Doctor Vu leans back on his recline leather armchair and lights his kreteks, his black suitcase leans against the leg of his footrest. He tilts his head back and let outs a long breath, white puff crawled out of his dry lips. His fingers rest lightly on the armrests on either sides of him, sometimes tapping once or twice as he gazes out the window.

Great pines spawned along the sidewalk hang their branches sleepily. Heavy, massive blankets of gray clouds cover up the sky, only occasionally reveals a white-blue spot, casting shadow that engulfed the tense quiet underneath. Distance thunder rumbles, signals yet another night storm about to savage the City. But for now, the forecast is clear.

Doctor Vu has carried his recorder out and places it on the stand by his chair. It’s a huge, dusty silver-coloured mass of knobs and rectangles and lines. There are two black speakers on either sides. The recorder is at least five decades old, according to Doctor Vu. It was the first and last thing that his family was able to ship to him before they got massacred in 1945, charged as American spies. When Doctor Vu told her the story, the look in his eyes were ranging impassive, black and coiling, as if he tried to bury his fury underneath a lake of nonchalant.

In the kitchen, Maisie Watson tinkles with the homemade cherry pie. Softly, timidly, the smell of rising sweet-sour flour creeps through all corner of the house. She clicks on the inner light and peers inside the oven, the batter bubbles and bloats with vicious air. Half of the dough has crusted white.

She turns her attention back to the shimmering water on the stove. She opens the cabinet and steps on a two-step ladder to reach for the dry green tea leaves package.

“Brew coffee today, Mai,” Doctor Vu says from the living room. “Our guest today doesn’t like tea.”

Maisie Watson puts the green tea back in place and finds the shiny, red Trung Nguyen cylinder container that has been pushed to the very far end of the container, barricade behind a wall of meat process equipments. “Yes, Sir.” She says quietly.

“The coffee filter is in the lower drawer, besides the knife holder.” Doctor Vu says, after a moment of hearing her rummaging through the pans and pots.

“Thank you.”

Maisie Watson places the filter over a glass cup’s mouth and fills half of the tray with coffee powder. Carefully, she pours the boiling water into the other half of the tray. The powder forms clumps, floating to the surface. She stirs the coffee thoroughly, watching a steady small stream trickling, then flips the top close.

The coffee droplets makes a tip-tip-tip sound, filling in the silence.

Doctor Vu continues to smoke.

The black cassette give a white-noise whirring as it unspools the music, while the old recorder blears the symphony into hissing static lines.

Maisie Watson flits about, and trashes the entire withering flower bundles. She keeps the fresh-looking petals in a big bowl and switches the blue jade vase for the red, fat, low and wide-necked one with an elegant Chinese painting. It would go better with the colour scheme, considering the green silk tablecloths and white china utensils.

She fills the vase up to the top and sprinkles the saved petals atop, then sets it at the table centre. It’s a little, treasured thing she learns from the two-week housekeeping for Madame Lasier. There are only two rules Madame has stressed: The piece should not go above the chin level and does not take up the utensil set space. Madame Lasier always likes to have a centrepiece on the dining table, especially during a party event like Christmas and New Year. Maisie Watson remembers Madame’s one-of-the-time gentle voice clearly, the memory tender and swell in her head. Madame had said it provides an aesthetic sense to the house and injects life to the house. However, Maisie Watson was unsure. It looks mostly the same, the rooms are still cold and lifeless. But after awhile, she concludes that the centrepiece is there as an excuse if one needs stare at it while deliberately avoiding a question.

Her train of thought is interrupted by the Ding of the oven finished its baking cycle. She quickly takes it out, punctuates dots with a bamboo toothpick, blowing at the rising hot air. She had the other pie already cooling off in the fridge for serving, this second pie will be the take-home portions. Doctor Vu has said the Vietnamese is all about food. You buy your way through someone’s heart through their stomach. And thus, whenever a special client shows up, it goes unsaid they will come fed and happy. Like stuffing a turkey before Thanksgiving, the Doctor joked.

Doctor Vu abruptly grinds his cigarette butt to the ashtray and swings his feet on the ground. “They’re here.” He says curtly as he standing up at the window, straightening the front of his pale-blue dress shirt. He tugs at his tie, making sure the end covers the belt buckle.

Maisie Watson quickly sticks the pie inside the cooler. She takes off her apron and pads out of the kitchen, hovering behind the mahogany table. Unconsciously, she smoothes a thumb over the tablecloths, twirling at the edge of her shawl, pushing the nervous wave of bile rising down when she sees the outlines of the Doctor’s body suddenly go rigid.

She can tell this client is extremely important, for Doctor Vu has rarely gives the courtesy to wait for someone in advance. She has never really noticed the differences between a regular client to a special one, aside from the fact that the special ones dressed in a more wealthy-manner and come with an identical black suitcase like of the Doctor.

‘Round the corner, an odd pair of figures emerged.

She cannot make out the details, but she knows there are a tall, lanky white man with a fedora, and a short, cunning black boy who seems to be alert at every movement around him. They walk with a leisure hurried, lips moving but eyes looking dead ahead.

Doctor Vu murmurs something displeased in Vietnamese.

The pair cross the street. Seconds later, there is a sharp knock on the door. Consciously, it seems, Doctor Vu takes his time to cross and welcomes the guest.

“Galsworth, what a pleasant surprise.” Doctor Vu says calmly. The eerie calm before a storm.

“Congratulation, Vu. Or should I address you as Headmaster, now?” Galsworth, the white man with a voice bolded with ages and experience, replies. His faded sun-kissed hair and crisp black suit blended into the monotone ashy background.

“Come in,” Doctor Vu shepherds the pair in. The screen door slams shut behind them. “You did not mention you’d bring him.”

The black, young man glares up at the mention of him. He steps up and extends his hand. “Giles Duplessis, M. L’Assistant de Galsworth. Nice to meet you, Sir.” He says with a well-rounded sincerity. He’s in a similar suit as Galsworth, carrying a suitcase, his intense, dark amber eyes sparkles.

“He’s a last-minute bothersome. Don’t mind him.” Galsworth waves, his schooled amused expression contrasts with Doctor Vu’s mildly downturned mouth.

For a second, Doctor Vu seems to size up the stick-figure standing in front of him, amusement flickered on his square-jaw face. But, in the end, he ignores Duplessis’s outstretched hand.

“This is Maisie, my housekeeper,” Doctor Vu gestures her to come close, placing a hand behind her back.

She shuffles forward, gives them a small nod and a smile, curling her fists around her shawl. “Hello, Sir.” The warmth on Doctor Vu’s palm spreads lazily all over her body. She pushes down a blush, trying hard to get her head off the false possessive tone in the Doctor’s voice.

“I didn’t know that Assistants would also be the housekeepers.” Galsworth says, his eyes glinting.

Doctor Vu swallows his contempt. “Take a seat, gentlemen,” Doctor Vu leads the pair to the dining table.

As the men brush by, the black boy’s eyes catch her. A jolt of electricity shocks her, warning.

Maisie Watson hands Doctor Vu’s his suitcase and hurriedly brings out the cherry pie, chill and refreshing from hours in the fridge, and serves them up. Duplessis murmurs Thank you, Ma’am, his fingertips touch hers as she passes his plate to him.

“Treat GD as air, Vu. He has been eager to see other Soul Masters. Running errands day in and day out wears down his adventurous spirit, or so he claimed.”

“Of course.” Doctor Vu conceals his sharp glare under his smooth talk. Duplessis keeps a blank face. “Although, I’d appreciate it if you could have tell us in advance. We don’t want to be view as rude.”

Maisie Watson brings on the coffee for Galsworth and cold water for Doctor Vu. The two men had settled at opposite of each other, while Duplessis takes a seat besides Galsworth, sticking out like a sore thumb. The Doctor steeples as he watches Duplessis from the corner of his eyes.

“Coffee?” Maisie Watson whispers to Duplessis.

“Ah, no, thanks, Ma’am. Thank you, though.”

“How’s Wintermere? I hear there is a snowstorm coming for you, eh?”

Galsworth doesn’t answer right away. He lifts the coffee filter and awkwardly takes a short sip, covering his grimace with a throat clearing.

“Vietnamese original.” Doctor Vu smiles. “Too bitter for your taste?”

“May I’ve some milk, or sugar, perhaps?” Galsworth says. Maisie Watson provides him both. He douses a generous amount of sugar into his coffee, much more than what she perceived of a strong, hardened man like him.

“We like things strong and pure,” The Doctor leans slightly back on his chair, raising his chin. “Foreigners often don’t have a strong-enough stomach for these.”

Galsworth’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I beg to be differ. Milk and coffee go great together, no?”

The two men lock gazes with each other. Doctor Vu juts his chin out, a stubborn gesture.

Maisie Watson slowly backs into the kitchen as she senses the nonsense weather chat has brewed into the forbidden ground that she isn’t supposed to know. The quiet shush of her socks against the wooden floor is enough to crack the tenseness between Galsworth and Doctor Vu.

“Stay, Mai,” The Doctor says, taking the chance to look away from Galsworth. “Mr. Galsworth might need some more sugar.”