“Quite a family, yes? And so it is with the Vietnamese. They did not ask for it. The world simply came to them. Russia, France, America, China, Japan—what is it that draws them here? So many different people with their memories, no? It is a very complicated country, Viet Nam.” Petain waved his long fingers into the air. “Whatever you want you will find, as long as you are willing to look for it. And as long as you are willing to pay the price for finding it. And if you do not want to see it? Poof! It isn’t here.”

“And what you see are customers,” muttered Condley.

“No, I see only beauty,” smiled the Frenchman. “The rest of it I do not want or need.”

The waitress brought a chair. She was startlingly beautiful and was wearing a black sheath dress that stopped just below her thighs, not unlike the dress Van herself was wearing. Her long hair shimmered under the glow of the chandeliers and fell across her face when she pushed the chair into the table. Petain casually brushed her hair from her eyes with his fingers, an act of deliberate ownership. And then he slowly pressed a twenty-franc note into her hand, thanking her for her trouble.

“Merci, my dear.” He turned to Condley as she disappeared. “You should really sit with us.”

“I’m on my way out the door, actually.”

Petain nodded toward the departing waitress. “Would you like to bring that girl with you? It could be arranged.”

“I can personally guarantee that she is an immensely pleasurable experience,” said a round-faced, balding man sitting just across from Petain, whose accent Condley recognized as British. The others at the table laughed, except for Van, whose eyes were now avoiding Condley’s.

“She’s what we call a semipro,” said another, whose accent marked him as Australian. “You know, it’s not her job, but she has a certain talent and doesn’t mind having a go at it. And I’d say her jewelry is pretty good evidence of her competence.”

“For the right financial incentive,” chuckled Petain. “And there you have it, no? The foundations of a capitalist economy, boiled down to the ultimate microcosm. Money and pleasure in a black silk dress.”

They laughed some more, congratulating Petain on his wit. As they laughed, Condley studied Van’s avoiding face. “A black silk dress. Kind of like yours, Van?”

“Do you like it?” teased Petain. “I bought it for her.”

“You mean you bought her with it.”

“Why have you never learned to accept the reality of your environment, Monsieur Bone Picker? Why must every fact of life become an argument?”