Listen, Slowly (19 page)

Somehow, Dad needs to be found and brought to Hà Nội (did you notice?).

Then we will fly south, where all kinds of arrangements have to be made before we can maybe see Ông’s writing. Our only hint is the writing does not exist on a piece of paper.

And then, dare I say it, we can GO HOME.

It’s all I can do to keep from dancing. Sand, beach, life, see you soon, la la la.

The detective sits down, finally exhausted. The waiter brings him a
cà phê sữa đá
, a potent coffee Dad calls tar water because it’s guaranteed to keep an elephant alert. As for me, I’m on my third glass of sugar cane juice, pressed at the counter. It’s ssoooo good, especially when they squeeze in a dash of kumquat. I know I’m basically announcing to the insect population to come get me, but who cares, they bite me anyway.

Revived, the detective talks some more but remains seated.
“You two”
—pointing at the guides—“
transport the girls to their aunt’s and relay to her my admonition that they must be secured there. I have enough to manage without the additional anguish of them announcing their vulnerabilities to every dire street child in the city. Remember . . .”

I’ve stopped trying to understand. But I do love him. With him here, I don’t have to plan a thing. Besides, he’s not talking to me, so why listen?

I go sit at a back table with the guard, who has not said a word.
“Chào.”
I’ve figured out it’s best to say hello without a title or a name. My message still gets across.

“When I saw your group, my heart stopped. How did you find me?”

He doesn’t know I’m hiding my ability to understand, so I’m free to converse. Life is actually much simpler this way.
“Plump man angry told. Found house in book he.”
I point to the detective.

The guard asks me to repeat my Vietnamese. He must not hear well, leaning forward, listening so hard his facial wrinkles contort like mud patterns at the bottom of a dry creek. Finally, he lets out an “Ah.”

“Correct, Ông Ba tracked me to the house of my cousin, who served the war and the war served him well.”

I understood every word but don’t know what he means.
“Too you war go
.”

“I did not possess the skills and temperament to turn such an experience into a benefit. In my youth, every man and woman wanted to help rid the country of intruders. I could not have guessed the cost of actually fighting.”

Some words I do not recognize, but I can always spot sadness after years of listening to Bà.

“Choose again war?”

“Good question, my child. I would like to say no, that the human sacrifices were too immense. But Việt Nam is ruling itself, what we all yearned for. And yet who gets to decide what price is bearable?”

I understand every word, but again what is he talking about?

The detective calls us. The guard pats my hand and smiles in a hesitant, regretful way that conveys the world doesn’t make more sense just because you get older.

T
he detective scared our guides so much they are determined to dump us at Cô Nga’s and be rid of us forever. But Út, talking louder and faster than I’ve ever heard, argues that she’s so so hungry. Still the guides insist we go home. Út counters that if she doesn’t get to eat right now, she would faint in front of Cô Nga, who no doubt would tell Út’s mother. The guides have only heard about Cô Tâm and that’s enough.

Off we go to the open market, with Van again guarding the mopeds. I want him to eat with us but there are rules here I’m not understanding, so it’s best to stay quiet. I get my bills of tens and twenties ready in my pockets. Silent bargaining has become my favorite game.

Right after we eat, Chị BêBê won’t listen to anything else from Út, who babbles that she faked the punctured-cheek incident just so she could visit this lake and look for this one thing that she can’t talk about. No wonder Chị BêBê flicks her hand and says she’s done with us.

In front of Cô Nga’s house, Chị BêBê waves a finger in front of our faces just as the detective had done to her.
“Listen,”
she whispers in two languages.
“If you tell Chị Quỳnh Huyền that we were in an alley in that neighborhood, I will find you! I must remain dedicated and perfect in her eyes. She’s helping me get into a school in the city.”

She looks so worried her threat is almost funny. Now the backstories come out. Chị BêBê is working up to asking Chị QH to write a recommendation letter that she’s sure will get her into the same dental hygienist program that Chị QH graduated from last year.

“So why are you working as a
Honda Ôm
?” All three shoot me a “hush” look.

“Do you think I run errands and babysit for anyone else?” Chị BêBê is so disgusted with me she’s kind of spitting. “It was my only way to get to know her. Besides, my parents and I have to pay for this ourselves. I was two points from a scholarship.”

Everything and everybody get so entangled here.

Chị BêBê keeps going. “And do you think Chị Quỳnh Huyền likes running all over the city for supplies? She wants to practice her profession. But Cô Nga already has two hygienists, who are both waiting to hear from dental schools overseas. Cô Nga herself is waiting for a replacement at the clinic, so she can devote herself to her home office.”

On and on she talks about who’s waiting for what by doing what favors for whom. I try to listen then realize Út isn’t listening. She’s whispering to Văn, or the international Van, and is obviously pleased with herself. I’m worried.

The siblings wave ta-ta and off they go.

Cô Nga pauses long enough to tell us she has canceled the van again and we are to wait here for further word, grumbling that she had originally agreed to one afternoon, one night, and the next morning, but family . . . how they make her head buzz like a beehive.

She hands us over to Chị QH, still dusty from her supply runs. Chị QH puts us to bed. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon.

“But I’m not tired and it’s past nap time,” I logically point out.

“Then lie still and rest.”

I expect some biting indignation from Út, but she bargains that if we could have our old clothes back, we’ll go right to sleep. Chị QH claps her hands and says,
“You better be snoring when I return with them.”

“Please put them at my feet.”

“Be asleep.”

Chị QH leaves. I poke Út. “What’s . . . wrong . . . with you?”

“Shhh.” She sighs and reaches for her notebook. “Sleep now. This night we cannot.”

She moves to a mat all the way across the room. There are seven to choose from. I roll around and against reason fall asleep.

Út shakes me awake. I’m starving. What time is it? It’s totally dark. All around us are breathing bodies, where did they come from? I can make out the shape of Chị QH, efficient even in her sleep, taking up just a sliver on the mat. Út puts a finger across my lips and I follow her shadow out of the room. She had grabbed the bag of our old clothes and we change downstairs in the room that smells of pain.

We tiptoe out the front door by sliding a flimsy lock sideways. That’s it? Even in Laguna, we have bolts. Is it safe or not safe here? In the dark, I hear buzzers, maddened I’m sure by the smell of sugar in my every pore. Three cane juices may have been excessive, but how was I to know I’d be gallivanting around during the height of bloodsucking hours? I start jiggling like I have a medical condition, which raises the buzzing level. I swat the grayness. Út sighs. Her shadow walks to a plot of dirt that should be a flower garden and picks something. Then she she smashes long leaves between her palms and rubs my arms and legs and face and neck. It smells grassy and flowery and peppery.

I sneeze.

“Shhh.”

Like I planned it! I yank the leaves from her and rub rub rub. No bites. I even stick out my arm to tease the buzzers. No bites. I can hear them going insane surrounding me.

“What . . . is . . . this?”

“Ssshhh.”

Van appears, all casual, like he often strolls around at this hour with a flashlight. Út follows him. Me too. I’ve got to get more of these magical leaves. We follow him down the street, around the corner, down another street. It’s dark and steamy, but not hot hot, and so quiet I hear crickets and frogs and whatever else that thrive in the dark. We stop at two Hondas guarded by a new girl, called Lulu. What is it about girls and pet-ish names? But I know better than to insult my huggy ride. Lulu looks younger than I do, so I’m definitely not calling her Chị. She’s holding a box and net with a long handle. I’m half panicking but can’t make eye contact with Út in the dark.

Hà Nội is a different city late at night. We can see the dotted lines on the road, clearly marking two sides of opposing traffic. Other drivers are out too, but not to the point of congestion, so we all follow the rules. Our first stop is at a stand selling
bánh ít
, which is so cheap even Út doesn’t bargain.

We’re off. As soon as we come near a gigantic pond I’m megapanicky. I try to get Út’s attention on the other moped, but she’s pretending to enjoy the night while holding on to the net. The box is sitting on the gas tank, protected by the driver’s extended arms.

Út is looking way too happy. We stop in a dark area behind the pond, which is otherwise really well lit. No doubt, Út is up to something illegal, ignoring me on purpose.

“Be back in one hour or we must leave you,”
Van says in two languages.
“Dangerous to be out.”

Út shakes her head.
“I need you to scoop with the net.”

“Can’t. I must guard our Hondas with my cousin.”

“Like children!”
Út scolds them, then looks at me.
“Ði.”

“Where?”

She marches forth, carrying the net and a box with lidded glass jars carefully separated by towels and plastic bags. Someone has poked holes in the lids. This much premeditation is never a good sign.

“Not . . . going,” I yell.

Út marches back and jabs me all over the place with one pointy finger.
“Lá!”
leaf, she yells. I know she means the mosquito-proof leaves, which I must have so I’m forced to play nice.

We walk toward tall reeds that look like a dream breeding site for mosquitoes. But even more disturbing are these glowing dots in the water and the unmistakable ribbits.

“Go in,” Út says.

“Lá,”
I counter.

We realize we each just spoke each other’s first language.

“Nói tiếng Anh.”
I tell her to speak English.

“No.”

If she wanted to, she could. But it’s pointless to make her. So I’m back to asking where the leaves are.
“Lá đâu?”

She reaches out and picks some, having put down the box. Everywhere are shadows of leaves, smelling of pepper.

“What . . . are . . . they?”

She pats her pocket for the notebook. Not there. It must have dropped off somewhere during our ride. She shrugs and pulls me near the water.

“No, absolutely no!”

“Shhh. You are baby!”

Taking the net and one unlidded jar, she wades in, as in into the pond, as in up to her ankles. So this is why she wanted her old clothes. No doubt pond creatures will flock right to her, recognizing their own scent. She makes sure I see her scoop the net into the water then pantomimes reaching into the net and putting whatever she scooped up into a jar.

OMG, I really am in PBS
Nature
.

“NO!”

“Now!” she hisses back.

“I’m not going in there. Remember my last adventure in a pond? No, no. Leeches are not meant to suck on human blood. I shouldn’t have to explain this. I’ll stand here and keep a lookout but I’m not going in there.”

I’m talking just to talk because she’s too busy huffing and complaining as she wades deeper into the water.
“What a spoiled, city have-it-all, useless monkey! Why did I think she would appreciate this? I’m still capturing ten of them.”
I can barely hear her talking to herself, spitting out saliva in her fury. Fine! I grab two plastic bags, put them over my sandals, hold the bags up, and wade in up to my ankles to listen.

“These are the frogs she should want, if she’s so scared of mosquitoes. They lived in the village pond before the fungus that one year. If she would listen, she would know that they eat thousands of mosquitoes plus the larvae every night and they reproduce slowly, five to ten eggs per female per rainy season, so they won’t compete with Froggy’s kind. They are great hiders, so even if Froggy and his friends fight them, they would hide until everyone gets used to one another.”

I pull the plastic bags as high as they’ll go, halfway up my shins, and wade in deeper. Please, leeches, go to her, she has homemade yummy salty blood.

“Good friends should do this for each other. I would never have left for Hà Nội if know-it-all couldn’t go too. Useless to help her with the cheekbone scheme because she’s too precious to get wet. I can’t hold everything by myself. All those days when she was with Bà, I left Froggy alone to bring hot food twice a day. Now to think I’ve chosen the wrong good friend
.”

I’m right next to her. She looks so upset I think she might cry or hit me with her net. I snatch it just in case. That leaves me with one hand to pull up both bags. I’m wobbling.

“Mày là bạn tao,”
you are my friend. (Notice I used “
mày tao
,” reserved for good friends.)

“You understand me?”

“Not . . . really.”

“You understand me right now?”

“Maybe.”

She’s yanking back the net. So predictable.
“Why did you not tell your friend?”

“You . . . write . . . so . . . funny!!!”

Her shadow stares at me; angry lasers sear through me. She could push me with one finger and I’d topple into leech land. But I hear something build in her gut, gurgling up her chest into her throat, then out comes the longest laugh. She tilts her face toward the moon and I’m so relieved her cheeks are reaching for the sky. I laugh too.

I hold the net high and she gets her jar ready. Except the glowing lumps are gone.