Authors: Thanhha Lai
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.
A
fter 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.
On the way to the market, we rip off the hats and masks and breathe air instead of our own stale breath.
T
he Vietnamese like their food fresh. In addition to jumping shrimps, vegetables must be picked at dawn, fruit must be tree-ripened, chicken or pigs killed before sunrise, eggs gathered while warm. Everything gets bundled into baskets tied to mopeds and sped to the market. Daily, every household shops after breakfast for lunch and dinner. After nap time, picked-over items are sold at half price.
I can just hear Mom scoffing at the idea of daily grocery shopping. How would anyone get anything else done? In Laguna, we shop twice a month. If we run out of something, oh well. That’s why I’ve grown addicted to our local fish taco stand.
Every home, except Ông’s Brother’s, has a refrigerator. I’ve peeked and seen only chocolate, kept cool from the misty heat and sitting awkward in all that shelf space. This being the land of perfectly portioned eaters, people nibble on one square per day, if that much. So many good habits in one population are really annoying.
I follow Út as she shops from Cô Hạnh’s and Cô Tâm’s lists. Without exchanging money, merchants know how much and what items to charge to which account. There’s a whole lot of trust going on.
Con Ngọc is sauntering over. She spotted us first, so there’s no running away.
“Does Lan know Anh Minh won’t be back for another week?”
My heart sinks and for a second I think she’s better connected to him than we are. But I look at Út, who stands unfazed. Út nose-puffs. I do it too. Whatever it means, I do feel better.
“Yes,”
Út lies.
“He’s been sending messages daily, sometimes twice a day.”
I like the devious Út.
“Where is he living then?”
Con Ngọc asks.
I’m not sure if that constitutes a challenge or a sincere question. She and Út stare each other down. I guess I don’t count. Suddenly, they break off and rush in opposite directions. I scramble after Út.
We’re now in a hurry. Ninja gear on, we drop off the market items; ninja gear off, we run to yet another two-story stacked-rectangle house. Út pushes me forward.
“House of Anh Minh. You can visit. I and my sister have no reason to be here,” Út writes. I feel like I’ve won some obscure lottery.
Út knocks and hides behind me. My sad Vietnamese brain is drawing from a reservoir of thirty words to babble something about Bà being sick, any reason at all to be here. I’m so nervous I’m shaking.
The sweetest-looking grandmother answers. She must know me because she breaks into a smile. Relieved, I almost hug her but back off just in time. Vietnamese do not hug. So I bow and smile, bow and smile, robot-like.
“Up close you are even taller, my child. Did you already hear?”
I force myself to not give away my superpower by asking,
“Hear what?”
The grandmother sees Út but is kind enough to ignore her. Footsteps come to the door and Út and I, clutching hands, open our mouths like baby birds.
“ANH MINH.”
Still clutching, Út and I jump up and down even though this much emotion at a boy’s front door is surely scandalous.
Anh Minh, as if on cue, frowns.
“Why have you presented yourselves at my family’s residence?” he says in English for my benefit. How sweet!
I really lose it and hug him. Now I’ve done it. Anh Minh jumps back as if splashed with hot water. I don’t care, I don’t care, he’s back.
“Did you get my email? You need to acknowledge your feelings to a certain someone who the whole village knows you’re so into,” I speak really fast because Út is talking over me,
“Did you frequent Hồ Hoàn Kiếm? Were there glowing dots in the dark?”
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure her feelings are mutual but you’ve got to step up, so go, make your move, like, right now,” I say, while Út says,
“Did you go in the middle of the night? That’s the best time because they’re so timid.”
I speak up, “I could go with you, would that help?”
But Út is louder, “
Did you hear them? What did they sound like, could you show me now?”
Anh Minh steps back inside and shuts the door. Hey, what kind of a reunion is this? Út and I both raise our knuckles but think better of knocking. We are not pushy people, so we do the next logical thing . . . plop down in front of the door and wait for him to come out.