number of architectural blueprints were on display under a signboard that said The Harmony Gate . They were apparently alternate designs for an Asian-themed pedestrian bridge between the two big malls that faced one another across Bolsa, somebody’s idea of a welcoming arch for the whole shopping district, and each design said “Welcome to Little Saigon” on it. The biggest drawing was in perspective and showed an arched bridge that ran between a pagoda at one side of the street and a similar looking clocktower on the other. Spaced away from this on the wall were variant designs with much sketchier detail. Contemporary Style looked like an elevated international style factory with some Asian details larded over it, a few Chinese characters and medallions. After this there was Chinese Style , with curlicued pagoda tile roofs at the middle and both ends. His eye drifted on to Thai Style , with a much more elaborate pagoda in the middle and dragon designs on the walkway.
A door slammed somewhere, but no one seemed to move. One child started to insist on a word, growing more and more emphatic.
Vietnamese Classical Style had a flattened tiled roof and the pagoda and clocktower at the ends were reduced to embellishments, and finally French Colonial Style , the roof without curlicues at all and the clock tower moved to the middle of the bridge. That was one he recognized right away—on R&R trips to various French colonial outposts he and his friends had dubbed the style Babar the Elephant Colonial. His eye went back and forth, and despite the obvious variations, he had trouble seeing all that much difference—like minor mutations in the shape of a sweet pea. Even the Contemporary had so much Asian detailing that its pedigree was unmistakable. A news article was taped up beside the designs:
Frank Fen’s Harmony Bridge
Rejected as Too Chinese
Rejected by whom, he wondered.
“You come,” he heard, and when he looked up, a strikingly beautiful Asian woman stood in an open doorway looking straight at him with spooky dark brown eyes. Ages were always tough to guess across cultures. She was probably in fact about his own age, but she was someone who would always be described as looking half her age. She wore a navy blue business suit with a ruffled white shirt billowing out of it, and her offered hand was frank and mannish in his.
“I’m Jack Liffey,” he said.
“Come in. I am Tien Joubert.” She shut the door, a little harder than necessary.
“I hope I’m not jumping the queue.”
She shrugged. “They’re Vietnamese. They like to wait. You need to get better shoe, Jack Liffey. I could get you Italian shoe at half. Good soft leather, like butter, and very thin sole.”
He suppressed a laugh; he hadn’t come there to bring her up to speed on his theories about receptionist school. He twisted up his wrist to show the Timex. “This is junk too. I leave my Rolex home in the Bruno Maglies. I bet the Vietnamese people out there don’t like to wait anymore than I do.”
“Well, they got no choice. Their paperwork coming across town by slow boat.” She showed no inclination to smile as she motioned him into a chair and sat herself at an elaborate antique desk. Her movements were very graceful and he thought once again how striking she was, like some idealized mannequin of Asian beauty.
He explained that Minh’s daughter seemed to be missing and that he’d been hired to try to find her.
She nodded. “Real good kid, Phuong, smart girl. Phuong can go far in business if she get over fear of mistake. Mistake is the start of all opportunity for people with lots of luck, and Phuong got good luck, better than me even, and I got great luck. I didn’t leave Saigon until May of 1975, and I have to leave all my property, and one husband die in Saigon there in final days and another husband no damn good in Paris, but I doing very fine now, thank you very much.”
The whole life story in one punch, he thought. “I heard
A door slammed somewhere, but no one seemed to move. One child started to insist on a word, growing more and more emphatic.
Vietnamese Classical Style had a flattened tiled roof and the pagoda and clocktower at the ends were reduced to embellishments, and finally French Colonial Style , the roof without curlicues at all and the clock tower moved to the middle of the bridge. That was one he recognized right away—on R&R trips to various French colonial outposts he and his friends had dubbed the style Babar the Elephant Colonial. His eye went back and forth, and despite the obvious variations, he had trouble seeing all that much difference—like minor mutations in the shape of a sweet pea. Even the Contemporary had so much Asian detailing that its pedigree was unmistakable. A news article was taped up beside the designs:
Frank Fen’s Harmony Bridge
Rejected as Too Chinese
Rejected by whom, he wondered.
“You come,” he heard, and when he looked up, a strikingly beautiful Asian woman stood in an open doorway looking straight at him with spooky dark brown eyes. Ages were always tough to guess across cultures. She was probably in fact about his own age, but she was someone who would always be described as looking half her age. She wore a navy blue business suit with a ruffled white shirt billowing out of it, and her offered hand was frank and mannish in his.
“I’m Jack Liffey,” he said.
“Come in. I am Tien Joubert.” She shut the door, a little harder than necessary.
“I hope I’m not jumping the queue.”
She shrugged. “They’re Vietnamese. They like to wait. You need to get better shoe, Jack Liffey. I could get you Italian shoe at half. Good soft leather, like butter, and very thin sole.”
He suppressed a laugh; he hadn’t come there to bring her up to speed on his theories about receptionist school. He twisted up his wrist to show the Timex. “This is junk too. I leave my Rolex home in the Bruno Maglies. I bet the Vietnamese people out there don’t like to wait anymore than I do.”
“Well, they got no choice. Their paperwork coming across town by slow boat.” She showed no inclination to smile as she motioned him into a chair and sat herself at an elaborate antique desk. Her movements were very graceful and he thought once again how striking she was, like some idealized mannequin of Asian beauty.
He explained that Minh’s daughter seemed to be missing and that he’d been hired to try to find her.
She nodded. “Real good kid, Phuong, smart girl. Phuong can go far in business if she get over fear of mistake. Mistake is the start of all opportunity for people with lots of luck, and Phuong got good luck, better than me even, and I got great luck. I didn’t leave Saigon until May of 1975, and I have to leave all my property, and one husband die in Saigon there in final days and another husband no damn good in Paris, but I doing very fine now, thank you very much.”
The whole life story in one punch, he thought. “I heard
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