It was the same with Western names, Bien mused. They never stood for anything. His own name, Bien, meant ocean. Western names did not usually have meaning. Bien was told the name of the American family was Pops and it meant friendly father. Believing the name to be real, he felt reassured. Had he known it was a nickname with a secretive, twisted, and perverse meaning, he would have been aghast.

Bien reflected upon the picture of his two daughters. His contact had graciously provided him with a black and white photocopy. In the picture, Hang held Linh’s hand. Not that she was afraid Linh would run out into traffic. She knew better. She held Linh’s hand because she loved her. Their spirits entwined like one. Anyone looking at the picture could see their true beauty. Perhaps the American family were sincere when they said they loved my children? It would be impossible not to ....

Bien had not always lived in Hanoi. As a child, he was raised in the South. Saigon. Bien still preferred the city by its old name, but while working in Hanoi, he was careful to refer to it as Ho Chi Minh City.

Bien’s father had served with the South Vietnamese army and fought alongside the Americans until the Communists achieved victory in 1975. His father had learned English and taught it to Bien, who in turn, taught it to both his daughters. After the war, Bien’s father was placed in a re-education camp, where he died thirteen years later. Bien scoffed at the term reeducation. It was a camp of forced labour and brutality.

Bien’s wife, formerly from Dong Ha, had been exposed to heavy concentrations of Agent Orange during the war. Their daughter, Hang, like many second generation children, was born with an abnormality. She had an extra thumb protruding off the thumb of one hand. This was only a minor imperfection, Bien decided, when so many other families had children who were born without feet or arms.

Hang’s extra thumb was not something that had been hidden from the American family. Bien was told that Pops would have an American doctor fix it, but only if Hang wished. Bien knew that Hang would wish it to be so. She wanted to be perfect. She does not understand that she already is.

Linh was born without any abnormalities. Something that was cause for extreme joy. A sign that the future would improve, thought Bien. He had received a teaching degree just days after Linh was born. He felt like their lives were complete and that their future would be good. But it was not good.

Bien’s wife died six months later of organ failure brought on by the dioxin in her body. The closest Bien ever came to being a teacher was doing janitorial work at a school. The Communist party was only too aware of his family’s sympathy to the South during the war. He would not be allowed to teach.

It was not until recently that the government recognized the benefit of tourism and knew that Bien’s ability to speak English could be an asset. He was sent to Hanoi to act as a tour guide at Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum.

Bien lived in a one-room apartment facing an alley that he shared with his daughters and his own mother. His kitchen, like others in his neighbourhood, was a small plastic table and chairs set out on the sidewalk at the front of the building. The rest of his kitchen consisted of a hot plate set up on wooden boxes in the alley. The boxes were on their sides and a piece of cloth wired to the boxes acted as a curtain to keep the dust off the dishes. All this was enclosed with a wrought-iron grate bolted to the alley wall, which protruded just over an arm’s length away from the boxes. Entry was through a padlocked door.

For the first few months, he was paid barely enough to buy rice and noodles. Later, he learned to become a little shrewder about accepting tips from the tourists. Soon he would be able to afford a bigger apartment. One that would give his mother her own room to snore in.

It was midnight when Bien pedalled back through the Ba Dinh district of Hanoi and quietly carried his bicycle into his apartment. Tomorrow he would face questions. He did not like the fact that he had to deal with smugglers. Lying to friends about where his daughter went made him feel guilty—but he understood the need for secrecy.

Hang sat quietly on the floor as the van continued through the streets of Hanoi, occasionally stopping to pick up more women. Hang figured they were all about six or seven years older than her. She caught the friendly smile of a younger woman who had been in the van when Hang got in. Hang forced a quick smile back before turning away—directing her attention to the floor of the van. She remembered her vow to stay strong and did not want anyone to see the tears on her face.

“Em tê;n là gì?” the young woman asked her.

“Hang,” she answered, continuing to stare at the floor.

“You ... talk ... English,” she noted, slowly enunciating the words of this foreign language.

“A little,” replied Hang.

She smiled again. “Yes, me talk a ... small ... English,” she said, holding her thumb and finger close together to emphasize her point. “My name Ngoc Bích. You, me, we teach English each other, okay?”

“Okay,” replied Hang, looking down at the van floor.

“You cold?” asked Ngoc Bích.

Hang shook her head.

“Very cold in America. I think you cold now,” said Ngoc Bích, while changing positions and sitting beside Hang. “You be okay,” said Ngoc Bích. “Okay to be afraid,” she added, while putting her arm around Hang’s shoulders.

“I’m not afraid,” said Hang, glancing up defiantly at the other women in the van.

Ngoc Bích caught Hang’s expression and said, “That okay. They no speak English. They no understand what me say with you. I see you cry. I am sorry with you.”

Hang paused for a moment, and said, “I’m not afraid. I only miss my family.”

“My family live in Nha Trang,” said Ngoc Bích, pulling Hang closer. “My father dies two years before. I cries. The day last, my mother say goodbye to me in Nha Trang. I am oldest five kids. Two brothers. Two sisters,” she said, holding up two fingers on each hand. “It is good I send money from America—but yesterday I cry the same as you. You father and mother many kids?”

“One sister. No mother,” replied Hang.

Ngoc Bích paused briefly and said, “It okay to cry.”

Hang solemnly studied Ngoc Bích’s face but did not respond.

“I cry for my brothers and sisters today. You want, you ... me ... be sister now,” added Ngoc Bích.

Hang reflected upon this briefly, before nodding. They each smiled and hugged each other.

Eventually the van came to a stop and everyone got out. The driver warned them to be quiet and to follow him. Hang slung her bag of belongings over her shoulder and, along with everyone else, obediently followed. They entered an apartment building, trudged up four flights of stairs, were led to a room halfway down the hall, and ushered inside.

Hang and Ngoc Bích quietly sat on the apartment floor with a dozen others. The driver left but two other Vietnamese men remained in the room. The men told everyone to sit quietly and not to speak.

Later, there were more soft knocks on the apartment door as several more groups of young women arrived. Hang counted thirty-five women but lost count when the room became too crowded.

An hour passed, and the silence in the room made Hang more conscious of the humidity and the sticky feeling from the heat generated by their cramped quarters. Eventually there was another knock at the door.

Another Vietnamese man entered the room, followed by two other men who were both foreigners and appeared to be about fifty years old. One foreigner was lean and tall, with a thin, grey moustache that matched the colour of his brush cut. His face was pointed with sharp cheek bones and large dark eyes peered out from a nose that reminded Hang of a beak on a bird. Like a long-billed vulture ... She heard the Vietnamese man call him Petya.