to break his train of thought. He turned, surprised to see two foreigners standing in front of him. The foreigners looked as if they were on safari, dressed in khaki-colored shorts and shirts. The man and woman wore sunglasses and oversize hats. “Excuse me,” the man said, pulling a map from his pocket. “But we’re looking for Ben Thanh Market. Is it near here?”
Sahn grunted. The market was just a few blocks away. Shrugging, he pretended as if he couldn’t speak English. Why would he want to help foreigners, especially ones who sounded like they came from America? Though most of his countrymen were delighted to have Americans back in Vietnam, Sahn didn’t share that outlook. He knew what these people were capable of.
“He can’t speak English,” the woman said, taking the map from her companion. “Let’s just hop on a cyclo and tell the driver to take us there.”
“How can he stand the heat in that outfit?” the man asked.
“He’s used to it. They all are.”
Sahn watched the couple depart. Soon they were blurs like everyone else. Soon they were gone. But the memory of what their people had done was not. Sahn scratched at an old scar on his arm. He thought of his sisters, recalling their whimpers in the darkness. The memory weakened him, as it always did. He leaned against a streetlight, no longer concerned with elephants. Instead he wondered where his siblings had traveled to, and what they might have become. He still missed them, even after so many long years. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was a fool, he thought. Time has no such curative powers. Neither does revenge or victory. I’ve tasted both and they meant nothing to me.
No, Sahn thought, such wounds are forever open, like the side of a mountain that’s been stripped of lumber and minerals. This mountain will never be the same, no matter how proud and noble it had once been. Nothing can change the ugliness of the past, and nothing can replace the beauty that’s been stolen from the world. Time doesn’t have the power to do either. Wounds don’t heal. They just fester and rot until the end.
TO IRIS, HO CHI MINH CITY in the daylight was almost as incomprehensible as it was at night. She found it hard to believe that Chicago and Ho Chi Minh City were on the same planet. She’d once thought Chicago to be hectic, even frenzied. But Chicago’s streets were nothing like what she looked upon now. Every inch before her seemed to be defined by movement. The scooters were everywhere, swirling like snowflakes in a storm. They darted. They moved as one. They avoided one another in last-second swerves that were somehow almost graceful. Mingling with the scooters were tractors, trucks, and bicycles—hundreds of bicycles, often ridden by pairs of uniformed schoolchildren.
Holding the directions her father had given her, Iris navigated the obstacles of the sidewalk. He’d often told her of the peace and sanctuary found at his center, but Iris found it hard to believe that anywhere in the city could be quiet. Too much of everything existed. Too many sights. Too many sounds. Even the immense tropical trees seemed to twist and lock branches, as if they too were trying to step through the crowds.
Ten feet behind Iris was Noah, his eyes instinctively looking for danger. The torn and buckled sidewalk presented a myriad of problems for his prosthesis. Made of a steel spring that connected an artificial foot with a sleeve that fit around his stump, Noah’s prosthesis enabled him to walk but made doing so difficult. When he planted his injured leg, it felt as if it were pushing into the pavement instead of away from it. The result was an uneven, ungainly gait that gave him chronic and severe back pain.
A flower market appeared beside
A tap on his shoulder served to break his train of thought. He turned, surprised to see two foreigners standing in front of him. The foreigners looked as if they were on safari, dressed in khaki-colored shorts and shirts. The man and woman wore sunglasses and oversize hats. “Excuse me,” the man said, pulling a map from his pocket. “But we’re looking for Ben Thanh Market. Is it near here?”
Sahn grunted. The market was just a few blocks away. Shrugging, he pretended as if he couldn’t speak English. Why would he want to help foreigners, especially ones who sounded like they came from America? Though most of his countrymen were delighted to have Americans back in Vietnam, Sahn didn’t share that outlook. He knew what these people were capable of.
“He can’t speak English,” the woman said, taking the map from her companion. “Let’s just hop on a cyclo and tell the driver to take us there.”
“How can he stand the heat in that outfit?” the man asked.
“He’s used to it. They all are.”
Sahn watched the couple depart. Soon they were blurs like everyone else. Soon they were gone. But the memory of what their people had done was not. Sahn scratched at an old scar on his arm. He thought of his sisters, recalling their whimpers in the darkness. The memory weakened him, as it always did. He leaned against a streetlight, no longer concerned with elephants. Instead he wondered where his siblings had traveled to, and what they might have become. He still missed them, even after so many long years. Whoever said that time heals all wounds was a fool, he thought. Time has no such curative powers. Neither does revenge or victory. I’ve tasted both and they meant nothing to me.
No, Sahn thought, such wounds are forever open, like the side of a mountain that’s been stripped of lumber and minerals. This mountain will never be the same, no matter how proud and noble it had once been. Nothing can change the ugliness of the past, and nothing can replace the beauty that’s been stolen from the world. Time doesn’t have the power to do either. Wounds don’t heal. They just fester and rot until the end.
TO IRIS, HO CHI MINH CITY in the daylight was almost as incomprehensible as it was at night. She found it hard to believe that Chicago and Ho Chi Minh City were on the same planet. She’d once thought Chicago to be hectic, even frenzied. But Chicago’s streets were nothing like what she looked upon now. Every inch before her seemed to be defined by movement. The scooters were everywhere, swirling like snowflakes in a storm. They darted. They moved as one. They avoided one another in last-second swerves that were somehow almost graceful. Mingling with the scooters were tractors, trucks, and bicycles—hundreds of bicycles, often ridden by pairs of uniformed schoolchildren.
Holding the directions her father had given her, Iris navigated the obstacles of the sidewalk. He’d often told her of the peace and sanctuary found at his center, but Iris found it hard to believe that anywhere in the city could be quiet. Too much of everything existed. Too many sights. Too many sounds. Even the immense tropical trees seemed to twist and lock branches, as if they too were trying to step through the crowds.
Ten feet behind Iris was Noah, his eyes instinctively looking for danger. The torn and buckled sidewalk presented a myriad of problems for his prosthesis. Made of a steel spring that connected an artificial foot with a sleeve that fit around his stump, Noah’s prosthesis enabled him to walk but made doing so difficult. When he planted his injured leg, it felt as if it were pushing into the pavement instead of away from it. The result was an uneven, ungainly gait that gave him chronic and severe back pain.
A flower market appeared beside
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