The next afternoon, Juan arrived early.
The restaurant was still quiet. Only two tables were occupied, and the usual sounds of the evening had not yet begun. Lý was preparing the dining room, moving between the tables and checking that everything was in place. Behind the counter, Mr Hoàng was checking deliveries, occasionally stopping to examine something before putting it aside. The afternoon light slanted through the open frontage, casting long shadows across the floor.
Juan sat near the open frontage and ordered his usual Gin and Tonic.
He had spent most of the morning thinking about Liên. Not so much about what she had told them. About what she hadn’t. There was something about Phong’s behaviour that continued to bother him. The more Juan thought about those final moments, the less he could understand them. The man had known he was in danger. Yet his instinct had not been to save himself. It had been to make sure Liên got home. That single, selfless act had lodged itself in Juan’s mind, refusing to be dismissed as mere coincidence or luck.
Juan was still turning that over in his mind when Laurent arrived.
“You’re early.”
“So are you.”
Laurent sat down. “Did you sleep?”
“Not much.”
“Liên?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
“Better.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. They watched the river beyond the open frontage, its surface moving steadily past as though nothing had happened—as though the past year had been nothing more than a long, slow dream from which they were only now beginning to wake.
Then Laurent smiled. “You know what she said yesterday?”
“What?”
“She said Phong made her forget she was frightened.”
Juan looked at him. “I don’t think I ever realised how much he noticed people.”
“You did.” Laurent looked at him. “I knew he was friendly.”
“That’s not the same thing.” Laurent nodded slowly. “No.”
They sat quietly again. The restaurant remained almost empty around them.
There was little conversation at the other tables, and the occasional sound from the kitchen seemed louder than usual, as though the absence of the evening crowd had made every small noise more noticeable.
After a while, Juan said: “Do you remember the first time you came here?”
Laurent smiled. “Not exactly.”
“I do.”
“I was standing outside. Looking at the restaurant. I stayed there for nearly five minutes before coming in.”
Laurent laughed. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I was deciding whether I could afford it.”
Laurent shook his head. “No.” “You were deciding whether you belonged.”
For a moment, Laurent said nothing. He looked towards the restaurant, taking in the familiar tables and chairs, the counter, the open frontage and the river beyond. “And?”
“I came in.” That was all. The simplicity of it made them both smile.
A motorbike stopped outside. A moment later, Vincent appeared. He walked into the restaurant, looked around, and then noticed Juan and Laurent. He came over and joined them.
“Talking about Phong?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Vincent sat down. “I’ve been thinking about him too.”
“What about?”
“Something Liên said.” Juan looked at him. “She said he asked her about everything. Her family. Her village. Her plans.”
Vincent nodded. “He always did that.”
“Why?”
Vincent shrugged. “Maybe because people interested him.”
“Or maybe,” Juan said, “because he was collecting information.”
Laurent looked at him. “You mean professionally?”
“No.” He paused. “Personally.”
Juan smiled. “Stories.”
Vincent nodded. “That sounds better.”
“It’s also true.”
They fell silent. There was something comfortable about the silence, even though the subject of their conversation remained present between them. Each of them seemed to remember Phong in a slightly different way, yet somehow all those memories fit together, forming a picture that was greater than the sum of its parts.
A few minutes later, Aaron arrived. He joined them without ordering. Lý appeared anyway. A bottle of Saigon Beer.
Aaron smiled as he looked at it. “I’m beginning to think he knows what I want before I do.”
“He probably does,” Vincent said.
Aaron looked around the restaurant. “Where’s Liên?”
“Mr Hoàng took her to the market.”
“For what?”
“Clothes.”
Aaron smiled. “She’s still wearing the same ones?”
“Yes. She arrived with almost nothing.”
Juan looked towards the river. That fact had somehow escaped them.
Perhaps they had been so occupied with what had happened that they had not thought about what came afterwards. Liên had returned with almost nothing of her own—no belongings, no money, no change of clothes. She had come back with only what she had been wearing and the memories she carried.
“She needs more than clothes,” he said.
Aaron agreed. “Of course.”
They fell quiet again. Then Vincent spoke.
“Phong once told me something strange.” The others looked at him. “What?”
“He said that people always remembered the wrong things.”
Juan smiled. “What did he mean?”
“I asked him once what he’d remember if he had to leave Cần Thơ tomorrow.”
Vincent paused.
“And?”
“He didn’t mention the river. Or the restaurant. Or his friends.”
“What did he mention?”
Vincent smiled. “A street vendor.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember.”
Juan laughed. “Then perhaps he was right.”
Vincent nodded. “He said you remember the smell of food. The sound of a bicycle. The woman who sold you coffee every morning. Small things.”
Laurent leaned back in his chair. “That was Phong. He never cared much about important moments. He cared about ordinary ones.”
Juan looked towards the kitchen. “He used to sit here when he was taking a break. And he’d listen.”
“To what?”
“Everything.” It was easy to picture him there, sitting quietly after the restaurant had emptied, listening to the sounds around him without needing to be part of every conversation.
Then Aaron spoke. “Perhaps that’s why he never talked much about himself.”
Juan looked at him. “He didn’t need to. He knew everyone else’s stories.”
A motorbike pulled up at the entrance.
Liên got off while Mr Hoàng finished parking the bike. She carried a small plastic bag.
Vincent smiled. “Shopping?”
She nodded. “Mr Hoàng insisted.”
Mr Hoàng placed another bag beside her. “Necessary things.”
Liên looked embarrassed. “I told him I could pay.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t listen.”
Juan laughed. “He never does.”
Liên sat down. For a moment, she looked at the four men around the table. There was something almost familiar about the scene now, even though she had only returned the previous day. The faces around her had, in a short time, become less like strangers and more like people who might understand what she had been through.
“You’ve been talking about Phong.”
“Yes,” Juan said.
“What did he do before the restaurant?”
Laurent smiled. “Not much.”
Vincent laughed. “That’s unfair.”
“What?”
“He worked. He complained. He drank beer. He argued about football. He listened to people.”
Liên smiled. “And?”
Juan considered the question. “And he bought lottery tickets.”
She looked at him. “Lottery tickets?”
“Sometimes.”
Vincent paused. “Not because he expected to win.”
“Then why?”
“He liked choosing numbers.”
“Random numbers?”
“Usually.”
Juan smiled. “He always said that numbers were patient.”
Liên laughed softly. “That sounds strange.”
She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did he have favourite numbers?”
The four men looked at one another. Vincent shrugged. “I never asked.”
“Neither did I.”
Aaron shook his head.
Juan’s expression softened. “Perhaps that’s something we should remember.”
Liên looked towards the river. “Why?”
“Because with Phong…” He paused. “…the things that seemed unimportant were often the things he remembered.”
Nobody realised how important that conversation would become. Not yet.
The afternoon continued around them, ordinary and unremarkable, carrying them forward towards something none of them could yet see.