Dragon House Read Online Free PDF Page B

box that contained his game and followed Mai. As she weaved around tables, he listened to her say good night to the staff and the few remaining patrons. Though his stomach was empty and called for attention, he paid it little heed. At least they would eat tomorrow. Assuming he didn’t lose a game, that was. Watching Mai’s thin frame, and knowing that he earned most of their money, Minh walked faster, nervously trying to recall the games of two nights before. Whom had he played and how had he won? How would they try to beat him tonight?
    On the narrow sidewalk that separated hundreds of passing motor scooters and a few cars from nearby shops, Mai and Minh walked toward the opera house, the basement of which contained the popular Q Bar. Large trees, whose trunks had been painted white, jutted from square holes in the cement. Bordering the sidewalk were stalls that sold pho —a traditional soup usually containing rice noodles, beef, green onions, and bean sprouts. Other shops sold snacks, silk ties and blouses, original artwork, antiques, war relics, and airline tickets. The sidewalk was populated with children who hawked packs of postcards, disheveled men who carried passengers via bicycle taxi to distant parts of the city, and attractive women who handed out brochures touting nearby restaurants, clubs, and stores. Some women wore the ao dai —a traditional, long-sleeved dress that was often silk and had buttons that ran from the front of the collar down to the underside of the shoulder to the waist. The tight-fitting ao dai covered most of the wearer’s pants, which were usually an identical fabric and color.
    Mai knew many of those they passed and offered smiles and greetings. The same men, women, and children tended to work in particular areas of downtown, selling their wares to wealthy Vietnamese and tourists. “Are you hungry?” she asked Minh, taking the stub of his forearm in her hand.
    He shook his head, stepping over a sleeping dog.
    “Me neither,” she replied, though it was untrue. An immense, Russian-built truck rumbled past, shouldering dozens of motor scooters aside. “Want me to tell you a story?” she asked, for he enjoyed her tales.
    Minh looked at her and nodded, eager to take his mind off the looming matches.
    “Remember that little boy . . . the one who came from the jungle and shivered all the time?” Mai asked. “He slept under the bridge with us the afternoon it rained so hard? You won eleven games that night, Minh the Great, and after Loc left us, we got three ice-cream cones. That little boy had never eaten ice cream. Remember?”
    Smiling, Minh unconsciously licked his lips.
    Mai squeezed her friend’s stump. “And even though that ice cream made him colder, he laughed at the taste of it. He tried yours and mine, and he couldn’t stop laughing. He thought ice cream was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.”
    Minh walked closer to Mai, remembering how they’d giggled, how they’d ended up giving the boy all their ice cream. Where had the boy gone? Did he still like ice cream so much?
    “He was a sweet boy,” Mai said. “In some ways, he reminded me of you. He didn’t talk much. Maybe all that shivering made him tired.” She squeezed Minh’s stump again. “Do you think you’ll win tonight? I hope so. Too many kids are selling fans. And we’ve all got the same ones. I’m so tired of selling stupid fans. And Loc takes too much of our money. Someday, Minh, someday we have to leave him.”
    Minh glanced anxiously about, worried that Mai would be overheard.
    “Oh, he’s not around here,” she said. “He’s in an opium den, spending our money. He probably couldn’t find his own ears right now.”
    Minh nodded, slowing to watch a barber who attended to a boy perched atop a bucket. The barber had hung a cracked mirror from a building and meticulously snipped at his customer’s locks. Sitting nearby on an old-fashioned bicycle was a woman, presumably the boy’s mother. Minh