Listen, Slowly (17 page)

I try and sound like an frightened sheep.

“
Ba
plus
dấu ngã
makes your tone flip.
Bã
means residue, something chewed and left over.”

I try and sound like a sheep falling over.

“
Ba
plus
dấu nặng
makes your tone clog in your throat.
Bạ
means at random, whatever.”

This one is my favorite. I get to say “whatever” while sounding like a constipated sheep.

“Miss, are you really tryin’?”

I’ve always thought these little marks are like decorations, a way to call attention to yourself like people who spell “Amy” as “Aimee” or “Aimy” or “Aymee” or “Amee.” A bit forced, but whatever, or
bạ
. The key to making that tone is to close your glottis, which Anh Minh says is the opening between the vocal cords at the upper part of the larynx. This is how he helps me.

“If we were to do away with these little accent marks, no one would notice. I mean . . .”

“MISS! Vietnamese would not be Vietnamese without them, and they are called diacritical marks, not accent.”

I’ve never seen Anh Minh get this red. My head bobs in agreement, so fearful he’ll turn magenta and rush to explain the difference between dia . . . whatever and accent marks.

“Let us have examples then.” He calms down enough to ask, “What is the name of your mother?”

“Renee.”

“Her name at birth.”

OMG, I know she legally changed her name but I have no idea from what unpronounceable one. That’s something I should know. How embarrassing.

“What is the name of your dad?”

“Ray, I mean Mưa.”

“You are saying
mưa
with
dấu móc
that means rain. Just plain m-u-a means to buy.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

Út writes, “He has strong extra feelings because classmates destroyed his name.”

I give her my “go on, do tell” face.

Writes: His true name is Nguyễn Minh Dũng = Bright Bravery.

Anh Minh interrupts. “Not important. We still have much more to learn.”

I encourage Út again with my “go on, do tell” face.

“In English his name is Dung Minh Nguyen, pronounced Dung Mean Nugent = mean piece of poop.”

I’m not about to laugh, seeing Anh Minh’s face. I’m not about to say anything either, afraid I might laugh. But I totally understand why he would go by his middle name. I too would choose to be called mean rather than a piece of poop.

“You think it is funny, miss?”

I shake my head. Really, I have not laughed.

“Mai Le, I am certain you know means spring flower sticking out its tongue. You have to put
dấu mũ
on
Lê
to have a proper family name. When I see a word without its marks, I can make up whatever I want.”

Út starts writing.

“Mái Lẻ = uneven number of roofs”

Big deal.

“Mải Lễ = devoted to ceremonies”

Boring.

“Mãi Lé = forever cross-eyed”

Anh Minh laughs.

Hey!

I suddenly appreciate my parents so much. Not only did they come up with a first name that could be flipped biculturally, they chose one without any pesky marks. And who wouldn’t love to be named after a flower that blossoms at the first sign of spring? As for my last name, I will from now on write Lê with a little hat over the
e
. Think of it as adding Vietnamese-style sunblock.

I hear an invasion of beeps and we come to a traffic jam. Finally!

“Yes, Hanoi!” I yell.

“Actually, miss, it’s Hà Nội, two words, the first word the tone goes down, the second word the tone . . .”

“Oh,
bạ, bạ, bạ
!”

Anh Minh and Út look appalled, like they don’t understand me, or maybe they do, but whatever, let me enjoy my cloud of toxic fumes from thousands of lawless mopeds in peace.

H
anoi, I mean Hà Nội, is just as noisy, smoggy, dizzying, crowded, stinky yet alive as I remembered. Now that I’m no longer shocked by the maneuvers of every moped, I notice that just about every house is built in the stacked style like Cô Hạnh’s. It’s confirmed. One architect designed for the whole country. But each distinguishes itself by the height and the paint. There’s one that’s seven stories tall in light purple with dark purple trims—a first grader’s dream birthday cake.

Our driver slips into traffic, beeping and inching along with the best of them. By the time we are dumped in front of Út’s aunt’s house, five stories tall in traditional red and yellow, I wish I had accepted one of Bà’s seven Tiger Balms. Instead of worrying about smelling like menthol, which of course smells just fine on Bà, I should have worried about the embarrassment of searching for a barf bag.

We walk into the house and it smells painful and mediciny, just like a dental office. That’s because the entire first floor is a dental office. Behind a white mask, for the purpose of hygiene not sunblock, a woman tells us to go rest on the second floor. Út calls her Cô Nga, so she must be the aunt/dentist.

The second floor is one big bedroom with lots of foam mats on the floor and dressers along the walls. Weird decoration, but really really clean. Someone brings us fruit and tea, of course, and we are told to take a nap. But we haven’t had lunch. Anh Minh puts down his bag and backs out.

“My apologies, I must take my leave and get to my appointment.”

“Okay,” Út says, and obediently lies down for a nap.

OMG, she understood every word he said.

“Game over, smarty! You understand us!”

“No.”

“Cut it out, you do too.”

She gets out her handy little pad. “I understand Anh Minh when he speaks English in Vietnamese-accent way. I don’t understand you because your words are too fast and too twisty.”

Me? “What . . . if . . . I . . . talk . . . slower . . . like . . . this?”

“Maybe.”

I’ve been talking like Tarzan in Vietnamese when I could have been speaking English in slow motion? I glare at her. “Why . . . did . . . you . . . not . . . tell . . . me?”

She laughs a good long laugh and writes, “Your Vietnamese is so funny!!!”

I’m so thrilled I can amuse her. And three exclamation points are my thing, not hers. I almost tell her I can understand Vietnamese, but just wait. We’ll see who’s funny.

Cô Nga has outstripped Cô Hạnh as the most efficient person on earth. In exactly seven minutes, she tightens both of our braces, scrapes around in there, asks us if we’re in pain, and while we’re still nodding she has shooed us off her chairs. A snaky line of patients is waiting.

“What else have I promised your mother?”
she asks Út, who points at my cheek. Cô Nga grips my chin, inspects the almost-gone bruise, and calls for someone.

“This is Quỳnh Huyền. She will see to your needs. I’m much too busy, not enough time to eat even.”
She waves her hand and we’re back on the second floor with the assistant attached to an unpronounceable name.

Chị QH doesn’t have time either, expecting us to listen, keep up, don’t annoy her, and never tattle. In the time it takes a normal person to present these rules, she’d said them in perfect Vietnamese and accented but impressive English. I’m dizzy.

“Agreed?”

Út and I barely have nodded and off we go. We don’t have time to tell her Út can understand Vietnamese-accented English. Besides, it’s fascinating to see someone’s mouth move that fast.

In the courtyard, Chị QH rolls out a pink moped. Bright pink. Her clothes are girly too: black skinny jeans, a tight sequined blouse, and sandals with heels. But nothing about her manners is girly.

“First, I have to dress you two in different clothes or street kids will target you as dumb pots of gold,”
she says in two languages. Út and I are about to get offended when she whistles the loudest whistle without using a whistle. I have to learn that.

Five mopeds appear with three boy and two girl drivers.

Chị QH points to a girl in jeans and sandals just like hers, but the sequined blouse is purple not white.
“I need you for three hours, perhaps more, fifty?”

“Chị, how about one hundred, I can make that much on one trip to the airport.”

“Sixty-five or I’ll get her.”
She points to the other girl, who is nodding furiously. The first girl revs up her engine.

Are they doing some kind of weird math? I don’t dare ask because Chị QH has pointed to me and the seat behind her. She head hooks Út toward the other moped. They give us helmets although they aren’t wearing any. Maybe it’s an age thing. I have no idea how old the girls are, late teens to late twenties? We all pull out sun masks. Chị QH rips ours off.

“Use these,” handing over new ones. Apparently, masks are supposed to cover only your nose and mouth and be in colors close to your complexion. It must be a city/country thing. Off we go and I’m even more dizzy. Things move fast in the city.

We stop at a building that has a roof but is open on all sides. The other driver has to stay outside to watch the mopeds. Inside, there are three stories, with greasy escalators to move the monumental crowd. In front of each shop sit baskets of goods spilling into the walking paths. Once we manage to get inside a shop, we have to maneuver around other baskets set in aisles. The merchant has to pile baskets on top of each other to make room for me, Út, and Chị QH to stand together.

“Get them pants to fluff out their bones and billowy blouses and student sandals, no heels
.”

Út and I change behind a sheet the merchant holds up. No comment. But Chị QH has plenty to say about my money pouch. Út is wearing one that’s smaller.

“I thought you two had stomach ailments!”
she scolds in two languages. Before we can answer, she has ordered two sturdy pouches that can hang unnoticed from our necks under the blouses. Pulling out the pouches in public does not require undressing. Always a plus.

It’s miraculous, only in Vietnam do they design pants with puffy pockets that somehow give a skinny girl a full butt. I choose tan while Út chooses brown. Our flouncy blouses are long sleeved but cool and soft. Mine is peach, Út’s green. She’s the colors of you know who, whom I’m sure she misses very much.

I try to give Chị QH two twenty-dollar bills, but she slaps my hand. “Put that away before you get followed. We’ll talk money later with your aunt, and twenties? Really? All this adds up to less than ten dollars,
ma petite soeur
.”

Why is she stacking on French? My brain is at full capacity.

Chị QH wants us to throw out our old clothes, but Út refuses, saying they’re her favorite pants. Sighs all around, then everything gets smooshed into a ball and stuffed into a neat space underneath the moped seat.

Next, we stop at an open market with a huge roof to protect against the rain and sun. Although it’s open air, the smells are overwhelmingly bad and good, like life itself. Sweat and fruit and boiling oil and raw meat and rows and rows of flowers. The other driver stays with the mopeds. Inside, tons of people mill around everything possible for sale, including stands and stands of food. FOOD! We have not had lunch even though it’s late afternoon.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to be annoying, but would it be okay if we bought food? I have money. Actually, I insist on exchanging money so I can pay. Please.”

Nothing means freedom like Vietnamese money. You get so much of it. Chị QH looks like at me like I am annoying, but Út is nodding vigorously to help me out.

“If you must tend to your stomachs, then follow me.”

We go to a jewelry store. Út and I are too intimidated to protest that I don’t even like jewelry and it goes without saying Frog Girl has no use for it either.

“What is the rate today?”
Chị QH asks the jeweler.

“Fourteen to one, miss.”

“Don’t fool me, I know it’s nineteen to one.”

“That’s at the federal bank, miss. Here, we are just a small shop. Fifteen to one then.”

Small shop? There are nuggets of diamonds all over the place.

“Enough, eighteen to one.”

“Think of the gas I paid transferring the cash and the guards I have to hire.”
The merchant points at five men holding sticks.
“For you, miss, sixteen to one.”

“Meet you at seventeen or we go to the shop next door.”

They settle their weird math. The jeweler opens a fridge-sized steel safe, revealing stacks and stacks of cash. I’ve never seen that much money. Chị QH asks me for two twenty-dollar bills and hands back a wad that could not all be stuffed into my pouch. I give some to Út.

Chị QH whispers, “You have plenty to play with, don’t ever ever pull out your twenties. Understood? I asked for small bills so you can manage. Now put one hundred in your pants pockets. The rest keep in the pouch.”

When she says one hundred she means one hundred thousand
đồng
. No one says the last three zeros. One hundred thousand
đồng
equals about six dollars. I love this country! BTW, it’s never
dong
, but
đồng
. Tone downward. Dad, for some reason, made sure I knew the difference between
dong
and
đồng
even before we got off the plane. He said it again and again.

Where
is
he? Surely, Mom’s scouts have found him by now. I will text as soon as life slows down. With so much happening, I sometimes forget my focus is on getting home, and more immediately on finding the guard. But believe me, guard, home, exhale.

I whisper to Út, “When . . . find . . . guard?”

She writes, “Must wait. Do what they want first, then you get your turn, then I get my turn.”

I nod to be agreeable, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Chị QH leads us to a
bánh cuốn
stand. I love
bánh cuốn
. That’s how I learned to eat really spicy, diluted fish sauce. Chị QH orders, tells us to sit exactly here until she gets back, which may be a while, but the merchant has agreed to watch us. I can hear Út swallow a little, me too. She’s never been in a big city, and I haven’t been left without an adult in so long I instantly panic.

“Don’t worry, half the people here know me and Cô Nga, and they all know to not tell her you were left here. Nothing will happen,”
Chị QH says in two languages. She waves ta-ta, and off she goes.