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By Root 393 0

boy aboard the Latouche Tréville, were meant to be broadly comic. They often were not. Sometimes, even Bão would not laugh after telling them. The young man, according to Bão, was named "Ba." I know the man on the bridge said that that was not his real name. Of course not. Real names, I know, are never exchanged during such encounters, but I was hoping for one all the same. I remember watching his eyes as I said Bão's name. Not a blink, a dart, a dive, nothing but the calmness that favors the eyes of old Buddhist monks or babies after they have been well fed. Only the babies have to be well fed, not the monks. With their lifetime vow of poverty and their begging bowls, old Buddhist monks have long ago grown immune to the effects of a truly good meal. Babies are just beginning their lifetime of addiction. When I think now about the man on the bridge, I waver. Most of the time I am certain, and there are times when I think, No, he was just a man like all the others.

"I left Vietnam when I was twenty-two," said the man whose eyes were again back on the Seine. "I haven't been back since."

His voice trailed off, his words taking a quiet leap into the water below.

At a moment like this, silence was the only appropriate rejoinder I knew. Time, in deference to its reflection, to the spiral-ing sadness that accompanies its consideration, had stopped, taken a breath, and was slowly beginning its journey again, while we stood side by side, two men on a bridge that connected us to neither here nor there. Our hands rested on the railing. Our faces turned toward a river too cold to swim in. What a pity, I have always thought, water that you cannot immerse your body in, worse than a fruit that you cannot eat.

"I have always liked bridges," he suddenly resumed, as if he had heard my complaint about the Seine and was offering the bridge as a consolation. "And you, friend, how about you?"

This time silence on my part told him that, even in this setting, that was an odd thing to say.

"Bridges belong to no one," he continued on anyway. "A bridge belongs to no one because a bridge has to belong to two parties, one on either side. There has to be an agreement, a mutual consent, otherwise it's a useless piece of wood, a wasted expanse of cement. Every bridge is, in this way," he explained, "a monument to an accord. "

"You should really add philosopher' to your list of jobs, friend," I said.

"I apologize. It's been several years since I've been back here. I forget that this city can make me—"

"Sound like a scholar-prince," I said, finishing the sentence for him.

"What? A scholar-prince? Yes, I must sound like an old mandarin to you." He laughed.

"Something like that," I nodded.

"I want to know more about you, friend. What brought you here?" the man on the bridge asked.

"The same thing that brought you here."

"Really?" he asked, his eyes brightening.

Like firecrackers in the night, I thought.

"Yes, a boat," I said.

He laughed again.

That is a very good sign, I thought.

"A boat did bring us all here. How true. I suppose the better question is what keeps you here?"

"I have no family left in Vietnam," I lied.

"I see," he said, shaking his head, visibly moved by the idea of me alone.

"And you, what keeps you here?" I asked.

"You mean what kept me here. I'm just a visitor now, a tourist. And you know how this city can make a tourist feel ... like he's a poor relation, tolerated but not necessarily welcomed."

"This city makes me feel like that, too," I said, "and I have been here for a year now. "

Why, I thought, are they always visiting? Just once, a man with a Paris address, or, rather, a man with a Paris address who will invite me there afterward.

"A year is not so long, friend. I lived here for almost four," said the man on the bridge.

Wishes, believe me, are tricky things, sly even. Precise wording is required. Figurative speech should be avoided. Being specific about date, time, and location is of the utmost importance.

"Where?" I asked.

"In a room." He smiled.

"Tell me the name of the street, and I will tell you