The Sparrows Called Trưng

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Ian Quee Behind 1000 5th Ave, New York, NY 10028 (212) 731-1498 @HienADay HienADay@gmail.com

about 22,000 words

The Sparrows Called TrÆ°ng Ian Quee

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B Y - N C - S A

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Subject: RE: RE: RE: You’ll Never Believe What This Author is Willing to Do to Be Published by The New Yorker Mag!!! (Manuscript Attached) Sender: Ian Quee [HienADay@gmail.com] Sent: Monday 27/Feb/2017 To: david_effing_remnick@newyorker. com, cc: fiction@newyorker.com Dear David Remnick, It’s Ian Quee, again. Did you get my last mail? If you have, please ignore my very inappropriate offer to do certain things in exchange for being featured in your publication. My friends have pressured me to retract it. Sorry.

On to business, did you have time to read my last submission, “Of Mice and New Yorkers”? I’m sure you’re still reeling from the sheer comedic value of the piece, so much so that you could not bring yourself to reply in a timely manner. I want you to know that it’s alright; we’re all very busy people, haha.

It maybe hard to keep track of all of my manuscripts, seeing how “Of Mice” was the 11th one

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that I sent The New Yorker’s way this month. I understand that, as the editor, you cannot just let any two-cent wannabe author be featured on such a prestigious platform. However, I assure you, David, that every single word I send your way is 100% worthy. My partner told me so! (Well, he hasn’t exactly read any of them, but it’s the intention that counts, you know?)

With that said, here’s “The Sparrows Called Trưng”.

What’s that I hear? Are you positively squealing like a preteen girl at a Lana Del Rey’s concert?

Keep calm, as this may surprise you, but it’s not another funny piece (sad face). I’ve been receiving criticism (yes, I listen to haters from time to time) that my laugh-out-loud writing style is just a mask for me to hide away my true voice and vulnerabilities. What couch psychology nonsense!

However, I did some soul searching and heavy drinking, and in the end, I found one of those vulnerabilities that people go on so much about.

What became of all that self-reflecting was a story

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of two women, separated by time, space, situation, and disposition. Yet, the two share a drive towards self-fulfillment, in ways both similar and different.

During the writing of “The Sparrows”, I’ve reached out to my sister for counsel regarding realistic female characters. After a few exchanges, I realized that she was no help because, being a real-life princess, she had no idea how a normal woman would think and act. Begrudgingly, I had to go out on a limb and write a predominantly female-centric story based on my field observations from a safe distance.

I think I did OK. It took me two months to complete “The Sparrows” and another to design the book. All in all, it was a very sobering experience. It forced me to face many uncomfortable what-ifs about both myself and a few people that were extremely close to me. The initial spark that started the fire was a conversation that I had with my sister way back. No doubt, it has been a slow burn, but when it caught up with me, I wasted no time. As with the characters, I will have to live

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down the nagging knowledge of aspirations unfulfilled and timelines unlived. This short story is a way for me to come to terms with these feelings.

Anyways, David, I hope you enjoy “The Sparrows” as much as you did with my other 11 submissions. You too, Deborah Treisman (Yes, I did CC the fiction room, as much you’ve told me to stop writing to you). Be hearing from you soon, especially about how several of my stories are going to be featured on the front page.

Hugs, kisses, and a platonic handshake,

Ian Quee

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The Sparrows Called TrĆ°ng

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October, 2015, Northern Maine.

They were zooming through a floating sea of fire, the breeze cool on their cheeks. The New England autumn was set ablaze in the sun, basked in a green-yellow-orange-red gradient.

Mai had been silent for more than while.

Save for the occasional water sip or cigarette, she rarely opened her mouth for anything. Carlos would occasionally take his attention off the road to make small talk about the color of the leaves, the windy weather, how Mai had been holding up these last 3 weeks out of town, or how she should nap for a bit. His girlfriend would only watch the orange fields outside pensively. With dark bags and heavy lids, she did look like she needed sleep. In fact, both of them did. Ever since Mai called him up at 4 AM that morning with an urgent yet cryptic request, none of them have had any rest. That was 7 hours ago.

They have been on the road for so long that Carlos could almost feel bedsores growing on his buttocks. The sandwiches they had bought at Hart-

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ford hours ago had only done so much to stem the hunger, which was coming back with a vengeance.

Mai’s sandwich only had a single bite on it and was growing clammy on the dashboard. If Carlos had asked for it, his girlfriend wouldn’t have minded, but he thought if anyone needed food more, it was her. Mai tried lighting another cigarette, but wind made the Bic lighter impotent.

“Give me your Zippo,” Mai made a wild fling, and the plastic cylinder flew out the car window and into the vast ocean of fallen leaves. Carlos reached in his shirt and produced a brass old thing. He silently prayed that his prized possession would not endure Mai’s wrath, unlike its unfortunate predecessor. Mai flicked, snapped, and puffed out a cloud of smoke within no more than two seconds, like it was the most natural thing for her to do. The lighter had been hers before it was his. It had a single and lonely “Saigon” inscription. She slid it back into the pocket of her own black denim jacket, brushed a thick jet curl from her eye, and returned to her contemplative state.

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# The GPS read ahead an exit. The robotic voice broke through the calm engine hum and leaves rustle. It startled Carlos a bit, for it had been way too long since he last had to take a turn. They were almost there. The destination was a small town deep in rural Maine, near one of the wildlife preserves. Why Mai wanted to be there was a mystery to Carlos. Why she wanted to be there in a hurry was perplexing him. Why she felt the need to keep him in the dark was the real enigma.

Thinking about these questions tired Carlos out, and his sleep deprivation was morphing into a particularly bad headache. His girlfriend did not let slip any clue that she was remotely tired. Knowing her well, Carlos realized that Mai was already “there� in her mind and standing in front of wherever they were supposed to head to.

When they went on dates, the girl would be preoccupied with planning the next one as she was being dined and wined. It used to endear him, but now, he had cause for concern. Her mind was wan-

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dering for longer and further, especially after the funeral last week. Carlos recoiled at the thought of her mind wandering and, one day, never coming back. However, Mai’s occasional smoky drags put his mind at ease. She would still be here with him today, at least.

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September, 1996, Huế.

The road was slick with yesternight’s dribble.

A sparrow was twittering as it hopped from one muddy puddle to another. An ancient man slowly emerged from his lodging to a grey morning.

He took pause to let the water that had collected drip from the edges and splinters of the door.

As he waited, a young woman passed by on a moped.

He watched after the youth, then scratched his scruffy silver beard with a wistful sigh.

That morning, before she left her pillbox apartment, Hà kissed the plump cheeks on her sleeping daughter. Her husband would have to take their precious to kindergarten today. He would rather sleep in, but it was a big day for Hà. She had barely slept last night. The rain had droned on as she stayed up translating a cheesy welcoming speech. Her husband complained about the noise the keyboard made.

Hà wrangled her moped and maneuvered through pools of water that hid potholes. She

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was awake, aware, heart racing. Usually, working for the ministry of foreign affair was dull.

But, every now and then, the offices would scramble to receive a delegation. Being a small city of a small country, it was mostly inconsequential countries that visited. It wasn’t too much stress, even for a government job, but that was all the excitement that they would ever get, so the department bosses would usually go overboard with the formalities. Flowers, speeches, tours, buffets, dinners, fancy hotels, all that shebang.

However, today was different. Hà would receive her first ever United States delegates. Story was, there was a huge influx of capital after the country opened up its trades. Accompanying money were a legion of foreign aid and humanitarian missions. These missions needed federal oversight and media attention. Hà’s tiny department was not likely to see this amount of star power again in a long time. Heading the convoy was the then-surgeon general of the US, there to address the malaria epidemic plaguing wetter areas. There were a congregation of politicians and social

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workers. They even brought a few movie stars, just to get the cameras pinned on a vulnerable part of the world. There were near fifty Americans.

Arriving at the city’s only five-star hotel, Hà barely dodged the day’s second bout of rain.

It would have ruined her makeup, which she only had the chance to wear in these kinds of events.

That meant three times per year. She didn’t have to worry much about beauty though. It wasn’t like anyone else in the ministry was anymore glamorous. The biggest officials in suits simply looked like random sunbaked field hands donning unmatched suit and pants. It was a convention of sunken chests, pot bellies, and hard cheekbones.

The department women fared better, mostly on account of the backward (and invisible) policy of hiring women according to looks instead of merit. Hà often looked in the mirror and wondered to herself if she was a glorified PR girl.

She had certain assurances, though. Hà was one of the handful of employees that actually could use English with some serviceable proficiency. So when

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these events came along, she was the voice for all of the party bigwigs. She could be insulting the guests, and her superiors would only nod approvingly.

An hour later, the Americans arrived.

Emerging from their limos, it made for a spectacular commotion, which was novel to this quaint time-locked city. They shook hands and grinned for the flashes. Hà lined up along with others and applauded, as though celebrating white men’s mere existence. Every few seconds or so, a coworker would take a break from clapping to lean into her ear and whispered their barely-contained excitement. It’s not often that they saw or interact with white people so closely, which was an unfortunate reality on account of the country’s historically closed border. Hà wasn’t above it. She was fascinated with how tall these people were.

Their noses, their hair, their eyes. She didn’t return the banter not out of aloofness, but because her head was spinning.

They were coming in so quickly that they blended into a pale blur of suits, uniforms,

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light hair, and English names. There were ones that stood out though. There was a short and stocky guy with an eager smile. He looked more like a comedian than politician, likely one of the celebrities coming over for their pet humanitarian mission. His stature made her breathe easier.

There were also several black men. Some had matte brown skin, and others with a more slick ebony appearance. HĂ found herself curious and fixated on these men. Black people had existed in a very peripheral sense to a girl like her. She heard stories though, but not all of them were the kindest in tone. She could see her bosses diverting their eyes when greeted by the black men.

She felt a pang of embarrassment.

There were women, mostly mature and important with their dresses, coats, and poofy silver hair. HĂ felt like a schoolgirl next to them.

The feeling wasn’t out of place, as she had only graduated a few years ago. Standing up to old and inflated men was her job, so the sight of these women was both reassuring yet intimidating at the

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same time. Wondering if there was an aide closer to her age, Hà spotted a girl in a bodycon cream dress. It was hard to tell if she was younger or older, for no mere girl nor older lady looked the way her figure did. Hà could feel that something in the room changed when the young woman strutted into the hotel lobby. She was no aide. Everyone was still carrying on with the same formalities, but now, they were in her space, breathing her air, basking in her presence. Hà noticed her only in profile, with auburn curly locks obscuring most features, yet a pointed button nose peeked out.

Hà unconsciously touched her own nose, which was flaring from hyperventilation. This must be one of the celebrities.

The diplomats mingled. The Americans stood around with outstretched grins, hurting themselves trying to ignore the tension that hung low in the air. The Vietnamese politicians talked and laughed amongst themselves, they had the home turf advantage to fall back to in lieu of being to communicate to the delegates. The handful of interpreters were overbooked, running from

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one group to another. People like Hà were the strings and tapes that was tying the whole operation together. They made things flow and strangers friends. She was not getting paid nearly well enough for what her bilingualism brought to the table.

Hà almost felt sorry for the foreigners.

The reception was dragging out, and some of the delegates were visibly strained. A few had to step out for a smoke. These were usually the less significant ones in the entourage, those with less of a stake in schmoozing. She could see them through the lobby’s huge French windows. A group of men stood chatting over cigarettes. Then, there was the red-headed girl standing in the middle of a group of Vietnamese staffers, talking to her in what English they could muster. From the back, with her weight shifted to one side of the hips, the girl looked like a caricature of femininity. # When everyone moved into the auditorium, Hà took her place on stage, a podium designated

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for the interpreter. The speaker podium was on the other end. Setting up her papers in hand, she waited for things to simmer down. Her fright had subsided. She had practice, on account of being always deferred to this most stressful spot.

To combat her nerves, she looked into the audience, through them, and past them. The stagelight was blinding, so that made ignoring the audience easier. It began, so she began. Her English flowed better than she could have hoped (although it wasn’t without its hiccups, and she took note of that). It was like she didn’t even need to prewrite her translation. For once, she felt unstoppable.

She thought about her friends in college, and how it would impress them to see the meek one on stage. Then, she imagined her own husband in the audience, which made her trip up on her lines and forget what she was talking about. In her mind, he would already be leaving in the middle of show, grabbing coffee with friends for idle chit-chat. She winced. The speaker on the other end of the stage was looking at her expectant-

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ly. He forced a grin, which caused the pit in her chest grow bigger. Hà stammered through random phonics and was able to pick up her part again.

Hà pictured her daughter looking up to her. Hà pictured the girl with the dark red mane.

When the morning events were over, people scattered and would reconvene later for dinner and celebratory drinks. Anytime the country wasn’t being bombed by the US, it was a cause for celebration. Saying her farewells to coworkers and a few Americans, Hà headed out to the parking lot for her moped. As she made her way through the forest of dresses and suits, Hà wondered where the girl was and what she was doing. The lot was a rain-soaked concrete park overseen by one aged security guard. Leading her tiny vehicle by the handles, she pinched her arm and reflected on how she could have done better on stage. When evening came, there would be drinking and cajoling. Hà let out a sigh at the idea of her puffed up superiors red as tomatoes, shouting over the tables, making a fool of themselves, and perfectly representing local manhood to the foreign

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guests. She didn’t even drink, but she would have to later that day. Maybe the Americans would have more dignity in their festivities. They were here for a philanthropic quest after all.

Hà wondered what the red-haired girl would wear. Then Hà thought about her own wardrobe, struggling to think of an outfit better than this garishly saturated rental áo dài. In the end, she inhaled deeply, cleared her mental clutter, then let it out. The anxious trance of prolonged socializing faded, and her head was quieter. The sun peeked through its leaden blanket. Hà was on her way to pick her daughter up from school. With sunlight finally sprinkled gently on the dormant canopies, the real day seemed like it was just beginning.

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This was the definition of the middle of nowhere. The GPS has been quite unhelpful in the woods. The last 30 minutes leg of the journey comprised of a twisted version of the “telephone game”, where Mai stayed on her phone and relayed directions back to her boyfriend. The dirt trail was seriously testing the engineering of Japanese cars. Carlos cringed at the image of the suspension springs buckling. Wrestling the wheels while off-road, exhausted, and frustrated, Carlos maintained a steadfast conviction of helping Mai chase whichever goose she willed. Besides, what she was going through would likely have snapped him in two, the boy reminded himself.

The thick forest parted way to reveal an clear midday sky above a riverside town. “Town” was probably sugarcoating it. The place was more of a colony of cozy wood and vinyl bungalows.

This obscure hamlet laid snug against a bend in the river, symbiotic with the vast waters like a living, breathing creature. Carlos stopped the car for a bit, and Mai got off the phone. The sight compelled them to look beyond the low-rise

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roofs, toward the other side of the still waters.

Strewn on the overgrown stone cliffs were these small brick villas with the wide French windows, hiding behind a coat of opaque foliage and hedges like shy giants peeking out from their lair.

These giants had eyes on the river, the houses on its opposite shore, and the two alien Brooklynites who just arrived in a beat-up Toyota. Mai broke the silence, softly intoning, “Hey Split, let’s find ourselves a place to stay, yeah?”

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When Hà and her daughter arrived at home, the little girl was already fast asleep on mommy’s shoulders. The young mother freshened her baby girl’s face with a wet towel, then tucked her in for a quick nap. Her classmates were made to spend the afternoon on campus, but the little girl never had any patience for classes and teachers. She loathed school and was fiercely independent to the point of outcast. The current awkward arrangement was the best compromise Hà could come up with. It had been two months since Hà began to take time off from work to go pick her daughter up and fix their lunches herself.

Government jobs did come with a certain sense of lax punctuality, mainly on account of the lack of effective supervision. Hà didn’t worry too much, as she knew she was carrying most of her team’s work anyways. When she would leave home this afternoon, her daughter would go and stay over at the neighbor’s for the night. Her husband would be home by evening, but Hà figured it was best not to make him feel that the responsibility was on him. Otherwise, she would have to hear about it

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for days.

In the tiny hole in the wall that passed for the family’s kitchen, Hà was stewing the rest of last night’s pork ribs along with some celery and ginger. The propane heat lapped at the young mother when she bent in and smelled the soup.

Hà looked over her wardrobe and went immediately for her sharpest item, a deep red satin blazer. It was an expensive gift from a friend’s travel. She tried it with a blouse, another blouse, a cotton shirt, a woolen sweater, a pair of jeans, a pair of work trousers, this scarf, that scarf. In the end, all variations shared a common problem: the shiny jacket was far too big.

Its shoulders were slumping on where her stringy upper arm were. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw a barely grown person that could pass for a mere intern. She scoffed, holding up the blazer and desperately measuring it against different items. No avail. For some murky reason that Hà intentionally avoided delving into, she felt like a velvety red seemed only too appropriate for this particular night. The soup kettle

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rattled and gurgled thick foams, echoing from way down the hallway. HĂ threw the red blazer into a corner of the cabinet, grunting. She opted for her all-time staple, which was wool sweater and jeans combo, wrapped in the most oversized and ridiculous windbreaker in incendiary pink and blue.

The young girl told herself that she didn’t care what the red American girl thought of her.

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Carlos was pleasantly surprised that the small inn even bothered with rose petals on the quilt sheets. In a quick wiping motion, he cleared the queen sized bed and dove right onto its silky comfort. Carlos glances up from between the fabric to watch his petite girlfriend. She had her head down, transfixed to her smartphone.

Its glow illuminated her stern almond eyes. Mai was swiping through photos, same old ones so familiar that Carlos could tell which one she was on just by the duration of her pause on that particular one. The girl was somewhere else. She wasn’t in the now anymore, instead frolicked in the past where things were together and alright.

Carlos sunk back into the bed, hoping to catch some sleep before Mai woke up from her dream state. He dreamt about also being there at that place - wherever it was, with Mai. They had a light meal at four, but the sun was already turning the whole quiet town into a shadow puppet show with a tangerine backdrop. The family-run eatery was full of tourists and visitors, gawking with awe at all the little wood

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sculptures of rabbits in dresses. Locals didn’t use the word “rustic” that much. The young couple spooned their obligatory chowder in tense silence. Minutes ago, Mai had been talking on her phone, trying to arrange a meeting. It might have been the same person who guided them through the forest. Carlos looked to his girl for answers, but she only looked towards the villas perched on the stony hills. The Asian girl would sometimes tremble her chin as though wanting to speak up but interrupted halfway.

“The person on the phone, was that whom we’ve come out here to meet?” Carlos finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you ready to talk yet?”

“I don’t know.”

Carlos lets out a resigned sigh and places a $20 bill on the plaid linen tablecloth.

“I’ll be out in front. Join me when you’re done, kay?”

“OK,” Mai looked up. Her brief smile was a tired one, but still communicated some warm-

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ness. The boy placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it lovingly. She reciprocated by cradling his fingers in her own, yet she kept looking out the window, watching the cliffs darkening. Outside, Carlos sat down on one of the many wood stools placed alongside the verandas rails.

He pulled out his pack of Marlboros, but realized that it was empty. Giving it a big yawn, he looked to the direction Mai was looking at, scraping at clues as to what was going on inside the girl’s head.

Mai took a seat next to him. She gave him back the change, along with her pack of Luckies.

“How did you know?” Carlos was caught unawares by this gesture.

“Well, I saw my damsel in distress,” Mai looked into his eyes with smirk satisfaction. The way she used her eyes was only outwardly coy, but hid an unmistakable sense of purpose, like she knew what had to be done now. “Through the windows, dummy.”

The food must have done her mood

some good.

“My hero,” said Carlos, as he drew one out

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from the pack and held it between his lips. The girl did the same. He reached into his jeans, “Let me see if I-” “Need rescuing?” with the smirk still on her lips and one brow raised, Mai asked. Without waiting for a response, she produced the Saigon Zippo from her black jacket. Her boyfriend just held a dumbfounded look on his face before finally receiving the lighter. The drive here had been a blurry experience for Carlos; he barely remembered arriving. “I guess I owe you some explanations. Well, first of all, thanks for dropping everything, for driving me here,” she paused for a deep breath, then exhaled. “And for putting up with my bullshit.”

“Baby, I know it’s been hard, and it will be harder if I’m just gonna be a mouth, blabbering questions.”

“No, you have the right to, though.”

“Doesn’t mean I should practice that right.

It has to feel ‘right’ first, y’know?”

“I’ve been horrible,” Mai said. Not knowing if she meant she was acting horribly or have been

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feeling horrible, Carlos chose not to respond and instead, just nodded. “It’s gotta be bringing you down too, right?”

“It doesn’t matter, Mai. You’ve been there for me before. For example, the apartment thing?

I don’t know where I would be without you. You walked with me for 4 whole miles in the night.

Now that you need help, I’m here, even only as a chaperone.”

“Even without knowing what this is about?”

Mai asked. Carlos repeated her words solemnly. “I feel so shit for keeping you in the dark.”

“You’ll tell me, one day, right?”

“I-Are you going to use that?” Mai reached out and retrieved the lighter. Flick, snap, puff.

Her eyes were dreamy from obvious enjoyment.

“It’s a beautiful place, this is. It’ll be the perfect getaway if, well, um-” “If it wasn’t for her death? It’s OK you can say it. Ignoring it won’t make it any less true, will it? Otherwise she would have been up and walking by now,” Mai snapped. She took another deep drag as if daring herself to make it to

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the filter in one go. “I’m sorry, Split. I guess I’m still not ready to talk about it.”

“I was gonna say, ‘If it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t know why I was here,’ Mai,” he muttered flatly. His cigarette dangled idly from his lips, unlit; he dropped it back into the pack.

“I guess I’m not ready for that either.

I mean, if I start explaining, it’ll be like, um, opening a dam. The whole thing is just gonna break through, and that might be too much for me to handle. You’re going to meet that person tomorrow anyways, and it’ll be clearer. I’m so sorry; I just haven’t processed it enough, you know?”

“I think I do,” Carlos reached over and pulled Mai in. So she leaned her head onto his shoulder, and they sat there, watching the orange light turn red then purple then blue.

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One cheap beer went down the hatch, then another. It was easier when one was being invited and coerced from all sides to partake (otherwise they would start to ask why she was being quiet, again). Sinning wasn’t such a bad thing anymore with more accomplices involved. Being petite came with certain shortcomings in terms of constitution, and soon Hà felt control over her own mind slipping. She yawned once, twice, and then some.

Hà started to slump. Her coworkers’ drunken banter was now abrasive background noise. It had been three years since her last alcoholic drink.

The Americans were sat at a different table, along with a selection of the most vital party members (who provided the bulk of the clamor coming from that end). They were served champagne over there. She stared into the mayhem of foodstuff and half-empty bottles, pondering the absurdity of bringing such important guests to witness what could have constituted cultural atrocity - the brutal slaughter of dignity in the name of gluttony and pride. Also known in Vietnamese as “nhậu”. She wondered if Americans could

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find it in them to brush it off as “cultural exchange”.

Hà didn’t want to abandon and let her friends down, but she was getting worn down. The bitter and metallic taste of beer, the pungent smell of tobacco, and the merging of individuals into an abominable group-consciousness fueled by drunkenness. They were all too much for her.

Hà whispered into the woman next to her to watch over her bag while she stepped out. She left behind semi-conscious acquaintances, the haze of smoke, and the fluorescent light that was simultaneously sterile and filthy. The party went on without her, thus bookending Hà’s moment in the limelight.

The evening monsoon air was thick to breathe, but cooled the lungs once it got inside.

Hà wandered around the unlit garden in front of the restaurant. Crossing a small wooden bridge over a pond, she checked out her own reflections in the black water. Only shadows between the lily pads, she couldn’t see much out here.

“Taking a break?”

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Hà took much longer than usual to feel herself startle. It was a woman’s voice, husky and nonchalant in the way that Hà wasn’t even sure that it was directed at her. Then again, she rarely had people address her, only her, in English.

The distant light from the restaurant painted an imposing silhouette. It was hard to see her face, mostly because of the dark, but also much thanks her lush head of hair stealing all Hà’s attention. Hà had short hair, as did most women around her. This wasn’t just long.

This was wild. The woman was leaning far against the rickety railing, yet she was still taller than Hà.

“Y-yes. I don’t want to sit for too long,” Hà managed.

The statuesque impression was betrayed by how the soft light contoured her smiling eyes and gentle flowing sundress that reached her ankles. Right there at the moment the light had hit at the right angle, It dawned on Hà whom this was. So the American girl had swapped out her

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tight-fitting cream dress for a more casual look.

Hà turned away and looked back at the pond.

“Me neither.”

“It’s very loud,” Hà exaggerated her inflection of the word “very”, roughly imitating how a native would sound. The woman suppressed a giggle.

“No no, I’m so sorry,” the American gushed in between her gasps. Hà could feel a red warmth crawl up her neck and cheeks.

“I need to practice my English more.”

“Honey, no, it’s my bad. Look at me, I only know English,” the woman smiled empathically and opened her arms in that big, Western way that Hà had only seen in movies. Hà chuckled and the woman joined in, placing her hand on the shoulder of her new Viet friend. Sensing some apprehension at contact, the American withdrew her hand and redirected, “So what’s your name?”

“My name’s Hà. And you?” Hà looked into her eyes and knew whom this woman was.

“Oh I go by many names. Liz, Beth, Elizabeth, sometimes Ellie,” Liz-Beth-Elizabeth-El-

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lie swung and flicked her wrist in the air, as if counting. “Which one do you prefer?”

“I would prefer a Vietnamese name. It’s easier to say,” This time, their restrained chuckles bloomed into pure and simple laughter.

“Alright then, Hà, give me a Vietnamese name.”

“Beth sounds like ‘Bé’. Your name is ‘Bé’ now,” Hà then spent the next two minutes correcting Bé’s accent so that the American would say the accent mark correctly. With some frustration, Bé commented on how hard the language was. Hà perked up her chin and returned a smug and knowing look, to which Bé could only snigger in embarrassment and playfully slap Hà on the arm, “I told you I was sorry. So ‘Bé” huh? It’s so cute. Does it have a special meaning?”

“It means ‘small’ or ‘young’.”

“Only half of it is true, then.”

“I can see that.”

A silence, Bé’s smiling eyes scanned Hà from foot to toe as if to size her up. Hà bit her lips and glanced away.

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“You’re a riot, you know that?” Bé asked.

“I’ll go get my dictionary,” they shared another hearty laugh.

A bulky man in a loose business coat approached from afar. He beckoned. Bé answered curtly and said that she was needed inside again.

Hà said goodbye and started to head inside too.

Her anxiety about abandoning her post was returning after the American man broke the spell between the two women. She hurried along, but Bé called out to her, “Let’s walk in together. You’re my new friend now.”

Turning around to her American friend, Hà found herself dumbstruck. Bé had stepped out into the light. There was the girl Hà had met earlier that morning, in all of her glory. The shadows of leaves danced on her curvaceous form, parting like a black silk screen as Bé strode past.

Hà could see her face now; the features were much more subtle than most of the fellow delegates, yet there was a level of polish the others didn’t have. It wasn’t so much specifically

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her come-hither eyes or persistent lip curls, but the full brunt of how all of these things came together. An ageless face, at once thirteen and thirty-one. Sunset bounced on her head.

Bé slid her hand into the crease of Hà’s elbow. The American signaled her to enter the building, all the while not breaking eye contact and the smirk on the curl of her lips.

“Lead the way,” and so Hà did. She looked so small walking with the redhead. On the way in, Hà stole glances at her tall companion still, not noticing the silence at her coworkers’ table.

They had stopped the banter and were intently watching the duo.

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Nightfalls, Mai opened the window and straddled the sill, watching the clear sky boasting its glittering embroidery. She commented on how she saw a thunderstorm in the distance back when they drove by the wildlife park. Carlos was embracing her, arms wrapped around her breasts.

She said that it should be raining soon. A small orange light fluttered on her features. Mai exhaled another cloud of smoke.

When they undressed and got in bed, Carlos felt sore all over his body, yet his heart stirred for intimacy and comfort; there was no sleep. He noticed that his girlfriend wasn’t sleeping either. She was looking outside, respiring tensely. The curves of her cupid’s bow shone the sharpest, yet it was the way light scattered on her pointed face and nude shoulders that caught the most of his attention. Slithering in next to her, he found her form beneath the blanket, lithe-limbed but also supple in femininity. His hungry palms searched her curvatures and landmarks. When her unmistakable gyrations had begun, he slipped a hand into her panties,

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yet she squirmed in great resistance and pushed him away. Like a wounded doe, she whispered half pleadingly, “No, Split, not tonight.”

“Baby, how come you’re already so wet?”

“Because I can’t fucking help it, OK? Please, I just want to get some rest,” gone was the doe.

“Alright, alright, sorry,” Carlos went back to his side of the bed and adjusted the erection so that it didn’t hurt him so bad. Looking over, he saw that Mai had her back to him. His exhaustion was greater than his frustration, so he slept, dreamlessly. # When the sunlight was still not quite white, but rather yellow, the hotel was already serving buttered toast with omelettes over tea.

This was the establishment’s only included meal.

They would stop service ridiculously early, so the young couple had to make their way down to the common room in a disheveled state. Carlos asked for coffee, but they didn’t have any, much

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to his surprise. Last night’s sleep did succeed in some small ways to delay his total body collapse, but it was definitely a stretch to call it restful. He cradled his head on the table, in folded arms, wallowing in sleepiness and the nervousness of actually finding out what destination awaited him; the destination which Mai found it so hard to simply tell him. Compensating for lost energy, he wolfed down on his breakfast and used up three packs of Irish breakfast tea. Mai absentmindedly sipped on her camomile tea, occasionally placing tiny bits of egg white in her mouth. Other than that, she didn’t eat much.

Mai asked Carlos to finish her leftovers, and she stepped outside to have a smoke. It didn’t take him much time at all to devour the rest. Leaning back, satisfied, he noticed for the first time that the wood salt and pepper shakers were sculpted in the image of a wolf and a rabbit. At first, he smiled, but then he brooded.

There was an gnawing impulse to be around Mai; from what motive, he couldn’t say. Carlos stepped out of the inn and into the blinding gold and

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orange outside. Leaves cracked loudly underfoot.

The girl had tied the black denim jacket around her waist, leaning against a painted wood column next to one of those aluminum boxes that printed, “designated smoking area”. She kicked up dead foliage after each inhalations.

He searched his pocket for his own cigarettes but realized that the last pack was empty, resting in the dust bin outside that eatery.

He didn’t want to bother Mai this time because she was talking on her phone. She threw away the spent butt and nodded to Carlos in acknowledgement. Seeing her draped over in a yellow veil of sunlight, he couldn’t help but hurry to her with an instinctive smile. She returned a smile, between her “uh huh” and “yes”. Their hands found each other, and her thumb caressed his skin in circles.

When Mai got off the phone, she looked at her boyfriend and tilted her head, “this way”.

They started walking in the morning sun and breeze, eyes still fixed on each other. That faint smile was still on her lips, but her eyes drifted

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behind him, unfocused. She brushed a black strand from her eye, the way she would when intent on saying something. Securing it behind her ear, her fingers lingered as if hesitant to say that something.

“I was in the wrong last night,” Carlos finally broke the silence.

“Oh, uh, it’s not a big deal, Split. I just wasn’t in the mood.”

“Thought I could help you sleep better,” “Heh, don’t joke. I feel shit about it, though. We haven’t seen each other in, like, weeks! This goddamn funeral really puts us in a dry spell. Remember that one summer where I went back home? Then, when we met again, we stayed in bed for the whole day, just sex. This time, though? I had you spend a whole day next to me without so much as a kiss.”

“Pretty sure that there was a kiss here and there. Besides, you don’t owe me anything. I’m here for you, pro bono. You’re going through a lot, and sex is probably the last thing on your mind.”

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“You know I wanted to, right?”

“Now I’m confused.”

“To be honest, I didn’t. Not really. But it was so crazy down there that I couldn’t sleep. I laid there and felt like I was melting. I was so horny; I thought I was going crazy! I couldn’t even tell you why to save my life, though.”

“Then why didn’t you, you know, do it last night?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t move, like a kind of ‘voluntary’ sleep paralysis, yeah? When you started touching me, I was like, ‘Thank fucking god! Finally, some relief.’ But then, I realized that I had to actually, well, fuck. I don’t know why I can’t stand being touched anymore. I mean, holding hands like this is fine. But that? Oh no.

It’s kinda like, if we get too close, you might see how shit I am inside right now, and I don’t want anyone to see me like that. You, especially.

But I was so goddamned horny, but it was definitely not a sex thing! Sorry if it’s all so confusing. See? It’s the dam breaking. My head is still not right,” her voice began to tremble, and she

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took her hand away from his.

“Do you think it’s because of her?”

“Do I think? I know for a fact that it’s because of her,” Mai wiped away her hair in frustration. “God! I make it sound like she molested me or something, and now I’m sexually broken or some dumb shit.”

“Come on, you know it’s not like that.”

“Well, please tell me what’s wrong with me! Because I sure as hell don’t know,” she was on the verge of screaming by now. An uncomfortable silence drifted in between the two. There was only the crisp sound of dried leaves being stepped upon, distant bird songs, and the occasional local who walked their dogs. Carlos had let things cool down before saying, “You know, Mai, ever since she passed away, we haven’t talked at all. Your head has been a black box to me. This is the first time we talk about you.”

“And this one time doesn’t even make any sense,” Mai hugged herself tight as if a chill wind had blown by. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

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It was, by all account, an unusually warm morning. Carlos wanted to say how this was better than nothing, but he didn’t really feel it in his guts.

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The restaurant got more sparse. Half of the Vietnamese group has gone home in preparation for the next work day. Most of the American delegates have disappeared. Hà was apprehensive about staying out too late, but she didn’t exactly want to return home to responsibilities and the humdrums of domestic life just yet. If she was home, curling up in cold sheets and responsibilities, was she missing out on something? Most of her friends weren’t here anyways. She kept on waiting and soring on the hardwood chair. She waited while eyes darting over to the American table.

The short comedian was telling a story, judging by his unending enthusiasm. Hà was looking at Bé though. The American would always glance at her with a smile, a telepathic reassurance that her wait wasn’t a lonesome one. Only not so long ago, Hà was dying to excuse herself home to her mundanity. Now, she couldn’t tell, even if forced, what the hell she was so afraid of missing out.

Three tall glasses of water and a bathroom visit later, fatigue was setting in. Hà said her goodbye to the last remotely familiar acquain-

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tance twenty minutes ago. She was just fighting a war against her own common sense at this point.

The only entertainment she had was watching the redhead intently listening to the short American. The bulky man whom had called for her earlier sat nearby, resting his cheek on one of his palm, solemn but visibly bored out of his mind.

After a while, Bé ended the conversation with the cheery comedian with a hug and a wave. Instead of sitting down, she looked over to Hà and gave an overt shrug as if Hà already knew what that meant. Bé made a beeline through the waiters cleaning, and she sat down next to Hà. Suddenly, the drowsiness retreated as the tides seeing the morning sun.

“How are you doing?”

Hà blurted that she was alright. Bé was a pink hue of tipsiness, though. With red lips still curled and eyes fixed on the small Asian girl, Bé slowly eased from one word to the next, “Alright, if that’s the case, then you should know that a couple of the guys and I are going to a bar.”

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“A bar?”

“Yeah, they said that there’s this new place that just opened on the backpacker district. It’s American-style.”

“Oh, in Lê Lợi street.”

“Actually, a friend is taking me so I wouldn’t know,” Bé answered after giving it some thought. Hà realized the silliness in asking a foreigner about a Vietnamese street name. “Anyways, would you like to come with me? I would feel more comfortable with another girl. I would love to pick up where we left off.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“Yes.” “Heh, why?” Hà asked, a brow arched.

“I like talking to you.”

“Even with my accent?”

“Hà, I’m going with a bunch of Americans.

If I only wanted perfect English,” Bé trailed off and left the rest unsaid. She shrugged her shrug again, implying some assumed mutual understanding. The redhead then leaned forward, eyes wide, gazing up to Hà the way a child would do when

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they waited for approval longingly. Hà looked at how novelly light freckles dotted the girl’s face.

“OK, I’ll come,” Hà diverted her eyes to avoid staring too much.

“Great! Can you drive?”

“I don’t drive, I ride,” Hà felt like she was quoting one of her husband’s action B-movies, but it was true.

“OK my bad, but I meant if you’re too drunk.”

Hà said that she was fine. In all fairness, the alcohol was very much gone from her system by now. It was only slight drowsiness and this shortness of breath she would get every time she stayed out too long.

“I’ll be in the white car. Keep close,” Bé left hand looped through the huge man with the loose-fitting suit, chatting away merrily with a small and older American woman who seemed only too eager for a hotel bed. The Viet girl saw herself in the shriveled lady, even though Bé was closer to Hà in age. There was something about

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the redhead’s mature stature yet naive swagger that threw off Hà’s age-radar. Putting on her colorful hot pink and blue windbreaker, Hà followed after. # Lê Lợi was the only street in Huế that remotely passed for “nightlife”. They slowed to a stop in front of a place called DMZ. Hà snickered to herself at the name. The loud and dim venue had war maps, jungle props, oil barrels decor, and military camo plastered over all of it. It was one of those places in a long chain of businesses that made a name banking on the novelty of the War for a whole new generation. More than anything else, it was chock full of foreigners.

Hà asked herself as to why any social exertion outside of the call of duty was warranted. She wondered if her daughter was asleep by now.

Bé stepped out of the white car deliberately à la a televised red carpet appearance. Her stout shadow followed suit while clutching her delicately gilded leather tote. Under the harsh streetlight, everything looked orange, Hà had

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observed. She hesitated at the door. Each of the Americans walked past Hà and dispensed a polite nod. They all looked much redder. The short comedian looked even shorter up close. He waved a hand with an elated and drunken, “ay,” as though she was his long lost pal. Hà noted that when Americans wanted shameless revelry, they sought out their own dens so the vomit didn’t spill on their public image. As the last in the bar diving delegation, Bé stopped right in front of the Viet girl and asked playfully, “You look lonely. Are you waiting for anyone?”

“I’m married,” Hà said, flashing her forehand.

“Engaged,” Bé had the bigger stone. The man with her only smiled as the women joked around.

The three of them stepped inside and through a wall of bass. They said their hello (loudly) to the main American entourage, which had filled the benches to the brim. By the time the trio found a good table in another corner of the bar, Hà could feel cotton in her ears. The

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music was loud enough that she wouldn’t hear people shouting over each other, which was a welcome change. Bé and the stocky man got to discussing the selection of drink. When they had settled, Hà was still torn between bottled water and soda.

The strange playlist transitioned into a more familiar Modern Talking track.

“Can I get a whiskey and coke?” The redhead ordered. The gaunt waiter curtly nodded.

The American man tapped his finger on one of the local brews, not bothering to pronounce the name. Again, the waiter nodded.

Hà pointed to one of the many cocktails and politely asked for “this”. The waiter repeated her order, but his words were lost in the music.

She only nodded in confirmation, and so he left.

“You know what you want?” Bé asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You live dangerously.”

“I am a riot,” Hà shot back in kind. Bé had let out a snort, so she covered her mouth, smiling eyes still training on the Vietnamese girl.

Hà bobbed her head ever slightly to the music,

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mouthing the lyrics, and jokingly pretending not to notice her clearly tipsy friend. This seemed to worsen Bé’s giggles. With only her eyes visible, the American girl looked no older than a college freshman, despite her figure. This gave Hà some measure of ease.

When the drinks came out, Bé excused herself for a touch-up. It was only Hà and the huge man left. He removed his ill-fitting business coat. And so the man quietly downed a third of his pint with obvious pleasure. His bemustached lips was now sporting a foam coat. If the coat had been loose, the dress shirt underneath was several sizes too small for his amount of bulk.

Hà questioned if guys like him were more to the redhead’s taste. A rendition of Lennon’s “Imagine” was meandering through its first verse. Hà took an absent-minded gulp from her glass and cringed at the excessive sweetness. There was a burn in her throat snaking down to her stomach, and her exhalation smelled sweet also. She had a flashback of the one time she tried rice wine with her friends in high school and threw up in a soup

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bowl.

The tourists were diligently providing the expected drunken uproar, but suddenly switched to exchanging only nudges and glances. Hà could sense the invisible Yin-Yang shifting ever so slightly in that bar at that moment, or it might have been the alcohol kicking in.

“Let me have a sip!” Bé whispered a breathy demand.

“Oh, alright. It’s a bit too sweet for me anyways,” “Yeech, not my favorite,” the American pursed her lips. “We can share mine if you want.”

“What’s yours?”

“Whiskey and coke,” Bé replied. The mousy Vietnamese girl took a cautious sip and commented, “It’s good. Like cola, for adults.”

“Hah, I take that you don’t drink often?”

“No really. Only on special days.”

“Today is special?” Bé asked with one of those exaggerated tones they used in theatre.

“First US group for me, at least.”

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“Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”

Her voice raised slightly.

“First time going to ‘bar Tây’ - a Western bar.”

“Still not what I’m looking for...” Even higher.

“First time seeing a movie star.”

“Oh really? Where’s this movie star?” It was a game that two can play.

“I don’t know where she went. Too bad, she was very pretty.”

“Why does she matter? There are so many other famous and important people here.”

“Pssh, I work with important people a lot,” Hà took a bigger second sip from Bé’s glass.

“So ‘pretty’ is a bigger deal for you than ‘famous’ and ‘important’?”

“Depends.”

“Hà, What do you mean?”

“Depends on me. If I need to work with important people, then I don’t care about their faces. But I’m off duty right now.”

“So you leave the pretty ones for after

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work?”

“Yes,” Hà took another sip to relieve her rapidly drying mouth.

“Word. I wish I can be as ‘professional’ as you are,” Bé quipped, but Hà was used to her sarcasm streak by now.

“Me? I can’t do that, though. There isn’t much separating my work and my pleasure, you know?” Bé glanced at her male companion, who had remained disinterested, and continued to. Hà got the gist of it enough to feel a slow yet uncontrollable reddening. She smiled coyly. Being a nervous drinker, she turned again to Bé’s glass, slunk back into the puff of her bright windbreaker, and tried to let the music distract her from the progressively bolder conversation.

The bar’s loudspeakers was leading into the first chords of a Heart song. She couldn’t tell which, but it was the right one.

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The white ferry boat splashed water everywhere, inside and out. The sliding plexiglas window was hopeless. There was so much rust and gunk on its frames that an oxen wouldn’t have been able to move it an inch. Carlos and Mai would have taken the seats in front where there was less splatter and the windows were more functional, but they were taken by a group of posh-looking elderly individuals. With all the jostling, it wasn’t worth moving around while in transit. By the time the boat decelerated, the spiky plastic flooring was wet, and Carlos’s jeans were several shades darker at the knees. Mai had draped her jacket over her thighs, so the splatter didn’t bother her much while she persistently zoned out.

Carlos was a little excited for a change of scenery when Mai told him that they were going over to the other shore. Other than that, she had not told him anything else, which made what excitement he had turn back into anxiety. The boat eased into a concrete crevice lined with recycled tires, all shiny black when the water lapped onto

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them. A few dockhands jogged out to secure the boat in place, and the passengers took turn stumbling out of the still swaying vehicle. A team of bellboys, clad in identical gold-colored vests (probably staffed by the same leisure management firm), were hauling one expensive leather luggage after the other, chipping away at the gaudy pile of paraphernalia. Only the young couple were without baggage. Carlos heard an irate matriarch fretted on about how the water would ruin her mink coat. Looking upward, he could see the brick and mortar giants behind their stone and leaves, gazing out with their tempered glass eyes. With the winds picking up hard this side of the shore, his shins felt cold.

Everyone was taxied off to their respective residences. Carlos paced idly by a pier, listening to gusts blowing in his ears. It was an overwhelming sound; dead leaves swirled a yellow ballet, providing a rustling chorus. Hearing it so clearly made him realize how open and empty this dock was, now with the legions of golf cars and white upper-class pensioners gone. It

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was only him and Mai, in the distance, trying to get a reception. They had crossed a river, yet it felt like an ocean for the isolation made it no dissimilar to being stranded on an island. Carlos paced even faster as his anxiety grew. He was at the threshold and still didn’t know anymore than any day before.

From up the stony slopes, out of the yellowing hedges, a lone golf car calmly made its way to the young couple. Carlos noticed the way his girlfriend was closely watching the cart, as though in anticipation. This must have been their ride, he thought to himself, so he followed after Mai. More than anything, he noticed the woman behind the wheels. The little white motorized box wasn’t manned by any typical bellboy in their little vests. The driver was an older woman with a black curly hair done in a short bob. When the car stopped, the boy could see her in full. With one foot on the ground and elbow rested on the wheels, she looked like someone lounging on their porch. She seemed close in age with one of his younger aunts.

Her hair was nowhere as dark as

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Mai’s, but instead of Mai’s loose curls, the woman’s was more kinky. She had a simple tight polo and frayed shorts on, but Carlos couldn’t stop looking at her. He thought he recognized her.

“Hi!” She greeted in a cheery and husky tone.

“Hello! It’s me,” Mai sounded livelier than she had ever been. The woman lowered her sunglasses, these rounded rainbow lens, checking up on the odd pair: A tiny Asian girl who looked like she had crawled out of a black and white Diesel lookbook; A lanky Latino wearing what probably was the world’s most sun-washed flannel shirt, plus the wet blue jeans. Carlos asked himself why he was suddenly so self-aware about how they looked; he felt short of breath. Was it her smile? Her casual swagger that was an antithesis to the stuffed-up air of this place? Her breathy voice? The woman herself only came plainly, anyways.

“Mai, I could tell from a mile away.”

“Yes, yes, um, here’s my boyfriend, Carlos,” Mai stuttered, turning back and forth,

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whipping her black hair around her face. “He drove me here. Split, this is Miss Mulway. That’s whom I’ve been talking to these past few days.”

“Pleased to meet you, I hope you’ve been taking good care of her,” in a breathy voice, she didn’t so much hope, but rather stated. Carlos chuckled and nodded politely, questioning to himself just about how much Mai has told this person about him. “Mai, dear, let’s go over to my humble abode (she inflected). This witch has tea and sweets ready for you kids. There’s so much we should talk about.”

They boarded the vehicle, got settled into the cream leather, and braced for the ride up hill. The stone tile road was well decorated flower beds and hedges, though most of it donned the look of autumn more so than spring. The pleasant noon light sprinkled through the emptying branches. Each house that they had passed looked dramatically different from the last. Some were smooth white modern, others were brick and mortar classic. They even drove by one done up like a Roman villa, statues and columns included. Carlos

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truly believed this was a completely different corner of the Earth from the riverside town where they were staying. The island was shaping up to be a garden.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, Mai.” “It’s twice as much on my end,” Mai spoke over the droning engine. The woman chatted with Mai, using words and phrases only two friends who have talked for a long time understood. Carlos watched the scenery that was passing by, knees bouncing nervously. He felt Mai’s hand crawling close and grabbing his while the woman talked.

He could tell that she was just as anxious as he was.

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After a moment of silent drinking, the large shadow left the women for the WC. Hà watched him disappear into a bamboo curtain, so she turned to the redhead, “Is that your future husband?”

“What? No, honey, no!” Bé twisted her face in a mix of shock and laughter. She called for another round of whiskey and coke; Hà signaled with two fingers that she wanted the same. “No, no, no. He… is my bodyguard.”

“Your bodyguard. Huh?” The Viet girl was a wide-eyed doe, even though she knew delegates having protection shouldn’t be so strange. Still, the lax air around the red girl must have made her forget.

“It’s pretty annoying, I know. My dad insists, though.”

“Is your dad here to?”

“If you mean Vietnam, yes. If you mean here, at this bar - well, I think he’s a bit old for all this.”

“I feel like I’m too old for all this,” Hà muttered as she thanked the waiter for the

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drinks.

“Are you enjoying yourself though?”

“I never knew I liked whiskey so much.”

“Great, because I’m not too much in a hurry to go back to my hotel, you know?”

“I understand.”

“Really hope I’m not keeping you too late,” Bé glimpsed at the clock. It was 11.

“No, I’m in no hurry either,” Hà reassured, but trailed off as she thought about whether or not her daughter had school tomorrow. Did she, though? Meanwhile, Bé beamed slyly and leaned in under Hà to catch her eyes, “It’s so chilly tonight. Won’t your husband feel cold, though?”

“We don’t sleep together.”

“Oh OK, but will he be mad, though?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Hà smiled and rolled her eyes.

“I would hate for you to get into trouble,” Bé circled a long painted nail around her friend’s knuckles, clinking against the wedding ring every now and then.

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“He’s not my dad. If he wanted to know where I am and what I’m doing, he should hire a bodyguard,” Hà made Bé laugh a mess into her glass, mid gulp.

“Alright, I get you. My dad, he’s not that bad, I promise. Damn good for a stepdad, too. He got me into acting, you know. Well, I mean theatre first, but then it’s a short way to TV. He’s a kind of producer, I guess? Hard to explain. So I guess there are certain benefits.”

“Producer? So like paying people to make movies?”

“Usually, but in his case, it’s a bit more than that.”

“I would love to see your movies.”

“I’ll let you know when my next is coming. But hey, let’s talk about something else. I don’t like talking about dad or work too much,” Bé stood up just as abruptly as she put an end to that line of thought. She extended a hand to Hà.

“Come on, let’s bail my bodyguard. It’s feeling pretty stuffy with him around,” Bé invited, but some of the vernaculars escaped her friend.

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Hà heard the urgency in Bé’s tone, so she took Bé’s hand with only a fuzzy understanding of why or where. And so, they went. They jogged up several flights of carpeted stairs to the spacious balcony on the third floor, drinks spilling and sweating precipitation in hands. The American girl tittered in excitement. At that moment, she seemed unmistakably young to Hà. Almost contagiously, the Viet girl had felt her youth apparent that night, also, for womanhood seemed distant when she was getting sucked into fun. They were very much two “girls”.

They looked around for an inconspicuous spot, but found all the chairs to be occupied.

However, there were these huge porcelain planters guarding the door with lush umbrella palm trees, which provided ample shade from the street light.

So Bé took Hà’s hand and led her to a spot behind one of these static gatekeepers. They sat against the dark wall and cold tile floor; the balcony gave the pair an impressive view of the giant white hotel and its courtyard, right across from the street. Hà’s colorful windbreaker made for

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a particularly poor camouflage, so she rushed to take it off. The duo turned their head to watch each other giggle-pant. Hà allowed herself another tiny sip, and Bé bit down on her lip, shallow breaths. # The cloudy sky made a cotton ceiling that diffused the street light. Starlessly, it glowed the amber of sodium vapor. They sat there snugly in the waving shadows and chatted away merrily.

Hà was well-drunk at this point, the monsoon wind seemed to push her world slightly to one side. Bé told her about that one time in 11th grade where she twisted and ankle and couldn’t perform in the school production. She was training up so hard for it too, lamented the girl as she ruffled her massive auburn tresses. Hà watched her from this angle closely, brows coming together, then spurted, “Bé ơi, why don’t you look white?” Bé wordlessly responded to the inquiry with a grin. Hà facepalmed, “Oh god I’m so sorry. I’m so drunk!

Ignore me, please.”

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“It’s OK. What do you mean though?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“Well, it’s the eyes, the way your mouth looks. I mean, you do look Western, it’s just -” Hà couldn’t let herself feed into this embarrassment much longer.

“That’s because I’m half,” Bé’s inflected as if she was in a musical. The smoky quality of her voice made Hà imagine that the lights ought to be dimming when Bé appears on stage. “Part Japanese. Only some of this (holding out a lock of her hair) is natural. The rest is a dye job.

I’m mostly Dutch and English, though. So, super white.”

“That’s so interesting.”

“Maybe, but everywhere I go, I look weird.

I stand out too much in Japan, and I’m too ethnic compared to my American friends. And believe me when I say that I live in the whitest place in the US.” “What’s wrong with being ethnic?” Hà asked pointedly.

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“It’s not wrong, it’s just - I mean, hmm,” the redhead saw the rabbit hole and did not enter.

“I think you look good, anyways,” Hà picked the conversation up again and resisted throwing in the word “very” or “extremely” to the mix. Her fingers weaved and twiddled. She could smell the sweet scent of alcohol in her breath, every exhalation. Something was stuck in her chest, something heavy.

“Thanks hon, you too. You look kinda like, uh, Rachel. You know, from Friends?” Bé asked. Hà only shook her head. “Oh, OK, well you have her hair, but shorter. That, and her jawline,” Bé’s thumb and index finger demonstrated a “V” on Hà’s face. She held it like that for a while, eyes twinkling, before letting go. Hà snapped out of it and looked away.

“Why do you do this to me?”

“W-what do you mean?” the American girl was visibly taken aback.

“I mean, why did you take me here? Why aren’t you sitting with your friends?”

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“Don’t you like it here?”

“Yes, a lot. But it doesn’t make any sense,” Hà struggled to find the right words.

“Well, if you’re having fun, then what else needs to make sense?”

“What else? OK, for example why me?” Hà had never known herself to be so confrontational.

“Why you? Why anyone? Maybe it’s because I saw you on stage this morning and thought you were fantastic, OK? Maybe it’s because I can talk to you and not have to kiss your a- I mean, have to impress you. Maybe it’s because those people aren’t really my friends, but instead my dad’s friends. Hell, I like Joel enough, but he’s awful with beer. All the uptight women are just sizing me up for my age (and the fact that I’m my dad’s daughter). And the guys just wanna get in my damn pants. So excuse me.”

They sat there watching the tension congeal before their very eyes. The other customers pretended that Bé’s rant didn’t happen. Hà mentally tried to reverse the flow of time, all the while attempting to swallow that giant knot in

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her throat, but she only succeeded with welling her eyes up. Her heart was spastic. Its rhythm spiked, and then flatlined when Hà felt Bé nuzzling into her shoulder, and the red, cascading waterfall flowed across the Viet girl’s face. It had smelled rosy that night.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Can you forgive me?” Bé spoke out from between her locks.

“I made you mad.”

“No, It’s not you. I was already pretty pissed with the whole thing,” Bé pointed her thumb downstairs. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this country. But I’m not exactly here as a tourist. It’s just tight schedules and tighter assholes. This whole trip was my dad’s idea. He expects me to be a pretty face, smiling to people, tagging along with politicians, entertaining his friends. ‘It’s the show biz,’ he said. Now I’m miles away from homes and stuck with strangers.”

“Stuck? I’m not keeping you,” Hà deadpanned.

“Haha, no, that’s exactly why I’m here, and why you’re here. You’re not a stranger to me.

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Like, it’s almost better that you don’t know too much about me. That way, I don’t have to, you know, act. For once,” Bé was still nuzzled into her friend. “When I say it, it sounds so fucking corny. ‘I’m an actress, but I haaaate acting.’

Like, damn, when did I get so bad at this?”

“It sounds like a something from a novel.”

“That’s why it’s so damn corny.”

“I think I get it, though,” Hà surprised herself by resting her cheek on Bé’s head. “You like TV, I mean - being on TV. But when it’s done, you want to be yourself again, right?”

“I swear to god, being a native speaker doesn’t help me much with how well I say things,” the redhead muttered, then laughed. “You spoke my mind, hon. Things are so jumbled up in here (tapping her temple), you know? Like most of the time, I’m just doing what I feel like. Even with acting. I just ‘become’, and it’s the easiest thing in the world. But in front of those guys?

Even Joel! Then, I really, really have to ‘act’, in the most traditional sense of the word. I’m myself in front of the camera. But I can’t be my-

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self in front of those people.”

“You’re lucky, though. When I go to work, I leave myself at home.”

“Yeah, I forgot whom you worked for. Tsk, look at me going on about my perfect life. I should be thankful. A lot of people, young actors, would kill to have the things I have, you know.”

“I wouldn’t. Not even for free,” they sniggered at Hà’s comment.

“Yeah I guess it’s not for everyone.”

“I’m too shy to act.”

“Liar,” Bé scoffed.

“No really! This morning, I was sweating, bad! I thought about quitting, just, everything.”

“No way, you were so confident.”

“That was me ‘acting’. My “confidence” is not the same as yours. The way you talk, it’s so - what’s the word? Oh, assertive. It’s ‘I’ this and ‘want’ that. I’m not used to it. For me, I can do my job, and I can get people to do things for me. But there are so many things I have to watch out for. I hope I make sense.”

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“Hmm, I see your point. I think part of it was because I was brought up that way. My real father, the one before this one, was like that.

Nobody ever needed to guess or imagine what he was thinking. He would just come up to you and say it to your face. It made his life easy, but others didn’t like it too much. Mom wasn’t a fan.”

“I thought that Americans were just like that.”

“Sure, but mom was more Japanese than American, so that’s that. I swear, she flipped out when I brought home my current fiancé for the first time.”

“Your what?”

“My ‘future husband’, honey. Joel. Oh my god, I realized that I’ve been talking about Joel without tell you who the hell I was talking about,” Bé hid her face in her knees, letting out an exasperated groan. “I’m so sorry, hon. I’m such a ditz. Do I talk about myself too much?”

“No, it’s OK. I like listening to you.

Things are very different for you. I just thought

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that ‘Joel’ was the short guy that you’ve been talking to,” Hà rubbed her friend’s shoulder with reassurance.

“Who? Aw, Henry? No, he’s my dad’s colleague. Another big-shot producer, working on some damn war movie, here to do some location scouting. The rates in Thailand has been too high as of late, so that’s why he’s trying to move production here. Mainly, once the editing is over, people won’t be able to tell which country it is; that’s the trick. Hell, even without editing, most of these Hollywood types can’t tell Vietnam from any other tropical country. I’ll admit, even I can’t.”

“Well Vietnam is similar to Thailand, in many ways,” Hà decided not to push the comparison, as she recalled more and more differences.

“To be fair, most Westerners look the same to me.”

“Does that include me?”

“No, you’re the weird-looking one.”

“Aw, that’s sweet of you,” Bé pinched the Viet girl’s cheek, sneering. Hà didn’t turn away

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like last time, though, even with the anxious knot returning to her throat. Clearing her throat and the head, Hà changed the subject, “Is it good living Hollywood?”

“Hà, I told you, I live in America’s Whitest Place. And I’ll never step foot on Hollywood.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I’ll keep myself from going into a rant. But needless to say, if I can’t put up with these guys on a trip, what makes you think I’m going to last in their town?”

“Right, sometimes I think all actors live in California and work for Hollywood. I know it’s not true, but that’s how it looks, a lot of times.”

“Hmm, you’re partly right. There are a lot of entertainment being made in the East Coast, too, but it’s a problem with visibility, or whether or not things are seen. I mean it is visible, but just not internationally. Heh, I’m one of the people trying to change that, so that ‘American films’ aren’t automatically ‘Hollywood’

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to the international community, you know? I love film and TV work, but if I’m being honest, I enjoy myself much more with theatre. I’m not trying to squeeze my way into stuffy ol’ Hollywood.

Instead, I’m trying my damn hardest to squeeze into stuffy ol’ Broadway,” they shared a chuckle.

“But really, it’s New York that I want to be in.

In fact, I’m looking for apartments there to bum around with some of my friends. My dad is pissed, but what can I do? I’m not going to be another Jackson for him, you know what I mean?”

“Uh huh,” Hà had the long and short of it, letting the obtuse reference slide.

Their drinks had watered down to nothing but caramel-colored tap water. A few guests got up and others replaced them. The night seemed to stretch on by sheer force of will, a wanting for it to not end. They talked about Bé’s vision for her career in drama, and the near-future life she would lead in The Big Apple. At the end of it, Hà admitted, “That sounds so nice. I’m being honest! I always imagine living in a big city, being inde-

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pendent, and doing whatever I want.”

“Aren’t you doing what you want?”

“I mean, it’s a nice enough job, but it’s not my field of interest. Also, Huế can be boring.”

“What’s your field of interest, then?”

“Let’s see, teaching English? I don’t know anymore.” Hà chuckled in a self-depreciative way.

“At least that’s what I studied in university.

That was a many years ago, and I’m not sure if I ever have the chance to get into education.”

“That’s kinda scary to me. I still have a few years before I’m finally done with higher ed,” reflected Bé, and Hà pondered, “Most of the time, I’m just thinking of how to have the best life for my daughter. I had her early, so traveling isn’t easy. I would like to go into teaching or just go to New York or LA by myself, but how am I going to pay for her? I think that’s why I’m still here. Ah, that, and having a husband.”

“Wow, holy shit, I had no idea. Your daughter, how old is she?”

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“She’s turning 6 this December.”

“And if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” Bé was stunned with shock and curiosity. The American girl scooted in front of Hà, attempting to get a better angle of her friend’s face.

“Isn’t it a bit late to be asking me this?”

Hà gave a half-smile.

“No offense, it’s just, well, you look quite young to be this, uh, far ahead, I guess.”

“Do I look young for 38?” Hà’s big eyes were trained on Bé’s, challenging her to see who can open the widest. The redhead gaped at empty air, finding lost words. “I’m just kidding, Bé.

Calm down! I’m 25.” Letting out a gust, Bé massaged the bridge of her nose and laughed a laugh that sounded more akin to a wail, “Hà, I’m dying in here,” Bé took a moment to collect herself. “If I didn’t have to fly tomorrow, I would love to meet your daughter though. I love children, and I bet she is a lovely young lady just like her mother.”

“She can be very naughty though,” Hà chan-

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neled her inner kindergarten teacher, placing her hands akimbo, her smallish voice as stern as it can be.

“I was a handful when I was younger too.”

“You’re still a handful now.”

“Haha, oh shut up, thank god my mom wasn’t as snarky as you are,” Bé lifted her head and downed all of what was left of her whiskey and coke in one giant swig. Hà couldn’t help but notice how long the girl’s neck was, and how the liquid had made a gulp as it snaked down the redhead’s throat. She felt her own throat turning leather, so she also finished up her drink. The diluted mix only highlighted how quickly Hà was sobering up. She was awed at how much of physical constitution was actually psychological stubbornness. The street had been quiet for a while. From downstairs, an electronic Engelbert Humperdinck echoed, “tell me, quando, quando, quando?”. On this timeless and isolated island, Hà had looked around everywhere but the clock.

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Among all of the villas on this hill, they stopped at an overgrown garden that hid a country home style cottage. It had a brick chimney and an acorn-shaped mailbox. There were garden gnomes toiling around an inactive stone-and-marble fountain. There in its tepid water, a small sparrow frolicked amongst floating leaves. The woman said that this was her friend’s place. The woman would borrow the mostly unused house every time she was in between jobs. She explained to Carlos that the place was virtually inaccessible because it was built up to be a retreat for the old money type, where they would sometimes fly in with helicopters, if they couldn’t stand the ferry. Being the youngest resident around, Miss Mulway was likely the only one working. She chuckled when she had to say that she was young. Carlos had wanted to ask what line of work she was in, but apprehension won over the shy boy. He just wanted to look at her all day, and it seemed to him that she also had his girlfriend’s complete attention.

They walked through the garden, on cobblestone steps, and into the house.

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The humble exterior betrayed how spacious the living room was. Almost everything was wood, dark finish, draped over by white linen. It did look like how those old children’s book would illustrate a witch’s abode. Seeing the reaction on Carlos’ face, the lady smiled and said that the furnishing was intentionally corny because the owner had planned to rent it out, banking on the novelty factor. The boy only passively nodded, wishing he could say more but couldn’t. Mai had already made herself comfortable on the brown leather couch. She was fidgeting, stealing curious glances at the older woman.

Carlos volunteered to make tea for all of them. Partly, he wanted to make himself useful, as this day was about Mai, who he knew needed to talk to their host. The other part, he wanted to remove himself away from the mature lady’s presence. Yet, even with her sitting strides away and him busying with the kitchen cabinet, he could still feel her there behind him, on the skin of his shoulders and the back of his head.

Mai was talking and the woman listened. His girl-

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friend sounded upset, and she was stuttering.

He couldn’t make out what it was about. However, from context, it was most likely about her the funeral. When he came back with the tea, Miss Mulway had taken off her sunglasses and was talking. Other than Mai, she was the first vaguely non-white person that he saw these past days.

Although, he didn’t even have full confidence in this thing. “...I’ve had an uncle who was diagnosed with skin cancer. I mean, forgive my layman’s understanding, but out of all your optio- Oh, thank you Carlos,” she smiled, and that made Mai smile too. She turned to the Asian girl and spoke in a lowered voice as if she was sharing a secret, “You’re in good hands!”

“Sit next to me, Split,” Mai was being subtly sweeter than usual, even though she still had that spacey look in her eyes. “You were saying?”

“Oh yeah, so uncle, skin cancer. Long story short, he got through fine, but cancer and uncle Johnston was all anyone ever talked about for a good 2 years. After that, when it was all over,

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none of us could believe it. We got so used to the idea of living with this shadow over us that we, in a way, refused to go back to our normal selves. Really, don’t take this as me minimizing your what you’re experiencing, and I know it’s very trite to say this, but it ends.”

“I see what you mean. I don’t know if I necessarily see myself as ‘refusing to move on’.

Shit, it’s just… It’s just mom died so suddenly, right? All these years, she didn’t once tell me what she was going through. Mom would just come home and eat dinner, and we would play with the cat. So I guess I never had that chance to get used to the idea of death like with your uncle, you know? There’s nothing for me to move on from because there’s zero closure. Zero! All that life is just...just fucking gone!

“Be honest, do you think it’s my fault? My fault that she never had the chance to be young?

No, it’s not that silly of an idea. I’ve thought about it a lot, what would hindsight being 20/20 and all, right? Everyone, though, knew that she had me early, too early. Instead of dumping my

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ass off to my grandparents, she raised me herself and still made it through college. Then she met you, and oh, was it ever sweet for her. But mom couldn’t pick up and move because she had me, so she had to settle with telling the same story, the same memories again and again, longingly. At first I thought it was only this cool friend that she had, right? But I’ve seen my parents fight.

She never cried then. But once in every blue moon, she would get smashed alone and recall the story, that story. Always the bar and how cool it was and how she regretted coming home early and not spending the night. Then, she would go into to the fucking bathroom and bawl her fucking eyes out into a towel. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it was up to me to do something about it. Look, I knew I could have paid her back. I could have given her a life, you know. She could have moved to New York with me after her divorce. I could have gotten a work visa, and maybe I would even help her find you even. I would have given her everything back. I would gladly kill myself if it meant she could be 20-something

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again. But oh no, that woman had to go and die without me. Now I’m stuck with things all screwed up, she was all the family I got. And I have to go on living, knowing that it was all because of me. So-much-for-fuck-ing-closure.”

“Mai! Honey, look at me,” The woman reverberated low and warm, yet also stern. Mai had been escalating to the point of wilding out, slamming her chest with both fists, and pushing her lungs’ capacity to scream. She moved next to Mai and rubbed the young girl’s back. Though steadfast, the mature woman was trembling. Her eyes were red and teary. All Carlos could do was to place his hand on Mai’s in that reassuring way that they do to each other. After a while, the Viet girl stopped hyperventilating. She collapsed into her boyfriend for a hug, and Miss Mulway touched her on the shoulders sympathetically.

Holding the girl, Carlos felt all the weight in the world. # Mai was respiring regularly, now. She looked up to her boyfriend, then to the old-

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er woman. The sun was so bright outside that the windows had simply appeared white. Yet, the cozy cottage hid the three of them in cool shade. The moment seemed to still. Mai had exhausted herself for now. Carlos was to be queasy from agitation.

He knew her, but not this way. Not this angry.

Not this self-loathing. He found himself sincerely missing the road trip here, back when he was still in the dark about Mai’s inner troubles.

Now faced with undiluted truth, with such clarity, Carlos couldn’t help but think an apocalyptic threshold had been crossed. He felt genuine fear. A minute that was becoming too long passed.

Finally, the girl croaked through her parched throat, pitifully like a student in front of the principal’s desk, “I’m sorry for my outburst. I’ve told you this, and I’ve told Carlos this. I’m a mess. It’s that dam breach,” she exhaled in defeat.

“Mai. It’s quite alright. We’re just trying to work through this our own way. And no one is more affected than you are,” it was masterful to Carlos how the lady had kept her composure,

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even if she seemed shaken, while he was feeling weak at the ankle. Mai immersed back into her own thoughts, zoned out, and her face contortions relaxed. She softly began, “Can I call you Bé?”

“I... Sure, honey.”

“Hey Bé?”

“Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth, here’s some closure: When I was small, and mom was telling me about you, I would try to imagine what you looked like, but none of it was ever… good enough. Bé, you’re more than enough.”

“Thanks, dear,” the woman choked back. Mai had this peaceful look on her face. She was resting against Carlos’s chest. He played with her hair. Bé was sounding even more raspy now, “I’ve thought about her a lot over the years. Her and you. I often asked myself if you would take after her, if you would even look or sound like her.”

“I don’t have her lips. Hers was thin,” Mai puckered and looked down at them.

“Heh, well, can I tell you something?”

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“Yeah?”

“All of this?” Bé made a circle around Mai’s face with her finger. “It’s so bizarre. If I’m being honest, it has been so long, and I find it harder and harder to remember that girl back then. Some nights, I would just lay there and wrack my brain trying to, in a sense, reconstruct her face. Usually, it’s picking this person’s nose, that person’s mouth, like that. But I would never get it right. The face would just be a soulless thing. I know it’s a face, intellectually, but it would never be her. But this?

I-it’s like she’s here in front of me again,” she paused for a sip of tea and exhaled in joy. “I guess that’s my own roundabout, non-cliché way of saying ‘you are the splitting image of your mother’.”

“Thanks,” Mai smiled coyly and broke eye contact. “I still can’t believe you guys never took any picture together.”

“No, and that’s a shame. There were these official-ish photos that we were given, but your mom wasn’t in any of them. I didn’t worry too

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much because I thought for sure we would meet again or at least write to each other. But life has that special way of making years disappear.

Before I knew it… well, you get the idea. I could have asked for a few more, but the only lead I had was my stepfather at the time. He doesn’t go to Vietnam anymore. And right now, we’re not exactly on speaking terms. Plus, that was, what, near 20 years ago? I doubt any photo from my visit is left. Maybe it’s for the best, haha. That way nobody knows about my crazy college hair.”

“You know, I found one. Mom had always kept this one picture of you and some of the Vietnamese dudes working with her.”

“Oh my god. Those guys were practically shoving each other.”

“You made them look like smurfs. I remember the first time mom showed me that picture. I was, what, 12 back then? Yeah. So, right then, I thought to myself, ‘God damn, people back then were that curvy?’”

“Stop it! The dress my stepfather made me wear was one size too small, and it was horrible.

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Yeah, you heard that right. Everything had to be perfect-o for that ass,” Bé winced. “Anyways, it makes me a very happy woman to hear that your mom had a keepsake, and that she thought about me from time to time. Even if she has never replied to any of my mail.”

“Um, Bé. There’s actually more than that.

Remember how I said, in my first call, that I only found your postcard? I’ve gotta come clean. I found everything,” Mai was talking in this somber tone, and Bé listened intently with her brows coming in tighter and tighter with each word.

“That’s how I figured out so fast that there was more to her story than just ‘meeting an American actress.’ She never told me how much of it she had, so I had no idea if that was really everything. But when I cleaned out her things, there was this big stack of letters, all labelled with either ‘Elizabeth Mulway’ or ‘Liz Herring’. But I knew that they were all the same person because they all used the same silly nickname. She had them in this big jewelry box that grandma gave her. It looked like she treasured them a lot. And

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here’s the thing, there was also this note, her handwriting. It was dated right after your first letter. Obviously, she never went through with replying to you, but she… well, she did write.

She wrote about her life, me, and if you were here, the cool places she would take you. Just you.”

As she listened, Bé began smiling at first, yet that smile slowly morphed into something else. She covered her face with her hand, trying to hold back the gentle sobs, but tears were already running down her fingers. By the time Mai was done, there was a long and tense beat before the woman muttered imperceptibly, “I can’t believe it. She’s gone. She’s gone.” Mai held the woman close. She continued this soft damp whisper, “I would get in front of the camera and think, ‘I’m just busy right now, but once all of this is over, I’ll finally go visit.’ I had no idea what I could possibly say to her. Shit. She had her own life, she had you. I was young, Mai. I thought I could always go back, and she would always be there. And we would al-

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ways be the same as that night. And I would make it right for her. I was just so damn young,” Bé cried out. Mai only silently rocked her back and forth like a parent calming their love.

The young girl closed her eyes and had her face in Bé’s black curls. Bé was red, twisted in pain. What had been a confident and stoic mature figure minutes ago crumbled down into a small girl within another small girl. She screamed into the girl’s black denim jacket as if to vomit grief from her body. Mai was peaceful, tearless, and stoic. She looked up, turned, and reached out for her boyfriend. Their fingers intertwined. And as if by a force of conduction, with his girlfriend as the medium, Carlos felt his eyes well up and his nose run. His own dam had broken, and he felt his frustration, sadness, anger, and indignation ebb away and replaced by a vast and unending mental image of an ocean at twilight, where the blue had washed away the sunset. Carlos had never met Hà.

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“It’s kind of late. Do you have to head home soon?” Bé dropped the dreaded question.

“I don’t know,” Hà was being honest.

“Well, how are you feeling, then?”

“I think I’m less drunk now.”

“Good, good, me too.”

“But you’ll have to go back, right? What time are you flying tomorrow?”

“Early afternoon-ish?” Bé said, drawing out her speech, as if to stall. “But you know what? I won’t even sleep. I don’t think I’m going back to the hotel anytime soon.”

“Oh? But what will you do this time at night?” Hà asked, but Bé kept silent. The Viet girl only asked out of courtesy, because she already knew what Bé had in mind. By this time, the other patrons have all gone home, and the duo haven’t moved from their spots on the cold tile, behind the porcelain and palms. Music was still playing, but the volume had turned down noticeably. The venue was about to close.

“Nah, you’re right. I’m just being silly.

Listen, let me see you home, OK?” The American

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said after a long pause, stood up, and extended a hand; Hà was immediately reminded of how tall this girl was.

They stood here in front of each other. For a moment, none of them moved, save for the subtle swaying motion due to wind. Bé broke from thought and expressed that she wanted to stand at the railing for a minute. So, Hà slid into her oversized jacket and followed. Leaning against the sculpted concrete barrier, they leaned down to witness the tangled web of powerlines obstructing sighs of closed shops and their steely storm door. Everything was colored in black and orange. Hà’s mind raced to find things to say.

What once came so naturally now felt impossible. She imagined them staying here throughout the night, in this static position, like a frozen memory. Savoring the image, the Viet girl wondered yet again if her daughter had school tomorrow, and whether she had anyone chaperoning her.

The husband crossed her thoughts once, flashes of him being sulky that she if she was gone for the whole night. Then, her mind returned to her

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daughter. Even though she knew it wasn’t true, these thoughts felt no different from abandoning the child for life. Once more, they had let the silence grow thick. This timeless island shrunk more and more, approaching the end.

“Will I meet you again?” Bé finally asked.

“Yes. At least I hope so.”

“Me too. Hope that when I come for another visit, you would still be here.”

“When are you coming back here?”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t really say. When I’m back in the US, it’s production season for me. Then, my fiancé is planning a retreat somewhere with his pals, and he wants me to be there. So I’m guessing, not for a while.”

“Oh,” Hà didn’t continue much more than that.

“Honey.”

“Hm?” “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” Bé’s hands scanned around Hà’s pointed face, thin lips, and wide eyes, which

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were unconsciously drooped in disappointment.

“Hà, I’ll try to visit as soon as possible! Maybe I can convince my fiancé to put Vietnam in our itinerary, so… so,” her voice cracked. The redhead feigned a happy smile, but then glanced upward, blinking. She wiped her eyes.

“Listen, it’s OK. I can wait. Besides, I’ve had a great night,” this time, Hà initiated. She wrapped an arm around her friend’s waist.

“It’s more than great to me. I mean, I’ve got good friends back home and and in school and stuff, but with you, it’s different. I think you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, it feels like we’ve kno-” “Please don’t say it,” pleaded Bé.

“Why?” “Because it’s too corny,” they tittered at, then with each other.

“I learned it from you, Bé,” they were in a teary uproar now.

The American girl was slapping the concrete railing while tilting against her friend; her wild red locks were willows dangling on top. Hà

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was laboring and failing to suppress her snickers. She grew lightheaded from holding it in. By the end of it, Bé’s arms were around the Viet girl. Hà tensed up and was intoxicated. Yet, she remained still, watching Bé’s flowy sundress wavered in the chill wind. The fabric was thin and soft to the touch, and she could feel the redhead trembling a bit. Deep breath, Hà gathered up her resolve, “Let’s stay up all night.” # They were on a taxi so old, the cushions smelled of mold and stale cigarettes. Hà had asked the driver to roll the windows down, to which the over large man drowsily complied. Bé was leaning onto Hà’s shoulder, taking a shuteye. The Viet girl sat up straight with her hands on her knees, a support beam for the younger, but towering girl. She looked outside as they passed through the sleeping city; most of the street lights were gone, and a blue shade has enveloped everything. The monsoon air blasting through the windows and filtering through each other’s hair.

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She imagined herself being the one leaning, but stopped short and instead, simply closed her eyes.

It all happened so fast. Bé’s elated embrace, the schoolgirl-esque squealing, sneaking downstairs, cab hailing. All of it a blur of excitement. They had found the bodyguard passed out on his table, scattered were around 5 bottles and a pint, which who knew how many times it had been refilled. Bé snuck towards him and stole away her bag, which he was still clutching. Only the short, comic looking producer named Henry was around. He was completely flushed, slumping against the cushion of his booth, not minding a giant busboy clearing out his table. There was change on his table, but he seemed to have forgotten that it existed. Seeing the two girls, he greeted with unhindered enthusiasm. He had told the bodyguard that the girls were upstairs, and that they needed space. Bé pecked the drunken man on his cheek in appreciation; his appreciation was greater. She then went to look for paper to leave a note to the snoring man, saying that she

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was OK and wasn’t kidnapped. Hà used that time to call home, informing her husband that she would be sleeping over at a friend’s place. He replied in hums and grunts before prematurely slamming the receiver, unable to fight sleep any more. After splitting the bill, the duo stepped outside, hand in hand. They knocked on the door of the cab to wake the driver up. Hà had decided that she would pick up her bike at the bar the next morning. When the car made its way out of the lot and onto the road, Hà and Bé realized that they had no idea where they were going. # It was an hour past midnight. The cab dropped them off at the old Catholic cathedral on one of the hills around Hà’s apartment complex.

Hà had chosen this place, last-minute, for their nighttime adventure to be the most memorable.

Train tracks ran along the incline, culminating with the Vatican’s most prominent foothold in the area. Its courtyard was meticulously cared for in order to maintain that wild, overgrown yet inarguably deliberate look. The building itself has

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seen numerous permutations over its decade-long tenure in Huế, from Gothic to Modernist, all had preserved its familiar silhouette: two towers grasping at the heavens, standing on a jewel field of stained glass. It was a stone crown upon a monarch’s brows. Indeed, Hà had gone with the surest option.

The two snuck into church grounds, where the fence had a few missing iron posts. A large part of the fence was rusted away after years of rain and mismanagement. The American girl sat down on a marble bench underneath a white statue of a sword-wielding, book-sporting saint. Hà took her place on the cobblestone walkway, right underneath redhead’s feet. They took turn drinking from a water bottle from the Bé’s bag while gazing up to the two monolithic black shadows that blocked out the faintly reddish sky. Placing the water bottle back into her bag, she commented with thrill, “Wow, OK. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Doing what?”

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“Sneaking into church!”

“It’s just the garden, not that special. I do it all the time,” Hà played it off cool.

“Try being raised with Catholic guilt; sacred ground and all that. But really, all the time?”

“Some of the time. Often. At least me and my husband used to do this back in university, every week. This was our favorite place to go on dates. I didn’t always have money for the movie theatre. He offered to buy us tickets, but, uh, I don’t like people paying for me.”

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it? To have your gallant, dashing date pay for you. I love making people pay for everything, being the parasite that I am. Not with you though, haha, though that’s a first. Oh honey, you haven’t said a thing about your husband, and here I am, talking nonstop about myself!”

“Maybe I wanted things that way,” Hà was timid, picking at the weed that has sprouted between cracks in the masonry.

“Oh my stars! It’s quite alright, dearie,

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no pressure. I did not mean to pry or be insensitive,” Bé was putting on her singsong drama act again, which reminded Hà of how the ladies talked in the Gone with the Wind tape her husband had rented. She shushed the redhead, for risk of waking up the entire regional priesthood (the understudies stayed at the dorm adjacent to the main building). The younger girl looked around with a mischievous grin. The little performance made Hà smile and forget her troubles.

They sat around, got up and walked around the garden, then sat down again. They chatted, then enjoyed each other’s silence, then chatted again. They talked about life in Vietnam, life in America, stories from their sweet girlhood. Hà told of her big family and how she had to work odd jobs to get her siblings through school.

Bé mulled over her lonesome single child existence, learning to stand by herself with parents who were more concerned with ripping each other apart. Hà reminisced on being a bully in middle school to build up a carapace against the boys’ unwanted attention. Bé admitted to being the pa-

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riah. Soon enough, they had memorized the entirety of the courtyard.

When Bé started yawning, Hà took her friend uphill, tracing close around the outside of the cathedral walls. They climbed as the asphalt turned to gravel then dirt under their shoes. The city lights were twenty minutes behind them now, a halo in the distance. The rain clouds parted, and the stars reveal themselves from behind the curtain. The duo found themselves among a congregation of conifers, standing tall and serene, collectively watching the half-moon play peek-aboo through the migrating monsoon clouds. Winds weaved through the canopies, and somewhere, pinecones fell, making soft sounds on the stacks of dead, needly leaves. If Bé was thrilled about sneaking into church grounds, that excitement has turned into a content exhilaration when the pine forest surrounded her.

Hà found her way to the familiar dull-grey concrete statue of a horse, slightly larger than the real life counterpart. She climbed on its back and was immediately thankful for her thick

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jeans. Bé stood by and felt the rough surface of the “saddle”, frowning. Noticing that her friend was bare at the skin of her thighs, Hà zipped her windbreaker off and draped it over the horse. She took Bé’s hand and helped the younger girl up.

Saddled up behind, her tall legs encased the Viet girl’s. Bé brushed her hair to one shoulder, all with a smirk, which reminded Hà of the way models would in shampoo ads. Then, the redhead slipped her slender hands around Hà’s belly the way a motorbike passenger would. Smirk still on her face, she whispered closely in one ear, “Thank you, my gallant, dashing knight.”

“Knights aren’t this short,” Hà redirected.

She felt her mind going blank when her whole back was pressing against the American girl.

“Not all knights use their physical might.

Some use their heads. Some win with their courage,” Bé spoke slowly, purposeful in her delivery, like reciting an old fable around a campfire.

“Some conquer with love.”

“Oh. my. god., now that is corny!” Hà broke out in laughter, and so did Bé, but none of them

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made any sound other than wheezing, gasping for air.

“You can learn from the master, but you’ll never be as good,” Bé wiped at a tear that had welled up, still coming down from her giggles.

“So, what kind of knight am I?” “Hm, know that I think about it, I think you’re a queen, or an empress. That’s way more badass. Like, leading whole nations and stuff.

That suits you more.”

“Yeah, I think that suits me. Does that make you the princess?”

“I’ve been a princess my whole life. I’m bored of it now. I want to be a queen too.”

“Is two queens too many?”

“Why?” “Who’s going to be the king?” Hà asked, cheekily.

“Well, I guess, for you, your husband’s not a candidate (Hà nods). I’m engaged, so… I don’t know. I don’t think he’s really kingly material though. More of a prince. Don’t know if having a king is a good idea though; I do get quite jeal-

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ous.”

“That’s simple then. No king. We’ll just be two single queens.”

“Think about it though. If we’re together, does that really make us ‘single’?”

“That depends on what ‘together’ means, doesn’t it?”

“It can be whatever you want it to mean,” Bé crooned. With arms already around Hà, she lightly pulled the petite girl into her bosom. Hà was burning with a fever now.

“Listen, Bé ơi.”

“Hmm? Yes, my queen?”

“You remember when I asked why you were doing this to me?”

“At DMZ? Again, I apologize for coming off angry like that.”

“It’s OK. But I wasn’t talking about you being angry. When I said ‘this’, I meant ‘this’,” Hà tapped on the arms around her waist. “I’m not used to this, you, um, being close. Touching my face, hugging me-” “Oh gosh, I am so, so sorry,” Bé flinched,

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made a motion to pull away, and backed off. However, Hà had already caught her by the forearm.

Hà gently tugged back and wrapped those arms around her own slender body again.

“Don’t stop,” Hà commanded in the warmest voice, but no less a command.

“Honey, listen, it’s alright, you don’t have to, you know?”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s me being pushy, and that’s not right.

I shouldn’t have. I mean, my god, I didn’t even ask if you were comfortable.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, come on now. You really don’t have to be OK with it. Believe me, it’s all good. My opinion of you wouldn’t change, either way. There is zero pressure on you, and I want you to know that, mkay?”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re gonna keep saying that, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh.”

“OK, I’m going crazy here. Would you at

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least say something else?”

“Bé.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you shut up and let me enjoy myself?” “... Fine,” The redhead resigned and laid her face on the back of Hà’s neck, arms hugging tenderly. The older girl had a fulfilled look on her face. She listened to the autumn wind, the trees, the city, and her own beating heart.

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Carlos’s eyes kept on stinging, though the crying has already stopped. He looked to Mai. She smoked in quiet contemplation, watching the faint swaying of leaves and grass outside the glass backdoor, in the meticulously scaped yard. Bé was in the kitchen. She retrieved from the fridge an oven tray of brownies. Three fourth had been carved out, but there was still plenty left to go around. She wiped her still reddened nose with a backhand and chuckled. The offer had occurred naturally while the three were a heap of emotional mess, strewn about on the long couch. Mai had asked if she could smoke in the house. Bé confessed to her own vice, and before they knew it, some special treats were in order.

Each of the three took out a meager spongy cube from the brownie tray. Carlos nibbled slowly. He had taken these before, but none ever tasted so sweet and aromatic. Cathartic satisfaction made things much more rewarding, much more worthwhile. While the women talked, he became sharply aware of the emptiness inside of him, but it wasn’t the sort of void where it consumed a

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person from the inside. Rather, it was by nature the very lack of business, of occupation. It was freeing and accepting, and he was too. Bé went over to put some music on the cottage’s uncharacteristically elaborate sound system. It wasn’t like anything that Carlos nor his youngster friend group was used to, in other words deep house. He wondered if Mai liked what was playing.

A prolonged and droning sitar wailed them all the way to the distant Indian Subcontinent. Dirty industrial basslines supplemented mystic chants.

It sounded like what would play in an S&M dungeon that doubled as a yoga class, but Carlos couldn’t help losing himself in this wall of sound. He didn’t get around to asking who was playing that day.

They felt it now, an hour later. All chatter has halted as time seemed to have stretched infinitely long. A minute composed of many seconds, and seconds themselves were made of milliseconds, then nanoseconds. Every single ticks, Carlos felt to have sludged by and waved hello to him, personally. The room rotated on an invis-

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ible axis, gyroscopically stabilized. The women sipped on their herbal tea and shared a lucky, lucky cigarette between themselves. When Mai and Bé started talking again, they did so deliberately, yet out of random; conversations had not a clear beginning and seemingly hinted at no end.

He, too, was full of words, the most magnificently dear and enlightening words, but he couldn’t seem to find an opening, nor the impetus to initiate.

He reminded himself that he preferred to listen.

So he listened, letting the uttered incantations flow through his mind like an impenetrable substance that he embraced and accepted fully. His bliss didn’t come from this ignorance, but rather from the liberation from worry and fear, and from letting bravery and love plunge him deep into the lives of others.

Their words and sen-

tences and ideas had a clear pattern, repeating itself in everything else in the room, a sacred mantra that all were born into and did their best to carry the torch, mother to daughter, and the daughters thereafter. In this faint realization, he glimpsed the extent to which his own Ātman

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was intertwined with the roots of the life-giving tree at the spine of being. He realized that deliverance from destruction had only one path, and it was to welcome the very inner annihilation. The boy knew that he, Mai, and Ms. Mulway would conquer death, and in some vicarious way, Hà would too.

ॐ त्र्यम्बकं यजामहे सुगन्धिं पुष्टिवर्धनम्

उर्वारुकमिव बन्धनान्मृत्योर्मुक्षीय माऽमृतात् Mai had her arms draped around Bé. They blended into the upholstery as if their flowing hair and supple limbs have always belonged there.

Among the black manes where two pairs of red gems watching the world go by invisibly. Mai was idly fidgeting her Zippo, thumbs rubbing at the “Saigon” inscription as to erase those letters from the metal face. What was left of her forgotten cigarette was a grey finger of ash curling towards the ashtray’s tin bottom. Noticing the curio, Bé lifted the Viet girl’s hand to inspect her worn lighter.

“That’s pretty,” the woman commented. “Most of these Vietnam-type Zippos all have such crude

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engravings. Always a reference to the war.”

“Funny thing, this wasn’t her first choice.

My mom wanted to buy one with two nude women in a tub. That one was supposed to be ‘Saigon, 1975’. I thought it was funny, but she had second thoughts. Opted for the boring one instead. Guess she was tired of the same old, so after a few years, she gave it to me.”

“Mm, that’s interesting. Why wouldn’t it say ‘Huế’ though?”

“We moved to Saigon really early on. No one liked Huế, to be honest.”

“It was beautiful when I was there.”

“Try living there,” Mai deadpanned.

“You have a point.”

“And my mom’s snark.”

“Was she, really? I guess everything is rosy in hindsight,” Bé admitted. “I’ve always remembered her as super straight-laced. OK, maybe a bit snarky.”

“You know, maybe? Maybe who you met before was a different person.”

“Ha, are you saying I’m not the person

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you’re looking for?”

“I mean, after we moved and the eventual divorce, she bought a Zippo, then took up smoking and drinking. That doesn’t sound ‘super straightlaced’, if I’m being honest.”

“Geeze,” was all Bé could muster in her state. A prolonged delay ran its course before Mai put a cap on the thought.

“If it’s any consolation, she lived a good life. She got a career that she was proud of, and things were peaceful at home.”

“Yeah, you told me on the phone.”

“Mm,” and that was that. Mai laid her head on the woman’s arm again and closes her eyes, then said, “The funeral was stupid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Why?” “Just like weddings; a hundred people wanted a hundred different things. Like shit, I’m her only child, right? So I’m smack-dab in the middle of the mess. They expect me to basically handle everything, yeah? And there I was, jetlagged as all fuck, being asked left and right why I wasn’t crying. I knew for a fact that some of them came

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for the food.”

“Relatives can be shitheads sometimes, honey,” Bé contemplated, sounding as though she only knew too well.

“They made an awful show of it. Sometimes, I think, mom didn’t even have a proper funeral, even. I was the only one who gave a proper shit, right? But I couldn’t even focus on mourning. So it’s just gnawing at the back of my skull, like she’s still there, kind of a nagging presence.

Like I’m supposed to put her to rest, but how?

I’ve got all these mementos (flicking the Zippo) and jack shit to do with it,” Mai sounded exhausted. She then looked over to her boyfriend and said, “It’s not even mine. I gave the thing to Carlos there a while back.”

And so, in that brownie haze, Carlos felt a jolt through his tendons and ligaments running from head to feet. He saw it in the mature woman and his petite sweetheart too, that same spark that was unmistakably the conception of something so brilliant that the three just had to shout out at the same time.

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# In the cottage’s backyard, the trio gathered for their impromptu funeral. Carlos was digging a small hole with a rusted trowel, where a rose shrub met the edge of the back pond. Mai had said the water and flower had some relevance to her mother. The boy only eagerly obliged. This would be where the Saigon lighter would rest eternally, being one with the earth that made up its components. They picked a fist-sized rose and placed it along with the Zippo. Carlos filled up the gap with loose dirt and grass, making a little mound on the damp black soil. It was almost poetic, he thought. His body was still buzzing and feeble. He focused on maintaining his posture, trying his best not to fall into the rigid water and ruin the severity of this moment. The sun was setting again, making the distant cloudhead a hue of ember over a darkening sky. Like ember, the light was fading fast.

“You know, what sucks?” Mai asked nobody in particular.

“What?” Bé obliged.

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“She always talked about a grandchild. It’s the one thing that I refused to give to her. We fought so much over it.”

“Honey, don’t beat yourself over it. Everyone has to go their own way.”

“So many missed firsts.”

“Can we ever do everything?”

“I’m trying,” and with that, they stood in silence.

The last faint sunray narrowed until nothing remained but black shadows upon an eternal stretch of blue. Three silhouettes stood around a rose shrub and a twinkling pond. Bé confessed her hunger, and they went inside in search of food.

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The sky had shed its black robe and put on an azure cloak instead. A faint blue color illuminated the pine forest. They were lounging on the ground now. Strewn around were grass and the browning evergreen leaves. Hà had snuggled into the other girl’s arms, head on her chest, and warmth against her cheek. She idly picked needles from the red hair. Seeing this, Bé brushed her own mane back and forth to get yet more things stuck in it.

“Now you’ll never finish,” Bé stuck out her tongue.

“Who said I wanted to?”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Mm.” “Hey, I have this crazy idea.”

“Oh boy.”

“It’s not what you think it is.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Hà pulled back and examined the young girl with an inquisitive arch on her face.

“No I don’t, that’s why I’m hoping that you don’t think less of me when propose to you,” Bé

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reached into her bra; the sight petrified Hà in place. After fiddling around in there, she pulled her hand out and produced a palm-sized zip bag.

“A ha!” she exclaimed.

“I’ve had better rings.”

“Pff, I’m sick of rings. This is better,” the American held the bag up so the moon illuminated its content. It looked like dark trimmings.

“Is that...OK, where did you get it?”

“From America, of course. It’s not like I have time to find any here in Vietnam.”

“Right.”

“You don’t sound impressed.”

“It’s just, well, isn’t it very dangerous to get it through security here?”

“I haven’t seen any drug dogs here. And, um… Yeah, I guess it’s kinda dumb, now that I talk about it?”

“You don’t look like someone who uses drugs though,” Hà sat up, reserved.

“No I don’t, that’s because it’s just weed.”

“It’s bad for you, right?”

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“Uh, no more than a beer or a cigarette is.

I mean, in comparison, It’s harmless, I swear,” Bé was stammering. “Damn it, I knew it was a bad idea. Look honey, I’m sorry. Forget I even brought it up. Let me put it back, and let’s go back to hugging, OK?” “OK,” the Viet girl was still hesitant, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes were fixed on the little plastic bag.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Oh no, no.”

“Talk to me, then.”

“Alright. A few years ago, I found one of my younger sisters taking drugs with some of the girls in her school. It wasn’t any big, serious drugs like heroin, just tobacco. Not cigarettes, but it’s this… well I don’t know what it is in English, but it’s a strong type of tobacco.

They helped her home. She was puking, not even awake. It was ugly. We were a very...how would you say it? Traditional? Conservative? So that’s our kind of family. She was OK, but I was mad at her. I was mad because it would have made my par-

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ents even madder. My dad will kick her out of the house if he knows.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Yes it is. I was mad because she didn’t take care of herself. She made a mess. My parents’ anger will be different. It will be because she makes them look bad in front of other people.

They don’t have bad children, and they want to keep it that way.”

“Geeze, I feel so shit now. I’m so insensitive.”

“You’re fine. You didn’t know. And I know that you’re a good person. Maybe drugs are more normal in America. I know that not all drugs are the same, but we’ve been taught that way for… well, very long now. Also, this is not about whether I think drugs are alright or not. It’s about how I teach my sister. In the end, what choice do I have? If my sister is found out, I might have take my parents’ side, even if I think that they are too much.”

“Right, but wait a minute, you lost me there. Maybe I’m getting this wrong, but are you

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saying that you would rather kick your sister out rather than giving her the impression that you’re OK with drugs?” Bé was frowning into a squint.

“Um, yeah. Maybe it’s not as bad as that.

I didn’t kick her out or tell our parents last time, but I also told her the same things as our parents would.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘Only bad people do drugs,’ or, ‘You’ll die in an alley.’ That stuff.”

“Heavy.”

“It is. I know it’s not always true, but it’s more important to me, as someone she looks up to, to not show that I disobey our parents.

If children see cracks in the family, they will think we are weak and can’t raise them properly.”

“You sister isn’t a child, though. You told me she was only five years younger.”

“With her, it’s a big five years,” Hà intoned and sighed.

“Still, I don’t showing that you’re not completely on board with your parents is necessarily a bad thing. If you simply teach your sis-

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ter the way you want to, then you’re teaching her that it’s OK to think for herself, figuring out what’s right and wrong instead of being told.”

“She knows how to think. She’s smart. She knows why I’m angry and yell and say terrible things. She also knows if she does get kicked out, I will the one to beg my parents to let her back in again. And she definitely can figure out what is right and wrong.”

“Then why do you bother doing those things at all?”

“For the family, for my parents. When she gets her own life, she can think and do whatever she feels is right. My parents? They won’t be here forever, and they won’t understand, and it will hurt them very much. All of my sisters have a lot of time to think, but the older people needs their rest, their peace. Right now, they need their family not broken. Even if it means I have to make my sister feel bad, so be it. It’s not easy, and I do get upset a lot. But I waited.

Now, I will raise my daughter differently because it’s my own life. But with my sister, it’s still

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our parents’ house.”

“Yeah, OK. I see your point. Still a bit iffy, though. You know, I fantasize about having siblings all the time. Like, I would think about just the absolute best way I should go about treating them. In my head, it’s always going to be calm and collected, lots of talking, lots of hugging, lots of getting to understand one another. But, given your experience, I guess it’s not going to be the same in practice, huh?”

“Who knows? Might be because it’s different in Vietnam,” Hà pulled at the grass blades.

“Might be because I don’t actually know how hard it is to basically juggle between parents, two, three sisters, and my own self like you do.

How do you fucking do it? I wonder, how much of it is actually just you fighting with yourself.

You’re so contradictory, sometimes. For example, I’m guessing that they’re not keen on you staying out this late with another girl, right?” The redhead pointed to Hà, then back to herself.

“Would they prefer a boy?” Hà asked with her familiar arched brow.

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“Haha, stop it. Anyways, you’ve asked me about why I did things to you, now it’s my turn.

Why are you doing this to me? If you are so particular about your parents’ ‘law and order’, excuse me, then why are you here? At this hour?

With an American girl who’s a terrible influence, no less?” “... It’s my life. I told you before, I waited. I’ve been a good daughter. Studies, siblings, marriage, having children,” Hà mused at the thought, then glanced over at the girl. “I need a break. Something for myself, at least for tonight. Is that, you know...” “...”

“Corny?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s true for you though, and I believe it too. Again, it’s still very hard for me to completely wrap my head around this, and maybe I won’t ever understand you like another Vietnamese person would. Me? I can’t, and haven’t had to really put up with that much stress. Shit, when things get hard, I just bail. New York, in a way, is just more running

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away.”

“Is that why you use drugs?”

“What? No, I smoke weed because it’s fun.

Come on, it’s not that depressing,” Bé threw a fist of leaves at the older girl. They laughed.

“Here’s to hoping I don’t die in a ditch,” the redhead said, voice raspy as she laid back down in the grass. Hà chuckled tenderly, and then they watched each other in restrained silence.

Hà lowered herself and felt the red girl’s lips on her own. Warm exhalations. Beating, thumping, bursting, faster and faster. Sweet exchanges. Hands behind ears and heads, pulling closer, pushing further. Fingers in hair and hair brushing on skin. Laughing and gasping and sighing. Rolling, embracing, the suspension of all worries and regrets. A daze in a haze.

Then, Hà saw it. Bé had caught on fire. Her smiling face was framed with a field of red that melted into orange, gold, and an incandescent white. All the blues of twilight was washed away, for the sun has come.

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By the time Carlos and Mai returned to their hotel room, the starlit sky outside was a deep black, converging around a shining white moon. Even the fiery autumn leaves were painted in the same suppressive shade. At a distant horizon, barely perceptible, a blue glow hinted at the coming morrow. The young couple cleaned up in silence. Then, they got in bed together. Carlos avoided giving off any hint that he was interested, and Mai seemed more relaxed, or rather sedated. Propped up against a tall pile of pillow, her eyes were half-open. Her lips opened and closed ever so slightly. He told her that he would wait, until whenever she was ready, really ready. He told her that she was under no pressure. He told her loving things. Mai turned to look at and past her boyfriend, stiffened her lips into a semblance of a smile, and nodded. The boy kissed her lightly on her cheek, feeling its slight fuzz. He slunk back into the warm blanket and basked in the soapy freshness of his and her bodies. Sleep arrived unannounced.

Carlos dreamt that he was Mai, and Mai

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was him. The united entity chased a tiny sparrow upstream, through fields of wheat and hills of green, through the thunder and rain. This body was an incredible device made rippling with muscles, teeming with sparkling sweat beads, genderless but at the same time the embodiment of all things hypermasculine and hyperfeminine. They arrived at a crashing waterfall. Droplets saturated the air. There he-she found an empty nest, rested above a slick black boulder. Perched at the straw construction of its empty home, the sparrow wordlessly asked, “Can you carry me forever?�

Awakened, Carlos suddenly felt a fire in his belly, hips, and thighs that he was sure tear his being open from inside out. His head spinned, or the world did. He knew not the time nor the place. Moonlight imprinted the geometries of the window frame upon otherwise pitch black bedroom walls. The boy heard wet kisses and quiet sobs; his full-body delirium intensified with each of these sounds. The girl was sinking her face into his groins and bobbing up and down arrhythmically, almost lost in thought. Half out of shock

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and half out of concern, Carlos reached down and pulled her face up. She made a loud pop.

“Mai? What are you doing?” He slurred drowsily. Mai ignored him and went back to occupying herself. Carlos flailed and pushed her forehead away, “Stop, stop, stop.”

“Please just shut the fuck up and go back to sleep,” glared his girlfriend in a nasal growl. “I’m here with you now, so just enjoy it.”

The faint light made it clear that she had been crying, face shiny, drenched in tears and slavering. Her cat eyes now glowed with murderous intent. Hate and predatory, but to whom he wasn’t sure. Carlos laid back down and relaxed his muscles, so Mai continued. He laid there among quilted beddings, watching the autumn moonlight dance with skeletal branches, intoxicated from a cocktail of shock, fear, drowsiness, with a double shot of pleasure. He even gripped her short black curls tight into himself as the orgasm washed over. Carlos thought of love.

Mai was the small spoon. Every now and then, her body would shake in a teary hiccup.

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Carlos could hear her labored, stuffy breath clearer than ever. He caressed her hip and thigh and hip again. Only a few minutes before, she had tried to mount her boyfriend unprotected right after sucking him off, but he shoved her away. Crawling off to fetch a condom, Carlos was dragged back by an impossible strength coming from this small Asian girl; she was insistent on getting pregnant. He was shouting in annoyance and confusion. A few angry accusations of “crazy” later, they were wrestling, and the girl was clawing his forearms open, screaming in tears. In that moment, all he thought about was how much time she used to spend with her mother, having their nails meticulously manicured. He tried restraining her with a hug, thus his back bled for it. It was calmer now. She laid on top of his arm, holding it tightly, crying into it. Carlos couldn’t stop feeling the salt searing into his throbbing rended flesh. It was the first time that he saw her cry, ever. With time, Mai’s chest began rising and falling with more regularity.

The bedding would be brown with dried

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blood, come morning. Carlos was trying to keep his heart rate down; residue adrenaline still coursed. Watching Mai snore tenderly in his embrace, he wondered if he should be mad at her the next day. He didn’t know if he could ever see her the same regular, happy way again. He didn’t know if he cared to. He was nowhere near as resilient as she was, and this whole thing had been flipping her upside down. He asked himself, what if they had traded places, would he ever recover? He thought back to the time when he was single, then being in a relationship. He thought about Mai and about Elizabeth Mulway. He thought about death.

He thought and thought and thought until it wore him out.

By the time some conclusions were reached, Carlos felt faint. While he slipped into another dream, drab and heavy clouds swirled in and extended a night already long. In that nonexistent threshold between the night before and tomorrow’s light, raindrops started tapping on the window pane.

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#

Author Is this the part where I talk about myself? Not sure if this is in accordance with manuscript formatting norms. Normally, there wouldn’t even be such a section, but I am designing this one to have the appearance of a published book AND a raw manuscript. That’s the thing about zine-making, I guess. I’m in weird territory now.

I don’t fully know why I’m so obsessed with publishing practices and designs so much. I an inherently subversive medium, after all. to rebel against these norms? Then why am I industry standard?

traditional am working with Am I not supposed so concerned with

I guess in the end, sticking to a pre-established format allows me to deviate based on my own discretion. Would this constitute as reinterpreting the print medium and therefore be, in the end, subversive? Or am I just sticking by well-trod grounds? Why the hell am I so worried about being unique and original?

Here goes, “I am Ian Quee, and I make zines.”

Was that so hard?

Other works @ issuu.com/hienquy Twitter, Facebook @HienADay HienADay@gmail.com

Cat One cat has perished during the making of this book. It was October 2016. I didn’t have the courage to personally deliver her to Valhalla, but I knew that Cat is looking down on everyone from heavens above. I could feel Cat sitting in on my and my love’s coffee-fueled all day work sessions, watching us with pride. Book was finished March 2017. Does the font or the press matter? We miss you, little bud-bud. Left you food in the kitchen. Please come home someday.

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