° ° °

Miriam sensed that something was amiss early that morning. Nothing felt right! Lữ had been out all night and still hadn't returned. For quite some time now, Lữ’s nights of wandering had become increasingly frequent. The first time Lữ skipped sleeping at home—staying out until dawn before returning—Miriam raised a furious scene. Lữ remained silent, saying nothing, completely indifferent to Miriam’s scathing reproaches. He offered neither apology nor excuse; instead, he calmly washed up, sat down at the table to eat breakfast, and read the newspaper.
 
Miriam grew even more incensed when she saw that Lữ paid absolutely no heed to her anger. To make matters worse, while Miriam glared furiously—grilling her husband and cataloging his offenses—Lữ calmly flipped through the *Wall Street Journal* to check the stock market fluctuations!

Miriam snatched the newspaper and tore it into shreds to vent her rage, but Lữ merely shrugged, changed his clothes, and left for the office. On subsequent occasions when Lữ chose not to sleep at home, Miriam said nothing more. She contemplated filing for divorce but could not bring herself to make the decision. Miriam felt that she still loved Lữ. She wasn't ready to let everything fall apart completely.
 
And so, Miriam tried to rationalize Lữ’s neglect by attributing it to the cultural divide between Asians and Americans! Was this how Asian men were? Incapable of remaining faithful to their wives, even while still loving them? Miriam couldn't help but laugh at the circular nature of her own thoughts. She could scarcely believe that the untamed spirit she had been less than three years ago had now transformed into a submissive, weak-willed woman like the one she saw in herself today!

Miriam confided in Sơn. She felt she had no one else but Sơn to turn to—to ask about Lữ, to gain insight into her own feelings, and to seek guidance regarding her and her husband's future:

"Is it true that Asian men tend to take adultery very lightly, Sơn?"

Miriam asked Sơn one evening when Lữ was away and she had invited Sơn over to talk.
Sơn didn't know how to answer. He knew about the affair between Lữ and Uyên, yet he still felt compelled to defend Lữ. Sơn smiled:

"It’s not just Asians! I think men are pretty much the same, no matter what culture they come from!"

"I’ve heard that Vietnamese men have a penchant for polygamy—that they’re never content with just one wife! Since polygamy isn't allowed here in the States, they resort to having affairs instead. Is that really true, Sơn?"

"Not at all! Over here, everyone is too busy trying to make money and get rich; who has the energy left to even think about having an affair? Of course, there are always exceptions—you get all types—but I honestly don't think the infidelity rate among people living here is as high as the media and books make it out to be. Just earning a living is stressful enough as it is; very few people would dare invite even *more* stress into their lives by having an affair!"
 
Miriam shook her head:

"You’re wrong! The *more* stressed people get, the *more* they crave an affair! It’s a way to escape the monotony—to find some fantasy that helps them forget all their troubles and anxieties!"

She looked at Sơn intently:

"Do you think Lữ is that kind of man, Sơn?"

Sơn felt flustered. He lied to cover for his friend and offer a defense:
 
"Lữ isn't like that, Miriam. Lữ is the type of person who actually becomes *more* energized and stimulated the *more* stress he’s under. He’s not the kind of guy who runs away just to find an escape or chase after fantasies!"

Miriam nodded:

"You’re right! And that’s exactly *why* I’m so worried, Sơn! If Lữ is having an affair, it implies that he must be driven by some incredibly intense passion. I could probably accept it if his affair were purely a physical matter—just about sex. But Lữ is in love with someone else! I can’t even bear to think about it!"

Sơn looked at Miriam with deep sympathy. He couldn't find the right words to comfort her—to ease her anxiety and help her regain her zest for life. For the first time in his life, Sơn felt a sense of unease toward his friend. Or perhaps it was something more than just unease? Could it be—jealousy? A flicker of anger because Lữ had caused Miriam such suffering? Sơn wasn't sure. He felt unsettled by these strange, new sensations.

Sơn felt uneasy sitting there, talking to and comforting Miriam on a night when Lữ had gone astray and failed to come home. It felt just like a scene from one of those melodramatic *cải lương* plays—the kind of sentimental social dramas he used to mock whenever he happened to catch one back in Vietnam.
 
Sơn smiled. Real life, it turned out, was often far more sensational—and far more melodramatic—than anything one could possibly imagine! Nor did he try to deceive himself: he was undeniably captivated by Miriam. Captivated by her beauty—the beauty of a white woman, yet one who still bore the distinct Middle Eastern features of a Jewish people who had wandered in exile for two thousand years.
 
Captivated by her sharp intellect. And by her artistic soul. By the deep sense of empathy that flowed between them whenever they visited art exhibitions together. By their shared tastes in color, form, and music. Even in food and fashion. Miriam resonated with him on every level—like a true kindred spirit, a soulmate.

But could a genuine friendship truly exist between a man and a woman? Sơn didn't believe so. The sexual tension between a man and a woman, he felt, would always be too potent to allow for a purely platonic friendship. And the emotional stirrings born of such deep resonance would—sooner or later—inevitably lead to love. Sơn realized he had fallen in love with Miriam.
 
It was a love that had arrived gently, tentatively, yet grew more palpable with every passing moment. Sơn’s nature was not one to embrace a tempestuous, frenzied love—nor did he desire such a thing. Passion and fervor, he believed, were merely like a fire of burning straw: brilliant for a moment, but quick to burn out. Or like a violent storm that sweeps through, leaving behind only the silence of wreckage and ruin.

Just like the love between Miriam and Lữ! Sơn harbored no ill will toward his friend, yet he was acutely aware of the true nature of the romance between Lữ and Miriam. 
 
Sơn was not surprised by the cracks—now widening into a full-blown collapse—in his friend’s marriage. He felt only a deep unease for having allowed his love for Miriam to blossom—a transgression, both improper and disloyal, against a close friend. Yet, what else could Sơn have done? He could not stem the tide of love rising within his own heart. As for Miriam—he had no desire to seize this opportunity to win her affection in return. Instead, events would simply flow like the currents of destiny.
 
He would do nothing that he might later come to regret vis-à-vis his friend, yet neither would he shy away. Everything has its own time and place. And so, Sơn would simply respond to whatever unfolded—without calculation, without expectation, and without acting in any way contrary to the natural course of the events to come.

 
Chapter 28
 
Miriam threw on a robe and stepped out into the front yard to retrieve the mail. The elderly mail carrier, leaning out of his small delivery vehicle, waved to her in greeting. She nodded and smiled in return. The old man called out:

"I have a registered letter for you."

Miriam was surprised. She rarely received registered mail; stranger still, the letter bore no return address. She hesitated, wondering whether she should accept it. Her intuition warned her that something was amiss. An anonymous letter—yet sent via registered mail and addressed specifically to her. It could only mean trouble.

Miriam went inside and tore open the envelope. Photographs spilled out, scattering across the floor. She picked one up to examine it and felt a sudden wave of dizziness, staggering slightly. The suspicions she had harbored—though never fully certain of—had now become undeniable reality. The anonymous sender had sent her photographs proving Lữ’s infidelity.

There was a picture of Lữ with the Vietnamese woman Miriam had encountered a few times at receptions hosted by VietCal Investments—the woman who had recently become Lữ’s business partner in his latest investment ventures. Miriam recalled her name: Uyên. Yes—that alluring woman, the wife of the loan officer at the bank where Miriam had gone to sign the paperwork for the business loan Lữ needed.
 
Miriam went through the rest of the photographs. There were shots of Lữ embracing and kissing Uyên in front of a hotel entrance. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the small lettering on the hotel sign in the background: Holiday Inn. They had been dating and meeting at this very hotel. On those nights when Lữ had stayed out all night, failing to return home, they had been sleeping together—making love—right there.
 
Miriam stared at the smiling, radiant faces of Lữ and Uyên in the photographs, and she was seized by a blinding rage. The faces of two people utterly satisfied and blissful after a night of intimacy. And still, as if reluctant to part, they clung tightly to one another at the hotel entrance before finally bidding farewell and going their separate ways.

Miriam suddenly felt a wave of nausea, a sickening lurch in her stomach. She recalled the times Lữ had come home late—times when, to soothe her anger, he would make amends and make love to her as a form of compensation. Miriam bit her lip so hard she nearly drew blood. He had done that immediately after sleeping with Uyên! She suddenly felt defiled, violated—as if she herself had been assaulted. Lữ had no right to do that!

Miriam had known that Lữ was unfaithful to her on those nights he failed to come home. Yet she had continued to deceive herself, lacking any concrete proof. Just as she had lacked a face—or even a name—to serve as tangible evidence of Lữ’s infidelity. Perhaps, she had told herself, Lữ was merely sowing his wild oats with prostitutes or casual one-night stands, and that he still loved only her. Miriam had clung to that hope; she could have accepted Lữ’s philandering if that were the extent of it.

But with these photographs—sent by an anonymous hand—the truth now stood revealed, stark and undeniable. The love between her and Lữ was truly dead; nothing remained of it. Lữ had a mistress—another passion entirely. A woman of his own kind had supplanted Miriam in Lữ’s heart. And suddenly, Miriam was seized by doubt: Had Lữ ever truly loved her at all? Or had she merely been a novel attraction—an exotic curiosity—when he first arrived in this land, still wet behind the ears? And now, had she simply become too familiar—a territory fully explored, with nothing left to discover?

Then there was Lữ’s insatiable desire for wealth. And her own assets. Miriam thought with bitter cynicism that, perhaps, Lữ had never loved her in the slightest. Like a blindfolded person suddenly having the cloth removed from their eyes, Miriam now saw the brutal, unvarnished truth of the affair between herself and Lữ. She had never wanted to dwell on matters of money, nor would she entertain the fleeting thoughts that occasionally crossed her mind—that Lữ had sought her out solely for the sake of Don Lavitz’s fortune.
 
Miriam was a proud woman. Given her beauty—and the allure she had proven time and again through her many past romances with other men—Miriam believed that Lữ loved her for herself alone; his interest in her wealth was, she assumed, merely a secondary consideration.

But now, confronted with irrefutable evidence of Lữ’s infidelity, Miriam felt profoundly wounded; her broken pride flared up like a raging storm. To Lữ, she meant nothing at all. It had all been about money. Lữ had pursued her—and married her—solely to satisfy his own ambition for wealth. And once he had come into his own—once he had established a solid business foundation and amassed enough personal assets that he no longer needed to rely on her—Lữ had begun to commit adultery openly, making no effort whatsoever to conceal it.

Miriam flew into a violent rage, thrashing about like a wounded wild beast. She smashed every glass and cup in the house, overturned tables and chairs, and hurled whatever she could lay her hands on. She imagined that, had Lữ been present in that moment, she might well have killed him—and let the consequences be damned. Don Lavitz had never wanted her to fall in love with Lữ; he had never wanted her to marry him. Yet she had defied her father, placing her faith in herself—and in the love she believed existed between herself and Lữ.
 
Now, with bitter irony, Miriam realized that her father had been right all along. The chasm separating the two of them was simply too vast, and their differences too profound, for their love to ever have endured. Worst of all was the dawning realization that, perhaps, Lữ had never truly loved her at all. Or perhaps Lữ simply lacked the capacity for love—at least not the kind of love she had envisioned, the kind she had defined for herself—a love she had believed to be real, only to discover, in the end, that it was nothing more than an illusion.
 
Miriam’s frenzied rage began to subside. She slumped onto the sofa, cradled her head in her hands, and sank into thought. Weariness and despair began to take hold, gradually displacing her fury. She felt like someone who had lost everything, left with nothing but a terrible emptiness. Miriam turned her mind to what needed to be done.
 
She envisioned Don Lavitz’s face—and her father’s comforting smile—just as she remembered it from her childhood, whenever she fell while learning to ride a bicycle or a horse. Miriam wanted to prove to her father that she was still Don Lavitz’s daughter: she would never allow anyone to pity her, nor would she ever let anyone inflict harm upon her without exacting retribution.

Miriam picked up the phone and dialed a number. A voice answered from the other end of the line:

“This is the Law Offices of Leibovitz. How may we be of assistance?”