Chapter 2
September, 1996, Huế.
The road was slick with yesternight’s dribble.
A sparrow was twittering as it hopped from one muddy puddle to another. An ancient man slowly emerged from his lodging to a grey morning. He took pause to let the water that had collected drip from the edges and splinters of the door. As he waited, a young woman passed by on a moped. He watched after the youth, then scratched his scruffy silver beard with a wistful sigh.
That morning, before she left her pillbox apartment, Hà had kissed the plump cheek of her sleeping daughter. Her husband would have to take their precious to kindergarten today. He would rather sleep in, but it was a big day for Hà. She barely slept last night. The rain droned on as she stayed up translating a cheesy welcoming speech. Her husband complained about the noise the keyboard made.
Hà wrangled her moped and maneuvered through pools of water that hid potholes. She was awake, aware, heart racing. Usually, working for the ministry of foreign affair was a dull affair. But, every now and then, the offices would scramble to receive a delegation. Being a small city of a small country, it was mostly inconsequential countries that visited. It wasn’t too much stress, even for a government job, but that was all the excitement that they would ever get, so the department bosses would usually go overboard with the formalities. Flowers, speeches, tours, buffets, dinners, fancy hotels, all that shebang.
However, today was different. Hà would receive her first ever United States delegates. Story was, there was a huge influx of capital after the country opened up its trades. Accompanying money were a legion of foreign aid and humanitarian missions. These missions needed federal oversight and media attention. So Hà’s tiny department saw the most star power that her small hometown would not see again in a long time. Heading the convoy was the then-surgeon general of the US, there to address the malaria epidemic plaguing wetter areas. There were a congregation of politicians and social workers. They even brought a few movie stars, just to get the cameras pinned on a vulnerable part of the world. There were near fifty Americans.
Arriving at the city’s only five-star hotel, Hà barely dodged the day’s second bout of rain. It would have ruined her makeup, which she only had the chance to wear in these kinds of events. That meant three times per year. She didn’t have to worry much about beauty though. It wasn’t like anyone else in the ministry was anymore glamorous. The biggest officials in suits simply looked like random sunbaked field hands donning unmatched suit and pants. It was a convention of sunken chests, pot bellies, and hard cheekbones.
The department women fared better, mostly on account of the backward (invisible) policy of hiring women according to looks instead of merit. Hà often looked in the mirror and wondered to herself if she was a glorified PR girl. She had certain assurances, though. Hà was one of the handful of employees that actually could use English with some serviceable proficiency. So when these events came along, she was the voice for all of the party bigwigs. She could be insulting the guests, and her superiors would only nod approvingly.
An hour later, the Americans arrived. Emerging from their limos, it made for a spectacular commotion, which was novel to this quaint time-locked city. They shook hands and grinned for the flashes. Hà lined up along with others and applauded, as though celebrating white men’s mere existence. Every few seconds or so, a coworker would take a break from clapping to lean into her ear and whispered their barely-contained excitement. It’s not often that they saw or interact with white people so closely, which was an unfortunate reality on account of the country’s historically closed border. Hà wasn’t above it. She was fascinated with how tall these people were. Their noses, their hair, their eyes. She didn’t return the banter not out of aloofness, but because her head was spinning.
They were coming in so quickly that they blended into a pale blur of suits, uniforms, light hair, and English names. There were ones that stood out though. There was a short and stocky guy with an eager smile. He looked more like a comedian than politician, likely one of the celebrities coming over for their pet humanitarian mission. His stature made her breathe easier.
There were also several black men. Some had matte brown skin, and others with a more slick ebony appearance. Hà found herself curious and fixated on these men. Black people had existed in a very peripheral sense to a girl like her. She heard stories though, but not all of them were the kindest in tone. She could see her bosses diverting their eyes when greeted by the black men. She felt a pang of embarrassment.
There were women, mostly mature and important with their dresses, coats, and poofy silver hair. Hà felt like a schoolgirl next to them. The feeling wasn’t out of place, as she had only graduated a few years ago. Standing up to old and inflated men was her job, so the sight of these women was both reassuring yet intimidating at the same time. Wondering if there was an aide closer to her age, Hà spotted a girl in a bodycon cream dress. It was hard to tell if she was younger or older, for no mere girl nor older lady looked the way her figure did. Hà could feel that something in the room changed when the young woman strutted into the hotel lobby. She was no aide. Everyone was still carrying on with the same formalities, but now, they were in her space, breathing her air, basking in her presence. Hà noticed her only in profile, with auburn curly locks obscuring most features, yet a pointed button nose peeked out. Hà unconsciously touched her own nose, which was flaring from hyperventilation. This must be one of the celebrities.
The diplomats mingled. The Americans stood around with outstretched grins, hurting themselves trying to ignore the tension that hung low in the air. The Vietnamese politicians talked and laughed amongst themselves, they had the home turf advantage to fall back to in lieu of being to communicate to the delegates. The handful of interpreters were overbooked, running from one group to another. People like Hà were the strings and tapes that was tying the whole operation together. They made things flow and strangers friends. She was not getting paid nearly well enough for what her bilingualism brought to the table.
Hà almost felt sorry for the foreigners. The reception was dragging out, and some of the delegates were visibly strained. A few had to step out for a smoke. These were usually the less significant ones in the entourage, those with less of a stake in schmoozing. She could see them through the lobby's huge French windows. A group of men stood chatting over cigarettes. Then, there was the red-headed girl standing in the middle of a group of Vietnamese staffers, talking to her in what English they could muster. From the back, with her weight shifted to one side of the hips, the girl looked like a caricature of femininity.
...
When everyone moved into the auditorium, Hà took her place on stage, a podium designated for the interpreter. The speaker podium was on the other end. Setting up her papers in hand, she waited for things to simmer down. Her fright had subsided. She had practice, on account of being always deferred to this most stressful spot. To combat her nerves, she looked into the audience, through them, and past them. The stagelight was blinding, so that made ignoring the audience easier. It began, so she began. Her English flowed better than she could have hoped (although it wasn’t without its hiccups, and she took note of that). It was like she didn’t even need to pre-write her translation. For once, she felt unstoppable.
She thought about her friends in college, and how it would impress them to see the meek one on stage. Then, she imagined her own husband in the audience, which made her trip up on her lines and forget what she was talking about. In her mind, he would already be leaving in the middle of show, grabbing coffee with friends for idle chit-chat. She winced. The speaker on the other end of the stage was looking at her expectantly. He forced a grin, which caused the pit in her chest grow bigger. Hà stammered through random phonics and was able to pick up her part again. Hà pictured her daughter looking up to her. Hà pictured the girl with the dark red mane.
When the morning events were over, people scattered and would reconvene later for dinner and celebratory drinks. Anytime the country wasn’t being bombed by the US, it was a cause for celebration. Saying her farewells to coworkers and a few Americans, Hà headed out to the parking lot for her moped. As she made her way through the forest of dresses and suits, Hà wondered where the girl was and what she was doing. The lot was a rain-soaked concrete park overseen by one aged security guard. Leading her tiny vehicle by the handles, she pinched her arm and reflected on how she could have done better on stage. When evening came, there would be drinking and cajoling. Hà let out a sigh at the idea of her puffed up superiors red as tomatoes, shouting over the tables, making a fool of themselves, and perfectly representing local manhood to the foreign guests. She didn’t even drink, but she would have to later that day. Maybe the Americans would have more dignity in their festivities. They were here for a philanthropic quest after all.
Hà wondered what the red-haired girl would wear. Then Hà thought about her own wardrobe, struggling to think of an outfit better than this garishly saturated rental áo dài. In the end, she inhaled deeply, cleared her mental clutter, then let it out. The anxious trance of prolonged socializing faded, and her head was quieter. The sun peeked through its leaden blanket. Hà was on her way to pick her daughter up from school. With sunlight finally sprinkled gently on the dormant canopies, the real day seemed like it was just beginning.
