The Wishing Trees (36 page)

A few minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of a two-story stone building that had been painted yellow. Ian paid and tipped the driver, and followed Georgia, Mattie, and Holly into the structure. The Temple Club wasn’t tacky, as he had feared, but elegant and timeless. The exposed brick walls led to a high white ceiling. Oriental rugs partly covered a terra-cotta floor. Ancient stone statues of Buddha were present, as were hanging tapestries and ornamental lights. Jazz permeated the air.

A hostess seated the foursome at a wooden table with a white marble center. Ian helped Georgia, then the girls into high-backed teak chairs. A waitress clad in a traditional full-length Vietnamese dress appeared and handed everyone menus. Holly smiled, took her menu, and spoke again in Mandarin, covering her mouth when she realized her mistake.

“We’re in Vietnam,” Mattie said, grinning.

“I know, I know,” Holly said, rolling her eyes. She looked up at the waitress. “I’m sorry. We just landed here from Hong Kong. That’s why I spoke Mandarin to you.”

The woman, who held her hands in front of her waist, smiled. “That okay. No problem. May I bring you some wine?”

Everyone ordered and soon was served their drinks. Other patrons, both foreigners and locals, occupied nearby tables, and a variety of languages echoed in the narrow room. Outside, scooters beeped amid distant thunderclaps. As Georgia and Ian began to discuss their itinerary, Mattie took Holly’s hand. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad too.”

“Our trip . . . it’s almost over. Soon my daddy and I will be back in New York.”

“I know. My mom and I were talking about that on the plane. How you’ll be back with your friends, back in school.”

Mattie nodded. “Can you teach me more Mandarin?”

“More?” Holly asked, setting down her drink. “You’ll be home soon.”

“Well, maybe I can . . . go to Chinatown, and talk to some people. And if my dad and I come back to Hong Kong to visit you someday, you won’t have to do all the talking.”

“I like the talking,” Holly replied, smiling, pushing her bangs to the side.

“You’re good at it.”

“Nihao.”

“What?”

“That means hello. Remember?”

“Ni . . . hao.”

Holly shook her head. “No, no, no. Say the word like you fell and hurt your
knee
and then you ask
how
. Like this—
nihao
.”

“Nihao.”

“That’s it! Perfect.”

“Nihao.”

“Say it to my mom.”

Mattie turned toward Georgia, and repeated the word. Georgia smiled and complimented Mattie, who then asked Holly how to say thank you. As the girls worked on new words, dinner was served. Plates of roasted duck, grilled sea bass, and fresh vegetables soon occupied the center of the table. Everyone plucked morsels from each platter and deposited them on their own plates. The notes of Louis Armstrong lingered above the clink of cutlery and the collection of voices.

“Do you mind if I act like a tourist?” Georgia asked Ian, removing a small digital camera from her purse. She also took out a little mirror, and reapplied her lipstick.

“No worries.”

When their waitress came by next, Georgia asked if she would take their photo. The woman smiled, and Ian and Georgia moved behind the girls. A flash illuminated the room twice, revealing a foursome of grinning faces. Then Ian and Georgia returned to their chairs. Ian asked Mattie how to say thank you in Mandarin, and Mattie pronounced the word just as Holly had taught her. Sensing that Mattie wanted to learn more from Holly, Ian turned back to Georgia, realizing how slowly she ate, how her fingers were long and slender.

He handed her a basket of fresh croissants. “Were you surprised that I asked?”

“To meet you in Vietnam?”

“Just that little thing.”

She took a croissant and split it in half with a silver knife. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m glad you did. I hoped you would.”

“Why?”

The knife was placed carefully on the table. A pair of blond foreigners in the corner of the room laughed. “I . . . I can’t say,” Georgia replied. “At least not now. But I’m happy you called.”

Ian took a bite of fish, thinking about her words, wondering if she hoped for anything else. He wasn’t ready to fall for her, or to have her fall for him. “The mountains will be lovely,” he said, smiling.

She noticed that the cuffs of his shirt were frayed and instinctively wanted to mend them, though she didn’t know how to sew. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“Oh, I’m all right. This old body isn’t too particular.”

“Kate would want you to take care of yourself.”

Thirty minutes later, the platters were empty, and Ian and Georgia split the bill. They followed Mattie and Holly out of the building and into the street. Rain fell, slanting, from the dark sky. A young boy holding an umbrella hurried toward them, splashing in puddles. He was selling flowers, and Ian bought Georgia, Holly, and Mattie each a purple iris.

“Should we hail a taxi?” he asked, dangling his foot above a puddle. “Or walk back in the rain?”

Mattie glanced at Holly, who laughed and stepped into the same puddle.

“A walk it is,” Ian said, putting his foot down, pleased to have the rain on his back.

As Vietnamese wearing ponchos sped past on scooters, Ian and Georgia followed the girls. He asked if she might like an umbrella, but she declined, preferring to get wet like Holly and Mattie. She remembered walking in the rain when she was young, when wetness was more a delight than a discomfort. She wanted to take Ian’s arm, to stomp in the puddles with him. But knowing that she couldn’t reach over and touch him, she simply walked ahead, savoring the sight of Holly and Mattie.

When they reached their hotel, Georgia checked in while Ian bought lollipops for the girls. As Mattie and Holly laughed and licked, Ian followed Georgia up the stairs, trying not to notice the curves revealed by her wet pants. Their rooms were on opposite ends of a hallway. Mattie hugged Holly and said good night. Ian leaned toward Georgia, sensed that she wanted him to hold her, but pulled away. “I reckon we’re all a bit knackered, so sleep well,” he said, nodding to Georgia and then to Holly. “We’ll buzz off after breakfast.”

Georgia wished that they were still walking in the rain, that his hand wasn’t so near yet so far. “Good night,” she said, opening her door, kissing Mattie on the cheek. Following Holly into their room, Georgia listened to Ian’s footsteps fade away, not wanting to listen, but unable to help herself.

NINE HOURS INTO THE DRIVE TO HOI An, Mattie and Holly had become restless. Hoi An, a coastal city on the way to Dalat, was reached by a series of worn roads that ran through forests and valleys, as well as past stretches of coastline. For most of the drive, Ian and Georgia had played games with the girls. Four seats in the back of their van faced one another, and it had been easy to rig up a table between everyone’s knees. Ian had taught Georgia and Holly how to play blackjack. Georgia had brought a magnetic checkerboard, which proved perfect for the swaying vehicle. They also listened to music, told stories, took digital photos of the countryside, and tried to nap.

Now, as the van descended a mountain toward a raging surf far below, Ian sipped from a bottle of water and watched the girls. For the first time since they’d been together, it seemed that they might argue. Both were tired, bored, and grumpy. Ian had already headed off several looming disagreements and didn’t want to do so again. Turning around in his seat, he asked their driver if there was somewhere ahead where they could pull over and stretch their legs. The driver, a pleasant man named Khan, who might have entered his sixth decade, smiled and said that in twenty minutes they’d arrive at a suitable beach.

Ian looked around the back of the van, which was filled with their suitcases, pairs of crutches, and two crates of Tiger beer. The area that he shared with Georgia and the girls was cramped, and he wondered whether they might be happier if he sat in the front with the driver. “I reckon you ladies would fancy a break from all my yammering,” he said, climbing into the front. “Talk about boys or something, will you?”

Georgia turned from the window and winked at Ian. “Did you hear, Mattie, about Holly’s new classmate?”

Holly slapped her mother’s knee. “Mom!”

“What?” Mattie asked, leaning forward. “What new classmate?”

“Didn’t he pass you a note the other day?” Georgia added, catching Holly’s hand as it descended again.

As Holly struggled against her mother’s grasp, Ian settled into the front seat. The laughter in the rear of the van made him smile. Rolling down his window, he looked out at the verdant landscape, which was a combination of terraced rice fields, tropical trees, and granite crags.

“How far is it, Khan, to Hoi An?” he asked the driver.

Khan squinted, as if peering at their unseen destination. “Oh, not so far,” he replied, his English well practiced and easy to understand. “Maybe two hours.”

“Has it changed? Like Ho Chi Minh City?”

“Hoi An? Maybe a little. The way a daughter’s face changes from year to year.”

Ian smiled, liking Khan, who wore black-rimmed glasses and had a silver tooth. “Can I ask you something, mate?”

“Please.”

“What are the crutches in the back for?”

Khan glanced in the rearview mirror. “I make those. And I bring them north every time I come.”

“Why?”

“Because there are still many, many bombs in the countryside. Sometimes farmers or children step on them. And then they lose their legs. And so I leave crutches in villages.”

Ian watched a section of jungle pass. “Can’t . . . can’t the bloody bombs be found and destroyed?”

“Impossible. Too many of them are left. There are as many bombs as stones. And the metal is worth money. So sometimes poor people try to find bombs, and sell the metal. And the bombs explode. Or sometimes children step on them.” The driver shrugged, shaking his head. “So I make crutches and drive north. As often as I can.”

“How many crutches do you make?”

“One pair every day. That is my goal. I want to make more, but wood is expensive, and my hands are old.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” Khan replied, squinting again as a truck approached. “Did you know, when I was thirteen years old, I helped Ho Chi Minh fight the Americans?”

Ian turned toward him. “How?”

“We made many secret trails so Ho Chi Minh could get supplies from Hanoi, in the north, to his men in the south, who fought against the Americans. These trails were very important, and the Americans knew this, so they bombed them. For six weeks, I worked on a bridge over a river. The Americans came in their planes every morning and bombed it. We rebuilt it every afternoon, and then at night, our trucks crossed it, going south. Then the Americans would bomb it the next day, and we would rebuild it, and so on and so on. Finally, we decided to build the bridge underwater, so the Americans would think it was gone. It took us eleven days to finish the underwater bridge. After that, the Americans did not bomb it because they thought we had tired of building it. But we had not. And every night our trucks went over it.”

Ian tried to imagine what it would be like, to be thirteen and to watch bombs fall and things explode. “And now you build crutches?”

“Yes, because I know how to use wood. From my days of building the bridge.”

The road dropped down to the edge of the sea, which was indigo colored and flatter than the pavement they followed. “What if I helped you?” Ian asked, looking at Khan’s hands, which were thick-knuckled and scarred.

“What do you mean?”

“Might I send you some crutches, from America?”

Khan turned to him, lifting up his glasses and squinting once again. “Crutches from America? Really? That is not big trouble for you?”

“No worries, mate. I have your boss’s business card. I could send them to his office.”

The van coasted as Khan took his foot off the accelerator. “I need . . . more crutches. Would you do that, Mr. McCray? Would you send some to me?”

Ian stuck out his hand, which Khan grasped firmly. “I’ll do it. I promise.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“I reckon I should thank you. For your deliveries. For trying to help.”

Khan nodded, the van once again accelerating. “After the bridge, when I was older and fighting in the war . . . I made mistakes. I was not good. And I do not blame the Americans for everything. For what I did. So now I do my best to help. And I will make crutches until I die.”

Ian started to ask him about the past but stopped. “I’ll send you some crutches. Soon.”

“You are very kind. Kind to an old man, and to the children. I will tell them about you. About the wonderful man who lives in America and sends them crutches.”

“Thanks, mate. But really, you’re the wonderful man. And you’re still building bridges, you know. They just happen to let children walk.”

The sea surged to their right, crashing against black rocks, filling the air with the scent of life and death. Ian glanced at Khan, who was smiling, his head moving up and down, as if he was listening to music.