everything. I used chopsticks to place a rotting banana under the window. In position, plastic bag in hand, I can always say I’m catching fruit flies for you-know-who.
I only understand Bà’s part of the conversation. When the detective talks, his words float away then pop like bubbles. He, unfortunately, does most of the talking. I have to bounce while squatting to keep my legs from going to sleep. I do realize how weird I look.
“You have located the guard in Hà Nội? Why isn’t he here?”
Pop, pop, pop.
“I will not go to him. I need rest. He held my husband captive; he must come to me to release his past.”
Pop, pop, pop.
“This man is pointing at the sun when the answer resides at his feet. No one will think he is profiting from the war. Every detail, every drop, means . . .”
More pops. Ugh!
“Tell him I’ve waited through the war, through the maturity of seven children, through a foreign world, waited for the day when someone can reveal how my husband absorbed the air without his family beside him. Tell him we will not talk of war. It simply was. Better yet, tell him I want to listen, no more.”
The detective takes a long breath, as if to slow down his whole being. “I will explain your story again.”
Wow, I understand him! He is capable of normal talk. Maybe Bà should numb him more often with the facts of her life. But where’s the guard? That’s the question I want the answer to.
“Miss, what are you doin’?”
I jump and wham my head under the half-open shutter. Double OOOWWWW! My translator is the coolest ever, but I could use some alone time, thank you. He’s going to ask why don’t I use the bathroom instead of squatting and bouncing. If I ran into me right now, I would ask exactly that. Quickly, I hold up my pathetic bag imprisoning three fruit flies. Those tiny things rarely need to land.
“Surely, you are not goin’ to all this trouble for Frog? He is so enormous we are all fearful he will have a heart attack. Can you imagine the catastrophic response from Miss Út?”
I make a big show of standing up and releasing the captured three, for the sake of obese pets everywhere.
Now Bà and the detective are in front of the house. I oh-so-casually ease my way over there. Sly, that’s me.
Bà nods and heads inside. I smile really big at the detective, pretending mega interest so I can find out the deal with the guard.
“Chào Anh,” I say, and bow toward the detective, so proud I can greet him all by myself.
Anh Minh laughs. “Miss, he is your grandfather’s age so you must address him as Ông.”
“I thought my Ông is called Ông.”
“When you say ‘Ông’ alone everyone knows you mean your grandfather. But when you address someone of the same generation you must say Ông plus the man’s first name.”
The detective clutches my hand and says, “Ông Ba nắm chặt tay con, dù cho chiến-tranh đã chia rẽ nhiều người, dù rằng nhiều tim đã thành miểng đá, Ông Ba từ lâu đã quyết-định rằng. . . .”
What is he saying about my grandparents?
My translator steps in. “His name is Ông Ba. Ba means three, thus he ranks as the third son in his family. Different from Ông Bà where your tone goes downward for Bà.”
I must look confused because Anh Minh repeats, “Ông Ba,” pointing at the detective and “Ông Bà,” pointing at Bà inside the house. I DO NOT HEAR ANY DIFFERENCE!
Anh Minh just won’t stop. “Ba, Bà, as distinctive as saying choose chose.”
Show-off! I shoot him my famous laser-death stare.
“If you allow me, miss, I would like to teach you the diacritical marks. Once you know how to pronounce them, and there are only nine for the twelve main vowels and the various ways to combine them, you will know how to say every word perfectly because the beauty of Vietnamese stems from every word bein’ spelled exactly the way it sounds. You will never mispronounce like a foreigner again.”
“I sound
I only understand Bà’s part of the conversation. When the detective talks, his words float away then pop like bubbles. He, unfortunately, does most of the talking. I have to bounce while squatting to keep my legs from going to sleep. I do realize how weird I look.
“You have located the guard in Hà Nội? Why isn’t he here?”
Pop, pop, pop.
“I will not go to him. I need rest. He held my husband captive; he must come to me to release his past.”
Pop, pop, pop.
“This man is pointing at the sun when the answer resides at his feet. No one will think he is profiting from the war. Every detail, every drop, means . . .”
More pops. Ugh!
“Tell him I’ve waited through the war, through the maturity of seven children, through a foreign world, waited for the day when someone can reveal how my husband absorbed the air without his family beside him. Tell him we will not talk of war. It simply was. Better yet, tell him I want to listen, no more.”
The detective takes a long breath, as if to slow down his whole being. “I will explain your story again.”
Wow, I understand him! He is capable of normal talk. Maybe Bà should numb him more often with the facts of her life. But where’s the guard? That’s the question I want the answer to.
“Miss, what are you doin’?”
I jump and wham my head under the half-open shutter. Double OOOWWWW! My translator is the coolest ever, but I could use some alone time, thank you. He’s going to ask why don’t I use the bathroom instead of squatting and bouncing. If I ran into me right now, I would ask exactly that. Quickly, I hold up my pathetic bag imprisoning three fruit flies. Those tiny things rarely need to land.
“Surely, you are not goin’ to all this trouble for Frog? He is so enormous we are all fearful he will have a heart attack. Can you imagine the catastrophic response from Miss Út?”
I make a big show of standing up and releasing the captured three, for the sake of obese pets everywhere.
Now Bà and the detective are in front of the house. I oh-so-casually ease my way over there. Sly, that’s me.
Bà nods and heads inside. I smile really big at the detective, pretending mega interest so I can find out the deal with the guard.
“Chào Anh,” I say, and bow toward the detective, so proud I can greet him all by myself.
Anh Minh laughs. “Miss, he is your grandfather’s age so you must address him as Ông.”
“I thought my Ông is called Ông.”
“When you say ‘Ông’ alone everyone knows you mean your grandfather. But when you address someone of the same generation you must say Ông plus the man’s first name.”
The detective clutches my hand and says, “Ông Ba nắm chặt tay con, dù cho chiến-tranh đã chia rẽ nhiều người, dù rằng nhiều tim đã thành miểng đá, Ông Ba từ lâu đã quyết-định rằng. . . .”
What is he saying about my grandparents?
My translator steps in. “His name is Ông Ba. Ba means three, thus he ranks as the third son in his family. Different from Ông Bà where your tone goes downward for Bà.”
I must look confused because Anh Minh repeats, “Ông Ba,” pointing at the detective and “Ông Bà,” pointing at Bà inside the house. I DO NOT HEAR ANY DIFFERENCE!
Anh Minh just won’t stop. “Ba, Bà, as distinctive as saying choose chose.”
Show-off! I shoot him my famous laser-death stare.
“If you allow me, miss, I would like to teach you the diacritical marks. Once you know how to pronounce them, and there are only nine for the twelve main vowels and the various ways to combine them, you will know how to say every word perfectly because the beauty of Vietnamese stems from every word bein’ spelled exactly the way it sounds. You will never mispronounce like a foreigner again.”
“I sound
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