Chà Chà Novel

Tuy Hoa, October 2016.

On Saturday morning, Phong woke before Grandma.

They weren’t meeting until three that afternoon, yet at five he was already staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind through the window and the rooster next door crowing again and again.

Eventually, he got up and went to light the kitchen stove for Grandma.

When she came in and saw the fire going, she stood watching him for a moment.

“Something good happening today, sweetheart?”

“No. Just woke up early.”

“I see.”

Grandma set a pot on the stove and asked him to fetch the basket of corn.

“Take some sticky rice to Duong’s mother this afternoon.”

Phong turned.

“How did you know I was going?”

“You’re collecting your bike on Saturday. You told me on Wednesday.”

He couldn’t remember when he had mentioned it.

Phong spent the morning working on a drawing assignment. Every so often, he picked up his phone. No new messages. He set it down, drew a little more, then picked it up again.

After the fifth time, he turned the phone facedown and put one of the little stones on top.

He looked at the stone for a moment, then returned it to its usual place.

Toward noon, Phong opened the sketchbook his mother had bought him.

The house with the corrugated roof was still there. The boy beside the charcoal stove, the corner of his smile erased and redrawn several times. Phong remembered Wednesday night’s message.

“It’s good. But I’m way better-looking than that.”

He took out his eraser, brought it close to the page, then stopped.

In the end, he put it away, closed the sketchbook, and slipped it into his backpack.

At a quarter to three, a motorbike sounded at the entrance to the alley.

By the time Phong reached the door, Duong had parked and was talking to Grandma beneath the porch. She was showing him her potted plants, explaining which ones Grandpa had planted and which she had bought recently. Duong bent to examine the leaves of a water jasmine, nodding as he listened.

“You’re early,” Phong said.

Duong looked up.

“Thought you might catch a ride out before I got here.”

“I don’t even know the way.”

“Exactly. Had to get here early.”

Grandma laughed and went inside for the parcel of sticky rice she had just wrapped.

“Take this home to your mother. A little sticky rice for her to try.”

Duong hurried to accept it with both hands.

“But you should keep it to sell, Grandma.”

“I set this aside. Just steamed it warm again. Take it home and eat.”

“Thank you, Grandma.”

Phong took the parcel and carefully settled it in his backpack. Grandma reminded him to keep it upright so the scallion oil wouldn’t leak onto his books.

The Dream headed out onto the highway.

The afternoon sun was still strong. Across the open fields, gusts of wind puffed out Duong’s shirt before pressing it against his back.

Phong sat behind him, one hand holding his backpack, the other gripping the rail behind the seat.

The last time they had taken this road, it had been dark and wet. He remembered only streaks of light sweeping across the asphalt. Now he could make out rice fields turning from green to yellow, a hibiscus hedge in front of a house, a dog stretched beneath a tree.

“That’s the market,” Duong called, nodding toward a row of metal roofs on the left. “My mom often sells cockles there.”

“Yeah.”

“My high school’s up ahead. See the flame tree? I used to sit under it to skip PE.”

“You skipped PE too?”

“Hated running. The teacher kept making us do laps.”

“And you want to be a teacher.”

“I’m not going to teach PE.”

Phong laughed.

“Heard that,” Duong said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

Phong turned toward the fields, still smiling.

A truck overtook them, its engine drowning out their conversation. Duong eased off the throttle and kept to the right.

The wheels jolted over a patch in the asphalt. Startled, Phong let go of the rail and caught the side of Duong’s shirt.

He held on for a few seconds before drawing his hand back.

Duong didn’t turn. He only asked:

“Got your balance?”

“Yeah.”

The Dream went more slowly for the rest of the way.

Phong’s bicycle stood beneath the tree in front of Duong’s house.

He set down his backpack and went to look. The chain and rear sprocket were new. The damaged left handlebar grip had been neatly wrapped in blue cloth tape.

“This…”

“My dad did it. Said it must hurt your hand like that.”

Duong’s father came out of the house, an unlit cigarette in his hand.

“Give it a try.”

Phong got on and rode a circuit of the yard. The rattling beneath his feet was gone. The wrapped grip fitted comfortably in his palm.

He stopped in front of Duong’s father.

“It rides really smoothly, Uncle.”

Phong took the folded banknotes from his pocket. Duong had messaged him the repair cost last night.

“For the chain and sprocket.”

The man accepted the money, counted it, then handed back a note.

“Too much.”

“And the handlebar tape…”

“Had it lying around. Nothing to pay for.”

He bent to squeeze the front brake.

“Adjusted this too. Next time it starts making noises, get it looked at. Don’t wait until it leaves you stranded.”

“I will. Thank you, Uncle.”

Duong’s mother came out of the kitchen. Phong retrieved the sticky rice and handed it to her.

“Grandma sent this. She said to thank you for feeding me last time, and for the cockles.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to thank us for.”

She peeled back a corner of the banana leaf and smiled at the corn sticky rice.

“Stay for dinner. I’m making sour soup with rabbitfish.”

Phong looked at Duong.

Duong was putting the bicycle back beneath the tree.

“We’ll eat early, then you can go home. Your grandma knows.”

“When did you tell her?”

“Asked her just now.”

His mother looked between them, shook her head with a smile, and carried the parcel into the kitchen.

Duong turned to Phong.

“Come on. Let’s go to the lagoon.”

Phong took the sketchbook out of his backpack, checked it for scallion oil, then put it back. He slung the bag over his shoulders and followed Duong out.

The dirt path to the lagoon was still damp from the recent rain. Sandal prints overlapped with bare footprints. Tall grass lined the path, and here and there an almond branch reached across it, its leaves beginning to redden.

Duong carried an iron rake with a bamboo handle and a basket. Phong followed, looking at the tool.

“We’re actually gathering cockles?”

“Yeah. Get some more to grill tonight.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.”

At the water’s edge, Duong set down the basket, slipped off his sandals, and rolled his trousers to his knees.

Phong stood beside him, looking out over the lagoon. The sky was clear, and he could see rows of stakes far out in the water. Near the shore, a shallow layer of water covered the mud. Little crabs darted past and vanished into holes.

Farther out, two large rocks rested one on top of the other.

“What’s that place called?”

“Hon Chong.”

“Because the rocks are stacked?”

“Probably. Asked my dad when I was little. He said the same thing.”

Duong stepped into the shallows and turned to wait.

“Roll your trousers up. Some spots go halfway up your calves.”

Phong left his backpack beneath the almond tree and put his shoes beside Duong’s sandals. He rolled up his trousers and tried a step.

The mud was cold, soft, and slippery. His foot sank, water rising past his ankle. When he lifted it, it came free with a little sucking pop.

Phong froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s sucking my foot in.”

Duong laughed.

“Lift it straight up. Slowly.”

Phong tried again. The first two steps were fine. On the third, he pulled his foot sideways. The mud held on, and he swayed.

Duong caught his wrist.

“Wait. Stay still.”

Phong held Duong’s arm, letting him pull him upright before trying to lift his foot.

“There. Don’t yank it.”

“Okay.”

Duong released him and moved a step aside.

“Get your footing before you pull. Watch me first.”

He pressed the teeth of the rake into the mud and drew it slowly toward himself. When he lifted it, two cockles sat among the clumps caught on the iron teeth.

“Pick them out and put them in the basket. Don’t go too deep. Makes it heavy.”

Phong took the rake. Mud from Duong’s hand still clung to his palm, making the bamboo slip. He adjusted his grip and bent to try.

The first pull brought up only mud. So did the second.

Duong rinsed the cockles he had gathered, occasionally looking up to remind him to slow down.

At last, Phong found a tiny one.

“Is this one all right?”

Duong looked into his palm.

“Too small. Put it back. Let it grow.”

The shell had even ridges beneath a smear of black mud. Phong bent and placed it back in the shallows.

When he looked up, Duong was watching.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Duong took back the rake.

“You’re so careful. Could’ve just dropped it.”

Phong rinsed his hands and followed with the basket. They took turns raking for a while longer. When his lower back began to ache, he straightened and pressed a hand against it.

Duong noticed and nodded toward the almond tree onshore.

“Want a break?”

Phong followed his gaze. It was the same tree he had sat beneath last week.

Duong rested the rake in the mud.

“That time I told you about, when Miss Lan came looking for me at home? I was hiding up there.”

“She came all the way out here?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t find me at home, so she came to the lagoon.”

“How did she know?”

“Mom probably told her. When I was little, if no one could find me, I was usually out here.”

Duong looked up into the branches.

“After school that day, she stepped out for a minute, and I grabbed my bag and ran. Sat up there listening to her call me. Didn’t dare come down.”

“Thought she’d scold you?”

“Thought she’d hit me.”

“Did she?”

“No.”

Duong bent to pick a cockle from the rake.

“When I climbed down, she sat under the tree to rest. Must’ve been tired from looking. On the way home, all she said was, ‘We’ll read some more tomorrow, Duong.’”

Phong looked at the ground beneath the canopy. Last week, he had sat there with his mother’s sketchbook, never knowing the place held another story.

“When you saw me drawing, did you remember that?”

“Yeah.”

Duong smiled.

“Also wondered what was so interesting about this place that you’d sit there so long.”

“Then why did you?”

“Skipping school. Different.”

Phong shook his head and bent to rinse the basket. Beside him, Duong laughed again.

As the sun softened, they returned to shore. Duong took the basket of cockles to rinse them again, while Phong sat on an exposed almond root, waiting for the mud on his legs to dry enough to brush off.

He had just put his shoes back on when Duong called from the boats tied to stakes nearby.

“Want to go out a little?”

Phong stood and put on his backpack.

Duong had untied a wooden boat with peeling blue paint and pulled it close to shore.

“In that?”

“Yeah. It’s ours.”

Duong held the side and pointed to the middle.

“Step here, then sit down. I’ve got it.”

Phong took a breath and stepped aboard. The boat tilted slightly. He sat at once on the wooden plank, gripping both sides.

Duong waited until he was settled before climbing in behind him and lowering the paddle into the water.

“All right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ease up a little. The boat’s not going to run away.”

Phong loosened his grip.

Duong pushed off. The paddle dipped steadily, water curling away before closing behind them.

The neighborhood receded. From here, the metal roofs showed through the trees. Poles for drying nets stood along the shore, a few nets still hanging from them.

Once they were clear of the trees, Phong saw the sun lowering behind the western hills.

Evening light spread across the lagoon. Rows of bamboo stakes became dark strokes against the gold and orange water. Far away, a thin rim of light edged the two rocks.

Phong let go of the boat.

Duong paddled a little farther, then rested the paddle across his lap. They drifted slowly. The wind had eased, leaving small ripples that stirred the reflections of the hills.

Phong watched until Duong spoke.

“Better than in the rain?”

He nodded.

A waterbird flew low across their bow and disappeared beyond the stakes. Someone was calling from shore, too far away for them to make out the words.

Phong had watched sunsets from the seawall in Tuy Hoa. Out here, with no solid ground beneath his feet, the sky seemed much wider.

“We should go up Quan Cau Pass sometime,” Duong said. “You can see almost the whole lagoon.”

“Have you been?”

“Passed through a few times. Never stopped for a proper look.”

“You live so close.”

“That’s why. Always think I can do it another day.”

Phong turned.

Duong sat at the stern, the paddle across his thighs. Sunlight fell across one side of his face, his hair tousled by the wind. He was looking toward the hills.

Phong reached for his backpack, then stopped.

Duong glanced over.

“Why aren’t you drawing?”

He withdrew his hand.

“Not many pages left.”

“Buy another when it’s full.”

“That’s not it.”

Phong looked down at the bag between his feet.

“My mom bought this one. A few weeks before she went into the hospital for the last time.”

Duong sat quietly.

“She asked me to draw something for her. I was studying for my entrance exams. Kept saying I’d do it another day.”

Phong ran a finger along the seam of his backpack.

“Then she went into the hospital. I never got to show her anything.”

Water lapped against the boat.

“There are only a dozen or so pages left now. Sometimes I want to draw, but I can’t bring myself to use them.”

Duong looked out over the lagoon for a while before speaking.

“Then draw what you want to keep.”

Phong raised his head.

Duong was still watching the water.

“Like on Wednesday. There was a drawing of me.”

Phong tightened his hand around the strap.

Duong turned, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Want to keep me?”

Phong opened his mouth, then closed it.

Saying yes was embarrassing. He didn’t want to say no.

Duong waited a moment, then dipped his fingertips into the water and flicked a few drops onto Phong’s wrist.

“You hide it so carefully. Won’t even let me have another look.”

Phong pulled his hand back.

“You’ll get the sketchbook wet.”

“It’s in your bag.”

Phong leaned down, touched the water, and flicked some back. A few drops landed on Duong’s sleeve.

Duong looked down and laughed.

“All right. Even.”

Phong turned toward the bow. His face was still hot, but his grip on the strap had loosened.

Duong picked up the paddle.

“Let’s head back. Mom’s waiting for dinner.”

“Okay.”

As the boat turned, Phong looked once more toward the hills. Only a red sliver of sun remained above the ridge.

Dinner was served early. There was sour rabbitfish soup, cockles grilled with scallion oil, and Grandma’s corn sticky rice.

The youngest boy fought his sister for the fried shallots on the rice. Their mother divided them with a spoon, reminding them to slow down. No one was going to take everything.

Duong’s father asked what Phong had to draw for his architecture classes. Phong told him about their exercises, how he could spend hours on a few cubes.

“So those houses I drew as a boy, with a roof and a door, were all wrong?”

“No, Uncle. Depends on the assignment.”

“Your teacher would probably give Dad two out of ten,” Duong said.

“You used to draw people with three fingers.”

“Still better than that fish you drew for my brother the other day. It had four legs.”

“Those were fins!”

The younger children dissolved into laughter. Phong lowered his head over his rice, still smiling.

Duong’s mother put more fish in his bowl.

“Eat, sweetheart. Never mind those two.”

“Thank you.”

Duong sat opposite him. Once or twice, Phong looked up and found him watching. Duong took a sip of water, then asked whether he wanted more soup.

Neither mentioned the boat.

Just before seven, Phong stood to say goodbye.

“I can ride home now, Auntie. The bike’s running really well.”

Duong’s mother looked out at the darkened yard.

“Twenty kilometers. How can you go alone?”

“I’ll go with him.”

Duong rose to get his keys.

Phong turned.

“What for?”

“I’ve got something to do in town.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

Duong’s mother looked at her son, then went inside for a small light, which she fastened to Phong’s handlebars.

“My youngest uses this. Take it home. Bring it back next time.”

Phong bent to try the switch. A white beam fell across the yard.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

On the highway, he realized how much darker the journey was than it had been that afternoon. In the villages, light spilled from houses. Beyond them, there were only fields and dark bushes on either side.

He rode ahead. Duong followed at a distance, his headlight shining past Phong onto the road in front.

Phong steered around a patch in the asphalt, and the light shifted with him. He slowed where the shoulder narrowed, and the engine behind him quieted.

Now and then, a truck passed. Duong waited until it had gone before drawing closer again.

Halfway up a gentle slope, Phong got off to push. His calves were aching. The Dream stopped behind him, its headlight still on.

“Need a break?” Duong asked.

“No. I’ll be fine once I’m up here.”

“Okay.”

Duong didn’t hurry him. Only when Phong reached level ground did he ease the motorbike forward.

Phong glanced back once. The headlight made it impossible to see Duong’s face. He could only make out the figure behind the handlebars.

He turned, climbed onto his bicycle, and kept going.

Sometimes, concentrating on the road, Phong forgot he was being taken home. Then the familiar engine drew near again, and light reached past his front wheel.

It was past half past eight when he reached the alley.

Grandma was sitting beneath the light outside the house. At the sight of the two bikes, she stood and came out.

Phong dismounted and turned. Duong stopped a few paces away.

“What did you need to do in town?”

Duong raised a hand to Grandma. She reminded him to ride carefully.

“Something,” he said, nodding toward the house. “Go on. Sleep well, Sai Gon.”

The Dream turned around.

Phong stood beside his bicycle and watched. Duong didn’t head toward the rented rooms or turn into the center of town. At the junction, he took the highway north.

Toward the lagoon.

Grandma laid a hand on Phong’s shoulder.

“Come inside, sweetheart.”

He took the handlebars and wheeled his bicycle down the alley.

That night, he opened his mother’s sketchbook.

Phong turned to the pages at the back and counted again. Twelve blank pages remained.

He held his pencil for a while, then began to draw.

A dark road, fields on either side. A bicycle in front, a motorbike behind. The headlight stretched past the bicycle, revealing a strip of road between the dark fields.

Phong erased a line on the wheel and drew it again. Then he added a narrow band of light across the shoulder of the rider in front.

When he finished, he put down his pencil and turned back to the house with the corrugated roof.

The boy beside the charcoal stove still had his face turned to one side.

Phong looked at that smile for a while, then closed the sketchbook.

His phone lit up.

“Made it home.”

He read the word “home” again.

Phong typed, “You said you had something to do in town.”

His finger paused over the screen. He deleted it and wrote:

“Okay. Thanks.”

This time, Duong took longer than usual to reply.

“No need to thank me. Next time you want to draw, just draw. I’ll sit still for you.”

Phong read the message twice, then rested the phone on his chest.

Outside the window, the wind stirred the curtain. He lay watching the light on the ceiling, remembering the hand around his wrist in the mud, the boat turning homeward in the evening light.

On the desk, his mother’s sketchbook had eleven blank pages left.