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took a camera out of its case and she twirled into a playful pose. Life was still a game to her. This, I would learn, was one state of happiness.
    “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” I framed her against the tracks.
    “Carven by Elizabeth Arden.” She knew to look away from the lens.
    “French?” In my viewfinder, her long hair was as dark as steel.
    “From Paris.” She turned her face, suddenly mysterious.
    “It’s lovely.”
    At the time, most college girls hadn’t considered accentuating their beauty, but Anh knew enough to choose one of the most expensive and subtle fragrances on the market. It seemed amazing to me that she came from Phan Thiet, the same backwater fishing town where I had spent last summer teaching.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I might buy a bottle for myself since I’ll miss the scent.”
    She gave an un-ladylike snort and pinched me.
    I never told her it was this perfume that had first caught my attention.
    It was a Sunday, three weeks prior. I had a day’s leave from the army camp. My barracks buddies tramped around town on their usual weekend routine, looking for girls to escort to their afternoon coffee by the lake and, hopefully, an evening dance at the clubs as well. I begged off to go hiking with plans of taking a series of photographs of Dalat’s waterfalls. I was fiddling with my camera on the side of the trail when I caught the scent of her as she walked past with a little girl. They held hands and hummed a folksy tune. What happened next was an impulsive move, quite out of character for me. I trotted back down the trail, oddly compelled by a need to see her face.
Pardon me, Miss. Could you tell me the way to Cam Ly Waterfall?
I used my friendliest tone. But then she smiled her smile, the smile that bloomed like wonder itself. It was as simple and elegant as that. It rendered me speechless. Before she uttered a word, I was already consumed with a singular desire, a wanton need, to win this girl for myself.
             
    T HERE was time for an early lunch, so we caught a ride with an army truck back toward town. It left us on the shore of the Lake of the Fragrance of Spring. We walked as we had for all our outings. We leaned close, held hands, pecked each other on the cheek, allowing ourselves, as tourists, small public displays of affection. Bend after bend, the road was hazy and quiet, save for housewives walking to market with woven satchels tucked under their arms. Bicyclists pedaled sleepily down the center of the unmarked road, undisturbed by the occasional three-wheeled Lambretta taxis grunting past, crammed with up to eight passengers. Once in a long while, a local bus, a truck with benches, came through on its rounds. When a real car came down the road, people turned to look.
    Dalat was still a quaint resort town, tucked high in the cool mountains at the end of the rail line, surrounded by conifer forests, trout streams, waterfalls, and lakes. Earlier, it had been a retreat for the French, who regularly fled the stifling heat of the lowlands. These days it was a vacation destination for rich Vietnamese and top-level government officials. European-style villas dotted the hills, and tiny bungalows hid in the woods, joined by meandering gravel paths. Three asphalt streets flanked with little shops and two-story buildings coiled around two hills, forming the town’s business district. It was small and rustic enough to permit visitors a proprietary sense of belonging.
    We paused and took a picture beneath the big pine tree by the ice cream parlor where we had spent the entire afternoon of our first date. I took another photo of her standing at the trailhead where we had embarked three times to a creekside clearing where we picnicked on roasted chicken, baguettes, fruits, and lotus-scented tea. Then another snapshot at the cozy alcove of rocks that sheltered us from a storm. I clicked through the entire roll, feeling helpless that I couldn’t possibly capture her