Condley sat in the cyclo, searching house numbers painted on the outer walls. Finally he found it. As Dzung halted the cyclo he stiffened, setting his face in an unmovable stubbornness, his voice for the first time in Condley’s memory growing hard and even bitter.

“This place no good. I don’t wait here, Cong Ly.”

“You want to come back later?”

“I go see my baby. I don’t wait here, I don’t come back.”

Dzung’s normally impassive face grew taut and even more lined as he glanced toward Colonel Pham’s home. The war, his lost family, the misery of the camps, the future he might have had, the different country he might have had a hand in leading, all flickered like dim explosions in the twitching of his eyes. “Xin loi, Cong Ly, I very sorry. VC, khong thich, number ten. I know, I know. No good. I go now.”

“Hieu,” said Condley. I understand. He gave Dzung ten thousand dong. “You bring your baby something from me.”

He was very nervous as he approached the closed yard of the old villa. Mrs. Pham was waiting on the front terrace, dressed in a black ao dai. She turned sharply as he creaked open the gate and stepped inside, betraying her own nervousness. He smiled gamely, walking to her and offering a bouquet of flowers.

“Chao Ba Tho.”

“Da, chao Ong.”

She melted a bit, smiling her thanks and immediately looking around for a vase in which to put them. Then she opened the front door, bowing slightly and welcoming him inside.

It was cool inside, quiet except for the sound of children playing on the street, unlit except by sunlight through the open windows. The ceramic tiles on the floor were still damp from the morning’s sudden rain. A portrait of Ho Chi Minh hung prominently on the living-room wall. On either side were several citations, military awards given to Colonel Pham. The house smelled of musk and food, but over their odors he caught a whiff of perfume. The perfume made him think of Van and then, oddly, of Francois.

The merchant of aromas. He gives her nice things.

Mrs. Pham led him to a small table. At the table he sat in a wooden chair. She sat across from him and poured some tea. A quiet tension passed between them. She had a way of watching him without fully looking at him. Every movement of his hands and feet was being evaluated, as was every bodily shift, even the way he drank his tea. He avoided staring at her as he sipped the tea, allowing her to inspect him.