The House on Dream Street by Dana Sachs Read Free Book Online

Hanoi equivalent of a BMW or a Lexus. On Tran Phu, you could usually spot a lot of Dreams, because Tran Phu specialized in washing and repairing motorbikes. On my side of the block alone, there were nine places to wash motorbikes and three to repair them.
    Wheeling a bicycle the ninety-three steps from Tra’s house to my front door was, given the layout of Dream Street, no easy prospect. French-colonial-era city planners probably conceived of the wide, shady sidewalk that ran along my street as a pedestrian thoroughfare, but, even on the quietest of days, walking along it required dodging whipping water hoses and stepping around wandering vendors hawking boiled sweet potatoes. At first glance, the scene appeared chaotic. Like every other open space in the city, however, this expanse of sidewalk was actually a highly organized commercial district. At the edge closest to the road, lottery-ticket sellers displayed their brightly colored tickets to passing traffic. Just behind them, motorbike mechanics squatted in front of flat tires and broken-down engines, their tools spread in wide arcs on the sidewalk surrounding them. Rarely did mechanics work alone. Instead, they squatted in groups of two or three, cigarettes dangling from their lips, pointing and poking, discussing transmissions and carburetors like a surgical team intent on probing the cause of a particularly mysterious ailment. The remainder of the street’s commercial life was dominated by the motorbike washing establishments, teams of four or five people who competed with one another for business by employing someone, usually a big, bellowing woman, to stand out in the street trying to wave down passing motorists.
    On Dream Street, it didn’t matter if I was going into my house, stepping outside, or bending over to tie my sneakers; I was the only foreigner on the block, and people always watched me with the scrutiny of scientific observation. Usually, I pretended to ignore them, which wasn’t that hard, considering that I had to devote most of my concentration simply to keeping from tripping over a pile of tires or a mechanic squatting in front of a broken Dream. Today, maneuvering my way along the sidewalkwith a bicycle was even trickier than normal, but I was so relieved to be back on my feet and still alive that when people stared at me, I stared right back. Their expressions were as unfriendly as ever.
    After a moment, I saw Tung up ahead, squatting on the front steps of the house. The sight of a familiar face filled me with relief. I imagined describing to him my debacle on the bike, even if I had to use more pantomime than Vietnamese. I didn’t even care if he found my ineptitude laughable. As I walked toward him, the stares of all these strangers seemed less oppressive. I wasn’t entirely on my own here, I thought. Up ahead was a person who would, at the very least, smile at me. As I got closer, Tung spotted me and waved, but when he lifted his arm, I saw that someone else was sitting beside him on the steps. It was the young guy who’d been drinking whiskey with Tung the night I’d eaten downstairs—not Nga’s husband, but the other one, the one who had glanced at me between drags on his cigarette, then disappeared before dinner. Now he was looking at me with the same blank stare that I got from everyone else on the block. I lost all my will. When I reached the house, I gave Tung a quick hello, locked the bike, and hurried upstairs.

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    T HOSE FIRST FEW WEEKS IN H ANOI were blank days. I couldn’t get used to the weather. Absent of snow or frost, the only thing that told me it was winter was the chill that would enter my body with the force of a blizzard. This place was hardly the sweaty tropics I’d seen in Platoon. I was freezing. Every morning, I’d force myself out of bed, look out the window at the concrete wall of sky, and contemplate another faceless day. San Francisco mornings often had that same chalky grayness to them, but by