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Authors: Camilla Gibb
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her. Unfortunately he still has no recollection as to why.
“Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” she asks hopefully.
“Perhaps I did,” he says, nodding at his knees.
“Listen. I’m going to get you a room so you can rest up a bit. Get off that leg.”
“No, no.” He waves his hand. “That really isn’t necessary.”
But she doesn’t want to let the old man go. She made the mistake of assuming she would have more time with her mother; she’s not about to repeat it.
——
Hng has never seen a bed so big. Even after bathing in hot water, he fears dirtying these white sheets. He rubs the balls of his feet into the thick, green carpet and opens all the cupboards one by one. Empty but for two lonely white robes and matching pairs of slippers. So much room. Everything he has ever owned could fit into one of these cupboards, but nothing he has ever owned would be good enough to be kept here.
He pulls on the trousers of the bellhop’s uniform Miss Maggie has left hanging behind the door. They’re too long and a bit tight at the waist, but he admires the gold piping that runs down each leg. Very smart indeed.
He tests the corner of the bed, which yields unexpectedly to his weight, then lies back against a cloud of plush pillows. He stares at the wooden beams of the sloping ceiling and wonders how one’s back fares with such a lack of support and how many ducks lost their feathers to the pillows on this bed. He reaches for the booklet on the pillow to his left. It is a menu for something called room service. Miss Maggie had said he could just dial nine and order anything he wanted to eat. Anything at all. But Hng has never used a telephone. He has never operated a television either and is reluctant to press any of the buttons on the device she referred to as the remote control.
When Miss Maggie stops by in the early afternoon to check on him, she presses a button on the device and turns the television on for him. “These arrows,” she says. “This is how you change the channel. Now, what can we get you to eat?”
On the last page of the room service booklet, he finds a list of items translated into Vietnamese, but unfortunately, little of the food is familiar to him. He has never tasted Club Sandwich or Caesar Salad or Cheese Plate. He opts for ph, curious to know what a phmight taste like when made from ingredients where money is no object.
Fatty and sweet, in his assessment. Really rather unappealing. Designed for something other than Hanoian tastes. Still, he is surprisingly hungry and spoons the broth into his mouth while staring at the television. A channel called CNN broadcasts news of the Americans in Iraq. They are always at war, it seems. He presses an arrow. Black men dance on a channel called MTV. Hng has never seen a black man in his life. Look at all that gold jewellery. And their lady friends,
ôi zi ôi,
they are nearly naked! Where is the Bureau of Social Vice Prevention now? Busy arresting people for making jokes about the Party when naked ladies are dancing in the rooms of the Metropole?
Someone knocks twice, then pushes open the door to the room. Hng places his bowl aside and quickly presses the arrow that takes him back to the war on CNN.
Today is a day of many firsts. Hng was forced to endure a dentist once, but this is the first doctor who has ever examined him. The doctor wears a white coat and tie and seems ridiculously young to have such an important job; he may be even younger than T. Not that Hng believes western medicine to have any particular authority. He’s rather suspicious of all its pills and gadgetry and its lack of regard for yin and yang.
The doctor asks Hng to bend forward so that he can examine the back of his head, then has him take off his trousers so that he can look at his leg. But why is he interested in Hng’s eyes, his armpits, his tongue, his testicles, and why is he making him count backward from one hundred?
“How old are you, Mr. Hng?”
“Did you have something you wanted to tell me?” she asks hopefully.
“Perhaps I did,” he says, nodding at his knees.
“Listen. I’m going to get you a room so you can rest up a bit. Get off that leg.”
“No, no.” He waves his hand. “That really isn’t necessary.”
But she doesn’t want to let the old man go. She made the mistake of assuming she would have more time with her mother; she’s not about to repeat it.
——
Hng has never seen a bed so big. Even after bathing in hot water, he fears dirtying these white sheets. He rubs the balls of his feet into the thick, green carpet and opens all the cupboards one by one. Empty but for two lonely white robes and matching pairs of slippers. So much room. Everything he has ever owned could fit into one of these cupboards, but nothing he has ever owned would be good enough to be kept here.
He pulls on the trousers of the bellhop’s uniform Miss Maggie has left hanging behind the door. They’re too long and a bit tight at the waist, but he admires the gold piping that runs down each leg. Very smart indeed.
He tests the corner of the bed, which yields unexpectedly to his weight, then lies back against a cloud of plush pillows. He stares at the wooden beams of the sloping ceiling and wonders how one’s back fares with such a lack of support and how many ducks lost their feathers to the pillows on this bed. He reaches for the booklet on the pillow to his left. It is a menu for something called room service. Miss Maggie had said he could just dial nine and order anything he wanted to eat. Anything at all. But Hng has never used a telephone. He has never operated a television either and is reluctant to press any of the buttons on the device she referred to as the remote control.
When Miss Maggie stops by in the early afternoon to check on him, she presses a button on the device and turns the television on for him. “These arrows,” she says. “This is how you change the channel. Now, what can we get you to eat?”
On the last page of the room service booklet, he finds a list of items translated into Vietnamese, but unfortunately, little of the food is familiar to him. He has never tasted Club Sandwich or Caesar Salad or Cheese Plate. He opts for ph, curious to know what a phmight taste like when made from ingredients where money is no object.
Fatty and sweet, in his assessment. Really rather unappealing. Designed for something other than Hanoian tastes. Still, he is surprisingly hungry and spoons the broth into his mouth while staring at the television. A channel called CNN broadcasts news of the Americans in Iraq. They are always at war, it seems. He presses an arrow. Black men dance on a channel called MTV. Hng has never seen a black man in his life. Look at all that gold jewellery. And their lady friends,
ôi zi ôi,
they are nearly naked! Where is the Bureau of Social Vice Prevention now? Busy arresting people for making jokes about the Party when naked ladies are dancing in the rooms of the Metropole?
Someone knocks twice, then pushes open the door to the room. Hng places his bowl aside and quickly presses the arrow that takes him back to the war on CNN.
Today is a day of many firsts. Hng was forced to endure a dentist once, but this is the first doctor who has ever examined him. The doctor wears a white coat and tie and seems ridiculously young to have such an important job; he may be even younger than T. Not that Hng believes western medicine to have any particular authority. He’s rather suspicious of all its pills and gadgetry and its lack of regard for yin and yang.
The doctor asks Hng to bend forward so that he can examine the back of his head, then has him take off his trousers so that he can look at his leg. But why is he interested in Hng’s eyes, his armpits, his tongue, his testicles, and why is he making him count backward from one hundred?
“How old are you, Mr. Hng?”
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