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Triều, to whom Đào handed the strip of paper with his mother’s name on it – ‘Bà Sáu’. Đào herself had two shares in the game; the one in her name was already extinguished, andthe one in her son’s name was the “live” share. Everyone wrote their bid for the monthly loan on their strip of paper. Đào wrote a medium-high bid for her son. The system worked on mutual benefit and trust. Any hụi member who needed money could put in a high enough bid to “win,” which if they did, obtained them the right to borrow the pooled funds for that month. The higher the bid, the higher the yield for everyone else, who only had to pay the total minus that month’s winning bid amount. Consequently, those who lent their money felt their excitement accumulate with each new month.
    ÄÃ o collected the folded strips of paper from each of the people and put them in the plastic container. As her fingers tossed the little strips of paper, the room became silent with a hushed concentration as though their individual fates were being tossed in the air.
    ÄÃ o’s mind wandered away when she caught her own reflection in the dead face of the tivi on the other side of the room where the Buddha and the Ancestors were; this disparate group of people who had all escaped from a fragmented country. And she was their hụi administrator.
    The hụi game was not popular in her country; it was outsiders such as the Chinese who resorted to hụi . The Vietnamese called them “boat people”, for they had arrived by sea. Now Chinese and Vietnamese, người Tàu and người Kinh , were both considered “boat people” in this new country, and hụi groups were popping up where these new arrivalssettled. Fate had churned together rich and poor, educated and illiterate, strong and weak. Yet Đào believed that the same fate would settle everything back into place eventually: those of worth would rise to the top, while those who were like mud would sink to the bottom. Perhaps it was only Jesus on the Cross who did not know the significance of the gathering beneath His toes.
    Everyone was perched on Đào’s second-hand furniture watching her. She quickly returned her attention to the little strips of paper, which were the reasons why they had gathered amidst her sateen cushions, glass-topped coffee table and pastel-coloured walls. Đào announced each hụi bid, one by one as she drew them.
    â€œThe top bid is from Bà Sáu, Young Triều gets the Pig today,” she exclaimed.
    Everyone else handed their money over, in varying degrees of swagger, or intimacy with their administrator, but all with a sense of confidence in her.
    The frosted-glass doors opened and the train of gossiping started up again: who’s borrowing a lot of money to build what where, whether they were repaying, and why they had not gone to the bank in the first place. As the guests were leaving, Đào signalled for Young Triều to come over. The loud, cheerful talk continued its way to the cars parked out the front of her house.
    When they were alone, Đào handed Young Triều the wad of cashand told him that her own contribution was short, considerably short in fact, and then she told him the amount.
    â€œI know that’s a lot, so please tell your mother that I am really sorry. I’ll pay her next time I go to the store.” Đào’s cheeks were burning and she was talking faster and in a higher pitch than usual. Đào lied about her boss delaying her payment this week, which was almost the truth, and besides, she didn’t want people to know that her new tenant was already late in his payment for board and lodgings. As Đào scrawled her IOU onto a piece of paper, she could already hear Bà Sáu screeching down the phone line at her. Young Triều bade Đào goodbye and