Read Online Single White Female in Hanoi by Carolyn Shine - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn Shine
Ads: Link
night to sleep on a hard wooden board, without a fan, which is the part that flabbergasts me. On the one occasion I stick my head up there, there seems to be no air at all. Itâs hot, wet, and absolutely stifling.
One rainy night soon after my arrival, I come home late, perhaps midnight. Itâs long past Hanoiâs bedtime and the neighbourhood is utterly deserted. Every shopfront along Nguyen Thai Hoc and my little street has been sealed with a metal roller-door, rendering the streets unrecognisable â so unrecognisable that I briefly think the xe om driver has brought me to the wrong district, a nasty, more dangerous one.
I climb off the motorcycle, pay the fare and find that the tall wooden gate to my compound has been locked. Nga told me the gate would be locked at night, and has given me a key that will open the padlock. But the technique eludes me. In order to release the padlock, which is on the inside of the gate, the person outside must squeeze their hands, one holding the key, through small holes in the wood on either side of the bolt, and blindly manoeuvre the key into the lock.
Not having had any training in obstetrics, I find this impossible. I persist for about fifteen minutes, until my wrists are sore and Iâm mad with frustration, then peer up gloomily at the barbed wire strung across the area above the gate. The rain is falling harder now. No choice but to wake Xuyen.
My knock on the door sounds like cannon-fire in the dead of night.
âHello?â is all I can think to call out. Thereâs a long silence, and, gritting my teeth, I knock again. This time I hear movement within.
Ba Gia opens the door, her eyes gummed shut with sleep, and calls throatily up to the loft. I watch Xuyen stir and climb down the small metal rungs set into the wall. Sheâs wearing pyjamas rather than the cheap and unflattering clothes she wears by day, and she has taken her hair out for sleeping. Her hair is thick, still black, and falls down to her waist. With a start I realise sheâs beautiful. Iâll never see this vision of her again.
Rather than irritated, sheâs sympathetic towards the soaked and embarrassed foreigner pointing alternately to the key and the gate.
â Khong sao â (âNo worriesâ), she says. She has the gate open in less than 15 seconds, then nods and pats me on the back â very decent behaviour for a woman woken almost halfway through her nightâs sleep. And this is where the story should end. But it doesnât, because as she turns to head back to bed, we hear the sudden roar of an approaching vehicle. The alley is illuminated by headlights, and seconds later a moped appears. I recognise Philippe, an unfriendly Frenchman who lives in the apartment above mine; heâs coming home late too. Then a strange thing happens.
Xuyen pushes open her front door completely and stands aside as Philippe rides his bike into the tiny room, passing Ba Giaâs bed by about 30 centimetres. He parks it somewhere in the back, dismounts, and wanders out, casually nodding to the two venerable women. He offers me a curt â Bonne nuit â on his way through the unlocked gate, then marches across the compound, unlocks our shared downstairs door, and disappears through it. I stand gaping for a few seconds. Thereâs no one to explain what Iâve just seen. Not even Philippe speaks English. I wonder if Iâve just imagined it all as I head up the stairs, leaving Xuyen, at her insistence, to lock the gate behind me.
Although Nga, Xuyenâs daughter, makes an unbelievable US$400 per month from renting out my flat and Philippeâs above it, the family still seems very poor. I remain at a loss to understand this. In a country where the average wage is US$20 per month, this should allow Nga and her family to live like royalty, but they donât. Tuan works hard for a shipping company, and six months into my time in Hanoi, Nga will open an
One rainy night soon after my arrival, I come home late, perhaps midnight. Itâs long past Hanoiâs bedtime and the neighbourhood is utterly deserted. Every shopfront along Nguyen Thai Hoc and my little street has been sealed with a metal roller-door, rendering the streets unrecognisable â so unrecognisable that I briefly think the xe om driver has brought me to the wrong district, a nasty, more dangerous one.
I climb off the motorcycle, pay the fare and find that the tall wooden gate to my compound has been locked. Nga told me the gate would be locked at night, and has given me a key that will open the padlock. But the technique eludes me. In order to release the padlock, which is on the inside of the gate, the person outside must squeeze their hands, one holding the key, through small holes in the wood on either side of the bolt, and blindly manoeuvre the key into the lock.
Not having had any training in obstetrics, I find this impossible. I persist for about fifteen minutes, until my wrists are sore and Iâm mad with frustration, then peer up gloomily at the barbed wire strung across the area above the gate. The rain is falling harder now. No choice but to wake Xuyen.
My knock on the door sounds like cannon-fire in the dead of night.
âHello?â is all I can think to call out. Thereâs a long silence, and, gritting my teeth, I knock again. This time I hear movement within.
Ba Gia opens the door, her eyes gummed shut with sleep, and calls throatily up to the loft. I watch Xuyen stir and climb down the small metal rungs set into the wall. Sheâs wearing pyjamas rather than the cheap and unflattering clothes she wears by day, and she has taken her hair out for sleeping. Her hair is thick, still black, and falls down to her waist. With a start I realise sheâs beautiful. Iâll never see this vision of her again.
Rather than irritated, sheâs sympathetic towards the soaked and embarrassed foreigner pointing alternately to the key and the gate.
â Khong sao â (âNo worriesâ), she says. She has the gate open in less than 15 seconds, then nods and pats me on the back â very decent behaviour for a woman woken almost halfway through her nightâs sleep. And this is where the story should end. But it doesnât, because as she turns to head back to bed, we hear the sudden roar of an approaching vehicle. The alley is illuminated by headlights, and seconds later a moped appears. I recognise Philippe, an unfriendly Frenchman who lives in the apartment above mine; heâs coming home late too. Then a strange thing happens.
Xuyen pushes open her front door completely and stands aside as Philippe rides his bike into the tiny room, passing Ba Giaâs bed by about 30 centimetres. He parks it somewhere in the back, dismounts, and wanders out, casually nodding to the two venerable women. He offers me a curt â Bonne nuit â on his way through the unlocked gate, then marches across the compound, unlocks our shared downstairs door, and disappears through it. I stand gaping for a few seconds. Thereâs no one to explain what Iâve just seen. Not even Philippe speaks English. I wonder if Iâve just imagined it all as I head up the stairs, leaving Xuyen, at her insistence, to lock the gate behind me.
Although Nga, Xuyenâs daughter, makes an unbelievable US$400 per month from renting out my flat and Philippeâs above it, the family still seems very poor. I remain at a loss to understand this. In a country where the average wage is US$20 per month, this should allow Nga and her family to live like royalty, but they donât. Tuan works hard for a shipping company, and six months into my time in Hanoi, Nga will open an
Similar Books
