Dzung had stood before him with a kind of tragic openness, hands at his side, smiling self-consciously as if he were on the offering block, waiting for Condley to decide his fate. Condley had studied him as if he were indeed a horse for sale. Dzung’s face was lined, from the years and the sun, so that his age could not be accurately measured. The baseball cap he wore on the back of his head, coupled with his nervous smile, took away much of his seriousness. In fact he had seemed somehow fragile, with his narrow shoulders and the thin legs shooting out from below trouser legs that were rolled up almost to his knees so he could pedal the cyclo. But Condley had known how tightly muscled most Vietnamese were. Dzung could pedal him from here to hell and never take a break.

“Anh co phai di tu sau chien tranh khong?” Condley had asked, wanting to know if Dzung had been sent to the infamous “reeducation camp” prisons run by the communists after the war.

“Oh, no,” Dzung had answered carefully, playing a nervous game. “They send me back to school.” He continued to smile, obviously aware of the dangers of direct conversation with a foreigner on any subject that could be labeled political. “I study three years in the mountains after ’75.”

“Then you must be very smart.” Condley had laughed, having picked up on Dzung’s careful words.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Dzung had said, offering the seat of his cyclo with a gesturing arm. “It was a very good school. They teach me many things. It’s very good now, no problem. That why I give you such good cyclo ride.”

“Then let’s go.”

Condley had hopped aboard. Dzung took a running start, pushing his cyclo and then jumping onto the seat, and pedaled off onto Nguyen Hue Street. He had turned left almost immediately onto Le Loi, where they joined the traffic flow of seemingly thousands of vehicles. And then he had leaned forward, speaking to Condley above the noise as he pedaled the cyclo.

“You tell me your name.”

“Cong Ly,” Condley had said, Vietnamizing his surname as he had done so many times before, so many years ago, now falling completely into the rhythms of the city and the culture. He had then looked back and seen that Dzung was savoring his Vietnamese name—“Justice.” Finally the cyclo driver had grinned widely, his face filled with a delicious happiness.

“Cong Ly,” said Dzung. “You were here before ’75? Maybe soldier, huh?”

“Six years, off and on.”

“Six years? Oh, very good, sir. I know you love Viet Nam. I know.”

“Thuong nhieu qua,” Condley had said. Too much love.