And Dzung had indeed known. On that first afternoon they had floated along inside the stream of traffic, passing old memories, new sights: the old naval bases now dilapidated and falling apart, some still occupied and used by the Vietnamese military, others being leveled to make room for new hotels; the wide streets dotted with French architecture along Ton Duc Thang Street near the Sai Gon Zoo; the American Embassy, its cylindrical, screened guard posts along the high white walls rusting and empty, the roof where the last U.S. helicopter took out the last load of Americans and South Vietnamese in l975 a haunting monument to failure; the park near the center of the city that once had been a cemetery for thousands of South Vietnamese soldiers, whose graves had now disappeared underneath the conqueror’s plow; the rising steeples and red bricks of the Duc Ba Chapel, built by the French across from the huge old post office in an area that once had marked the cultural center of the city; the ubiquitous new hotels and office buildings creeping up toward the sky, drowning out the landmarks of the past; the stark contrast of people traveling in Mercedes and others living curbside in front of downtown buildings. It had all washed over Condley, scoured him out, insulted and consoled him, and in an odd way made him whole.

Along the way people had watched him, waved to him, and smiled. Kids on bicycles had pulled up next to him, asking in broken English if he was American and then grinning in delight when he said yes. Women had embraced him nostalgically with their eyes, sitting on little plastic stools behind curbside stalls or driving Hondas near him in the traffic. Men, young and old, alternated between scrutinizing stares and welcoming, remembering grins, some calling out to him or holding up a finger and calling, “America Number One!” It had become his very own homecoming parade.

As they rode, he and Dzung had conversed, throwing together a mix of Vietnamese and English that became a workable, fluent vernacular. They talked about everything, working carefully to where they could speak frankly to each other about the past and then even about the present. Their dialogue was a careful recounting of facts, devoid of opinions, which in the wrong ears might become personally dangerous. And by the time Dzung reached behind him for the pull brake and brought the cyclo to a halt in front of the Rex Hotel, the two had become friends.

Condley had sought to pay him, but Dzung had refused. “No, no, Cong Ly. You pay me later. When you leave or maybe one week.”

Condley had realized it was Dzung’s way of keeping him as a customer. He had relented, but then slipped his new friend fifty thousand dong, the equivalent of five dollars. “Okay. But you buy your kids something. From me.”