Lost in Paradise




Duệ switched on his high beams as the rain intensified, his growing anxiety mirroring the worsening weather. He had taken his new bride to Yellowstone for their honeymoon, and on the return trip, acting on a whim, he decided to bypass the interstate in favor of a smaller, cross-state route—hoping to shave some time off the journey. By the time they reached Nebraska, dusk had fallen, and dark, heavy clouds blanketed the sky.
Gazing out at the vast, empty fields stretching endlessly on both sides of the road—devoid of any sign of human habitation—Duệ began to regret his decision. To make matters worse, he had been too lazy to refuel when he first left the interstate, and now the low-fuel warning light had flickered on. The rain poured down like a deluge, overwhelming the car’s windshield wipers; Duệ was forced to slow down, straining his eyes to scan the road ahead for a gas station or even a cluster of buildings. Every so often, he cast an anxious glance at his wife, who lay reclined in the passenger seat. She had drifted off to sleep, her hands cradling her head—a migraine had flared up the moment they turned onto this secondary road.
Duệ cursed himself under his breath. He nearly drove right past a small side road, but a sudden flash of lightning illuminated a sign, catching his attention just in time. A directional sign stood on a crooked wooden post—looking as if a strong gust of wind might blow it away—bearing the inscription: "Paradise, population 850." Despite his current anxieties, Duệ couldn't help but smirk; Americans had a peculiar habit of giving strange names to small towns. In nearly every U.S. state, one could find several towns named "Paradise," each home to only a few hundred to a thousand residents, all seemingly content with their quiet, rural existence.
 Duệ turned onto a narrow road that cut through the fields; soon, towering corrugated-metal grain silos appeared on either side, accompanied by a few scattered houses. He pulled into what was likely the town’s only gas station and asked the acne-scarred young man pumping gas:
 "Is there a motel around here?"
 "Go down two more blocks—you’ll see it. That’s the only one,"
The young man replied, his tone curt, as if eager to get back to the football game on TV. Though slightly annoyed, Duệ reminded himself that finding both a gas station and a place to stay—just in time to escape the heavy rain—was a stroke of good fortune. The town’s sole motel was aptly named "Paradise Motel," and Duệ smiled again at the stark contrast between the name and the dilapidated row of rooms. Clicking his tongue, he headed into the office to rent a room.
 Near the door, a red electric sign flashed "Vacancy"—a detail that struck him as amusing; in all likelihood, this motel had never once had the occasion to display a "No Vacancy" sign. Duệ pushed open the door and stepped inside, where he was greeted by a large, heavy-set American woman with a kind, gentle face. He filled out the registration form and asked:
 “Could you tell me if there’s a place to eat nearby?”
The motel owner glanced at the name he had written on the form and asked, sounding surprised:
 “Is your last name really Trần? There’s a place here called ‘Tran’s Chinese Foods’—it’s quite good. The owner, Mr. Trần, has been here for a few years now. This town never had a Chinese restaurant before, so everyone really loves it. Are you related to him?” 
Duệ shook his head. He was surprised to find a Vietnamese person in such a remote, out-of-the-way town—he assumed this Mr. Trần must be Vietnamese. Ever since 1975, it seemed that no matter where one went in the United States, it was possible to run into a fellow countryman who had settled there. Duệ went back to the car to bring his wife into the room; she looked pale, her hands still clutching her head. With a look of concern, Duệ asked:
“Are you feeling very tired? Let me go get some food for you; just try to rest a bit and recover.”
As Duệ left the motel, the rain had begun to ease. He drove off to find the restaurant, following the owner’s directions. A short distance later, he spotted “Tran’s Chinese Foods” by the side of the road. The establishment appeared small and run-down, tucked beneath a large oak tree whose dense, leafy branches seemed to loom over the building. The murky red glow of the sign gave Duệ an impression of something sordid; set against the dark, damp night—punctuated by flashes of lightning—the scene took on a strange, illicit quality. 
Duệ switched off his engine and stepped inside, immediately spotting the proprietor, a man surnamed Trần. What caught his eye first was the man’s left arm, severed near the elbow; the long sleeve of his shirt was gathered and knotted at the stump—a detail that looked almost like a decorative bow, as if the man took a perverse pride in his own mutilation, his demeanor tinged with a defiant, arrogant edge. 
The man stared at Duệ, scrutinizing him with a gaze so sharp and intense it felt as though sparks might fly, leaving Duệ feeling deeply uncomfortable. A sudden sense of unease stirred within him, urging him to leave, but he quickly suppressed the impulse, feeling a bit foolish for his own wandering thoughts.
The proprietor gestured for Duệ to take a seat and handed him a menu, his cold, piercing eyes once again fixed upon him, probing and assessing. He spoke, his voice raspy and thick—with a hint of insolence:
“Are you Vietnamese?”
Duệ smiled and nodded. The man’s expression and gaze softened instantly, and he reached out to shake Duệ’s hand—his grip was rough, calloused, and forceful.
“My name is Vũ. Please, take your pick from the menu. Would you care for some strong spirits?”