Authors: Thanhha Lai
“While I waited for Ông’s return, I was unable to smooth my brows, thinking what if he doesn’t show. But he did, meeting us by the ice-cream vendor. While I worried, the children who came with me loved the outing, and the more my brows remained twisted the more ice cream they ate
.
“Any pagoda at Tết chocked of people and the incense smoke burned gray into your eyes. Still, we held on to our children and waited in the serpentine line to the statue of Ông Thần Ðồng. He was huge, with glaring eyes and a snarling mouth carved from an ebony stone that jutted out of a wall and frightened the children to quietness. Legend said his heart, though, had the power to heal. When our turn came, I reached up as high as I could and touched the statue’s lower foot. I rubbed it and brought his blessing to the face of each child. Seven rubs in all. Ông always looked away, not believing in superstition, but he held each of our children up to me without a word escaping from his lips
.
“Fate did not grant him the privilege to see our children reach adulthood or the pleasure to witness our wrinkles writing stories on our faces, but in the time we were allowed, we knew our treasures.”
We arrive at the temple. No one else seems to be here. The driver says he will wait for us. He is all sinew, from his neck to his arms to his calves. Dad bikes to and from work and I thought he is in shape, but nothing like this man. I don’t feel guilty about him pedaling us anymore. He doesn’t even look tired.
Bà presses another twenty-dollar bill into his callous palm.
He shakes his head.
“Your previous payment covers anywhere you’d like to go for the day.”
“Accept this for all those times when you did not receive your due.”
The pagoda stands ornate and huge, with two sets of grand stairs leading to the main building, and off to one side sits a tower with layers of curly roofs. I count seven stories. Bà has seven children. I’m about to ask if seven has significance when Bà walks toward a stone statue. Towering above us is a snarling monster-man bouncing out of the wall.
Bà looks up at memories I can’t see so I know to keep quiet. From somewhere comes a faint scent of jasmine incense. It’s as quiet here as the streets are noisy. Somehow, they both equal my Vietnam.
After a while, Bà takes my hand and we walk toward the statue. She reaches as high as she can but she can’t touch the lowest toe. It’s true, you do shrink as you get older. So I hoist her up by her waist and we get there. She rubs the foot. I set her down. She rubs my face. I feel weirdly blessed.
T
he next morning, we get up at six. Bà has a list of places she wants to visit and overnight she seems to have gained energy. I’ve never seen her brush her teeth or get dressed so fast. I, however, am still exhausted, but I get up, like the dutiful granddaughter that I am.
I keep wearing the same outfit bought with Chị QH in Hà Nội. Washed at night and hung up in the bathroom, it’s guaranteed to be dry by morning. I don’t know anyone here to care what I wear, much less how often and what brand. It’s freeing.
We went everywhere yesterday, to national ancestral sites where I found out incense smoke can turn you blind temporarily, to a still-standing French restaurant that was Ông Bà’s favorite, and she ordered a rabbit ragù that they always shared (I had chicken), to a park with a gigantic stone turtle, to a stone slide, to a dessert shop where Ông Bà took the children who ranked first in class. I told her today she would have to take all her children no matter their ranking or they will grow up and have low self-esteem. She looked at me like my imagination is too vivid.
Bà now stands.
“Let us eat breakfast, then shop for presents.”
My eyes seem to be glued together from the inside, opening them is such work. But I, outstanding child of the West, still drag myself after her.
Our
xích lô
driver is waiting out front. Again he refuses a twenty-dollar bill.
“Use it to buy treats for the children.”
I have no idea if he will, but it does give him a way to accept without embarrassment. I like that.
After eating, I feel more alert. We stop at a bookstore. Bà looks at books on tape. It’s perfect, her eyes are failing and where else can she find recordings in Vietnamese? She says she’ll look for books on tape for me too. Great.
I wander into a section of books in English. Even better, bilingual books. I’m going to learn to read Vietnamese. Best yet, each book has a price tag. No bargaining needed. Thank you! I see a huge blue book called
Vietnam: A Natural History
. Look how they spelled it. This is my understanding: if a brain is thinking in English, it’s Vietnam; if thinking in Vietnamese, Việt Nam. If you learned it as Việt Nam first, then your brain will think Việt Nam no matter the language. Unless you learned it as Vietnam and then become superfluent in Vietnamese, then your brain will switch to Việt Nam. Unless you learned it as Việt Nam but forgot your first language altogether, then your brain will think Vietnam. Why do I care?
Vietnam: A Natural History
has a whole section on frogs, with illustrations. Út will flip. She already reads photocopies of scientific froggy journals in English, looking up just about every word. I could try doing that to read the froggy folktale. An English-Vietnamese dictionary does sit on my bookshelf. But maybe I can PDF the pages to Anh Minh as a translation project. He’d love it.
Next, the driver takes us to a building with a roof that covers a gigantic open market separated into hundreds of tiny cubicles, each a store. Even with no walls, it’s humid, hot, and wild.
“How can people breathe?”
I ask Bà.
She shrugs.
“They have been doing so for years.”
It turns out Bà shopped here way back when and knows exactly which corner of the market specializes in what. Not much has changed. One section has rows and rows of fabric. Every merchant selling the same things. Another section has souvenirs, another tea, another silverware, and on and on.
Bà buys ebony chopsticks embedded with iridescent seashells, handing the merchant ten dollars and not wanting change. She says she doesn’t like carrying so much paper. Bargaining up at every stand, she becomes very popular.
Following her lead, I hand over dollar bills for sunshades that will fit over Anh Minh’s John Lennon glasses. That way he won’t have to squint. Then I see a whole row of sun-blocking masks, literally hundreds of them. I buy ten in skin colors and will anonymously get them to Cô Hạnh. They might inspire a relook at her own design.
Next to the masks are long gloves in every color. I’ve seen them on just about every female driver, wearing fancy party gloves up her elbows while zipping around in the sun. I buy red for me, so I can complete my look of a burning charcoal, now with jazz hands. Mom will want to borrow the whole outfit for gardening. I buy a yellow pair for Út. I can just see her face. She’ll probably use them to capture tadpoles. And I buy ten pairs in all colors for Cô Hạnh. I’m sure she’ll try to market her own version.
Suddenly, something like firecrackers explodes on the roof. It’s the thickest rain ever. Every merchant with goods spread out in the sun scrambles to drag them under the roof. I actually see drops of rain big as kidney beans. Oops, an exaggeration. Big as corn kernels and they pop when they hit the pavement.
“Come out.”
Bà drags me.
I do what Bà wants because she’s usually so sensible. I find myself in the rain with my face turned to the sky. Thousands of arrows slash down and prick at my face, longing to stab deeper and get at the muscles underneath. Oooowwww! I come out of shock and start pulling Bà back under the roof. Maybe the stress of waiting for the letter and for Dad has finally driven her senseless.
“Stand still, you will adjust,”
Bà says, keeping her face tilted upward.
Again, I listen. I can’t leave her alone out in the biggest storm of the season, which is what people nearby are screaming. It helps to keep my head even, so the arrows land on top of my head, not painful but soft, like thousands of kisses. Bà isn’t going in anyway. She’s smiling.
“When I was little, how I waited for a strong summer rain. Such true pleasure. Each drop warm and soft as silk. Rain should always be warm, hot even. Legends say the droplets cleanse your mind the way ocean water heals your wounds
.”
Bà holds out both hands to form a cup; her face tilts up even more. The more her cup fills, the gentler her smile. I’ve never imagined her really young, a plump, happy little girl who rainbathed, probably naked like the children around us are doing right now. If only I could be so carefree. I’m fretting about how she might get a cold, how Dad would yell at me if and when he shows up, how she needs to stay healthy to see Ông’s writing, how I have to get her back to the hotel and keep her dry. Caretaking is exhausting, I tell you, exhausting.
Finally, all kinds of people, done rescuing their goods, run up with umbrellas for Bà. I take one and cover her. She knocks it away.
The driver appears with his own umbrella and gently turns Bà toward his cyclo. She resists. They whisper. He takes down his umbrella and she agrees to walk. At the cyclo, he rolls up the shade so we can sit fully exposed to the rain. In this manner, with Bà cupping out both hands and opening her mouth to catch memories, we ride away.
I barely slept last night, my bones aching and my head throbbing. Bà, though, snored and snored. Besides, I kept waiting for her to sneeze, checking her forehead for a temperature. I’m now too tired to yawn but I still rock as her caretaker, asking if her throat is sore.
“My entire body has weakened, my child, but as long as I can stand, I shall visit this city
.”
Is that a cryptic way to say she’s sick? Dad really should be here; he’s the doctor. Where is he? He’s so going to pay for making me worry like this.
I want to sleep but Bà has yet another list of places to visit and say bye. It’s touching but what’s wrong with waking up at ten instead of six? We’re in no hurry. The detective keeps leaving messages that he’s still sorting out arrangements and not ready for us. More waiting, I should be quite good at the waiting game by now. But I’m not. Waiting sucks.
Day one in Sài Gòn was kinda fun, seeing Bà eat rabbit and thinking of Ông. Day two was okay, although shopping among congested cubicles just about did me in. Then day three, back to the same temple with the bulging stone monster because Bà can’t seem to say bye. Day four, yesterday, I dragged myself behind Bà and wondered why my bones hurt.
At one point, Bà left me in the cyclo because I whined too much. She went into yet another temple to offer incense. Sitting there, in the cyclo shade, in the middle of the afternoon, minding my own business, I got six whopping mosquito bites. Anyone who insists that mosquitoes only hunt from dusk till dawn needs to sit near me.
The bites swelled to the size of fat dimes. I had nothing to battle the mosquitoes with: the magical leaves were useless once dry so I had thrown them out, my one city outfit exposed my ankles, and neck and face, and despite eating gobs of salty pork, salty eggs, salty shrimps, pickled greens (not kidding), I still am too sugary.
Not only did the bites swell, they itched, bad. So I had no choice. I had to gather my own spit on the tip of my index finger and massage each pink mound. I rubbed and rubbed while thinking of Mom. She’s actually all right sometimes. If I had my phone I would text: Spit zaps itch. She’d be so proud. The more I rubbed, the less I itched. The pink dots flattened and blended into my skin. I blew a kiss toward Mom in Laguna.
Now, the morning of day five, I shuffle after Bà to the lobby. No doubt the cyclo driver is waiting outside, stretched and ready for more nostalgic fun.
“I would like to inform you a phone message has been left in your name,”
the front-desk man tells Bà, the same thing he says every morning. I think it’s fine to be less formal, but he obviously enjoys his words. Another one.
Bà holds the receiver while the man punches keys to access the message. So retro, it’s cool. Bà listens and breaks into a smile.
I don’t believe it: today is the day. The detective will pick us up at 7:00 a.m. That’s in twenty-seven minutes. My cheeks swell upward. The last hurdle, I tell myself, the last hurdle.
While waiting, we eat a breakfast made, yet again, of sticky rice and mung beans. It’s really good, don’t think I’m complaining. I’m just amazed how many kinds of treats can be made from two simple ingredients. Like all the things made from wheat and sugar back home. So maybe not that amazing.
Bà chose food that should keep us full for a long time, not knowing what to expect for the day. We are dressed in our sturdiest clothes, the only clothes we’ve worn. Bà in her traveling suit; me in my local outfit. I’m so done with washing by night, wearing by day. I shall burn this outfit upon landing in Laguna.
At exactly 7:00 a.m., the detective walks in, beaming.
“Such fortune the last few days, the rain softened the earth and sped our goals considerably. I’m honored to report all obstacles have been pacified and we await your arrival.”
“We?”
“It took a crew of dozens and a signature of a colonel to allow this visit, but I have every reason to believe our hardship will prove its worth. Let us go while the day is cool.”
I ask,
“Wait for Dad?”
The detective shakes his head.
“I regret to report I do not know his current status.”
I
t’s tense and quiet in the van. Everyone was hoping Dad would make it back, despite Bà’s claims of understanding.
“Have you seen the letter?”
Bà asks.
“No one has. The officials understand that you want to witness where your husband was held, but they have not been informed of a possible letter. It’s best not to show our true purpose when any reason can be used to deny us. I have admonished the guard for not thinking ahead and removing whatever is in the tunnel, thus avoiding this exhausting excursion. But that man simply nodded. I do not know any more than what I’ve told you.”