“You are a very wasteful man,” said Dzung.

“Wasteful?” The man snorted, his chin lowered onto his chest like a dog protecting its throat.

“You wasted half a cigarette,” continued Dzung. “Maybe you have so much money that you can burn it.”

“Like the Americans?” The man folded his arms, his eyes hot.

“Here, finish it.” Dzung tossed the cigarette back at the man. It landed at his feet. “You don’t like Americans? Maybe you think the Russians were better.”

“I hate them all,” said the man. “I don’t need them. I make good money from Vietnamese.”

“That’s how you and I are different,” shrugged Dzung. “You, with your new motorbike and your fancy leather shoes. I don’t make good money from Vietnamese.”

“You worked for the Americans before. You fought for them.” It was an accusation, even a damnation.

“You know a lot about me already,” said Dzung. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nghiem Le Manh,” he answered. “That’s all you need to know for now.”

“Well, Manh, I didn’t work for the Americans before,” said Dzung. “I fought for my country.”

“Nguy.” Manh spat the word out. It was a slur used by the communists against the people who had supported the old Sai Gon government. “Phan quoc,” he continued, calling Dzung a traitor to his country.

The words were sadly familiar to Dzung, echoing like a jail gong through his memory, bringing with them the smell of jungle camps and the sounds of people slowly, slowly dying. He shrugged nonchalantly, now knowing with certainty that Manh worked for the government and that for some reason the younger man had been sent to harass or threaten or even arrest him.

“What do you even know about it?” mused Dzung, flicking the end of his own cigarette into the street. “It was a very long time ago, Manh. Were you even born then?”

“It’s not your place to question me,” answered Manh. “I am not the one on trial.”

On trial. The world closed around Dzung as he stood staring at this young man who had appeared from nowhere. The sky descended and the street rose up and the buildings pressed toward him until he seemed to be peering at Manh from inside a box, or maybe a cage. Yes, thought Dzung, a cage. He knew this drill. He sighed, yielding to it. Nothing could change it, nothing at all.

“What do you want, Manh?”

Manh handed him a business card. “Report to this address. I will talk to you there.” He wheeled back around, crossing the street and paying two thousand dong to the fierce, ugly man who had tended his motorbike. And then he sped off into the morning traffic.