They joined him, chanting the kinh cau sieu, a prayer asking peace for the dead, reading with him from booklets on the floor. Joss smoke wound its way like morning fog down from the altar. The go mo struck a hollow, haunting cadence that seemed to echo from inside Condley’s heart. They chanted together, their words blending until they were at one with each other, inseparable, linked to the go mo and the altar and the millions whose spirits swarmed among them, dead by bombs and guns and man.

And then it was over. Condley embraced Mrs. Pham. Colonel Pham came to him and shook his hand. They gave their thanks to the monk, who spoke rapidly to them about their spiritual duties, and to the nun, who folded her hands once more underneath her chin and bowed. Within minutes the colonel and his wife had gone.

Condley lingered for a moment outside the temple, then dropped twenty dollars through the slit in a contribution box. It was supposed to be a secret, his own personal expression of thanks, but Van was waiting at the bottom of the temple steps and she saw.

“Why do you care so much, Cong Ly?”

Her question surprised him, because in truth he had never thought about it. “Because it gives me peace,” he finally said.

“Can I take you back?”

“That’s okay,” he answered. “I’ll find a cyclo.”

She laughed merrily, as if he confused her. “You’re the only American in Sai Gon who still uses a cyclo.”

“I’m not in a hurry. And they need the money.”

“So, give one of them the money and ride with me.”

He could not trust the openness in her delicious, smiling face. She was unlike the other Vietnamese women with whom he had flirted and played since his return, deeper and yet somehow more free. There were no games in her smile, and yet there was no promise either. She clearly did not need him. And so he remained merely confused.

“Where’s Francois?”

“He is in Tokyo.” She raised her chin, casually tossing her hair. “This is not about Francois. We are fighting, anyway.”

“Now, there’s a line.”

“What does that mean, ‘there’s a line’?”

“Your dad told me you’re spoiled.”

“Sometimes.” She grew serious. “But this is—I don’t know how to say it. Watching you with my mother made me feel very—” She searched for an English phrase and could not find it. “Cam dong,” she said, using a peculiarly Vietnamese expression meaning that she was moved inside her heart.

“Your mother is wonderful,” he said, feeling awkward standing in the dusky temple yard.

“She likes you very much. And my father respects you as a soldier. I find it very odd.” She was peering quizzically up into his eyes. “But somehow it makes me happy.”

“Somehow it makes me sad.”