"Damn, look at you, all cleaned up and smellin' like trouble."
Dung wrinkled his nose and leaned over, pretending to sniff the boy in the passenger seat. Đông Anh instinctively pulled away, his cheeks already pink. That only made Dung grin wider as he started the light blue Peugeot and pulled out of Mr. Liễu's driveway.
"You wearing cologne today?" Dung asked.
"Uh... My sister Ba gave me a bottle, so I used it. Just to make her happy."
"Well now, that's a problem. You've already got the pretty-boy face, and now you smell good too? Those girls at school'll be all over you."
"Why do you always tease me?" Đông Anh groaned. "I'm buttoned all the way up. It's not like I'm showing off or anything."
Dung shot him a side glance and smirked. "You should unbutton that top one."
"No."
"I'm tellin' ya, you're lookin' like some Sunday school saint. And that awkward-pretty-student look? Deadly. You'll be swarmed four times as hard."
"Swarmed by who?"
"Girls. Girls who love clueless cuties. They'll baby you like a pet."
"You joke too much," Đông Anh muttered.
"I'm not joking. I mean it."
With a quiet huff, Đông Anh straightened his back and looked away from the driver's face.
"I'm serious, sir. Just one button. For your own good," Dung pressed again.
"No!"
"You gotta trust me. I'm your guy now, remember?" Dung's eyes sparkled as he glanced over. "This is Saigon, not breezy old Dalat. Dress like that and you'll melt before noon."
After enough pestering, Đông Anh finally caved.
"There. Happy?" Đông Anh said, smoothing down the collar after unfastening the top button.
"Now you look like a normal schoolboy." Dung nodded approvingly. "But take my advice—don't shine too bright, don't draw too much attention. Or you'll have a hard time finding your way back to God."
He watched Đông Anh's expression carefully, then asked, "You sure you'll go back to Him?"
"Then it depends… on how good a babysitter you turn out to be."
Dung chuckled and shook his head. That tone—he knew it too well. The kind of sharp wit that ran in Mr. Liễu's family. He barely sidestepped the sister's trap before landing headfirst into the brother's—even tougher, even trickier.
They drove in silence for a few intersections before Đông Anh broke it.
"Hey, Dung… did you already say yes to my father?"
"Huh?"
"Well, earlier you said 'I'm your guy now,' right?"
Dung blinked, replaying his own words.
"So that means… you agreed to be my babysitter?"
Đông Anh looked at him, half expecting to be brushed off. But to his surprise, Dung answered without missing a beat:
"Yeah." Then added, as if reading Đông Anh's thoughts:
"I've already arranged for Ms. Thanh to work at Liberty."
There was a pause as Đông Anh processed the name.
"Her name's Thanh?"
"Thiên Thanh."
"How do you know that?"
Dung shrugged. "I'm the new manager. Gotta check people's backgrounds. Wouldn't want a snake slipping into the house, would we?"
He turned to Đông Anh, one brow raised. "You got a thing for her?"
Đông Anh shook his head. Dung pressed on.
"Then why go so far to help her?"
"I heard her story," Đông Anh said quietly. "Felt like I had to do something."
Dung gave a crooked little smile but didn't say more. The car rolled on in silence for a while until Đông Anh finally murmured:
"...Thanks."
"No need for that," Dung replied. "Really."
"Can I ask you something, Dung? Are you babysitting me because you chose to… or because my father made you?"
"Why do you ask, sir?"
"Because... I don't want anyone beside me if they're only here because they were told to be."
Dung slowed the car to a stop at a red light. He glanced over at Đông Anh, then leaned in, his voice low and close to the boy's ear:
"I'm here because I chose to be."
The light turned green, and the Peugeot glided forward again—smooth, steady—while Đông Anh sat frozen, stunned by the sweetness of that answer.
"You're just dropping by the school this morning to sort out paperwork, right?"
Đông Anh nodded.
"Then I'll wait outside till you're done."
"No need. After I finish the forms, I wanna walk around, get to know the campus a little. Maybe come back around noon?"
"Got it."
Dung made a slow turn toward the school entrance, but suddenly eased off the gas when he spotted a commotion near the main gate. A crowd had formed—students, police, reporters—clustered tight.
"What's going on?" Đông Anh asked.
Dung didn't answer. He steered the car around the crowd, circling slowly enough to take in the scene. His brow furrowed as he caught sight of a familiar face among the bystanders.
"A protest," Dung said at last.
He wasn't too alarmed—at least not yet. From the looks of it, it was just a peaceful student demonstration happening inside campus grounds. No shouting, no street clashes. The national police were still holding back, just watching.
"Opposing schools becoming military training grounds," Đông Anh read from one of the large banners being held up. "Hunger-strike protest… Dung, does that mean they're refusing to eat?"
Dung stayed quiet.
Đông Anh rolled down his window and stuck his head out. The people sitting silently, holding up their signs, looked strange to him—almost unreal. Then he spotted someone who stood out from the rest. Perched cross-legged on a raised platform, eyes closed in a meditative posture, the figure wore a white headband marked with handwritten slogans. Đông Anh guessed he must be one of the ringleaders.
"Sir!" Dung called out, but Đông Anh didn't respond. "Sir... Út!"
That last shout came with a smack on the horn, sharp and loud. Đông Anh jolted and finally turned his head.
"Stop staring!" Dung snapped, then slammed the window shut.
"Why are they even..."
"Listen!" Dung cut him off, pulling the boy sharply toward him until they were face-to-face. His voice dropped low, tight with warning:
"You—must never get involved with that crowd. Got it?"
Đông Anh blinked, startled.
"Don't forget the only reason you're here is to study. Stay quiet. Stay out of sight. And for God's sake, stay the hell away from politics. People who stir the pot like that? They end up in hell."
Đông Anh frowned, clearly not agreeing.
Dung narrowed his eyes.
"Say it. Why are you here?"
"…To study."
"And after that?"
Dung finished it for him:
"You go back to God."
With that, he turned the wheel and steered the car toward the university's back entrance.
.
Saigon was noisy, tense, and always on edge—but no one here ever started their day in a hurry. Not even in wartime.
Dung stirred his glass of iced milk coffee lazily, took a sip, then slouched back into the canvas lounge chair. He flipped open the morning paper, scanned through a few headlines printed bold across the page. Nothing much going on today, just the usual buzz—actresses, singers, scandals. He yawned, dropped the paper onto the table, then stretched and took in a deep breath of the city's hectic energy beneath a clear, sunny sky.
"Rare, this kinda peace..." he muttered to himself.
But just as the words left his mouth, something brushed against his shoe. Dung jerked his leg back, startled. Instinct kicked in, he lunged forward and grabbed the neck of whatever had just touched him.
"Sir… ungh… I-I'm just a shoeshine boy!" the kid wheezed, struggling under Dung's grip.
Dung didn't let go right away. He tugged his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and gave the boy a hard look. It was a scrawny little boy, no more than ten, face smudged with dirt, bones showing under a torn shirt. At his feet sat a tiny wooden shoeshine box.
"You new around here?" Dung asked, finally releasing the boy. The kid stumbled backward and fell on his rear.
"I-I'm sorry, sir…" the boy stammered, backing away in fear.
"Trouble's what that is!" the sidewalk café owner—a plump, middle-aged Chinese man—suddenly popped up. "You don't just go touchin' this fella. Know who that is? That's Mr. Dung Tây! You heard of him?"
"The boy looked from the vendor's round belly—puffed up like a soup pot—to Dung. He shook his head.
"Whose crew you with?" Dung asked, tilting his chin up.
The boy shook his head again.
The vendor clicked his tongue and rubbed his belly.
"Kid's got guts, huh? Comin' into this zone with no protection? You nuts?"
The boy's face turned pale.
"A Kẻng, later bring him to Đại's crew," Dung said to the vendor, then pointed a firm finger at the kid.
"Listen up, no matter where you are, there's rules. You greet people. You check in. If you don't, someone's gonna beat you raw. Got it?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir." The boy clasped his hands together and bowed in gratitude, already scrambling to gather his gear.
"One more thing," Dung added. "Next time you want something, open your mouth first. Don't go touching people without asking, or you'll get shot. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Dung leaned back in his chair, watching the boy for a moment. Then he glanced down at his own black leather shoes. He tapped his foot a few times, thinking. Finally, he gave the kid a nod.
The boy lit up. "Yessir!" he chirped, then dove in and got to work.
The vendor carried over an aluminum teapot and poured tea into a customer's glass. His broth-belly pushed out against a sagging tank top that had long since faded to the color of pork congee.
"A Dung, where you been these past few days, huh? Haven't seen you around the shop. Out doing some secret job or what?" the vendor asked, lowering his voice on that last part.
("A Dung" is how ethnic Chinese in Vietnam affectionately address someone—"A" being a common prefix used before given names, similar to "Ah" in Cantonese.)
"Well, if it's a secret, why you still asking?" Dung replied without looking up.
"Just chitchatting, just chitchatting," the vendor said, easing down into the seat beside him. "You know how it is—business has been dead lately. Too many stray bullets and explosions. Folks too scared to come outside." He let out a sigh.
Dung took off his sunglasses and hooked them onto his shirt pocket, muttering, "When your number's up, you die sitting at home just the same."
"A Dung, you mean you're not afraid of dying?" the vendor asked, half-joking.
Dung thought back to the church bombing and shrugged.
"Afraid or not, it's not like we get to choose. Just enjoy the day while we can, A Kẻng."
"Hmph! I'd like to see you stand in front of a live grenade and still talk tough like that," the vendor said, half-pouting.
Dung slung an arm over the vendor's shoulder. "A Kẻng, you heard about that explosion at the central church? I was right there in the crowd. But I didn't die—guess it wasn't my time yet. Though…" He pulled A Kẻng a little closer, dropping his voice, "…guys like me? We don't die easy. We just drop dead for no reason. You see that guy across the street? With the beret? Been staring at me this whole time. I bet he's gonna pull a gun, bam—one shot. And then… stray bullet hits you. Right here…"
"Aiya! You brat!" the vendor yelped as Dung jabbed a finger into his broth-filled belly. "Don't joke about that kinda thing! I've got a wife and kids! Death ain't something to fool around with!"
Dung let go and nodded.
"Fair. You've got a family. But someone like me—no name, no ties—ain't nobody waiting for me. What's the point in clinging to life?"
"Aiya, stop with the bad luck talk already." The vendor waved him off. "Look, what I really wanted to say was—If you catch wind of anything, just let me know, so I can quietly shut down for the day."
Dung chuckled.
"I'm no government man or secret agent. How would I know about any of that?"
"Aiya, I've known you long enough. You think I still don't know what it is you really do?" A Kẻng replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Then what do you think I do?"
Dung shot him a warning look, like one wrong answer could get the man killed. A Kẻng backed off immediately.
"Forget it, forget it. Whatever you do is your business. I don't know anything. Just sayin'—we've known each other a while, so if I ask for a small favor… it's only fair. And if I see anything strange, I'll let you know right away."
Dung looked away, no longer staring him down. He turned his gaze toward the flow of passing traffic, face thoughtful, a little too quiet, enough to make the vendor nervous. Trying to lighten the mood, A Kẻng said:
"Oh right! I've seen a weird group hangin' around lately. Look like students—same clothes, same age. They always sit across the street at that noodle stall. Keep glancing this way like they're lookin' for someone. They started showin' up the same days you stopped comin' here. Usually around ten in the morning."
Dung checked his watch, stretched, and cracked his neck.
"I've gotta go. Keep an eye on them for me, alright?"
He reached into his pocket, pulled out some small bills, and handed a few to the shoeshine boy. Then he turned back to A Kẻng to settle the tab.
"Keep the change. And don't forget to take the kid over to Đại's crew."
"Don't worry, I got it. I won't forget!" A Kẻng replied with a wink.
Dung stood up and smoothed the crease of his sharply pressed trousers. Then he slipped on his dark sunglasses and strode off, cool as ever.
From A Kẻng's shop stall, it was about a five-hundred-meter walk. Dung turned down a narrow alleyway, quiet and empty. After a few more steps, he stopped in front of the biggest house in the alley.
It was painted a bold shade of turmeric yellow. A small wooden sign hung on the outer wall. It read: "Red Pavilion."
The entrance wasn't guarded by any iron gate or locked door. Instead, it was veiled by a bamboo curtain, painted in bright colors. Every now and then, a playful breeze would lift a few strands, causing them to sway gently like an open invitation to wandering eyes.
But the locals here knew better than to walk in. They only ever stole glances from a distance, because they knew what kind of people lived inside.
Every night, the house came alive with soft music and bursts of laughter—low, teasing, half-drunken. Most men who stepped through that curtain came out later with a face full of glow and satisfaction. Just as the name suggested: Red Pavilion. Or, as the neighbors liked to call it—Động Thiên Thai - The Den of Heavenly Pleasures.