LITMIR.BIZ

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She smiles shyly. “Mother liked you very much.”

      I smile at that and Mai’s smile fills the dining room.

      Samuel shakes his head with mock disgust.

      Ly sets steaming bowls of phở in front of us and a plate heaped with spring rolls in the center of the table.

      Mai points at my bowl. “This phở contains vermicelli noodles, sliced beef, bean sprouts, chopped peanuts, and mint leaves.” She picks up a small bowl of red sauce and places it in front of me. “Please add bean and chili sauce to your taste, and squeeze in the fresh lime wedge juice to your taste. Oh, and please have the spring rolls. They are called gỏi cuốn in Vietnamese. The outside is rice paper and inside is sliced cold shrimp, mint leaves, and cold vermicelli noodles.” She sets a small bowl of nearly clear, orange liquid next to my bowl. “Please dip the rolls in this sauce called nước mắm.”

      “Oh, man,” I say around a mouthful of spring roll. “I could get used to eating this way.”

      “You will have to,” Mai and Samuel say simultaneously.

      Twenty minutes later, as Ly removes the dishes and Mai fills our cups with green tea, I ask Samuel how long he has lived in this house.

      “Only since we’ve been back from Portland,” he says. “It is not my house; it belongs to a friend.”

      When Mai and I had pulled into the driveway, she said that her father got it from a friend but I assumed that he had bought it.

      “He is quite wealthy. This is just one of four he owns, the other three houses are much larger than this one. He is kindly letting us stay here until the problem with Lai Van Tan is settled.” He gestures toward the ornate backyard. “I prefer a small condo to all of this. A small place better suits my personality and is less conspicuous. And inconspicuous is a wise choice when you are a Caucasian living in Vietnam, married to a local woman, and running a successful business.”

      Mai says, “Father and Mother will retire someday to Châu Đốc, a small town on the water at the edge of the Mekong delta near the Cambodian border.”

      “We have visited there many times over the years,” Samuel says smiling. “We love its quiet, at least quiet compared to the frantic insanity of Saigon. It’s a picturesque place known for its fish sauces and catfish export business. Kim and I…” Something passes across his eyes. He looks out into the blackness beyond the sliding glass doors then back to his tea. His voice is softer now, pensive. “We want to spend our remaining years in a peaceful place surrounded by beauty, friendly people, and wonderful food.”

      Samuel seems so much more in his element here than he was in Portland. For sure, thirty-five years in one place will do that to a person, but in his case it seems like the connection is more… spiritual? Yes, I think that’s it. His connection here is more than him being used to the traffic, noise, and crush of humanity. There’s something else.

      “I love Vietnam,” he says, sipping from his cup. “I love the country, the people, the heat, and the intensity of how we live here. I have spent over half my time on earth in this country, and I hope to remain for the rest of my days. In my mind, I am Vietnamese.” He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes dancing with remembrance. He looks down at his soup and back to me. “It’s ironic,” he says softly. “This country that enveloped me in such incredible violence, is the place where I have found an inner peace.”

      “I’m pleased to hear that, Samuel,” I say. Mai lovingly pats his hand. “But why? Why here in Vietnam?”

      “A good question, Son. To be clear, I did not need to be here to find peace. It was within me all the time, you see, and it is within you.” He is thoughtful and doesn’t rush his words. “But Vietnam is where I was when I found it, and I think being here helped me find it sooner. I do not know for sure because I have only here to compare it to.” He smiles at me. “Am I confusing you?”

      “I think I understand,” I say, meaning it.

      “Then maybe you can explain it to me,” he says with a chuckle. “What I do understand for certain is that now I must be mindful of doing good, doing it every day. I cannot change what happened in the past, but I can do what is right today.”

      We slurp our tea, comfortable without words. I know that there will never be a sudden “aha” moment that makes everything all right for me, but I’ve learned over the years that words are powerful, that they can heal, or at least start the healing process. Samuel has been there, done that, and come to terms with it. I hope to learn from him and come to terms with what I’ve done.

      “Have I showed you my teacup trick?” he says nonchalantly, munching on a spring roll.

      “Yes you have, Father,” Mai says, pretending exasperation, “And you know very well you have.”

      “I did?” he says, holding back a grin. “Must be getting old. No memory and I am getting slow.”

      I snort. “I don’t recall you being slow when you switched those teacups… I’ve never seen such extraordinary speed in my life.”

      “Really? How about my coin trick? Did I show you that one?”

      “Father, I think Sam probably wants to get some rest. Maybe show it to him tomorrow.”

      “Mai thinks she is clever. She is trying to distract me because she knows that tomorrow I will forget.”

      I laugh at Mai’s feigned innocence, and say, “I am tired but I’d like to see it.”

      “Good good good,” he says, enthusiastic as a child. “Do you have some change in your pocket? Oh, very good. Put all of it on the table here.”

      I set two nickels, a dime, and two quarters on the bamboo place mat.

      “Pick up the dime,” he says. “We should stand.” We both get up and he moves directly in front of me. “Okay, place the dime in your palm, please. Then hold your open palm out toward me.”

      I do as he says.

      “Mai will count to three. When she says ‘three,’ I will try to grab the dime before you close your hand into a fist. This is a demonstration of speed from Temple of Ten Thousand Fists style.”

      When he showed me the teacup trick in Portland, I didn’t see him move at all. I perceived something, a sense of air being displaced, I think, but I didn’t actually see him move his hands toward the cup.

      “Okay, Sam. When Mai says three, close your hand as fast as you can so I don’t get the dime. Okay? Ready? I think I can beat you but I am not sure.”

      “Yeah, right,” I say, looking at Mai who shoots me a you-won’t-believe-this look.

      “Mai, begin the count.” I’ve seen people play the snatch the coin trick before, but they did it by hovering their hand over the coin. Samuel positions his right hand about eighteen inches away in front of mine, palm down, and his left palm on the table. “I used to do this demonstration with both of my hands on the table,” he says with a shrug. “But Father Time is a cruel beast.”

      “One,” she says.

      His hands are too fast so it would be useless to watch them. So I’ll watch his shoulders. No matter how a person moves, they give it away by moving their shoulders first.

      “Two.”

      My muscles are at a relaxed ready. I talked with Bob –Munden once, a guy who holds multiple world records in quick draw with a handgun. He said that he relaxes to about ninety percent before the buzzer sounds the signal for him to draw his gun and fire. He said that any less, like eighty percent, he would be too tense, and any more, like ninety-five percent, he would be too relaxed. He knows what he is talking about: He can draw, fire, and hit the target in less time than it takes to blink.

      “Three!”

      I snap my hand closed.

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