say it, I’m questioning myself. How could I know? Why should I care? I can’t know. But I do care. I do.
Shelley begins to smile and then she turns away. Her hand goes to her eye and rubs at it. If she’s crying, she doesn’t want me to know. Then she says, “I brought you something. Hold on.” She steps out the door and into the parking lot, then returns a minute later with an armful of books. I clear some inventory sheets off the counter and she lets the books slide onto the glass. They’re all guides to Vietnam. Together, we gaze down at them. “I’ve been trying to find out about his homeland,” she explains, then she motions with her chin. “Take a look.” Together, we page through the volumes. With this mountain of factual information to draw our attention, the mood between us lightens. I point at various famous sites. We joke. Shelley has a question for every picture, every page. “Have you been here?” “How far is that?” She pauses often to scrawl notes in
the margins or look something up. While she writes, I look at photos of Hanoi, more recent than the ones in National Geographic . I feel braver than I did when I looked at the old magazines, and I discover that I enjoy this. One guidebook, Lonely Planet, has a whole section of photographs of “the Old Quarter,” the streets surrounding my house. We never called our neighborhood “the Old Quarter.” The whole city was old, rundown, cramped, and rusty. There’s a hazy dawn shot of Hoan Kiem Lake—they call it “the Lake of the Restored Sword”—where my mother did her calisthenics, and one of a woman selling bún ch À , rice noodles with grilled pork, the fragrance of which I can remember so distinctly that the sterile air in my market seems suddenly quite filled with it. Then I spot a picture of the Dong Xuan Market, forget myself, and laugh.
Shelley looks up. “What?” she asks, as if she fully expects an explanation. I remember the casual interrogations that used to take place between myself and my sister. We felt entitled to information. Thoughts only existed to be shared.
I point my finger at the photo—a line of market women offering their wares—and try to explain. “These ladies,” I begin, “they’re very rude. Uneducated. When I’m a girl, my mom give me money to go buy bam-boo shoots. But when I get there, they hold up their vegetable—it’s long, skinny, like a man’s you-know-what—and they say, ‘Hey, girl! Get some practice on this guy before you meet your husband.’ ”
Does she have any idea what I’m saying? Apparently so. Shelley grins. “Yeesh. What did you do?”
“I ran away. I know my mom get mad that I don’t bring home bamboo shoots for dinner, but I’m too afraid to buy it.”
“By that point, you probably weren’t in the mood to eat them any-way,” Shelley remarks. She looks back down at the picture. “Was it at this market in Hanoi?”
Of course it was, and I’m about to say so, too, but then I remember that I have an old lie to sustain. Most Vietnamese Americans equate northerners with Ho Chi Minh, so for over twenty years I’ve called myself a southerner. “Saigon,” I say. “Wait. I show you.” I go back to my refrigerators and fill a bag with whole bamboo shoots, then take them back to Shelley. “Bamboo shoots actually delicious. Forget what I tell you about those ladies.”
She looks at the pale yellow vegetables, long and limp. “I see what you mean,” she says uncertainly. “They’re not like those little strips you get in Chinese food.”
“Completely different. Slice them longwise, stir-fry with lots of garlic, little bit fish sauce. Cook for a long time to make tender. Then add little bit green onion at the last minute, to make pretty and smell good.”
She holds the bag carefully, like a child clutching pet store goldfish. “I’ll cook it tonight,” she says firmly, as if she’s making a promise.
I’m about to suggest that she add a bit of pork, too,
Shelley begins to smile and then she turns away. Her hand goes to her eye and rubs at it. If she’s crying, she doesn’t want me to know. Then she says, “I brought you something. Hold on.” She steps out the door and into the parking lot, then returns a minute later with an armful of books. I clear some inventory sheets off the counter and she lets the books slide onto the glass. They’re all guides to Vietnam. Together, we gaze down at them. “I’ve been trying to find out about his homeland,” she explains, then she motions with her chin. “Take a look.” Together, we page through the volumes. With this mountain of factual information to draw our attention, the mood between us lightens. I point at various famous sites. We joke. Shelley has a question for every picture, every page. “Have you been here?” “How far is that?” She pauses often to scrawl notes in
the margins or look something up. While she writes, I look at photos of Hanoi, more recent than the ones in National Geographic . I feel braver than I did when I looked at the old magazines, and I discover that I enjoy this. One guidebook, Lonely Planet, has a whole section of photographs of “the Old Quarter,” the streets surrounding my house. We never called our neighborhood “the Old Quarter.” The whole city was old, rundown, cramped, and rusty. There’s a hazy dawn shot of Hoan Kiem Lake—they call it “the Lake of the Restored Sword”—where my mother did her calisthenics, and one of a woman selling bún ch À , rice noodles with grilled pork, the fragrance of which I can remember so distinctly that the sterile air in my market seems suddenly quite filled with it. Then I spot a picture of the Dong Xuan Market, forget myself, and laugh.
Shelley looks up. “What?” she asks, as if she fully expects an explanation. I remember the casual interrogations that used to take place between myself and my sister. We felt entitled to information. Thoughts only existed to be shared.
I point my finger at the photo—a line of market women offering their wares—and try to explain. “These ladies,” I begin, “they’re very rude. Uneducated. When I’m a girl, my mom give me money to go buy bam-boo shoots. But when I get there, they hold up their vegetable—it’s long, skinny, like a man’s you-know-what—and they say, ‘Hey, girl! Get some practice on this guy before you meet your husband.’ ”
Does she have any idea what I’m saying? Apparently so. Shelley grins. “Yeesh. What did you do?”
“I ran away. I know my mom get mad that I don’t bring home bamboo shoots for dinner, but I’m too afraid to buy it.”
“By that point, you probably weren’t in the mood to eat them any-way,” Shelley remarks. She looks back down at the picture. “Was it at this market in Hanoi?”
Of course it was, and I’m about to say so, too, but then I remember that I have an old lie to sustain. Most Vietnamese Americans equate northerners with Ho Chi Minh, so for over twenty years I’ve called myself a southerner. “Saigon,” I say. “Wait. I show you.” I go back to my refrigerators and fill a bag with whole bamboo shoots, then take them back to Shelley. “Bamboo shoots actually delicious. Forget what I tell you about those ladies.”
She looks at the pale yellow vegetables, long and limp. “I see what you mean,” she says uncertainly. “They’re not like those little strips you get in Chinese food.”
“Completely different. Slice them longwise, stir-fry with lots of garlic, little bit fish sauce. Cook for a long time to make tender. Then add little bit green onion at the last minute, to make pretty and smell good.”
She holds the bag carefully, like a child clutching pet store goldfish. “I’ll cook it tonight,” she says firmly, as if she’s making a promise.
I’m about to suggest that she add a bit of pork, too,
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