isn’t a real policeman. He just smiles at us. I refuse to be humiliated.”
And so Ada sat on a wooden chair before a wooden desk that held a single object, a letter opener with a black handle. Dat leaned back and studied her. He asked where her brother was, wasn’t he concerned for her safety?
“Was there a letter?” Ada said. “Written to us, or to someone else?”
“No letter.” Dat offered his empty palms.
“And so you’re still looking for my father? You’re going out and asking people and sending out information and talking to other policemen from other cities?”
“Of course, Miss Ada. Every day.” He lifted a hand as if asking for silence and then said, “He had a lover.”
“What do you mean? A Vietnamese woman?”
“American.”
Ada laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“It does not matter what you think. It matters what is, in fact, true.”
“Who is this woman?”
“I cannot say.”
“Because you don’t know.”
“You are sometimes rude, Miss Ada. You think that you are always right, or that I am perhaps stupid, or that I am a smaller person because I am not as rich as you. This is false. You must not assume to know me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m worried. I’m tired. I am given no information. I just want to know what happened to my father.”
“Of course. And when we are sure about this American, we will talk to her. And then we will talk to you. These things take time. I am all alone and I have other things in my plate.” He smiled, pleased by the words he had chosen. He lit a cigarette and turned to look out the window. Ada saw that she was being dismissed.
THAT EVENING, ADA WENT OUT ALONE AND WALKED THE STREETS and then stopped for a drink at a garden café. There was a blind man sitting in a corner with a dog at his feet. The man looked to be her father’s age. He was American and he was an ex-soldier: she knew this because the man was wearing his old fatigues. He sat alone and felt for his food with his hands and occasionally bent to offer the dog a morsel. He moved his head back and forth and at one point he called out, “Young girl,” and when the waitress arrived he said he wanted another beer and more fish.
The waitress slipped away and asked Ada if she wanted another drink. Ada said no, she was fine, and as she spoke the soldier looked up and stared at the spot where Ada sat.
He called out, “American?”
She looked around the empty café. A blond girl in a bikini smiled at her from a Danish beer poster.
“No,” she said, “Canadian.”
The soldier considered this and asked, “Are you alone?” “I’m waiting for my brother,” Ada said.
A large hand rose and fell. “Join me till then.”
Ada did not want to face the man. She did not want to sit across from his stripes and his medals and have him tell her war stories, about how generals led from the rear, and how he came to be blind, and the drama of his life. Finally, he would tell her why he was here and what he was looking for and how he had not yet found it.
The man lifted his head in anticipation.
“I’m sorry,” Ada said. “I’m actually meeting my brother in a few minutes. At a different place.” She stood, put money on the table, and picked up her bag.
The soldier stuck out his hand. “George Giguerre.”
Ada looked at his hand and then walked over and shook it. “Hello,” she said.
George said he was here alone. “Except for Julie.” He pointed at his dog, whose head was down, jaw pressed against the floor.
“Pretty dog,” Ada said.
“That’s what I’m told. Tourist?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Thought so. You’re about twenty-two.”
“Twenty-eight.”
A nod and an angling of the head. The thick hand came back out. “Nice to meet you.”
Ada shook his hand again and pulled away. She stood outside the café, her hands in fists, breathing quickly. The blind man’s desperation and his uniform and his soft hand, all of this had dismayed her.
And so Ada sat on a wooden chair before a wooden desk that held a single object, a letter opener with a black handle. Dat leaned back and studied her. He asked where her brother was, wasn’t he concerned for her safety?
“Was there a letter?” Ada said. “Written to us, or to someone else?”
“No letter.” Dat offered his empty palms.
“And so you’re still looking for my father? You’re going out and asking people and sending out information and talking to other policemen from other cities?”
“Of course, Miss Ada. Every day.” He lifted a hand as if asking for silence and then said, “He had a lover.”
“What do you mean? A Vietnamese woman?”
“American.”
Ada laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“It does not matter what you think. It matters what is, in fact, true.”
“Who is this woman?”
“I cannot say.”
“Because you don’t know.”
“You are sometimes rude, Miss Ada. You think that you are always right, or that I am perhaps stupid, or that I am a smaller person because I am not as rich as you. This is false. You must not assume to know me.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. I’m worried. I’m tired. I am given no information. I just want to know what happened to my father.”
“Of course. And when we are sure about this American, we will talk to her. And then we will talk to you. These things take time. I am all alone and I have other things in my plate.” He smiled, pleased by the words he had chosen. He lit a cigarette and turned to look out the window. Ada saw that she was being dismissed.
THAT EVENING, ADA WENT OUT ALONE AND WALKED THE STREETS and then stopped for a drink at a garden café. There was a blind man sitting in a corner with a dog at his feet. The man looked to be her father’s age. He was American and he was an ex-soldier: she knew this because the man was wearing his old fatigues. He sat alone and felt for his food with his hands and occasionally bent to offer the dog a morsel. He moved his head back and forth and at one point he called out, “Young girl,” and when the waitress arrived he said he wanted another beer and more fish.
The waitress slipped away and asked Ada if she wanted another drink. Ada said no, she was fine, and as she spoke the soldier looked up and stared at the spot where Ada sat.
He called out, “American?”
She looked around the empty café. A blond girl in a bikini smiled at her from a Danish beer poster.
“No,” she said, “Canadian.”
The soldier considered this and asked, “Are you alone?” “I’m waiting for my brother,” Ada said.
A large hand rose and fell. “Join me till then.”
Ada did not want to face the man. She did not want to sit across from his stripes and his medals and have him tell her war stories, about how generals led from the rear, and how he came to be blind, and the drama of his life. Finally, he would tell her why he was here and what he was looking for and how he had not yet found it.
The man lifted his head in anticipation.
“I’m sorry,” Ada said. “I’m actually meeting my brother in a few minutes. At a different place.” She stood, put money on the table, and picked up her bag.
The soldier stuck out his hand. “George Giguerre.”
Ada looked at his hand and then walked over and shook it. “Hello,” she said.
George said he was here alone. “Except for Julie.” He pointed at his dog, whose head was down, jaw pressed against the floor.
“Pretty dog,” Ada said.
“That’s what I’m told. Tourist?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Thought so. You’re about twenty-two.”
“Twenty-eight.”
A nod and an angling of the head. The thick hand came back out. “Nice to meet you.”
Ada shook his hand again and pulled away. She stood outside the café, her hands in fists, breathing quickly. The blind man’s desperation and his uniform and his soft hand, all of this had dismayed her.
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