The best is when we stop for corkscrew, pinkie-sized snails. This time, we pay the vendor’s son to watch the Hondas because eating snails requires sitting down with full concentration. The snails come out steamed in a basket. You hold a snail in one hand, a sewing pin in the other. With skill, you use the pin to pull out the meat without breakage. If done right you get a string of curly meat, which is dipped in red-hot, garlicky, diluted fish sauce and brought to your mouth without dripping one drop. The stuff stinks more than the squids and if spilled it will take the kind of vigorous scrubbing that might remove your skin.
Van is an expert, taught by his big sis, Chị BêBê. He presents Anh Minh with a perfect piece of curly meat because he’s in awe of the boy who won the scholarship where he was ranked thirty-sixth.
“I was only second and would not have gotten it if Út’s sister had not declined,” Anh Minh says.
“Why would anyone be dumb enough to refuse an experience overseas?”
“Every new school year she must sit in the back for weeks before slowly advancing to the front row. But she remembers everything she reads and hears. If that’s dumb, I wish I were.”
“I apologize. I’m so envious of everyone. Poor kids whose smarts extend to the clouds. Rich kids who get tutors and come out ahead. They receive tutoring from the same teachers who give out the tests,” insists Van.
“The teachers tutor because their salaries aren’t enough to survive. Consider the children who never get to enter the competition because their parents cannot afford kindergarten.”
I feel so grown-up listening to them, although I’m sad. Why can’t everyone go to kindergarten? It makes me feel like I don’t know much. What else do I not know?
“Is everyone so driven?” I ask Anh Minh. “Where are the lazy, slacker kids?”
He laughs. “That’s the privilege of those whose parents have achieved the top ranks. For the rest of us, we’re all reaching for security, status, satisfaction. The same goals parents everywhere want for their children, only here the children want it even more for themselves.”
A cell rings. It’s Van’s, who relays that his sister heard from Chị Quỳnh Huyền who heard from Cô Nga the dentist who heard from her sister Cô Hạnh that we must return immediately to the dentist’s home. Bà is arriving in one hour and this evening we fly to the South. For a second I’m disappointed and wonder if Bà would go without me. Anh Minh’s list of attractions does extend to two pages. Guilt, though, strikes me hard. I remember the reason for this trip and stand up.
I’m in front of the dentist’s house, picking yet another armful of mosquito-proof grass. It’s a weed, a grow-anywhere, in-any-dirt weed. Of course, I harassed Út about her holdout. “You didn’t ask,” she said, barely looking up from her precious froggy jars. Anh Minh said the grass makes him itch worse than any mosquito bite. “Concentrate on making your blood salty, miss.” Oh, that’s so easy to do.
The detective and guard arrive in Honda Ôms. How young and hip. I bow to both, then pull the detective to the back courtyard.
“No tell alley Cô Nga.” I don’t know the translation for alley.
The detective leans in, listens, then pretends he doesn’t understand. I repeat myself, pantomiming surprised faces and mopeds slipping on greasy dirt.
“Ah,” goes the detective.
“Hurt many speak if.” I fold my hands into a prayer, and say, “Pllleeeaaassseee.”
The detective starts talking, always a bad sign, and I catch something about disobedient children and consequences. That’s when I yell for Anh Minh.
Anh Minh informs the detective that if he tells Cô Nga, then Cô Nga will fire Chị QH, then Chị QH will never write a letter for Chị BêBê, who won’t be able to help Van with his dreams of studying overseas. Back and forth they go. The result: the detective insists it’s his duty to report our stupidity. Ugh!
“Miss, you must provide him with somethin’ he yearns for, otherwise what is your bargainin’ power?”
“What does he want?”
“The question is what do you have?”
Five captured frogs (I can claim half, right?), inadequate capri pants, dried food bought weeks ago, a matching set of glowing-charcoal mask and hat, a suitcase full of grass—then I remember what else is stuffed in the suitcase. His powdery notebook.
The detective jumps higher than I thought possible.
“At once I must reclaim it to my possession.”
Not so fast. Translation: he will get it back at the airport when Bà, Dad, and I board for LAX, provided he clears all obstacles so Bà can get her wish. And of course he must keep my and Út’s adventure in the alley to himself. Deal?
The detective tries to intimidate me with glaring eyes buried in deep sockets and protected by twisty, salted-caterpillar eyebrows. I stare right back even though the young are not supposed to stare at the old. But this is an emergency.
“Children today! What will become of society?”
I don’t blink. Actually, I do because I’m human, but I don’t blink a lot. The detective finally sighs, not having anything to counterbargain with.
Then I remember Dad is supposed to be meeting us here. Anh Minh translates and the detective shakes his head. “A case so urgent that he must meet us in Sài Gòn.”
It figures. I’m so going to complain and complain when I see him. Bà is his mother, Ông is his father, hello, can he not make some time for them? I, on the other hand, have been solid from day one. When home, I’m going to bring this up every chance I get.
Anh Minh says he must go pack because he and Út are going back to the village in the same van that should be bringing Bà soon. I’m sad to see him go, so I ask if he’s ever been to Saigon, maybe he’d like to go with us. I know better than to ask Miss Busy with Frogs in Jars.
“No, miss, I have not the time. Too much preparation before school. And I cannot allow you to go south without knowin’ that it is Sài Gòn, two words, both downward tones, not Saigon, and to be truly updated, the city has been renamed Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh since the war ended. Never write Hochiminh City, it is so many ways wrong. And it is Việt Nam, two words, the first a deep and glottal tone, not Vietnam. Historically . . .”
This is what I get for being considerate? Who can tell the difference except a true Vietnamese? Why be so picky? But I can’t reason with him because he’s going on and on about what foreigners did to his beloved language. Yawn.
We hear a van out front. I leave Anh Minh talking to the wind and run to Bà. I hug her and she hugs me back. As always, I sink into Tiger Balm and BenGay and soft, cool silk. How insane to think I could miss being with her when she finally reads Ông’s message. It’s her turn.
CHAPTER 28
Bà and I are stuck in a tiny, noisy hotel room. I thought Dad was obsessed with saving money, but the detective outfrugals (a word?) him by far. He and the guard wouldn’t even stay here with us, saying it’s too fancy. They’re rooming somewhere else.
Bà and the guard talked forever yesterday, so quiet and private that even though I spied I couldn’t hear a thing. I finally gave up and went to pack for Saigon, I mean Sài Gòn, taking care to switch the detective’s notebook to Bà’s bag just in case he’s sly enough to search mine. I know he would never touch Bà’s private belongings . . . simply not done.
When they dropped us off at this hotel late last night, the detective admonished us to stay put until he returns.
“Ði bao lâu?” I asked how long he would be gone. Let’s move it, this is my last obstacle, then home home home.
“Không biết.” Of course the detective didn’t know, then he launched into a long agonizing explanation. By then I had found a fascinating crack on the ceiling.
Whatever the detective and guard are doing it’s got to be better than sitting in a tiny room without a TV or even a real fan. When I turned ours above level 2, the whole thing shut down.
As for Dad, surprise, he’s not here. Here’s Mom on the detective
’s phone: “Don’t worry, he will be there. The little boy had to have surgery again and is not recovering well. But Dad will meet you there.”
It’s pointless to complain to Mom about Dad. They are a halo-ish couple doing halo-ish work and they always stick together. Bà, of course, understands her son’s dilemma, saying, “If he cannot arrive, it’s already more than enough that you are here.” I think speaking in Vietnamese makes her unreasonably diplomatic. I might as well try to speak more of it.
Bà napped while I ordered room service for breakfast and lunch. Both times the waiter brought baguettes and triangles of cow cheese. I don’t know if that was what they thought I ordered or if that was all they had. My Vietnamese is much better live, where people can see my expressions and gestures. I’ve started eating the fluffy beef jerky and dried banana sheets that have been jammed inside my backpack for weeks. Food is food.
I’m so bored, the kind where you bite off all your nails and wish they’d grow back instantly so you could bite them again.
I could try pronouncing each word in the book Út gave me. She pressed it into my hand before I climbed into the van for the airport. Didn’t say anything, just ran off. What kind of a good-bye is that? I wasn’t going to hug her, honest. I’m thinking of asking Mom and Dad to buy her a ticket to Laguna next summer. They do owe me. Montana will be out of her mind offering makeover tips, and Út will swat her off. I can’t wait.
Út chose a book completely in Vietnamese. Like a preschooler, I did a picture read. It stars a frog, of course. Bà said in this folktale a frog goes to heaven to ask for rain during a long drought. I will have to learn to read Vietnamese. It can’t be that hard. Every little kid here has learned it.
“Máy giờ rồi con?” Bà is awake, asking for the time. Finally.
It’s late afternoon. Out the window the world has reinvigorated after nap time. Oh no, SAT alert. Have I succeeded in abolishing them or did I not notice using them? Who cares, they’re embedded inside me. Accept them.
“Bà đói quá.” Bà says she’s hungry. Score! That means she would never settle for a stale baguette and last-forever, nonrefrigerated cheese. She never eats dairy, saying it puts bubbles in her stomach. That’s her delicate way of alluding to farts. I love the word fart, which has art in it. Who doesn’t like art? Do you see how bored I am?
We are preparing to leave the hotel. I’m beyond the beyond excited, as I’ve played every possible mind game in this room. Every crack already imagined as an animal, every ceiling stain a face. One has averted eyes and a shy smile, so HIM. Bà puts on her traveling suit, meaning she plans on staying out for a while. Happiness!
As soon as we step outside we go right back in. The air is ten times hotter than up north. Okay, I’m going to stop exaggerating. Five times hotter.
“We must ask for damp cloths or the heat of Sài Gòn will drain us in half an hour.”
She sits in the lobby while I talk/pantomime at the front desk. It’s literally one wooden desk with one man behind it. He also played waiter when I called for room service. He understands exactly what I want but refuses to hand over the cloths because the detective berated him into keeping us in the hotel/jail. Everyone fears Bà and I will get run over or mugged or lost. I have to call Bà over.
“Why should I fear my own city? I once knew the name of every flowering tree and the date each would open its petals to greet spring.”
“The gentleman was adamant that you both must not leave our protection.”
Bà holds out her gentle, grandmotherly hand, and the man has no choice but to reach into the square, single-person refrigerator behind him and pull out two folded cloths, wet, cold, and smelling of orange peels. Mom thought she was being green by composting citrus peels. I’m going to teach her to never buy air or fabric freshener again.
We step back outside, the cloths pressed tight against our napes. Shockingly better, like carrying around personalized air conditioners. We walk, holding hands along a wobbly sidewalk where we have to maneuver for space at each step. Our feet touch food baskets and stools and blankets holding endless things for sale. Most of all, we step around people, sitting or squatting or standing five deep. Noises ring out like millions of frogs. I must be missing a certain someone. As for the smells, I must be acclimating because everything has mingled into this scent called life.
Bà points across the street. A sign on a pole between two baskets says BÁNH CANH. That’s her favorite food, the only time Mom and Dad could get her to leave the house.
But the vendor sits all the way across the street. Swarms of beeping mopeds zigzag past us in both directions. I didn’t think it was possible, but traffic here makes Hà Nội look like a country town.
We step off the sidewalk, take two steps, get back on. Our cloths are getting warm. The man at the hotel desk must have been watching because he’s right here, saying he’ll get the soup for us.
Bà shakes her head. “One cannot eat bánh canh cold, and the noodles must never sit in the broth.”
No doubt he has a grandmother and knows better than to argue. He takes Bà by the arm. I hang on to her blouse tail.
“The trick calls for not looking at any driver but listening to the engines,” he says.
We step into the death zone, pause for two mopeds, step forward, pause for four mopeds, step forward, pause, step, pause, step, and we’re across with limbs attached. I didn’t do much, but I’m impressed with myself. The man jots back across like he’s doing the cha-cha-cha, pausing and stepping in a joyful rhythm.
Most customers are squatting, holding bowls and chopsticks to their mouths, and sucking in thick, white noodles. Someone offers Bà a plastic chair, the kind you’d see in preschool. All over Vietnam, skinny and agile people sit on miniature chairs. Bà is lucky to get one. As I said, this is the land to be old in. Knees to her chin, Bà calls for two bowls. I can squat and eat with the best of them.
The seller sees us and nods. She rinses two bowls in a pot of grimy, dark water, dries them with an equally grimy towel, then by some miracle she pulls out a bacterial wipe, the kind that kills everything on contact. She skips this last step for the locals. Fine by me.
Her two baskets contain the entire bánh canh operation. One has the broth pot, kept hot somehow, with containers of noodles and veggies arranged on the lid. The other basket holds the rinse water, bowls, chopsticks. When the seller is ready to leave this spot, she’ll put her stool on the pot lid, then carry away the baskets already attached to standing handles. The baskets swing on a pole balanced on her shoulder, one basket in front, one in back. How many times have I seen this image? Of course she’s wearing soft, black pants and a cone hat. It’s so Vietnam, I mean, Việt Nam!
After two bowls each, we’re really thirsty. All we want is water, but none can be bought. Merchants around us do sell every kind of soda, but never diet ones because as far as I can tell no one is on a diet.
“Why would you pay for water when you can boil it at home?” one vendor asks while trying to sell us warm, carbonated orange drinks. So not the same.
We wander to a fruit stand and buy longans because I’ve always loved them. After peeling the hard brown shell, they look like eyeballs and after eating you get to spit out black-pupil seeds. Sugary and sticky, the fruit makes me even thirstier. But it’s worth it.
“Let’s get drinks from our hotel, get new cloths, and go visiting,” Bà suggests. I don’t know whom we’re visiting but, of course, yes.
Problem: the hotel stands way on the other side.
We hold hands, step off the sidewalk. Mopeds roar past us like gigantic dragonflies. We step back on. I can hear Bà inhaling deeply. Then she holds up one palm to the traffic. Forward. Traffic weaves around us, pausing, speeding, swerving, beeping. Bà doesn’t glance at any driver, keeps marching. No moped can go that fast, but I swear some come within hairlines of us. I expect to be hit any moment. Please, please, please, let my head remain undented. I couldn’t stand it so I look at the drivers. They d
odge us, slowing, braking, almost bored they’re so used to maneuvering like guppies in an overcrowded tank. One looks like it’s aiming right for us. I close my eyes. Suddenly, we’re across!
Bà smiles like I’ve never seen before, long teeth flashing, cheekbones lifted high. If she can cross the street in Saigon, I mean, Sài Gòn, which seems twenty times more congested than Hà Nội, all right, five times, what else can she do?
The detective is waiting in the lobby, marching back and forth, one familiar, leathery finger waving at the front deskman. Seeing us, he has a new aim for that finger.
“Why have you risked going out? What if you were injured? We have not come this far to have our plans ruined by a moped collision.”
He really is upset because I can understand every word. Bà just smiles and asks for water, which someone in the hotel has boiled and stored in glass bottles. We drink and drink and buy more.
“You must register the importance of remaining within this locale and be prepared to leave the instant I require your presence.” Oh no, his vocabulary is resurging.
Bà sits down, eyes closing as she asks, “Have you seen the letter?”
The detective gives the most impatient sigh. “The guard in spite of my insistence has not divulged the exact nature of your husband’s message. I am conducting a monumental project based on faith. We are asking for permission to access the tunnels where your husband was held, a task that is proving as difficult as stopping a typhoon with my bare hands. Allow me to assure you I have many workers in place trying to dissolve the obstacles before us, and I sincerely hope I can call for your presence in a few days.”
“If you are not ready for us, why are you here?”