Listen, Slowly (9 page)

“When exactly does it get good?”

“This is pertinent information about your grandmother. Listen. ‘In an extension of what her grandmother already knew, I found three men who also shared that unfortunate day with your grandfather but were later released. All were kept in Củ Chị, a district infamous for enemy infiltration underneath the earth, as this was where the Communists dug tunnels and fought like moles during the war. I came to know the district as well as the lines on the palms of my hands. One day, while stoppin’ for a sugarcane beverage to offset the notorious heat and dust of the area, as few vegetation had regrown after the brutal wartime strategy of droppin’ chemicals that killed anythin’ green and growin’, I chanced upon the proprietor, the very man who had held her grandfather as a prisoner.’”

“STOOOOPPPPP! I have no idea what you’re saying. My head hurts!!!!”

“Miss, I have pages of more translation.”

“My brain will explode. Do you want that?”

Anh Minh deflates. He did stay up all night. Fine, I’ll play nice, having just vowed to be more agreeable. “How about you answer questions? Don’t read, just answer, okay?”

So polite, Anh Minh makes himself nod. He’s still disappointed, but I need my head, attached.

“Where is the guard?”

“In Hà Nội.”

“He’s a van ride away?” I almost shout. “Doesn’t he get that Bà is here just to see him?”

“It is a matter of personal integrity. He is adamant that your Bà comes to him, that no one misconstrues his goodwill for greed.”

“Greed how?”

“He does not want anyone to think he is hopin’ for a monetary exchange.”

“Why are we putting up with him? Does he actually know anything?” Now I do shout.

“This man guarded your Ông while he was in captivity. That is more than the detective has ever tracked down,” Anh Minh explains. He is patient.

“So everyone agrees that Ông is not alive, for sure?”

“I must not speak for your Bà, but it is most unlikely.”

“If there’s no Ông, why aren’t we going home?”

“Your Bà is achin’ for finality, I believe.” Anh Minh sounds sad.

“Isn’t Ông being truly gone final enough?”

“It is not my place to say but there is death and there is acceptance.” His voice sounds even sadder. “Those two do not always conjoin in time and thought.”

I think Dad said something like that, and Bà herself told me as much. I might have been so intent on going home that I missed listening.

“Exactly how long does it take to accept something?”

“That is the billion-dollar question.”

I hate it when I ask a perfectly clear question and get a point to ponder in reply. Cut it out, I need an answer. Obviously, it won’t come from Anh Minh. So I try an easier question. “Why can’t Bà and I go to him?”

“Your dad wants him to come here so your Bà can rest. Besides, she herself says it is a matter of respect.”

A sinking, sick feeling is spreading in my gut. I’m going to be stuck here forever. It won’t matter if HE actually might like me because I’ll be Bà’s age when I finally get to go home. Neither side is going to appease the other because of something only they understand. The sickness must have spread to my face because Anh Minh panics.

“Do not worry. If anyone can find the guard and bring him here, it is your detective, miss.”

“Really?”

“He is movin’ the sky to do so.”

I frown. That’s a bit of the detective talking. “Last question: why does he stack twenty words on top of each other when one would do?”

“He has always wanted to be a poet.”

The world is suddenly so tiring. I must go back to sleep, even if the loudest rooster on earth is just waking up.

T
wo days later, the detective is still here, still whispering with Bà. What could he possibly be saying? Go do your job, I want to shout but can’t. My curse: rebellious in my head but oh-so lovely in real life. I should call Mom and complain until my spit dries up, but talking to her means ripping out my guts about HIM. So I’m back to suffering silently and alone.

I hope the detective at least is telling Bà it might be time to accept that nothing more can be known, that just because the guard ran into Ông a long, long time ago doesn’t mean he actually remembers anything important. I don’t dare ask Anh Minh to translate all that because when I texted those thoughts to Mom, she about had a meltdown.

“Let Bà find acceptance her way. Do not interfere. Be thoughtful.”

I wanted to reply, “I m here. U r not. Who mre thghtful?” But I held back because Mom is so cranky these days, probably not sleeping much. Yesterday, when I texted my standard “I wnt 2 go hme,” she shot back, “This trip is not about you.” She hasn’t asked to talk for real lately, and seems actually okay just texting me. I thought I was the center of her world? And she no longer drops hints about HIM. That’s Mom for you, hot and cold, hot and cold. Her trial must be sucking up her every brain cell.

Meanwhile, I’ve been doing nothing but eating and sleeping, which sounds amazing until that’s all you get to do. I’m now an expert insect watcher, sorting flying buzzers from crawlers from danglers, then categorizing each group by shape, size, and color. So so fascinating. For more subtropical fun, I also have intimate knowledge of the sticky heat and constant noises.

You’d think a little village in North Vietnam couldn’t help but be tranquil and quiet, full of banana groves and bamboo forests, but everything here has a big mouth. Dogs fighting, crickets blasting, frogs screaming, chickens clucking, birds screeching, mice scurrying . . . all this before the humans, the many many humans, add to the cacophony. I know, SAT alert. It’s work getting rid of these words, work.

I’m so well fed, I can literally feel my brain cells getting plump and lazy. I’m actually not plotting anything while having breakfast on the porch with Bà and the detective. Bà keeps saying the same things and the detective keeps answering in bubble sentences. Aren’t they bored? I am.

We’re eating
cháo
again. It was left on the porch, and the
cháo
stayed hot in a pot encased inside a shape-fitting sweater cocooned inside the basket. Someone went through a lot of trouble for us. The detective adds so many chopped scallions to his bowl my eyes water, then he SLURPS SLURPS SLURPS through puckered lips. Next, he CHOMPS CHOMPS CHOMPS. All the while writing superslowly in that decrepit notebook. All his private habits would be unknown to me if he were out in the world doing his job.

“Tell him in the spirit of balance he should come to me.”

“If only . . .”

Please, universe, make these conversations stop.

Then Anh Minh and Út’s mom, whom I call Cô Tâm to mean Aunt Tâm but I don’t think she’s my actual aunt, walk up carrying two heavy baskets. More food! Even the skeletal detective is afraid of eating by this point, so he slaps shut his notebook, bows, and tells Bà good-bye. He’s leaving, for real. So that’s what it takes to chase him out of here! Go do your job, go do your job, I sing to myself. With the detective gone, half the noises disappear.

The two guests sit down and stare. This happens a lot, maybe-relatives stopping by to watch me eat. Do they want to make sure I don’t throw out their food? Do they want to see what gets stuck in my braces? On display, with Bà monitoring me, I do my part and chew.

When I’m done with my soup I don’t look up, so afraid they’ll open the baskets. But they seem preoccupied. Yes!

“Miss, Cô Tâm has requested my services to extend to you her invitation to a special gatherin’ that happens monthly. You probably have been informed that our village is known for its delicate, exquisite embroidery, a skill passed from mothers to daughters and guarded from strangers. Cô Tâm will be teachin’ a basic yet crucial stitch today and invites you to participate.”

My instant reaction is, of course, no, as in NO. I blank out my face, using my little trick of mentally staring into an empty gray box. I hate how my fingers cramp up while clutching a slippery needle that would prick me and leave tiny beads of blood.

But what’s a bit of blood when I can break from the numbing cycle of eating and sleeping? And I think Út said there’s internet connection in her house. I need to send Mom a long email about the detective. How hard can it be to lure the guard here? Mom should take over.

All right, I’ll confess, it’s not about Mom at all. I really want to check FB. Talking to Montana is too heart-attacky, but on FB I won’t have to fake my voice to sound unannoyed and interested.

I jump up, saying embroidery has been passed down to me too. Mom made sure I knew how to sew, embroider, stitch a tent, hunt for wild mushrooms, detect edible wild greens, strain drinking water out of mud, resole shoes using old tires. I have no idea why I would need to know all that growing up in Laguna, but I rarely win with Contradictory Momma. She says the key to life is to be prepared for the worst . . . while wearing white and perfecting your complexion, of course.

I bow to my maybe-aunt. I’m so agreeable I shock myself.

Bà doesn’t join us for embroidery because of her weak eyes. She’s probably happier being alone and chanting for Ông. These days her chants can last an afternoon and must be whispered to save her throat. Way back she taught me
“Nam Mô A Di Ðà Phật, Nam Mô Quan Thế Âm Bồ Tát,”
when other kids were learning “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” There weren’t hand motions in my lullaby, which was actually an ancient Buddhist sutra in Sanskrit (how worldly was I?), but whispering those words always sank me toward sleep.

A
t least twenty girls are at Út’s two-story house, built of the same stacked-rectangle design. Is there one architect for the whole country? The girls are all wearing loose pants and matching blouses that could be pajamas. Such intricate embroideries! After that much work, the girls should show them off, pajamas or not.

They giggle and hide their mouths behind cupped hands as soon as I walk in. On display again, for once not while eating, I hope I remember not to pick my nose or, even worse, scrape gunk from my teeth and smell it. Private habit of mine, which no one would know about if I had my own room. But in this land of togetherness, wanting my own space, even for a little while, equates to wanting to go to jail.

On a round table sits a huge piece of white silk, sketched in pencil with willow trees around a pond where girls in cone hats are paddling little boats. Square huts stand in the background. Where is this? I haven’t seen any huts in Vietnam. It’s the kind of scene tourists take home.

Five girls sit at this table. The rest scatter around tables in the back, each with her own piece of white cloth, smaller and not silk. I don’t see a computer in this room. How do I poke around?

Cô Tâm stands.
“Today we will practice the caterpillar crawl, a forward stitch that must be done precisely to show absolutely no discrepancy between the front and back sides. Spacing must be tiny as a third of a rice grain to camouflage each puncture. Make certain your puncture points follow in step, much like matching someone’s footsteps, to create the illusion of an uninterrupted line.”

Huh? The girls at the front table are obviously pros and each start on a willow branch. Seamless. I begin mine, thin brown thread attached to a thin thin needle. Just a straight line. No big deal. I go in and out, in and out. Mom will be thrilled to know she’s passed on a skill still in vogue. How useful though, I can’t say.

Suddenly, my right palm is slapped.

“Not acceptable.”
Cô Tâm tut-tuts me.
“Take it out and begin again.”

Anh Minh, not self-conscious at all from being the only boy here, whispers the translation, as if anyone, Vietnamese speaking or not, would ever misunderstand a tut-tut. Fine, I take out the stitch. I wonder if there’s ever been a nonscholarly village boy who wants to embroider or an ocean-loving village girl who would rather raise shrimps.

Út might be that girl. She sits a few tables to my right and just got her hand slapped too. Her thread is knotted and can’t be pulled through. At least I’m not that bad. Her mother has to clip, cut out the tangles, reknot the thread, and hand back the needle. Út looks so miserable I almost feel sorry for her. For once, I don’t see Froggy or the basket.

Slap. Ooowww. Who knew such a sweet-looking woman could be so aggressive? Cô Tâm would never make it in Laguna, where parents count to twenty to let pass the urge to raise their voices ever so slightly to their kids. Admittedly, these same kids should be screamed at, they’re so obnoxious and demanding. I’m not obnoxious or demanding. Right?

I have to take my stitches out again. Other slaps ring out across the room. Only Út and I wrinkle our brows in annoyance. The others concentrate like they’re putting together a five-thousand-piece puzzle. I force my brow to smooth out, remembering that I need Cô Tâm’s permission to use their computer, probably kept upstairs.

“Do girls learn to embroider over there?” I hear the question and the translation but I’m so intent on getting each stitch perfectly spaced I don’t get that someone just spoke to me. Anh Minh has to shake my shoulder a little.

All are staring at me. They’ve stopped stitching, so I stop. It feels really good to relax my eyes and stretch my fingers. If I answer the truth, a quick no, then I’d have to go right back to stitching. So . . .

“They don’t embroider as much as, uhmm, add things onto their stuff because I guess it’s very important for each girl to wear her own design so that her personality shows through.”

After the translation, all faces stare blankly. Might as well give Anh Minh something to do and so I keep going. “Over there you can’t stand out unless you’re different and that says you have the confidence to be creative and wear whatever you think is unique. Yes, that’s it, it’s a very big deal to be unique because the goal is to be an individual and pursue your own vision.”

Anh Minh signals for me to pause so he can get all that out. No one has to sew while I talk or am being translated. Cool. Word stretching is not a problem. I haven’t suffered through the detective for nothing.