Single White Female in Hanoi (17 page)

Natassia laughs. ‘You're not going to, are you?'

‘I don't mind. I was going to just get them each something small.' ‘Carolyn! – They take advantage of you.'

I muse on this for a moment. I hadn't thought of it this way. ‘I'm a sucker, aren't I?' I observe. I really am hopeless at resisting requests. Introverted and delicate-looking, the truth is, Natassia's much tougher than I am in these situations. She has a rock-solid moral compass, unlike me. These days more than ever, I find myself pondering the concepts of truth and rightness and coming up full of doubts and confusion. Natassia's right-and-wrong gauge is clear. If she believes something is wrong, she won't do it, and she expects the same of others.

The next morning I take a taxi to the airport. Crawling along my little street
I find myself glued to the window. Travelling in a sealed vehicle is now a novelty. I feel invisible, like I've left already and I'm looking back on my old life via some video link-up. My neighbours are just centimetres away, on the other side of the glass window, but they don't see me – this morning I'm just another foreigner in a taxi, as anonymous and irrelevant as the day I arrived.

I see Xuyen ride past on her bicycle, and the kids playing ball and I experience a warm flood of nostalgia.
This is my street.
When I return home from Thailand, it will be to this address, this street, in this city.

We pass Oanh's
Pho
stall, still at crawling pace. It's peak hour for
Pho
consumption, and the plastic tables are crammed with families slurping breakfast. The footpath beneath them is littered with paper serviettes, toothpicks and inedible bits of meat thrown to the ground. I smile at the craziness of it.

Lastly, where the street junctures into
Nguyen Thai Hoc
, I see the wooden bench with the
xe om
drivers sitting on it. There's Thanh and Tan and Thu, the regulars, smoking, drinking tea. Thu is reading a newspaper, wearing his olive pith-helmet.

Beside them is Quan, leaning, shifting spanner in hand, over a motorcycle. He straightens up as I pass but doesn't see me. I notice the arch of his muscular back, the way his short hair is trimmed at the sides. I've avoided him since that trip to the restaurant near Natassia's place, but it's been easy, since I've barely seen him. At the sight of him so close, my heart lurches disobediently. I still want him. The crush is stirred. The crush is not shaken.

I find myself fantasising about him all the way to Bangkok, barely even distracted by the continuous retching noises of an airsick Vietnamese woman behind me. But once in the city, all thoughts of Hanoi are forgotten. I find, to my amazement, that Bangkok and its inhabitants are now as familiar to my Western eyes as Europe. Somewhere during the short flight we crossed the bamboo curtain and left the Orient behind.

Returning to Hanoi, despite its essential unworldliness, is now a homecoming. After ten days away, I arrive back bearing gifts for everyone and with new stories to tell, eager to catch up with Zac and Natassia.

Naturally they have new stories too. Natassia has a new lover, Guillaume – part-black, part-Asian, reared in a rough neighbourhood in a French colony in the Carribbean. She seems totally blasé about the relationship though. More excitingly, she has hired an Angel 80 – an eighty-cc motorcycle with a sexy purple logo – from a place in the Old Quarter. It turns out she's an experienced rider. This opens up myriad new possibilities for our social life.

Zac, meanwhile, has fallen out dramatically with Lan at Global. His opinion of her has been in decline for some time, but now the two are openly hostile towards each other. Worse, his maid, who's a fervent Christian, has thrown out his Japanese porn mags again. He has a new gripe too.

‘Caz,' he says morosely. ‘I'm afraid this country is turning me into a feminist.'

He claims he has twice found himself apprehending local men seen chasing their wives with iron bars in his neighbourhood.

And there have been other changes in my absence. Firstly there's my brand new bedroom, re-configured by Nga and Tuan. I find them standing in my apartment deep in discussion when I arrive back from the airport. Nga beams at me proudly.

‘You see! We change your room. I think better now.' With the bed now in the centre, the room seems perversely larger and I'm forced to admit that the layout is genuinely improved.

Less appealing is the sight of the empty space on the refrigerator where my Sony Discman used to sit. It's been stolen – stolen by someone with a key. For the reminder of my time at
Pho Yen The
, I hiss ‘thief' under my breath whenever I encounter Nga's teenage brother, who slouches past me in a baseball cap, avoiding eye contact. Nga refutes the possibility that her brother would steal anything, and suggests I've lent the CD player to a friend and forgotten, but takes the keys off him anyway. I never learn his name. He doesn't speak a word of English, and seems to have no interest in learning. He lives somewhere in the compound. I suspect he sleeps up in
Ba Gia's
airless wooden loft with his mother, Xuyen. The laundry area on my rooftop is also their laundry area, so that the nameless brother regularly pads through the landing that separates my bedroom from my living room on his way up the stairs to the roof.

Nga never offers me recompense. But I don't pursue the matter, since she cries poor, and seems very upset by the whole turn of events. She still drops by to visit me, and we chat as warmly as ever.

One day she turns up with a piece of paper bearing Hilary Clinton's signature.
Pho Yen The
has a special piece of history, I learn.

A couple of doors from my compound, at the very end of the culde-sac, is a foreign-owned ‘lifestyle' shop called Dome. It's the only establishment of its kind in Hanoi and it's a honeypot for wealthy expats and tourists alike. The shop sells high-quality furnishings and trinkets, displaying the prodigious handicrafts of the villages around Hanoi. Inside the vast, scented and air-conditioned shop, a visitor can lose themselves in a sea of watery silk, wrought metal, woven matting, beading and embroidery. I often wander up to Dome on a hot day to marvel at the wares and revel in the cool air.

Naturally, during Clinton's historical 2000 visit to Vietnam, Hilary was brought to Dome for a spot of shopping. The walk from the car to Dome took her right past the compound gate, where she had a brief, translated conversation with Nga's great aunt, the venerable
Ba Gia
, and supplied her autograph for Nga.

Hilary's signature is accompanied by a piece of bad news. I'll no longer have domestic help. Tam, the beautiful young peasant girl with whom Nga cleans my place each weekend, is gone.

‘She have some family trouble at her village and she must go home.'

‘When will she return?'

‘Maybe she don't return,' Nga tells me, her face solemn. ‘I think now she must stay to look after the family.'

‘Ooh,' I wince. I'm not too optimistic about my chances of keeping the place habitable and hygienic unaided. I haven't got to know Tam. She usually came while I was out teaching and she spoke no English. But I could appreciate she had rigorous cleaning skills, especially for a sixteen-year-old. Nga picks up on my apparent sympathy.

‘Yes. I am very sad,' she tells me. ‘Tam live with us for one year and she like family – you understand?' I nod. ‘I try to help her,' Nga continues. ‘I teach her to cook so she can get a better job in the future. But now, she is gone.' I look at Nga and wonder at the complexities of the woman. Warnings from friends have served to make me permanently suspicious of her motives. Did she teach Tam to cook for the girl's future, or so that she could take over cooking duties for the family? If Nga wanted to improve the girl's prospects, what about letting her go to school where she could learn to read and write?

Hien, emaciated and racked with tuberculosis, is looking worse. I find her in the
Nam Bo
doorway, as usual, fanning herself weakly with a broken bamboo fan as the sun angles straight into the marble doorway. Her skin is dry and cracking, and the light is fading from her lively eyes. She's suffering headaches nearly every day. I can see this even from the other side of the road, since this part of the world has developed a special semiotic device.

Hanoians seem to suffer more headaches than the rest of humanity. At this time of year, they blame it on the heat. Aspirin is relatively expensive and often regarded with suspicion, so that the preferred option is the local remedy. This involves applying a sticky white mentholated plaster to each temple, and going about your business. A walk down a busy street, especially on a hot day, will always reveal a few plastered temples.

One day last month when I turned up at Natassia's place with a headache, she offered me a couple. I dubiously attached them to my throbbing temples and waited in vain for some relief. The only effect, as far as I can make out, is that while wearing them, a person has the satisfaction of knowing all who lay eyes on them will be aware of their suffering. The plasters transform a headache into a visible affliction. If a problem shared is a problem halved, this makes perfect sense. But Hanoians swear by the things, reminding me that, as a skeptic, I'm forever immune to placebo.

I become determined to find a way to help Hien. I have a new weapon this time – a Vietnamese friend who can surely help me. One who'll be able to arrange for Hien's relocation to a hospice where she can be treated.

Nguyet listens attentively while I describe Hien, but then shakes her head. ‘Normal,' is all she offers, although gravely. ‘You must not worry about this woman. Many in Hanoi, same.'

But, although the day is a scorcher, I insist on taking Nguyet up to the supermarket. I want her to meet Hien, to talk to her. With obvious reluctance, Nguyet reverses her motorcycle out of the downstairs bathroom and we ride the hundred metres to the
Nam Bo
.

Hien is crouched on the street beside the supermarket. She greets me and I crouch beside her. I point to Nguyet and say ‘
Ban Toi
' – ‘my friend' and Hien politely addresses her. Nguyet replies, but to my consternation, remains standing. They have a brief exchange, but Hien is too ill to raise her voice, making it doubtful that Nguyet catches half of what she's saying over the roar and honk of the traffic. The look on Nguyet's face tells me she's doing this strictly as a favour to me. I rub Hien's skeletal back and bid her ‘
chao chi
' – as Nguyet pulls me away.

‘What did she tell you?' I ask her from the back of the motorcycle.

‘Nothing. She say you her friend, very kind.' Nguyet's expression as she addresses me is full of warmth towards me, but weary.

‘Mmm. But did she say what I should do?'

‘I don't think you can help her.'

‘Please help
me
Nguyet. This is important,' I say. ‘In Hanoi, do you have the Red Cross?'

‘Red Cross? Yes. Near here.'

How can I telephone them?'

Back at her place, Nguyet makes a phone call to directory assistance, and gives me a number. An hour later, at my place, I make the call.

The woman's name is Mai. I tell her what I know about Hien, then ask for her advice.

‘I want to help this woman,' I explain, ‘but I'm new in Vietnam, and I don't know how.' Mai is friendly and tells me to come down any time. I've checked the map – the office is not far past the
Nam Bo
. It's now one in the afternoon and nearly 40 degrees outside, but it's Friday and with the weekend coming up, I don't want to leave this any longer. I want Hien in care before Monday. I tell Mai I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

I put on a hat and my white long-sleeved shirt, pack my map and a photo of Hien, and set out on foot for the Red Cross. Passing the
Nam Bo
on the other side of the road I wave back at Hien who's semaphoring at me with the bamboo fan. I wish I could tell her that help is on the way. All the more reason to accelerate my efforts at learning the language.

I make it across to the far side of Crazy Junction – the improbable seven-way intersection beyond the
Nam Bo
– without incident. Then my navigation comes unstuck. I've picked the wrong street and I'm halfway to Hoan Kiem Lake before I realise what I've done. By the time I find the door of the Red Cross my tongue is virtually hanging out of my head.

The building is an old French-built house. The façade looks poorly maintained. Mai is lurking in the entrance room, apparently waiting for me. She's young but looks a little harried. I feel I've cut into her lunchtime, and she would rather be napping. I notice the interior looks run-down too, and seems to be a repository for broken chairs.

She hands me a glass of chilled boiled water and leads me through the house into a large dark room set up like a conference room, where she turns on the fluorescent lights and the ceiling fans. I sit gratefully at the glass-topped hardwood table, enjoying the moving air and the feel of the cool glass. Mai sits beside me. Almost immediately, a kindly-faced man in his fifties appears from another doorway with a tray of tea and introduces himself as Hao. He sits opposite us. There's a feeling of gravity about this meeting. It seems my concerns are to be taken seriously. I begin to relax, and allow myself some optimism.

After a few minutes of small talk, during which I discuss my experiences and employment in Hanoi, the atmosphere begins to thicken. Hao occupies himself refilling my tiny cup every time I have a mouthful of tea. I wait for either of my hosts to bring up the subject of Hien, but they don't. Finally I push my cup away from me and pull out the photo.

Mai looks at it for a few seconds then turns to me. ‘I'm sorry,' she shakes her head slowly. ‘We cannot help her.'

‘Why not?' I ask, wide-eyed. How on earth could she know? Is there some clue in the photo I've missed, I wonder. Is Hien somehow notorious?

‘Because she not from this district,' Mai explains.

‘What do you mean?' I ask, baffled, then ‘How do you know?'

The reply is a maddening masterpiece in circular reasoning, of the type that drives foreigners to distraction in Vietnam.

‘If she from this district then we would help her already.'

I stare stupefied at Mai. ‘That's ridiculous,' I say. Hao pipes up.

‘I'm sorry,' he tells me. ‘There are too many people like this in Vietnam. We cannot help everybody.'

‘Mr Hao. I'm not stupid. I know you can't help everybody,' I tell him slowly, unsmilingly. My dismay has turned to frustration. ‘I'm asking you to help
me
to help this one woman. I can pay for her treatment.'

Mr Hao looks down at his hands, which lie flat on the tabletop. Mai scratches her cheek, deep in thought. After a moment she brightens and tells me there's a woman attached to a special hospital who should be able to help. She'll ring the woman after lunch.

‘I will call to you at your house this afternoon,' she promises, and I leave, feeling satisfied that things are now moving in the right direction.

Back home I wait by the silent phone and occupy myself reading an Agatha Christie book from the library of Genius Boy-Minh. Every ten minutes I glance at the clock on the wall.

Just after four o'clock, the phone kicks into action, making me jump. I grab the pen I've put beside the phone in case I need to take down any information, and swipe up the handset.

‘Carolyn?' slurs a voice. The line is bad. It's a friend in Sydney, drunk and maudlin, wanting a long chat. I swear under my breath. I tell her I'm waiting for an urgent call, but she won't be deterred, and talks on at great length. By the time I get her off the phone it's quarter to five. I panic and become convinced that Mai has tried to ring and given up. After five or so minutes of indecision, I call the Red Cross office again.

The phone rings out. The staff members have gone home.

The weekend comes and goes. I feel so keenly that I've let Hien down that I avoid the
Nam Bo
. On Sunday I pass the supermarket on the other side of the road on my way to the market. I look discreetly towards the
Nam Bo
but I don't spot Hien. Unusual, but she may just be out of sight behind the corner of the doorway.

But on Monday morning I head to the
Na Bo
, and find she's still missing. The last time I saw her she looked terrible, and seemed weaker than ever, now she's vanished. I wander distraught between the wretched humans that populate the intersection and ask them ‘
Co Hien o dau?
' – ‘where is Auntie Hien?' Nobody I find can speak English.

I find one of the women who shares the doorway with Hien. She's probably ten years older than Hien but is relatively healthy.