He felt exhausted, empty. He gave her a small wave and started to walk across the outer yard toward the break in the wall that they had driven through a half hour before. Behind him he heard her motorbike start, and then she was next to him, driving slowly, dragging her feet along to keep with his pace.

“Get on my bike, Cong Ly! It’s okay!”

He looked up. Her smile was natural, inviting. He decided that she really did like him.

“I don’t think so.”

He reached the wall and walked onto the sidewalk that bordered the busy street. She was still next to him. People were staring again but she did not seem to notice. She kept smiling, waiting, asking.

“You’re afraid of the way I drive?”

“No.”

“You’re afraid of me?”

He stopped walking and faced her. She was very near, standing as she straddled the idling motorbike. Her elbow-length gloves were on but she had not yet covered her face with the handkerchief. Compromising, he took the handkerchief from her and held it up to her face.

“Yeah, I guess I am. You make me remember things.”

“Another girl?” She took back the handkerchief, smiling teasingly, not wanting her face covered yet.

“A little bit. A long time ago. But she died. And her family was on the other side.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “You should forget the war.”

“The communists killed her.”

“I don’t want to know that.”

“They killed her because of me.”

“Too many stories.” She touched him on the face with one long finger, as if she were going to scold him. “We just prayed, Cong Ly. You’re free. We’re all free.” And then she patted the seat of her motorbike. “I’m a very good driver!”

“You’re hurting someone’s business!”

She gave him a sharp look, her mouth curled into an impish smile. “Give me one dollar. Come on, one dollar!”

He hesitated for a moment, mildly confused, then gave her a dollar. She gunned her motorbike to the edge of the street, calling to the nearest lazing cyclo driver and giving him a series of instructions. Both of them laughed, staring back at Condley. Then she handed the old man a dollar, and he pedaled off into the dense traffic.

“There!” she said happily, returning to his side. “You have hired him for one hour! Now get on my bike!”

He did not ask her to park the motorbike once they reached the hotel or to pay the doorman five thousand dong to take care of it. He did not invite her to dinner in the hotel’s small restaurant where they sat for hours, laughing and teasing each other as they shared a half dozen samples from the menu. But as he watched her talk and laugh and tease, a part of him that he had thought was dead slowly stirred from its slumber, daring itself to reawaken.