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Specimens Editor’s note: This piece is a work of fiction.
The waiter disappeared into the lunchtime crowd before we could order something to drink.
“Waiter? Excuse me?” my mother called after him, but he was already gone. She rolled her eyes at me so Hua, our guide, would see.
We sat on the back patio of a restaurant in Hanoi, at one of many communal tables arranged beneath sprawling marigold-colored umbrellas. The umbrellas—mounted from the branches of an old banyan tree—served as a collective conical hat, shielding us and the other diners not only from the sun, but from the acrid smell of tar emanating from the street. Food stalls lined the perimeter of the patio; rolled up bamboo screens revealed the theater of food preparation. Male servers dressed in red silk—like our waiter, still hiding somewhere among the food stalls—floated in and out of the soup of lunchtime chatter. Occasionally, the cackle of frying catfish sliced across the crowd, sending a waft of lemongrass chasing after it. My mother scrunched up her nose as she punched at the forward button on her digital camera.
“I must be getting close. Here’s the one of the musicians,” she said. Hua sat patiently, waiting. I tugged at the back of my linen shirt. In the midday heat, it peeled off like banana skin.
Next to us sat a young Vietnamese couple with their daughter, who couldn’t have been more than four years old. I opened my menu, trying to ignore the sound of the child’s straw slurping at the frothy dregs of lime juice stuck to the bottom of her glass. Luckily, each appetizer on the menu was followed by a parenthetical translation in English. I freed my sock-covered feet from my sandals. I wiggled my toes. My mother set her camera on her lap. As she gathered her hair into a bun, the waiter put a tray of rolled washcloths on the table. She quickly sprung for one, patting herself across the forehead and back of the neck, careful not to smudge make-up miraculously still in place after a humid morning of sightseeing through the Old Quarter.
“Water, please. Big bottle. No ice,” said my mother, gesturing with her hands to illustrate a large bottle. “You’ve got to see these fried spiders,” she continued, turning her attention back to Hua. “I mean, really. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. You’ve been to Angkor?” My mother—still looking for the photograph—was shouting, her lips forming fish shapes, as if her volume and over-enunciation would help Hua understand her.
“Yes, ma’am. I take tour groups.” “We started our trip there before heading to the Mekong. I just couldn’t believe they eat those things. But you eat dog, don’t you?” Hua did not look up.
“You know? Dog? Woof, woof,” my mother pressed. I bit my lip hard. I waited for the taste of blood, almost wished for it, as if the spectacle might take the focus off of my mother. But all I tasted was the salty flavor of sweat. I hid my face behind my menu.
After a morning of combing through silk shops and navigating the markets, I was starving. I wanted beef simmered in red curry, a dish I insisted on ordering since we arrived in Vietnam, even though my mother found it too spicy. As I scanned the rest of the menu, the child sitting next to us began to sob. I peeked over the top of the menu at the little Vietnamese girl. She sat on her mother’s lap; tears fell over her lips, full and pouting like a rose apple. The mother bounced the little girl on her knee while continuing conversation with the father. The tears seemed to come in short vigorous spurts, like salt from a shaker. “What are you thinking for lunch?” said my mother. “Should we get some of that Chao Tom like we had in Saigon? That was delicious. And some fresh spring rolls?”
“Sure. And that beef.” My mother sighed. “That cuttlefish we saw drying out spoiled my appetite. And next to pigs' ears. The things these people eat.”
“This afternoon we go to Temple of Literature and Hanoi Hilton,” Hua said, closing his menu. “That sounds wonderful. Now what will you have?” my mother asked. She smiled expectantly at Hua, as if he were a small child. Before he could respond, she squealed. At the table next to us, soup from the little girl’s overturned bowl dribbled off the table. My mother dove beneath her chair for her handbag and a shopping bag full of silk scarves. The little girl cried louder as her parents frantically wiped up the spilled soup.
“Did she get you?” I asked, grabbing the napkin draped across my lap. Noting my mother’s composure, her possessions resting safely on her lap, I instead blotted my brow. “I have a daughter too,” said my mother, as if the couple could understand her. She pointed at me and nodded again. I noticed that the child clung to a doll wearing only one red shoe. I wondered if the other shoe had fallen somewhere under the table, or had gotten tied up in one of the soup-soaked napkins.
“I wish you good lunch. I meet you in one hour,” Hua said, getting up slowly, as if sharp movements would draw disdain from my mother.
“But you have to join us. We have so many questions. I looked under the table next to us. There was no shoe, but the soup had stopped dripping. Under our table, a puddle remained around my mother’s feet. Her toes—stained from walking through streets covered in spittle from old ladies chewing betel nuts—stuck out from her sandals. “Show me what you would like and I will order for you,” said Hua, seeming to think my mother was only nervous to order for herself. Somehow, he managed not to agree or disagree with her requests. After the addition of steamed prawns, two finger bowls were promptly delivered to the table. I dipped my pinkie in, testing the temperature.
Every table was now filled at the restaurant. My mother searched through her bag for her telephoto lens so she could get shots of the local people enjoying their lunch. A cough punctuated her movements. “The air’s terrible here. It’s that leaded fuel. You know your country is beautiful,” she said, turning to Hua, who somehow, against his will, still found himself sitting at the table. “But your people really need to start thinking about the environment.” My mother fastened the telephoto lens to her camera. She smiled, pleased with herself.
Hua looked over to the entrance of the restaurant. He appeared to be looking for our driver.
“As your country develops,” she continued, looking through the camera, “it will need to consider the planet. Technology, industry, they’re important. But if you want tourists to keep coming, they want to see Halong Bay, take riverboat cruises.” I watched my mother focus the lens. I heard the shutter click twice. “Eighty percent of the population lives in poverty, ma’am. They do not care about environment. They do not think of it,” said Hua. My mother’s arms slacked like the net of a hammock, her camera falling into her lap. She began to shake her head no, considering what to say. “Maybe you would prefer to have lunch with the driver,” I said.
“I will see you in one hour,” said Hua, rising. He navigated with his elbows through the crowd of patrons waiting for a table. By this time, my mother was muttering to herself. Before I could say anything to distract her, the stench of spilled fish oil washed over the table. I pulled my shirt up over my nose. My mother began coughing, one cough louder than the next. “You saw the women throwing trash into the river during the boat ride, didn’t you?” she spat out, trying to cover her mouth with her hand.
“I did, but that was in the south.” “Well it’s the same damn country.” She coughed again. “I probably have a photo of it. I should send that to their tourism bureau. That would show them. Ruining their own waterways.”
With the smell of fish oil suffocating us, I hadn’t noticed the mosquito buzzing beside my ear. I struggled to hold my shirt up over my nose with one hand as I swatted at the mosquito with the other. It hung, languid like a ballerina, in the air just beyond my reach. Slowly, it inched in my mother’s direction. She held her camera again, and was scrolling through her photos. “Mom, there’s a mosquito,” I said, pointing at it.
“There’s a photo in here, somewhere. I remember taking one,” she snapped. The way she punched at the button, she looked she might break the camera all together.
I swatted at the mosquito again, this time with both hands, and missed. The sound of my hands clapping together surprised me. I stood up. I breathed through my mouth, but I could not block out the pungent odor of fish oil.
The mosquito—now beyond the reach of my hands—floated toward the family next to us and then back over to our table. I got up on my chair and swatted. The mosquito floated upward toward the umbrellas. I reached for it in vain. Below me, a fit of coughing descended upon my mother, forcing her to put her camera down and reach for her glass of water. As I looked around the restaurant, no one seemed to notice me, standing on my chair, or my mother’s cough. A waiter left a plate of fresh spring rolls on our table without as much as a sideways glance.
By this time, the mosquito had flown away. Even though no one was watching me, I felt ridiculous standing on a chair at a restaurant. As I checked my balance, preparing to step down, I felt the lens of my mother’s camera pointed at me. I looked at her, and before I could cover my face with my hands, I heard the click of the shutter. May 3, 2007 |
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