Dragon House
John Shors
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ONE - Dusk and Dawn
TWO - Steps to Nowhere
THREE - Hell and Handbags
FOUR - A Smaller World
FIVE - Bridges
SIX - The War Museum
SEVEN - Milk Money
EIGHT - A New Day Dawns
NINE - Awakenings
TEN - A Path Leads Away
ELEVEN - A Time for Offerings
TWELVE - Elephants and Escapes
THIRTEEN - Into the Light
FOURTEEN - Moonset
FIFTEEN - In the Footsteps of Dragons
SIXTEEN - Reunion, Separation
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
DRAGON HOUSE
AN INTERVIEW WITH JOHN SHORS
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Praise for the Novels of John Shors
Dragon House
“A touching story about, among other things, the lingering impacts of the last generation’s war on the contemporary landscape and people of Vietnam. In a large cast of appealing characters, the street children are the heart of this book; their talents, friendships, and perils keep you turning the pages.”
—Karen Joy Fowler, bestselling author of The Jane Austen Book Club
“In Dragon House, John Shors paints such a vivid picture of the lives of Vietnamese street children and the tourists they need in order to survive, you would swear it was written by one of them. I loved this book, and cared deeply about the characters brought to life by Shors’s clear sensitivity to the plight of the unseen and unwanted in Vietnam.”
—Elizabeth Flock, bestselling author of Me & Emma
“Amid the wreckage of what’s known in Vietnam as the “American War,” Shors has set his sprawling, vibrant novel. All of his characters—hustlers, humanitarians, street children—carry wounds, visible or otherwise. And in the cacophony of their voices, he asks that most essential question: How can we be better?”—David Oliver Relin, bestselling author of Three Cups of Tea
“There is a tenderness in this moving, deeply descriptive novel that brings all those frequently hidden qualities of compassion, purity of mind, and, yes, love—the things we used to call the human spirit—into the foreground of our feelings as readers. This is a beautiful heart speaking to us of the beautiful world we could and should find, even in the darkness that so often floods the world with fear.” —Gregory David Roberts, bestselling author of Shantaram
“John Shors has written a wonderful novel about two American lives shaped by an encounter with the lives of the Vietnamese people in this present age, decades after that country has faded from the ongoing clamor of news in this country. For that very reason, Shors transcends politics and headlines and finds the timeless and deeply human stories that are the essence of enduring fiction. This is strong, important work from a gifted writer.”
—Robert Olen Butler, Pulitzer Prize-winning author
of A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
Beside a Burning Sea
“A master storyteller. . . . Beside a Burning Sea confirms again that Shors is an immense talent. . . . This novel has the aura of the mythic, the magical, and that which is grounded in history. Shors weaves psychological intrigue by looking at his characters’ competing desires: love, revenge, and meaning. Both lyrical and deeply imaginative.”
—Amy Tan, bestselling author of The Joy Luck Club
“Features achingly lyrical prose, even in depicting the horrors of war. . . . Shors pays satisfying attention to class and race dynamics, as well as the tension between wartime enemies. The survivors’ dignity, quiet strength, and fellowship make this a magical read.”—Publishers Weekly
“An astounding work. Poetic and cinematic as it illuminates the dark corners of human behavior, it is destined to be this decade’s The English Patient.”
—Booklist
“Shors has re-created a tragic place in time, when love for another was a person’s sole companion. He uses lyrical prose throughout the novel, especially in his series of haiku poems that plays an integral role in the love story, and develops accessible, sympathetic characters.”—Rocky Mountain News
“This story of redemption, love, and friendship is placed against a hideously distorted, morally arid world, one where the prophets, saints, and deities of the great religions have been silenced, but where human decency, even heroism, survives in small, fertile patches.”—The Japan Times
Beneath a Marble Sky
“[A] spirited debut novel. . . . With infectious enthusiasm and just enough careful attention to detail, Shors gives a real sense of the times, bringing the world of imperial Hindustan and its royal inhabitants to vivid life.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Elegant, often lyrical, writing distinguishes this literary fiction from the genre known as historical romance. It is truly a work of art.”
—The Des Moines Register
“Agreeably colorful . . . [with] lively period detail and a surfeit of villains.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An exceptional work of fiction . . . a gripping account.”—India Post
“Highly recommended . . . A thrilling tale [that] will appeal to a wide audience.”—Library Journal
“Evocative of the fantastical stories and sensual descriptions of One Thousand and One Nights . . . What sets this novel apart is its description of Muslim-Hindu politics, which continue to plague the subcontinent today.”
—National Geographic Traveler
“A passionate, lush, and dramatic novel, rich with a sense of place. John Shors is an author of sweeping imaginative force.”
—Sandra Gulland, bestselling author of The Josephine B. Trilogy
“[A] story of romance and passion . . . a wonderful book if you want to escape to a foreign land while relaxing in your porch swing.”—St. Petersburg Times
“It is difficult to effectively bring the twenty-first-century reader into a seventeenth-century world. Shors accomplishes this nicely, taking the armchair traveler into some of the intricacies involved in creating a monument that remains one of the architectural and artistic wonders of the world.”
—The Denver Post
“A majestic novel that irresistibly draws the reader within its saga of human struggles, failings, alliances, and betrayals.”—Midwest Book Review
“Shors . . . creates a vivid and striking world that feels as close as a plane ride.
Most important, he manages to convey universal feelings in a tangible and intimate way. Shah Jahan’s grief isn’t just that of a man who lived centuries ago; it’s a well of emotion felt long before Mumatz Mahal ever lived, and is still felt today. Shors’s ability to tap into that well, and make it so alive, renders the novel as luminous a jewel as any that adorn the Taj Mahal’s walls.”
—ForeWord Magazine
ALSO BY JOHN SHORS
Beneath a Marble Sky
Beside a Burning Sea
New American Library
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, September 2009
Copyright © John Shors, 2009
Map by Jon Craine
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Shors, John, 1969-
Dragon house/John Shors
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-13615-7
1. Americans—Vietnam—Fiction. 2. Street children—Fiction.
3. Self-realization—Fiction. 4. Vietnam—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.H668D73 2009
813’.6—dc22 2009021227
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Mom and Dad
Whose child is this
Who walks the streets
Who cries alone
Who fears the night?
Whose child is this
Who was never a child
Who has not known the touch
Of a loving hand?
Whose child is this
Who dreams of warmth, of bread, of simple things
Who aspires only to survive?
This child is ours.
—ANONYMOUS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In 1965, the United States sent combat troops into Vietnam to thwart a communist takeover of the southern half of the country. Fighting alongside their allies, the South Vietnamese, American forces waged a conventional war against the North Vietnamese, who received substantial logistical support from China and the Soviet Union. In 1975, Saigon fell, and the few remaining American troops were evacuated. During the course of the conflict, about five million soldiers and civilians were killed.
In 1986, the Vietnamese government launched free-market reforms, which led to substantial economic growth. The United States established diplomatic relations with the Socialist Republic of Vietnam in 1995.
PROLOGUE
The Dreams of Another
The hospital room looked as ill as the patient it housed. Though everything was the color of fresh snow, the room’s walls, ceiling, floor, and linens seemed tainted—as if the stains of misery and death had been scrubbed from them too many times. The room smelled not of life, but of chemicals and atrophy. Several bouquets of once-proud flowers leaned limply. Balloons that no longer tugged against their moorings hung in the stale air.
A man who looked older than his sixty-one years lay atop the room’s only bed. He had been a large man, but now only the length of his frame hinted of the shadow he’d once cast. Clear tubes darted into his nose, the back of his hands. A razor hadn’t slid over his face in more than a week, and a gray-and-white beard obscured the blemishes of time that dotted his skin.
His daughter sat beside his bed. She was taller than an average-size man, though her shoulders and waist were slender. Her eyes were as dark as walnuts. Her hair, a comparable color, was unkempt and rife with wide curls. Her face was thin like the rest of her. After thirty-one years of wear, the contours of her forehead and cheeks had been infiltrated by faint wrinkles. At first glance she might have appeared awkward, but when she leaned forward to adjust his blankets, her movements were graceful.
“Are you still cold?” she asked, looking at a bag of clear fluid that hung from a steel post beside him. Her gaze followed a tube that ran from the bag into his flesh. “I could ask for another blanket,” she added, wishing that he weren’t so emaciated, that cancer hadn’t already claimed so much of him.
He tried with little success to shake his head. His forefinger rose and her hand found his. “Do you remember,” he asked faintly, “why I . . . why we chose your name?”
Iris had heard the story and nodded. “But tell me again.”
“I wanted a reminder of the good in the world.”
“Was I?”
“You are . . . the good in the world.”
She smiled, wiping a tear from her cheek with her free hand. “Can I get you anything? Anything at all?”
He closed his eyes, appearing to fall asleep. He soon began to mumble and groan. He continued conversing with someone, though she wasn’t sure whom. She sensed him fading away from her, falling into a distant world, and she leaned closer to him, squeezing his hand. Her grip seemed to bring him back. He opened his eyes. He studied her, recognizing her once again. “I’m sorry. . . . I failed you. Sorry I didn’t . . . give you what I wanted to.”
“Don’t be—”
“My baby girl. My sweet baby girl. I made . . . such a mess of things.”
She brought his hand to her lips, kissing it. “I don’t want you to be sorry. You did your best. That’s what matters.”
“I thought . . . I could leave the war. Be good to your mother. To you. And I tried so hard . . . to leave it.” His eyes glistened. His lips quivered.
She leaned over him, kissing his brow. “I love you.”
He moaned faintly. She’d been told that the painkillers had numbed him to suffering, but still, she worried.
“We had some good times . . . didn’t we?” he asked, his voice no stronger than the rustle of wind passing through leafless limbs.
“Of course we did.”
He nodded.
She realized that he needed to hear about such times, needed to be reminded of what he’d done right. “I remember sitting on your shoulders,” she said, “and walking to Cubs games. Listening to the crowd. Looking at all that grass. I loved those games. Do you know how special I felt? How lucky? I never wanted those afternoons to end.”
A smile, feeble yet poignant, lit his face. “What else?”
She adjusted his pillow, stroked his hair to one side. “I loved it when you picked me up from school. When you took my hand and we walked to the ice-cream store. And you taught me how to ride a bike, and how to put a worm on a hook.” She recalled a photo of the two of them holding a basket of bass, and her eyes began to tear again.
“Don’t cry, my sweet Iris.”
“I don’t want you to go. I’m just not ready for that.”
“I’m so proud of you. Proud that you escaped . . . the world I made for you. Proud of the . . . of the woman you’ve become.”
She started to respond but stopped, aware that he wanted to say something else.
His lungs filled and emptied. “Two things in my life . . . I’ve been proud of. You . . . and my center in Saigon. Y
ou’re both so wonderful.”
Iris stroked the back of his hand, careful to avoid the bruises that covered most of his flesh, the wounds left by needles. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your center,” she replied, trying to hide her apprehension. “I’m going to go, Dad. I’m going to finish what you started. What you almost finished.”
“What?”
“I’ll go to Saigon and see that it’s opened.”
“No.”
“I’ve already decided.”
“But . . . but your reviews. And your novel.”
“I can take everything with me.”
“Iris . . . don’t go for—”
“I want to go. I need to.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. Because it will make you happy. And because you’ll . . . rest better knowing that you helped those children. The beautiful children you’ve told me so much about.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Come here,” he whispered.
She leaned against him, wrapping her arms around him, shuddering when she felt him kiss her head. “I want to go,” she whispered. “I want to see the good that you’ve done.”
“Are you sure? It’s so far from home. From your mother.”
“She understands. She thinks I should go.”
“She does?”
“Yes.”
“And you . . . really want to?”
“I want to do it for you. And those children.”
He licked his cracked lips and she placed a piece of chipped ice in his mouth. “I love you more . . . more than anything else . . . in this world,” he said. “I don’t . . . deserve you. I never have.”
