Chapter 8
The restaurant got more sparse. Half of the Vietnamese group has gone home in preparation for the next work day. Most of the American delegates have disappeared. Hà was apprehensive about staying out too late, but she didn’t exactly want to return home to responsibilities and the humdrums of domestic life just yet. If she was home, curling up in cold sheets and responsibilities, was she missing out on something? Most of her friends weren’t here anyways. She kept on waiting and soring on the hardwood chair. She waited while eyes darting over to the American table. The short comedian was telling a story, judging by his unending enthusiasm. Hà was looking at Bé though. The American would always glance at her with a smile, a telepathic reassurance that her wait wasn’t a lonesome one. Only not so long ago, Hà was dying to excuse herself home to her mundanity. Now, she couldn’t tell, even if forced, what the hell she was so afraid of missing out.
Three tall glasses of water and a bathroom visit later, fatigue was setting in. Hà said her goodbye to the last remotely familiar acquaintance twenty minutes ago. She was just fighting a war against her own common sense at this point. The only entertainment she had was watching the redhead intently listening to the short American. The bulky man whom had called for her earlier sat nearby, resting his cheek on one of his palm, solemn but visibly bored out of his mind. After a while, Bé ended the conversation with the cheery comedian with a hug and a wave. Instead of sitting down, she looked over to Hà and gave an overt shrug as if Hà already knew what that meant. Bé made a beeline through the waiters cleaning, and she sat down next to Hà. Suddenly, the drowsiness retreated as the tides seeing the morning sun.
“How are you doing?”
Hà blurted that she was alright. Bé was a pink hue of tipsiness, though. With red lips still curled and eyes fixed on the small Asian girl, Bé slowly eased from one word to the next,
“Alright, if that’s the case, then you should know that a couple of the guys and I are going to a bar.”
“A bar?”
“Yeah, they said that there’s this new place that just opened on the backpacker district. It’s American-style.”
“Oh, in Lê Lợi street.”
“Actually, a friend is taking me so I wouldn’t know,” Bé answered after giving it some thought. Hà realized the silliness in asking a foreigner about a Vietnamese street name. “Anyways, would you like to come with me? I would feel more comfortable with another girl. I would love to pick up where we left off.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“Heh, why?” Hà asked, a brow arched.
“I like talking to you.”
“Even with my accent?”
“Hà, I’m going with a bunch of Americans. If I only wanted perfect English,” Bé trailed off and left the rest unsaid. She shrugged her shrug again, implying some assumed mutual understanding. The redhead then leaned forward, eyes wide, gazing up to Hà the way a child would do when they waited for approval longingly. Hà looked at how novelly light freckles dotted the girl’s face.
“OK, I’ll come,” Hà diverted her eyes to avoid staring too much.
“Great! Can you drive?”
“I don’t drive, I ride,” Hà felt like she was quoting one of her husband’s action B-movies, but it was true.
“OK my bad, but I meant if you’re too drunk.”
Hà said that she was fine. In all fairness, the alcohol was very much gone from her system by now. It was only slight drowsiness and this shortness of breath she would get every time she stayed out too long.
“I’ll be in the white car. Keep close,” Bé left hand looped through the huge man with the loose-fitting suit, chatting away merrily with a small and older American woman who seemed only too eager for a hotel bed. The Viet girl saw herself in the shriveled lady, even though Bé was closer to Hà in age. There was something about the redhead’s mature stature yet naive swagger that threw off Hà’s age-radar. Putting on her colorful hot pink and blue windbreaker, Hà followed after.
...
Lê Lợi was the only street in Huế that remotely passed for “nightlife”. They slowed to a stop in front of a place called DMZ. Hà snickered to herself at the name. The loud and dim venue had war maps, jungle props, oil barrels decor, and military camo plastered over all of it. It was one of those places in a long chain of businesses that made a name banking on the novelty of the War for a whole new generation. More than anything else, it was chock full of foreigners. Hà asked herself as to why any social exertion outside of the call of duty was warranted. She wondered if her daughter was asleep by now.
Bé stepped out of the white car deliberately à la a televised red carpet appearance. Her stout shadow followed suit while clutching her delicately gilded leather tote. Under the harsh streetlight, everything looked orange, Hà had observed. She hesitated at the door. Each of the Americans walked past Hà and dispensed a polite nod. They all looked much redder. The short comedian looked even shorter up close. He waved a hand with an elated and drunken, “ay,” as though she was his long lost pal. Hà noted that when Americans wanted shameless revelry, they sought out their own dens so the vomit didn’t spill on their public image. As the last in the bar diving delegation, Bé stopped right in front of the Viet girl and asked playfully,
“You look lonely. Are you waiting for anyone?”
“I’m married,” Hà said, flashing her forehand.
“Engaged,” Bé had the bigger stone. The man only smiled as the women joked around.
The three of them stepped inside and through a wall of bass. They said their hello (loudly) to the main American entourage, which had filled the benches to the brim. By the time the trio found a good table in another corner of the bar, Hà could feel cotton in her ears. The music was loud enough that she wouldn’t hear people shouting over each other, which was a welcome change. Bé and the stocky man got to discussing the selection of drink. When they had settled, Hà was still torn between bottled water and soda. The strange playlist transitioned into a more familiar Modern Talking track.
“Can I get a whiskey and coke?” The redhead ordered. The gaunt waiter curtly nodded.
The American man tapped his finger on one of the local brews, not bothering to pronounce the name. Again, the waiter nodded.
Hà pointed to one of the many cocktails and politely asked for “this”. The waiter repeated her order, but his words were lost in the music. She only nodded in confirmation, and so he left.
“What are you having?” Bé asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You live dangerously.”
“I am a riot,” Hà shot back in kind. Bé had let out a snort, so she covered her mouth, smiling eyes still training on the Vietnamese girl. Hà bobbed her head ever slightly to the music, mouthing the lyrics, and jokingly pretending not to notice her clearly tipsy friend. This seemed to worsen Bé’s giggles. With only her eyes visible, the American girl looked no older than a college freshman, despite her figure. This gave Hà some measure of ease.
When the drinks came out, Bé excused herself for a touch-up. It was only Hà and the huge man left. He removed his ill-fitting business coat. And so the man quietly downed a third of his pint with obvious pleasure. His bemustached lips was now sporting a foam coat. If the coat had been loose, the dress shirt underneath was several sizes too small for his amount of bulk. Hà questioned if guys like him were more to the redhead’s taste. A rendition of Lennon’s “Imagine” was meandering through its first verse. Hà took an absent-minded gulp from her glass and cringed at the excessive sweetness. There was a burn in her throat snaking down to her stomach, and her exhalation smelled sweet also. She had a flashback of the one time she tried rice wine with her friends in high school and threw up in a soup bowl.
The tourists were diligently providing the expected drunken uproar, but suddenly switched to exchanging only nudges and glances. Hà could sense the invisible Yin-Yang shifting ever so slightly in that bar at that moment, or it might have been the alcohol kicking in.
“Let me have a sip!” Bé whispered a breathy demand.
“Oh, alright. It’s a bit too sweet for me anyways,”
“Yeech, not my favorite,” the American pursed her lips. “We can share mine if you want.”
“What’s yours?”
“Whiskey and coke,” Bé replied. The mousy Vietnamese girl took a cautious sip and commented,
“It’s good. Like cola, for adults.”
“Hah, I take that you don’t drink often?”
“No really. Only on special days.”
“Today is special?” Bé asked with one of those exaggerated tones they used in theatre.
“First US group for me, at least.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else?” Her voice raised slightly.
“First time going to ‘bar Tây’ - a Western bar.”
“Still not what I’m looking for...” Even higher.
“First time seeing a movie star.”
“Oh really? Where’s this movie star?” It was a game that two can play.
“I don’t know where she went. Too bad, she was very pretty.”
“Why does she matter? There are so many other famous and important people here.”
“Pssh, I work with important people a lot,” Hà took a bigger second sip from Bé’s glass.
“So ‘pretty’ is a bigger deal for you than ‘famous’ and ‘important’?”
“Depends.”
“Hà, What do you mean?”
“Depends on me. If I need to work with important people, then I don’t care about their faces. But I’m off duty right now.”
“So you leave the pretty ones for after work?”
“Yes,” Hà took another sip to relieve her rapidly drying mouth.
“Word. I wish I can be as ‘professional’ as you are,” Bé quipped, but Hà was used to her sarcasm streak by now. “Me? I can’t do that, though. There isn’t much separating my work and my pleasure, you know?” Bé glanced at her male companion, who had remained disinterested, and continued to. Hà got the gist of it enough to feel a slow yet uncontrollable reddening. She smiled coyly. Being a nervous drinker, she turned again to Bé’s glass, slunk back into the puff of her bright windbreaker, and tried to let the music distract her from the progressively bolder conversation. The bar’s loudspeakers was leading into the first chords of a Heart song. She couldn’t tell which, but it was the right one.
