Chà Chà Novel

Tuy Hoa, October 2016.

They say Phu Yen is a land of sunshine and wind.

After a little over two months here, Tong Minh Phong was beginning to understand why. In his first few days, he kept forgetting to close his window. Sunlight washed his desk white, and the wind sent his books fluttering. Once, it swept the drawing he was working on right under his bed.

Grandma brought him two small stones to weigh down the paper.

“That’s the sea breeze, sweetheart. Give it time. You’ll get used to it.”

Phong bent down to pick up his pencil. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

At nineteen, Phong was a first-year architecture student at the Central University of Construction. Until that summer, he had lived in an apartment in District Seven, falling asleep each night to the traffic on the streets below.

His mother had died the year before. This summer, his father had remarried.

After the wedding, his mother’s sewing machine was moved away from the window. Some of her balcony plants were given away. His father asked whether the boxes of her belongings could go in Phong’s room. Phong stacked them against the wall himself.

His father had never asked him to leave.

When his university acceptance letter arrived, Phong put it on the table in front of his father. His father read it for a long time, asked whether he had thought carefully about moving to Phu Yen, and waited.

Phong said he had.

Grandma met him at Tuy Hoa bus station at five in the morning, a conical hat in one hand and a bag of warm sticky rice in the other. She didn’t ask about Sai Gon. She simply took his hand.

“You’re here now. Stay with Grandma.”

That Saturday, shortly after lunch, Phong took the bicycle out again.

It was an old bike his grandfather had left behind. A piece of rubber had peeled off the left handlebar grip, and something rattled beneath his feet whenever he pedaled too fast. Grandma had told him to take it to a repair shop, but he kept putting it off. As long as it still moved, he kept riding it.

On afternoons when he couldn’t settle down to anything, Phong often went out on his bike. Some days, he rode to the beach and watched the waves. Other days, he went to Da Rang Bridge, looked out over the river for a while, then turned back.

Today, he wanted to go a little farther.

“Grandma, I’m going for a ride.”

She looked up from the vegetables she was sorting in the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“Just around. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

“Keep an eye on the sky. It rains a lot this month.”

“I will.”

Phong brought his backpack, a bottle of water, and his sketchbook. His mother had bought him the sketchbook a few weeks before her final hospital stay. He used it sparingly. Some days, he opened it, looked at it for a while, then put it away without drawing anything.

He headed north, following familiar roads until he reached the highway. The houses grew farther apart. Along the open fields, the crosswind made him lean forward and slow down.

Phong stopped twice for water. Once more, he had to put a foot down and wait for a herd of cattle to cross. The last cow stood right in front of his wheel, chewing leisurely and ignoring the herder calling from the other side.

Phong looked at it.

“I’m not trying to steal your road, you know.”

The cow flicked its tail and finally wandered on.

Nearly two hours later, with his calves beginning to ache, he caught sight of a broad stretch of water beyond the road.

Phong got off his bike. The lagoon shimmered silver in the afternoon sun. Small boats rested near the shore, beside rows of stakes rising from the water. Across the lagoon, deep green hills cast their shadows over a darker patch of water.

He stood looking for a long time. Then he wheeled his bicycle down a narrow path and walked a little farther until he found a place to sit beneath a tropical almond tree.

For the first time since moving here, he wanted to open his sketchbook for something other than a class assignment.

His pencil whispered across the paper. The line of the hills, the water’s edge, a little boat.

A man in a conical hat was bent over in the shallows. Every so often, he straightened up, dragging something Phong couldn’t quite make out.

A motorbike passed behind him. Phong nudged his backpack closer to his feet and bent over the page to adjust the side of the boat.

He didn’t look up until the first drop landed on the paper. Clouds had swallowed the hills. A gust caught the page and slapped it against his hand.

“Oh, no.”

Phong stuffed the sketchbook into his backpack, zipped it shut, and hurried to get his bicycle upright.

He had only ridden a few hundred meters when the pedal suddenly dropped beneath his foot. A sharp clack came from the rear wheel. Phong squeezed the brakes and jumped off the saddle.

The chain had slipped into the gap between the rear sprocket and the frame, wedging itself tight.

The rain grew heavier.

He wheeled the bicycle under a tree, crouched down, and tried to pull the chain free. His hands slipped on the black grease. He turned the pedal, only to draw the chain tighter.

Soon, rain was coming through the leaves, running from his hair down the bridge of his nose. His shirt clung to his back. His shoes were soaked and cold.

Phong stood and looked around. There were a few rooftops in the distance, but he couldn’t tell which path led to them. His phone was in his backpack. He wiped his hands on the hem of his shirt, then realized that was soaked too.

When he had left home, he’d thought he would be back in time to help Grandma set out dinner. Now he was standing somewhere he couldn’t even name, unable to free a bicycle chain.

Phong crouched down again.

An old Dream motorbike passed, slowed, and stopped a few steps away.

“Bike trouble?”

The rider planted a foot on the ground and looked back. His blue rain poncho covered two baskets strapped behind him.

“The chain’s stuck.”

“Let me have a look.”

The stranger switched off the engine, parked, and came over. Beneath the rim of an old helmet were a sun-browned face, bright eyes, and a damp fringe plastered to his forehead. He looked about Phong’s age.

He crouched down and gave the chain a careful tug.

“Were you turning the pedal just now?”

“Yeah.”

“Hold off for a second. Let me work it loose.”

He tugged a few times, easing the pedal backward little by little. At last, the chain popped free and hung loose.

“There.”

Phong let out a breath.

“Thanks.”

The other boy put the chain back on, lifted the rear wheel, and gave the pedal a turn. The chain went around a few times, then slipped off the front chainring again.

“It’s pretty worn out. Where do you live?”

“Tuy Hoa.”

His head shot up.

“You rode all the way out here from Tuy Hoa?”

Phong nodded.

“That’s over twenty kilometers. You planning to ride all the way back too?”

“I suppose I need to find somewhere to get it fixed.”

“Everyone’s gone inside with this rain.”

He glanced at Phong’s grease-blackened hands, then at his dripping shirt.

“Come shelter at my place first. It’s close. My dad’s got tools.”

“Wouldn’t that be a bother?”

“No. But keep asking and I’ll be soaked too.”

Phong blinked. The stranger looked down at his already-darkened trousers and laughed.

“Too late. Come on.”

He pointed toward the narrow lane ahead.

“Can you walk the bike? I’ll go slowly and show you the way.”

“Okay.”

The Dream moved ahead. Every short stretch, the rider put a foot down and waited. Phong pushed his bicycle through the puddles, following the red taillight blurred by rain.

“I’m Duong!” the other boy called.

Phong looked up.

“Ho Nhat Duong. What’s your name?”

“Phong. Tong Minh Phong.”

“Phong means wind, right?”

“Yeah.”

“No wonder you wandered so far.”

Phong ducked beneath a branch hanging over the path. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Duong’s house stood in a small neighborhood near the lagoon. It was a single-story home with a corrugated metal roof, a concrete yard out front, and poles hung with fishing nets.

As soon as he parked, Duong called:

“Mom! Can you bring a towel? My friend rode all the way from Tuy Hoa and got caught in the rain!”

A woman came out of the kitchen, still holding a pair of chopsticks.

“Goodness, you’re soaked! Come inside, sweetheart. Duong, get your friend something dry to wear.”

Phong dipped his head.

“Hello, Auntie. I’m Phong.”

She put a towel in his hands.

“Dry your face and hair. You’ve got water running into your eyes.”

Looking him up and down, she clicked her tongue.

“Such a skinny thing, riding twenty kilometers like that. Your mother would worry herself sick if she knew.”

Phong lowered his head and dried his face.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

Inside, the weather forecast was playing on television. A little boy looked up from his homework, a pencil balanced between his lips. A girl folding clothes beside him gave him a nudge.

“Take that pencil out of your mouth.”

He put it down.

“Say hello, you two,” Duong’s mother reminded them.

“Hi.”

The boy echoed his sister, then immediately asked:

“Did you fall in the lagoon?”

“He got caught in the rain,” Duong said. “Do your homework.”

Phong looked down. Water was dripping from his trouser legs into a little puddle at his feet. He quickly stepped aside. Duong’s mother had already fetched the mop from the corner.

“It’s all right, sweetheart. Go get changed before you get cold.”

Duong handed him a folded T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

“Bathroom’s out back. The tap’s a little tricky to turn off. Just take it slowly.”

Phong took the clothes.

“Thanks.”

“Save the rest of your thank-yous. We’ll settle up later.”

Once he had changed, Phong took out his phone. Two missed calls from Grandma lit the screen.

There were no other notifications.

He called her back at once.

“Grandma, it’s me.”

“Where are you? It’s pouring.”

“My bike chain came off. A friend brought me home to shelter from the rain. I’m okay.”

“Did you fall?”

“No. I’ve changed into dry clothes.”

There was a brief silence.

“Stay there until it stops. Don’t try to rush home.”

“I will. Have dinner without me, okay? I’ll call again later.”

He had just put his phone away when Duong’s mother called from the kitchen:

“Phong, do you eat chives?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“Then come and eat with the others. There’s hot noodle soup.”

A meal tray and several steaming bowls had been set out on the wooden daybed. Duong sat opposite him and moved a little dish of chili aside to make room.

Chopped chives covered the surface of the soup. Beneath them were soft white noodles, slices of fish cake, and a scattering of fried shallots.

“That’s a lot of chives,” Phong said.

“It’s banh canh he. Chive noodle soup.” Duong grinned. “Try it. My mom makes the best in the neighborhood.”

“Nonsense.” His mother gave him a look. “Auntie Nam down the lane makes the best.”

“Auntie Nam’s a good cook, but she doesn’t love me as much as you do.”

“Oh, you.”

The two younger children giggled.

Phong scooped up a little broth. Steam warmed his face, carrying the scent of fish and chives.

“Blow on it first, sweetheart,” Duong’s mother reminded him.

His hand slowed.

His mother used to say that too. She would barely set the bowl down before telling him to eat, then warn him not to burn himself the moment he raised his spoon. Once, Phong had asked whether she wanted him to eat it hot or cold. She’d tapped his hand lightly with her chopsticks and told him he was much too old to be so cheeky.

“Too spicy?”

Phong looked up. Duong was watching him.

“No.”

“The chili’s separate. Add some if you want.”

Duong nudged a glass of water closer, then turned to stop one of his siblings from stealing a piece of fish cake out of his bowl.

Phong took a sip of water. Only when the tightness in his throat eased did he pick up his spoon again.

A little later, Duong’s mother asked where he lived. Phong gave her the street name and explained that he had recently moved from Sai Gon to stay with his grandmother. She nodded.

“Then I’ll drop in and say hello next time I’m in town.”

From across the tray, Duong cut in:

“Mom, you don’t even know which alley it is.”

“I can ask, can’t I? What do you think this mouth is for?”

Duong bent over his bowl again. Phong couldn’t help laughing.

Duong’s father came home just before seven.

He left his sandals outside and carried a bucket onto the porch. Duong stood to take it, peered inside, and called:

“Mom, we’ve got cockles!”

“Let your father get changed first.”

His father turned to Phong.

“A friend of yours?”

“Yeah. His bike broke down, so I brought him home.”

Phong stood to greet him. The man nodded, asked if he had eaten, and told him to make himself comfortable. He would have a look at the bicycle in a bit.

Soon, a charcoal stove was set on a dry part of the porch. Duong’s mother picked out some cockles, washed them, and brought them over.

“Keep an eye on those. Don’t get talking and let them burn.”

Duong took the basket and sat beside the stove. Phong pulled up a low stool and accepted the woven hand fan Duong handed him.

“Should I fan it?”

“Gently. Or the ash will fly everywhere.”

Phong lowered his hand.

Their forearms rested side by side beneath the porch light, one sun-browned, the other pale. He bent forward and fanned gently until the coals glowed evenly.

Outside, the rain had eased. Water streamed from the metal roof into the little drain beside the fence. Smoke drifted beneath the porch light.

“What were you drawing this afternoon?” Duong asked.

Phong turned.

“How did you know I was drawing?”

“I saw you when I rode past. It was still sunny then.”

“The lagoon. And a man doing something in the water.”

“Raking for cockles.”

Phong glanced inside. Duong’s father was getting a towel to dry his hair.

“What’s this place called?”

“O Loan Lagoon.”

“Oh.”

Duong paused.

“You didn’t know?”

“I thought it was beautiful, so I stopped.”

“And stayed there all that time.”

Phong turned the fan in his hand.

“It’s been a while since I sat outside and drew.”

Duong looked down at the backpack by his feet.

“Did your sketchbook get wet?”

Phong put down the fan and pulled the bag closer. He opened the sketchbook, carefully separating the edges of a few pages.

“A little.”

“Take it inside to dry. The rain’s still blowing in out here.”

Duong’s mother cleared a space on a table near the window and turned the electric fan toward it. Phong laid the sketchbook open, checked the damp paper once more, and returned to the porch.

Duong put a cooked cockle in a little bowl and pushed it toward him.

“Try one. Careful, it’s hot.”

Phong waited a moment before picking it up. The meat was sweet. Dipped in chili salt, it left a faint briny taste after he swallowed.

“Good?”

“Good.”

Duong nodded, looking so pleased that Phong gave him another glance.

“You’d think you cooked it.”

“I grilled it.”

“Your mom washed it. Your dad caught it.”

Duong opened his mouth, then burst out laughing.

“All right, everyone helped. Just eat.”

The rain stopped shortly before nine.

Under the porch light, Duong’s father inspected the bicycle while Phong held a flashlight beside him. Duong leaned in to watch, but was soon shooed away for blocking the light.

“I’m trying to learn.”

“Then learn to hand me that rag.”

His father adjusted the wheel, oiled the chain, and turned the pedals.

“It’ll do for now. But the chain and rear sprocket are worn. You’ll need a repair shop to look at them.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“Leave it here tonight. The road’s still wet. Duong can take you home.”

Duong was already reaching for two helmets.

“I’m staying at my rented room tonight anyway.”

“Aren’t you spending the whole weekend at home?” his mother asked.

“I’ve got something to do in town tomorrow. I’ll come back afterward.”

He handed Phong a helmet.

“It’s on my way.”

While Duong wheeled the motorbike into the yard, Phong called Grandma to say he was heading home. Then he packed his sketchbook, its pages mostly dry, and put his wet clothes in a separate bag.

At the door, Duong’s mother handed him some cockles.

“Take these to your grandma. She can make porridge.”

Phong accepted the bag with both hands.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

“Come visit whenever you have time. There’s always a meal for you here.”

“I will.”

The Dream left the neighborhood and headed toward Tuy Hoa.

Duong took the wet stretches slowly. Phong sat behind him, holding the bag between his knees and gripping the rail behind the seat with one hand.

Occasionally, a truck passed, drowning out their voices. Duong waited until the road was quiet before asking:

“Which university do you go to?”

“Central University of Construction. Architecture.”

“That explains the sketchbook.”

“What about you?”

“Phu Yen University. First year, teacher training.”

“I’m a first-year too.”

“So you moved here for university?”

“Yeah.”

“I rent a room in town during the week. Come home on weekends to help my parents.”

Phong looked at the back of Duong’s helmet.

“Do you live alone?”

“With a friend. He snores like you wouldn’t believe. I always try to fall asleep first. Once he’s out, I’ve got no chance.”

Phong laughed. Hearing him, Duong laughed too.

In town, the streetlights stretched into bright streaks across the wet road. Familiar shops came into view one after another. Phong gave directions, and Duong turned onto the little street leading to Grandma’s house.

He had been along this road so many times. Tonight, sitting behind someone he had only just met, he noticed flowers trailing over a porch, their fallen petals scattered across a puddle.

Duong stopped at the entrance to the alley.

Phong got off and handed back the helmet. The bag of cockles felt cool against his leg.

“Thanks. For today…”

Duong hung the helmet on the bike and waited.

Phong wanted to say it properly. Thank you for stopping, for the noodle soup, for an entire evening in which no one had asked him anything he didn’t know how to answer.

In the end, all he managed was:

“I’m glad you happened to come by.”

“Yeah.” Duong grinned. “You’d probably still be trying to untangle that chain.”

Phong turned toward him.

“Just kidding. Give me your phone. I’ll save my number. Text me when you want to get your bike.”

Phong unlocked it and handed it over. Duong entered his number, called himself, and gave the phone back.

“Classes Monday?”

“In the morning.”

“If I’m free at lunch, I’ll come find you. We can eat.”

Phong hesitated for a moment.

“Okay.”

“I’ll call.”

Duong nodded down the alley.

“There’s your grandma.”

Phong looked back. Grandma was standing beneath the light outside the house. He turned to Duong.

“Ride safely.”

“Will do. Go on, Sai Gon.”

The motorbike turned and pulled away. Phong stood at the roadside until the taillight disappeared around the bend, then walked into the alley.

Grandma looked at his unfamiliar shirt, then at the bag.

“Your friend gave you those?”

“His mom sent them for you.”

“Thank them for me next time, sweetheart.”

“I will.”

She took the bag with one hand and touched his arm with the other.

“Are you cold?”

“Not anymore.”

His dinner was still covered in the kitchen. Phong ate a little more and told her about the bicycle chain, and about Duong’s two younger siblings. Grandma sat beside him, asking a question now and then.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Duong. Ho Nhat Duong.”

She repeated the name, then got up to put the cockles away for porridge in the morning.

In his room, Phong set the sketchbook in front of the fan to finish drying. The edges had curled. A water stain crossed the part of the drawing he hadn’t finished.

The hills were still there. So was the little boat.

He weighed down the page with the two small stones.

His phone lit up.

“Made it back to my room.”

Phong read the message and replied:

“Okay. Thanks.”

The answer came straight back.

“Thought we’d settled all the thank-yous already.”

Phong smiled at the screen.

He put the phone down and turned to the pages at the back. Only a dozen or so blank ones remained in the sketchbook his mother had bought. He chose one and hesitated for a moment before setting his pencil to the paper.

A house with a corrugated roof. A little charcoal stove beneath the porch. Beside it, a boy with untidy hair, chopsticks in hand, his face turned as though someone had just called his name.

Phong redrew the corner of that smile several times.

Wind slipped through the window and lifted the edge of the page. He moved a stone to hold it down and bent over his drawing again.

It was late when he finally put his pencil away.

As he reached for the light, he remembered Duong being told to hand over the rag. He smiled again, then glanced at the open sketchbook.

For a moment, he wanted to tell his mother about the afternoon. She would have scolded him for taking the old bicycle so far. Then she would have asked about the family who had taken him in.

He had already thought of how to begin before he stopped.

Phong smoothed the corner of the page beneath the stone.

He had laughed so much that evening. There had been whole stretches of it when he hadn’t thought of her at all.

He stayed at the desk a little longer.

Then he turned out the light and lay down, pulling the blanket to his chest. From the kitchen came the sound of Grandma washing glutinous rice for the sticky rice she would sell in the morning.

His phone was beside the pillow. Before closing his eyes, he checked it once more.