Catfish and Mandala (27 page)

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Authors: Andrew X. Pham

BOOK: Catfish and Mandala
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Hanoi-Visage
At the sight of the policeman coming out of the warehouse, VC nods at Shyboy, who in one fluid motion, eases himself onto the saddle and pedals off without looking back. VC smiles tightly,
“Don't say anything. I'll talk to him.”
VC spins around, instantly jovial, laughing, hands outstretched. He strides into the cop's path, blocking his view of Shyboy's escape, duking, jiving like a chum. Shyboy glides beyond the corner and is gone. I trail VC, my face neutral, struggling hard to keep from squinting. Without my glasses, I can't even see the cop's face at ten paces, and this makes me extremely apprehensive.
“Brother! Is that you, Huynh? Yes, it is you. How have you been? In good health?”
VC gushes as he tries to shake the cop's hand. The cop brushes past him, heading straight for me with the directness of a hound dog.
“Who are you?”
he puts the question into my face.
“Where are you going?”
At arm's length, I can see the displeasure in his face well. I nod politely, disconcerted at the cigarette sourness of his breath. VC answers for me,
“This is my cousin. I'm just giving him a tour.”
He glowers at VC. The cop looks absurdly small and nasty in his hat, the visor extending a good three inches beyond his nose.
“Come on, he's my cousin,”
says VC in a tone of mollification.
“He's Chinese.”
“No, he's Vietnamese. What? I don't know my own cousin?”
“Then why doesn't he talk?”
“What do you want me to say? My cousin explained it to you already.”
I take care not to sound aggressive.
“You have an accent. It's not Northern or Southern.”
He looks me over carefully.
“Give me your identification.”
A small crowd begins to gather, two privates and a sergeant among the spectators. VC is waving, joking, apparently on familiar terms with most of them. I fumble with my pockets, pretending to look for my papers. If I show my visa and passport photocopy, VC's lie about my being his cousin is exposed. If I don't, this cop can arrest me. All Vietnamese are required to carry a photo ID and travel documents at all times. Law enforcement takes this rule seriously.
VC complains to the crowd, making it obvious that the cop is harassing us. He taps his chest, asking the cop: What's the problem? Don't you trust soldiers? The crowd's mood is shifting, but the cop remains adamant about seeing my ID.
I hand over all my papers. The cop peruses them, reading and rereading every word, then interrogates me. Why are you here? What is your purpose in Hanoi? How long will you be here? He is obviously doing the routine dance, fishing for a little grease. I'm not giving in, so the minutes squeak by awkwardly. VC grows more indignant at the delay and voices it to the crowd: Come on, he's one of us. Let him go on his way.
An older policeman approaches and the crowd parts for him. VC dips his head reverently to the man and backs away. Tall and lanky with a tinge of gray in his hair, the senior officer asks me where I've been. I tell him that I've traveled by bicycle across many countries to get here. We talk briefly, the crowd hanging on every word. His name is Thang and he is in charge of security at the station. I tell him of my intention to bicycle south back to Saigon. He smiles, saying that it is a good pursuit.
“Is your family from the South?”
he asks me.
“Yes, sir, my mother's side. My father is from Hanoi.”
“Ah, you're here to visit your father's roots,”
he observes, approving. Then, unexpectedly, he extends his open hand to me.
“It is all a new life for everyone, no? North Vietnamese, South Vietnamese, Viet-kieu, and Americans are all good people. It's all in the past. No ill feelings, no?”
I accept his hand, my mouth hanging open.
“Yes, no ill feelings. Thank you, sir.”
“Welcome to Hanoi.”
“Thank you. I'm glad to have made it.”
He nods to his subordinate, who promptly returns my papers with smiles of goodwill. I bid them good-bye. VC and I walk out the gate. Shyboy is waiting for us around the corner. Shaking his head in disbelief, VC grins and sighs,
“Wow!”
I shake hands with both of them and ride into my first Hanoi sunset.
The wide boulevard paralleling the tracks is full of Vietnamese men in army fatigues. Most are obviously no longer in the armed forces despite the fact that they are still in uniform. There are soldiers astride motorbike taxis. Soldiers pedaling cyclos. Soldiers sitting and drinking in cafés. Suddenly very nervous, I go directly to the first inn I see and take a room. I ask the owner about the soldiers in the street. She chuckles and says almost every male over sixteen has served in the army. Many wear their uniforms as a sign of patriotism, but mostly because the uniforms, often sold as army surplus, double well as durable work clothes. I heave a sigh of relief, amazed that there is still so much fear of the North Vietnamese Army in me. I drag my bike and luggage up three flights of stairs, toss them into the eight-by-six-foot room, lock the door, and beeline to the toilet. The organ meat and raw herbs I ate on the train are doing a number on me. At least I am off the train, I keep telling myself, as my innards faucet into the toilet.
My room, a deluxe suite, has “hot showers” provided by an electric heating tank, which takes half an hour to make three gallons of lukewarm water. It hangs from the ceiling like a water reservoir of an old-fashioned toilet with a long pull cord for flushing. Operating instructions are in Arabic. I take a shower fully clothed, a habit I picked up as I biked up the California and Oregon coasts. It is the
fastest and most efficient way to get both body and clothes clean with the least amount of water. I soap the clothes, peel them off, soap myself, and as I shower I stomp on the dirty clothes. By the time I'm through, all I have to do is rinse out the laundry once, wring and hang it up to dry.
After dark, I wobble downstairs to the
com-phon
kitchen next door.
Com-phon
is the Northern style of “commoner's cafeteria.” Down South, it is called
com-dia,
rice plates served with entrees on the side or “poured” over steamed rice. Here, a buffet table—a dozen plastic basins of food, some steaming, some cold—adorns the front entrance, announcing the day's bill of fare to the dusty street. A man fans away the flies with a piece of cardboard. I point out my dinner to him: bitter squash stuffed with ground pork and mushrooms, a small pan-fried trout, melon soup, a piece of fried soybean cake filled with eggplant. He notes my order on a pad, nods me inside, and scoops out servings onto little saucers.
I duck into the dark, dingy dining room. Sided by low benches, seven coffee tables form a single long board running the length of the corridor-like space illuminated by three dim light bulbs dripping from bare wires. A dark layer of grease and soot from cooking fires skins the wall. Leprous white patches glow where the plaster recently peeled off. The ceiling, stringy with cobwebs, sags ominously. It is early for the dinner crowd so only half of the seats are taken. I sit down at the end of one bench and cannot find the floor with my feet. Bones, napkins, cigarette butts, vegetables, and sticky rice cover the concrete. I nearly jump as a furry body brushes my leg—a small dog patrolling the ground for scraps. I'd heard these cat-sized dogs with the pointy muzzles are excellent mousers. They also make pretty good eating according to Bugsy.
The cook-waitress spreads out my meal before me and serves me a bowl of white rice and a cup of hot tea. The food is simple and good although not as fresh and hot as I'd like. I'm hoping it'll end my long bout of diarrhea.
Stuffed to the gills, I waddle back to my room, looking forward to a full night's sleep. I string up the mosquito net, flip on the ceiling fan,
turn out the light, and go to bed, happy and thankful that I'd made it to my father's
que
, his birth village.
Hammering at my door pops me out of bed half an hour later.
“Open up!”
cries a man outside.
“This is the police. Open up!”
“One moment,”
I say, searching for my pants. I peek through the window shutter and, sure enough, a uniformed cop and the motel's receptionist stand at my door.
I unlock the padlock and open the door.
“Is something wrong, Officer?”
“I'd like to invite you downstairs for a discussion.”
“Huh?”
It still hasn't occurred to me why he's here.
“Excuse me, Officer, but I'm very tired and I was sleeping. Can't this wait till tomorrow?”
“
I'd like to,”
he enunciates each word firmly,
“invite you downstairs for a talk. Please bring your papers.”
We sit down in the office with the hotel owner, a woman in her fifties. We wait uncomfortably while he inspects my visa, travel permits, and a passport photocopy.
“You cannot stay at this hotel,”
he says, returning my papers.
“Why?”
“You are a foreigner and it is unsafe for foreigners to stay here.”
“No one told me that when I checked in and paid for the night's lodging.”
The owner smiles apologetically. She speaks first to the cop in a sugary, submissive tone that surprises me:
“Officer
,
if I may explain …
” He nods and she continues, speaking as much to him as to me. “
We are ignorant of the rules. We never had any foreigners stay here before, and we thought that a Viet-kieu is just like a Vietnamese. We apologize for this inconvenience. We will refund your money.”
I can't believe what they are telling me.
“I was sleeping! You want to kick me out at this hour? Where am I going to go?”
The cop seems unperturbed.
“I'd like to invite you to Hotel Cuu Long. It's not far.”
“The big hotel down the street? I can't afford it. I'm broke.”
“It is not expensive,”
he assures me. According to the inn owner, a room at Hotel Cuu Long goes for at least fifty dollars. I am paying five dollars here.
“You will be safer and more comfortable there.”
“I'm comfortable here!”
“The street here is very dangerous. Crimes are rampant in areas near the rail yard. We are ten kilometers from Hanoi. The streets here aren't as safe for foreigners.”
“And you want me to go into the street at ten o'clock at night?”
I scan his face to see if he is serious.
“I don't even have a map of the city.”
A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth, but his patience is wearing thin. A hard edge comes into his voice. Apparently, he isn't used to having his orders questioned.
“
I order you to leave the premises. You will stay at the Cuu Long Hotel tonight.”
“I'd really rather not.”
“You must. If you don't, I will have my men remove you from your room,”
he says, meeting my eyes evenly.
We sit regarding each other for a minute. He rubs his hands together and rises to his feet. The matter is final. “
I will be back in half an hour with my men. You must be ready to leave the premises at that time. You will be escorted to Hotel Cuu Long.”
After he leaves, I ask the owner if the cop is serious. She sighs. “
Well, Brother. I'm very sorry for your troubles. Someone must have seen you going next door for dinner and reported you to the police.”
So the feeling of Big Brother watching me is justified after all. Suddenly, it feels Orwellian. A little claustrophobic.
“You see,”
she continues,
“he was expecting a little token of … cooperation—a few dollars.
” She pauses, embarrassed at having to remind me of the mechanics of police protection. “
If you had given him a fivedollar tip to have him keep an eye on you, he would have let you stay. Since you didn't, he's going to make you stay at the expensive hotel. They'll pay him an ‘introduction fee' for bringing them your business.”
“Thank you for telling me, Sister. I'm not sticking around so he can have his kickback.
”
In five minutes, I'm downstairs, packing my wet laundry into my panniers. The owner refunds my money and gives me directions to Hanoi. The streets are dangerous at this hour, she warns. Be careful. I thank her, flip on the headlight, and pedal to the city of my father's roots.
The wide boulevard is unevenly lit; burnt-out lampposts leave hundreds of yards between bright sections. Traffic trickles in both directions, as merchants and workers hurry home on bicycles without headlights. Grim-faced men in soldier uniforms laze in bars. I feel their eyes on me. People here do not wave, smile, or point as they do in Saigon. Northerners simply stare.

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