Love Like Hate Read Online Free Page A

stares, a Viet Kieu of Hoa’s age glared at Kim Lan, shaking his head. “Good good!” she smiled at him, waving a drumstick. The other two English words she knew were “money” and “mama.” She scrutinized the Viet Kieus’ clothes for clues on how to dress her daughter.
You must look like them if you want to attract them
, she figured. She also took Hoa to the Baskin-Robbins downtown to sample all forty flavors of American ice cream. When Lotteria opened on Nguyen Dinh Chieu Street, Kim Lan and Hoa were among the first to enter. They quickly became fans of the hot squid, rye shrimp and bulgogi burgers. They never found out that Lotteria wasn’t American, but Korean fast food.
    Lotteria is actually a Japanese company. Why would a Japanese company peddle Korean versions of American fast food under an Italian name? Lotteria is a subsidiary of Lotte Co. Ltd. Its founder, Takeo Shigemitsu, named his baby after Charlotte in
The Sorrows of Young Werther
. He wanted his company’s products to be as endearing as Charlotte, and as enduring as Charlotte. Lotte manufactures gum, chocolate and soft drinks. Besides fast-food joints, it owns hotels,department stores, a theme park and a baseball team, the Chiba Lotte Marines of Japan’s Pacific League. Even with Goethe batting cleanup, it hasn’t won a pennant in thirty years.
    A new Saigon fad appeared in 1993. Street vendors started to sell used clothing known as AIDS clothes, not after the disease, but because they had been given by Western aid organizations. For fifty cents you could have an AIDS T-shirt donated the year before by some churchgoer from Toledo, Ohio. For two bucks you could own a frayed pair of AIDS jeans. AIDS belts, purses, shoes and underwear were also available. Kim Lan wouldn’t let Hoa touch AIDS clothes. “Sooner or later you’ll die from them. I’ll buy you real American clothes.”

4THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS OHIO
    I n March 2001, Kim Lan had a phone installed in the house. It was a marvelous yellow thing that she placed in a custom-made box with a lock, to prevent the servants from dialing their home villages. Like the TV, the phone box was covered with a frilly piece of cloth to keep the dust away. She bought her first TV at twenty-five, her first fridge at twenty-eight, and now her first phone at fifty-four. She had been on a speeding train already so an airplane should be just around the corner. She would fly to America after Hoa had moved there. Who knows, she might be destined for hot water and a flush toilet yet. She had read in
Today’s Knowledge
about a flying car they were developing. At this rate, she’d be rocketed to the moon on her deathbed.
    Kim Lan marveled at the small machine connecting her to the rest of the world. At any moment—but cheaper on weekends, of course—she could dial Japan or Uganda, and talk to a real foreigner on the other side. With hardly anyone to call, however, she often picked up the phone just to hear its beeping pulse. As if heeding her wish to communicate with the beyond, a letter arrived for her from a Viet Kieu that same month. On a sunny afternoon, a young mailman stopped his motorbike in front of her café and shouted, “Mrs. Kim Lan. You have a letter!”
    She walked to the curb to retrieve it from him. There was no name over the return address: 903 Stryker Street, Archbold, OH 43502, USA. Kim Lan had never received a letter from America sothis was very exciting stuff. A letter from America also meant a tip was expected. She gave it to the mailman, went back inside, ripped the envelope open and read:
    My Dear Kim Lan
,
    I’m writing to you from America. I’ve been here for eight years already. I have a good job and everything is OK. I’ve learned English and I’m working at a chicken packing plant. It’s a very hard job and it doesn’t pay very much, but I’m just happy to have a job. If I could endure fifteen years in prison, then of course I can handle this job in America. I have no hurt