Her voice was hollow, as if it were coming from the bottom of a well, and he knew she was talking on a cell phone. Dishes clattered near her, or perhaps it was glasses clinking in an idle toast. People were laughing. Mixed with the intimacy of her conversation, all these public signals disappointed him, making him feel somehow violated, as if he were on display. She was calling him and talking about his mother and his dreams, for the enjoyment or even the approval of—whom?

“And how is the grand merchant of aromas?” he said dryly.

“Who?”

“The Perfume Prince?”

“How is he?”

“Yes, my faithful friend Francois?”

“Why do you think I’m calling?” she said, immediately switching from English to Vietnamese. “No good. I want you to come and get me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the East Wind, Rain. It is a nightclub. Do you know this place? Only a five minute walk from your hotel!”

“Then why don’t you just come on over here?”

“No!” she said emphatically, still speaking Vietnamese, as if all of this were their secret. “For me to walk away alone would be . . . mat mat,” she indicated, meaning that she would lose face. “You must rescue me, Brandon. I promise you, there is a good reason for this. Let me choose to leave him openly, to his face, so his friends will understand that he has lost. Please? I am waiting for you. Take me away from here.”

“What’s happened?”

“I will tell you later.”

“No promises, Van.”

“Just come get me. Please.”

“And no fights,” said Condley carefully, rubbing the sleep away from his face with the back of one hand.

“A fight? Francois, with you?” She laughed. “Oh, that is very funny.”

A sudden, lazy rain began to splash the streets. He walked along dark, wet sidewalks toward the East Wind, Rain, thinking about her last words on the telephone. He was not afraid to face down Francois, and yet he knew that the very thought of a physical confrontation between them was absurd. Francois might mock him and certainly would find ways to subtly ridicule him, but the impeccably manicured Frenchman would never risk his ego in a fight. Especially a fight over a woman.

No fights. Van had misunderstood him. What he wanted to avoid was an ugly, public scene between Van and Francois, with him ending up as the moral equivalent of a getaway car. There was a note of urgency in Van’s voice that he had never heard before. And he knew that asking Van to control her emotions was about as sensible as begging a bird not to fly.