Cô Hạnh comes back with handfuls of leaves and asks Út to wash them and bring the pestle and mortar set. Út sighs and yawns. Obviously, she does not share our urgency.
Meanwhile, Cô Hạnh strains the rice water and tells me to splash my face, after tying back my hair and tut-tutting that it should always be off my forehead. The water smells of steamed rice and clementines, like Bà’s room. In tiny pats with a cloth, Cô Hạnh dries my face, where the skin somehow feels tighter, and puts a magnifying glass to it. “What’s the white sticky lotion on it?”
I pull from my pants a tube of Mom’s sunblock. For as long as I can remember, Mom has bought me clothes with pockets big enough to carry a tube. Cô Hạnh squeezes a little between her fingers, mashes it, then more tut-tuts. “Like putting glue to your skin, your pores can’t breathe, not in this humid corner of the world.”
I stand there. She’ll keep talking. “Better to block with cloth and spare your skin from chemicals.”
I have to wash my face again, scrubbing lightly with this really soft, warm cloth smelling of grapefruit blossoms. Not a spa treatment, but not bad at all.
Út appears just as Cô Hạnh pulls something out of her own pocket. She heads straight for Út, who starts backing away. I don’t blame her. Cô Hạnh, abnormally fast, hooks something behind Út’s ears. It’s a flowery cloth mask that starts below the eyes and goes way past the neck, getting tucked inside the collar of Út’s ratty shirt. Not done, Cô Hạnh adds a floppy hat lined with the same glaring cloth.
“Wear them,” she admonishes. “In the South, everyone is wearing face masks. But mine covers all the way down your neck. Much better, especially with a hat. These are going to sell well.”
Neither Út nor I look convinced. But if enduring a facial and wearing a ninja mask will lead us to the internet, then we’re in. But then, mask and hat on, Út has to go out back and get into a canoe and paddle around the pond to pick deep green floating leafy stalks called rau muống. Út doesn’t even fight back. This from a girl who has a smart comeback for just about every situation? So much more is at stake than the internet. What has Cô Hạnh got on her?
Back inside, Cô Hạnh is grinding leaves and powder and ginger into a paste. I know all about ginger root, Bà’s favorite cure-all after Tiger Balm. Bà nibbles on a fresh, fiery stub to rid herself of nausea, dizziness, cramps, aches, a bad taste on her tongue . . . you get the idea.
Cô Hạnh signals for me to sit in this tilted chair by the window. I’m staring at the ceiling. Then she actually scoops out a green, gooey paste and smears it, ever so gently, all over my face. It smells like mint plus ginger plus decaying organic matter, so basically fancy compost. I breathe through my mouth. I know all about compost—one of Mom’s many obsessions. You throw one apple core away in my house and you’ll be digging in the trash, then taking a trip to the backyard compost bin.
From the left corner, I can kinda see the computer calling me, green light on. The torments a girl has to endure in Vietnam to send one lousy email! Deal with it, I tell myself. Bà says everybody suffers from something at some point. It’s apparently my turn. When down, Bà says, try to imagine a rosier future. How about if Anh Minh would please reappear, I promise to prioritize his drama by playing matchmaker. Then the universe will register my kindness score and bring the guard to Bà. Once she accepts Ông is gone, we will surely be going home.
The more I think about how long it takes to find acceptance, the more scared I am. How long does acceptance take? It’s been decades and Bà’s not there yet. I have to block the thought or I’ll start sweating under the herbal mask and who knows how Cô Hạnh will react?
I can kinda see Út hunched over in the canoe, picking picking, stopping often to push back the floppy hat. Shocking that she hasn’t flung it into the pond.
After the mask dries, we wash it off with more rice water. Wow, the yellow bumps have been sucked out of me, leaving little pink hills. Cô Hạnh grins as if saying, I’m that good. She puts thin cucumber slices all over my face. In the canoe, Út is hunched way over, about to fall in, talking to something in the water. Weird for anyone else, but for Út . . . not so much.
“Don’t use the white paste anymore,” Cô Hạnh says. “This company came over and gave away free tubes and after one usage everyone threw them in the trash heap. Skin does not like chemicals, which will enlarge your pores to resemble dots on a grapefruit peel. A cloth mask lets your pores breathe. I will make one as a present for you. What color?”
I’ve never been so self-conscious about my pores. Maybe I should cover mine behind a mask and be done. As for the mask color, no need to respond. Cô Hạnh will answer her own question.
“Ðỏ? Yes, I have the perfect red cloth.”
Út comes in just as Cô Hạnh removes my cucumber slices. The hills are flat with a hint of pink. Amazing. Cô Hạnh taps a watery lotion on me. “Don’t touch,” she warns.
Út leans in for a closer look. “You won’t scar.”
That’s the nicest thing she’s ever said to me.
Finally, after mashing up more leaves for me to take home (yippie), after eating a mound of rau muống sautéed in garlic to cleanse our liver thus our skin, after slurping scorching lotus tea in the middle of a hot afternoon to harmonize body and air temperatures, after soaking our feet in jasmine water for I don’t know why, after listening to Cô Hạnh talk about how pretty she used to be (apparently it’s fine to compliment yourself here, as I’ve heard countless other maybe-aunts gush about their youthful beauty), Út and I are led to the holy computer. If I ever make it back to my very own PC, I shall kiss it once in the morning and once at night.
While my phone charges, I open emails from Mom with taglines like “urgent” and “near death with worries.” Mom loves melodrama. We’ve been texting and she’s cranky with worries about her court case yet she still has time to write. Answer: “don’t worry, please, i’m actually doing really great. you’re right; village life is so fascinating. i’m learning so much. the internet here is mercurial and could shut down any minute. love you 100,000 times to the moon and back, mai mai.”
I might have slapped on too much mush, but Mom will love it and back off. Notice I did not type anything about going home. Mom knows I want to, so I’ll be mature and leave it at that. Besides, that ultimate wish isn’t happening, at all. Notice my strategic use of an SAT word and my childhood sign-off that has always melted Mom. We should be good for a while. We probably won’t even need to text.
The emails from Montana I delete without opening. Better not to know. I immediately regret it and retrieve one from the trash. It reads, “should i trim my hair half or one inch?” In Laguna, I would have indulged her and answered with a straight face, but across the world, DELETE. We haven’t talked or texted since that one call and, weird, but I don’t really miss her.
As Út and I planned, I compose an email to Anh Minh, who already emailed me a while back so we can be FFL. He actually knows some slang.
ANH MINH,
BÀ IS IN DIRE NEED OF YOUR ASSISTANCE. SHE IS IN PAIN. I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO. YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE WE CAN RELY ON.
PLEASE HURRY,
Mai/Mia
I learned melodrama from the best source: Mom. Út nudges me out of the way. She adds, with equal urgency:
ÐI RA HỒ HOÀN KIẾM BAN TỐI. RẤT CẦN. CÓ THẤY ÁNH SÁNG TRONG NƯỚC KHÔNG? Út
How did she add those little marks in an email? I bet those are the exact ones Anh Minh would love to cram in my already saturated brain. Maybe he doesn’t need to come back all that soon. Just kidding. I need drama, intrigue, something to cheer for while I’m on the longest wait ever for the most stubborn guard ever.
Út can barely stand still she’s so happy. I don’t bother to ask. From the way her eyes sparkle, I’m guessing it’s devious. Poor Con Ngọc, she has no idea what she’s up against.
Then, because I can’t help it, I click into FB. Mistake! On my wall, in color-popping
photos, is Montana with her towel around HIS waist, trying to get HIM to dance. She’s bent over, boobs spilling, butt bow wiggling.
I flick off the screen. Not fast enough. All around me are maybe-relatives, where did they come from? Of course, not quiet maybe-relatives, that’s like asking for world peace. Instead, I get the ones with amplified tut-tuts. They let loose all sorts of comments, but I’m so hot and heart-poundy I can’t really understand. I sit still and let exclamations singsong around me. No doubt this will take a while, as anyone who first sees Montana and her butt bow will have much to say.
I look over at Út. A slight downward curve of her mouth. I get exactly what she’s thinking: we should have gone back to the hot shack/internet café. Not once have I imagined I would be wishing for a DIAL-UP. But I am. In that suffocating shack, at least I would have this thing from memory called privacy.
CHAPTER 16
After my email in bold and all caps, you’d think Anh Minh would come running, pleading for forgiveness. But nothing. Maybe he went back to school in Houston. But it’s still early in the summer.
I’m awake, waiting for Út. It’s so early even the rooster is still snoozing. Út will come by any minute now, like she has the last three dawns, so we can make tea.
The morning after Anh Minh left, Cô Tâm and Cô Hạnh, sisters who I’ve learned are our meal providers, came by after breakfast to have tea with Bà. One sip of the lukewarm tea left at dawn and they just about spat. Tea should be freshly brewed, they chimed, not sitting all morning and turning dark and bitter. It tasted fine to me. But I’ve learned I know nothing about tea, herbs, rice, vegetables, fruit, and all protein sources. For example, you must not eat shrimps unless you’ve witnessed them jumping at the market. Frozen shrimps are for the undiscriminating foreign market; dead shrimps along with heads and shells become fertilizer. At least I will never be expected to shop or cook while we’re here.
Making tea, though, should be teachable, even to me. It was decided Út and I would make the first pot at dawn, with other girls coming by at midmorning, midafternoon, and twilight. Probably the whole village is waiting for evidence that I can do something other than eat and sleep, which I must say I’ve accomplished with grace. I don’t chomp like helicopter blades or slurp like a dog or sip like a wind tunnel and I never snore. Impressive, right?
Every task takes planning at Ông’s Brother’s old house. To get a cup of tea to Bà by sunrise, I must get up an hour before. Út has been waking me by shaking my big toe, still inside the mosquito net with the rest of me.
There’s her shadow now, alert and focused. Of course, she would be a morning person. She comes closer, closer, reaches for my right big toe.
“RAH,” I pounce and roar/whisper because Bà’s asleep in the net.
Út just stares at me. Could she at least jump and play along with my sad attempt to pump some fun, spontaneity, surprise back into my life? No, I guess not. Her shadow looks bored. Fine, I crawl out in flowy pajamas and socks, not at all ready to work but not wanting the whole village to think I’m that lazy. A little lazy I can live with, but not to the point of embarrassment to Bà.
All cooking is done on the back porch, under a tin canopy that blocks the constant rain. Out here, we’re next to the rain barrel and do not have to lug water into the house that doesn’t have indoor plumbing. It does have electricity, although it doesn’t have any outlets so I keep charging the phone at Út’s house.
For decades, Ông’s Brother has prepared meals out here on a three-prong clay “stove” that sits right in the middle of the cement porch. Maybe not the exact same stove, but I have a feeling the same design has been around since people discovered clay. The stove, shaped like a big pot with three feet, has a bottom made of mesh wires where the fire is built. A pot or kettle sits on a rack on top of the stove and somehow things actually cook.
To do anything with the stove, I have to squat, which is murder on untrained thighs. Of course Bà does not have stove duty. I wonder what Ông’s Brother has against a bench and a stool.
“Do by self today,” Út writes. Predawn and she’s ready with a pad and pencil. Út, ever efficient, knows how to fire charcoal even though her home has an inside kitchen with electric burners. Not the safest invention, but I love how the rings turn rosy-ready with a twist of a knob.
No such luck with the antiquated, cold, blackened clay block in front of me. I shake my head to mean I’m not ready for a solo shot at firing charcoal. I can’t speak yet, too early to chase down the few Vietnamese words I know and mold them into a broken phrase. I’m a twilight person.
Bossy Út wrinkles her brows and points at the soot-encrusted, misshapen kettle. She can still be so annoying.
I take the kettle to the lidded rain barrel, fill it three-quarters full—too much and water will spurt out while boiling, too little and some amount of coal and effort will be wasted. At least I’ve mastered pouring water into the kettle, after many sighs from Út.
Back to the stove, I set the kettle aside, squat down. Oh, my thighs. Út hands me newspaper strips for the bottommost layer. Then I add in order: straw, bark, and finally three precious charcoal briquettes. I’ve never seen anyone here use more than three. Light a match, orange/red flames spread to the newspaper.
“Bend down,” Út writes. It’s always like this with bossy Út.
She hands me a rattan fan. “Just enough,” she adds. Too much fanning and the flame will extinguish, too little and it will just smoke. That has happened before, again causing many sighs. This time I’m the world’s best waver of the handheld fan. The fire catches and soon the briquettes start to get rosy on the bottom like three baboons with red bottoms. Bà told me a folktale about why the baboons ended up with flaming rears, though I forget.
“Careful, do not waste.” Út taps her pencil for emphasis.
I know, I want to snap. The trick is to put the kettle to boil before the briquettes are fully red, as to not waste heat, then you have to throw ash on the briquettes just before the water reaches full boiling point, as to not waste heat, because the water will keep boiling while the charcoal cools down.
“Do not waste,” Út writes, and taps. I get it, already. This is something every villager says at least a hundred times a day. Don’t waste the vegetable-washing water, splash it on the grapefruit tree instead. Of course it’s the rainy season and everything is plenty dewy and damp, including me, but why argue? Don’t waste anything made of glass or plastic because glass and plastic can be reused ad nauseam. Don’t waste anything resembling food because the chickens or pigs or water buffaloes or roaming dogs will want it. Don’t waste . . . a string for retying, a rubber band for conquering dry noodles or hair, rice bags for dishcloths, fish bones for fertilizer, chicken bones to be cooked down to mush for dogs, feathers for pillows. Anything that comes out of the earth must be returned to the earth. Mom would be in recycling heaven here.
Over and over I hear, “If everyone uses more than their share, how can the earth support us?” Someone should paint that on a sign at the village entrance to warn visitors.
The water boils just as the briquettes cool to gray, the remaining clumps saved, no doubt, for another teaching moment.
Út beams at me. Against my will, I’m very proud.
At sunrise, we grin until our cheeks hurt while presenting Bà and Ông’s Brother with a perfectly steeped pot of lotus tea. My only chore done, I have fifteen hours left until bedtime. If Út weren’t around, I’d be pulling out my hair and making wigs for tiny invisible dolls. Who knew Út would become so useful? Being with her keeps me from analyzing the four words HE said especially to me. Yes, I know, HE is supposed to be on pause.
Út finds remarkable ways to waste time. All day, I follow her around and she actually lets me, even during nap time when we watch Froggy nap in Cô Hạnh’s pond. It’s as boring as it sounds, but I take what I can get. We don’t even talk/write that much. Fine by me. Our days run together into a long stream of a few chores, then lots
of sitting around. Not much happens, but then everything happens.
While the elders sip tea (I hope they fully comprehend what the vapors rising from their cozy cups cost me in sleep and energy), Út and I go to her house. I change out of Bà’s pajamas into a flowy silk outfit borrowed from Út’s sister. I text Mom a picture and she asks if my matching set is day wear. If she can’t tell, why would it matter?
Apparently, Út doesn’t own anything but dusty pants and ratty T-shirts. The new me no longer judges.
Aside from having electrical outlets and an indoor kitchen, Út’s house also has the loveliest of all modern inventions: an indoor bathroom. At Ông’s Brother’s house, there’s this flimsy outback wooden shed, where you squat over a hole that connects to somewhere, and after you’ve done your business you splash everything down with exactly one bucket of water. I’ve gotten used to that. The new me astonishes even me.
Út’s bathroom not only has a toilet but also a shiny faucet, which I must not turn on. That task belongs to an adult. The faucet fills a barrel, from where water is portioned out with a scoop made from a hard, halved squash shell fitted with a bamboo handle. When I say everything is recycled here, I mean everything. I pour the water into a cup, but only half full. That’s all I get to brush teeth, just enough to rinse once and wash out my brush. Bà learned her half-a-cup-tooth-brushing habit here.
Cô Hạnh happens to be at Út’s house and treats—or forces—everyone through a mini herbal-goop facial, followed by a steamed towel that has been boiled in citrus water. At least the last part is spa-ish. She grabs my chin, leans close and announces, “Poreless as peach skin.” I can’t help but giggle. My pores have never been so immaculate or invisible.
After packing in enough breakfast to last until dinner, although we will surely be fed lunch, Út and I stand resigned while Cô Hạnh traps us in her inventions. The sun, barely rising, does not need blocking, but why argue? I now own a face-to-neck mask and a wide-brim hat. The fabric screams red, glowing charcoal red. Why be a subtle ninja when I can announce Cô Hạnh’s sun-blocking technique to the world? Út’s set brings to mind a ninja in an exploded garden. We’re to wear our contraptions and refer interested buyers to Cô Hạnh. Let me say no one has asked.