The mingling of the traffic and his own exertion seemed to calm Dzung. After a few blocks he tapped Condley on a shoulder, leaning forward just as he had done so many thousand times before. His voice was lighter now, almost teasing.

“Colonel Pham. You love his daughter, Cong Ly?”

“Chua,” said Condley. “I don’t even know her very well.”

“Good,” said Dzung, suddenly becoming emphatic. “Cong Ly, you are my friend so I should tell you. I saw her only last night at the Rex. She was with another man. He took her to the roof for drinks. And then they went dancing. They seemed very close, like lovers.”

“Da, biet roi. Nguoi Phap,” said Condley flatly, as if stating an historical fact. That Frenchman again.

“So you know!” answered Dzung, the sweat now soaking his T-shirt as he pedaled. “He is very rich. He had a limo driver.”

“Yes, I know,” said Condley. “A very rich man. He sells perfume.”

“Nuoc hoa?” asked Dzung, incredulous at the thought. “Those little bottles? They can make you rich?”

“It’s very expensive just to smell nice. Women become addicted. Don’t ask me why. One little bottle of French perfume can cost more than a hundred bottles of beer.”

Dzung nodded judiciously. “So, Cong Ly, you should sell some perfume. Or maybe find another woman to love.”

“Don’t worry!” laughed Condley. “She is very beautiful, but this is not a problem for me. He has the money, so he has the burden of making her happy. When she gets bored with him, maybe she can make me happy.”

“Maybe she no good, Cong Ly.”

“No, she is good, Dzung. She plays the hand God dealt her.”

“Playing with her hands? I don’t understand.”

“Dao Phat,” said Condley. Karma. “After all the bad times, wouldn’t you like to have nice things?”

Dzung sat high in his seat for a moment, looking all around him in the traffic to see if someone might overhear him. He tried to swallow the words back down, but he could not control them anymore. Then he leaned forward again, his face near Condley’s ear. “I would like to be free,” he finally said, almost whispering.

His simple words went through Condley like a lance, for he had spoken the unspeakable word, penetrated the airy, accepting facade of his culture, asked for the impossible. Condley sat quietly in the cyclo’s chair as they turned from Hai Ba Trung onto the dense traffic of Dien Bien Phu Street, not knowing how to respond to such directness. “I’m trying to help you have a better life,” he finally managed to say. “I’m buying that car, Dzung. When your license is approved you’ll have a real job. We’ll make good money. Partners.”