Chà Chà Novel

Tuy Hoa, October 2016.

It took Phong three days to send that message.

On Monday night, he typed, “Are you free on Thursday?” Then deleted it.

On Tuesday night, he typed, “I have an architectural sketching assignment. I need to go to Nhan Tower.” He read it back. It sounded more like a report than an invitation, so he deleted that too.

On Wednesday night, Grandma had already turned out her light. Phong sat on his bed, his phone glowing in his hands. He opened the message from Saturday night again.

“Next time you want to draw, just draw. I’ll sit still for you.”

Phong typed without stopping and pressed send.

“I’m going to Nhan Tower tomorrow afternoon to work on my assignment. Are you free.”

He had forgotten the question mark. He was looking at the words, wondering whether to send something else, when his phone vibrated.

“Free.”

Then another message:

“What time? I’ll take you.”

“I have my bike now.”

“Then I’ll cycle with you.”

Phong sat up straighter.

“Where are you getting a bicycle?”

“Borrowing Tin’s.”

He read it again before replying.

“Three. At the foot of the mountain.”

“Okay. Sleep well, Sai Gon.”

Phong put the phone on his pillow. A little later, he picked it up to check the meeting time, even though he had just chosen it himself.

At ten to three, Phong parked his bicycle at the foot of Nhan Mountain.

He locked it, checked the drawing paper and stiff backing board in his backpack, then put them away again. The sun was still strong. Beneath the trees, a few drink vendors sat talking, occasionally looking up when someone stopped.

At five past three, brakes squealed softly behind him.

Duong planted a foot on the ground and bent over to catch his breath. The bicycle was faded pink, its front basket dented on one side. The seat was so low that his knees rose with every turn of the pedals. A patch of sweat darkened the back of his shirt.

Phong looked at the bicycle, then at Duong.

“You rode that all the way from your room?”

“Yeah.”

Duong took another breath before continuing.

“Tin said it was a good bike. He lied.”

“It’s his?”

“His sister’s. She leaves it at his room so he can go to the market.”

Phong lowered his eyes to the white basket, yellowed with age.

Duong narrowed his eyes.

“If you laugh, I’m going home.”

Phong pressed his lips together and turned away. Too late.

Duong watched his shoulders shake, then began laughing too.

“Should’ve walked.”

“You could raise the seat.”

“The bolt’s stuck. Couldn’t loosen it.”

Phong took a bottle of water from his backpack and held it out.

“Here.”

Duong accepted it, drank a few mouthfuls, and handed it back. While he locked the bicycle, Phong took the two bags of sugarcane juice from the basket and held them.

“Bought them on the way,” Duong said. “One’s yours.”

“The ice has almost melted.”

“Blame the bike. Not me.”

Phong handed him one bag and kept the other. They stood drinking in the shade for a while before starting up.

The steps climbed between leafy trees, sunlight falling in patches across the stone.

Duong went first. At a bend, Phong shifted his backpack to the other shoulder and slowed to let a group coming down pass.

“You said you hated running,” he called.

“This isn’t running.”

“You’re walking fast enough.”

Duong turned and waited on the landing.

When Phong reached him, he pulled the backpack around to keep the strap from rubbing his neck. The edge of the backing board stuck out through the zipper.

“What have you got in there?”

“Drawing paper. A board. My sketchbook.”

“Let me take something.”

“It’s not heavy.”

“Then give me the board. Looks awkward like that.”

Phong took off the backpack and pulled out the paper and board. Duong accepted them, tucking them beneath his arm.

Phong was about to move on when he noticed Duong struggling with the two empty drink bags.

“Give me those. I’ll throw them away.”

Duong handed them over.

“Don’t throw out my assignment by mistake.”

“What assignment?”

“Carrying your stuff.”

Phong shook his head and went toward the bin at the edge of the landing.

At the open courtyard on top, the wind felt much cooler.

Phong stood in the shade for a moment, smoothed his hair back, then turned toward the tower.

Up close, he could make out dark patches in the brickwork, details and worn edges invisible from below. He walked slowly around it, stopping at several points to look up.

Duong followed with the paper.

“Where are you drawing from?”

“Let me look.”

Phong stood at an angle, lifting a hand to frame the view. Then he stepped back and tried another spot.

Duong moved out of the way.

“Here?”

“Yeah. This should work.”

Before sitting down, Phong turned toward the city.

Roofs crowded the ground below. Beyond them lay the river, the bridge, then a strip of blue sea. The wind carried the traffic noise up in uneven waves.

Duong came to stand beside him and pointed.

“There’s Da Rang Bridge.”

“Yeah. I ride out there sometimes.”

“What for?”

“To watch the river. When I don’t know where else to go.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.”

Duong nodded and handed back the paper.

“Tell me next time.”

Phong took it.

“Don’t you have classes?”

“If I’m free, I’ll go. If I’m not, I’ll say so.”

Phong bent to undo the tie around his drawing paper. After a moment, he answered:

“Okay.”

The assignment was an architectural sketch. Their teacher had told them to pay attention to proportion, light, and the arrangement of forms in space.

Phong chose an oblique view that showed two sides of the tower. He clipped the paper to the board, held up his pencil to measure the proportions, and began laying down the first lines.

Duong sat on a lower step a few paces away. At first, Phong could still hear him saying something about Tin’s bicycle. Then there was only the sound of pencil on paper.

After a long while, Duong asked:

“Finished?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ve been sitting still all this time.”

Phong looked up.

Duong sat straight-backed, both hands resting on his knees.

“What are you sitting still for?”

“So you can draw.”

Phong looked at him, then turned the board around.

Only the tower’s construction lines were on the page.

Duong blinked.

“You’re drawing the tower?”

“It’s an architectural assignment.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I did. In my message.”

Duong looked down at the paper once more, then stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands.

“All right. Got it.”

Phong turned the board back and picked up his pencil.

“Were you getting sore?”

“No. Practicing being a model.”

Phong lowered his head, laughing enough to send one pencil line astray.

Just before five, the sketch was finished.

Phong held the paper at arm’s length, checked the proportions, and adjusted the shadow at the tower’s base. Duong rose and leaned over his shoulder.

“Looks just like it.”

“Yeah.”

“What mark will you get?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“I’d give you ten.”

“You don’t know anything about drawing.”

“Can’t I say it’s good?”

Phong didn’t answer, but he looked at the sketch a little longer before putting it away.

Sunlight slanted across the courtyard. Duong walked toward an open spot overlooking the city and rested his hands on the railing.

“My home’s that way.”

Phong joined him and followed his gesture. There were only rooftops, trees, and distant hills.

“Can’t see it.”

“Too far.”

“Then why point?”

“So you’d know.”

Phong looked a little longer before turning toward the river.

“They’ve probably finished my room by now.”

Duong glanced over.

“In Sai Gon?”

“Yeah.”

Phong rested a hand on the railing. The top was still warm from the sun.

“Dad said they were doing it up for the baby. He’s sending Mom’s things this week.”

“Has he told you they’re on the way?”

“No. He’ll probably call after he sends them.”

Duong stood beside him without asking anything else.

A car sounded its horn on the road below. Phong watched the tiny stream of traffic, his finger tracing a patch of peeling paint on the railing.

“Wouldn’t know where to put my things if I went back now.”

“You’ve got a room here.”

“At Grandma’s.”

“She keeps it for you.”

Duong thought for a moment, then added:

“You’ve got your drawing desk. Somewhere to keep your bike. And you can go to the lagoon whenever you want.”

Phong turned.

“And sit under your almond tree?”

“I’ll share.”

Phong gave a small laugh. Duong looked down at the courtyard and nudged a dry leaf aside with his shoe.

They returned to their spot.

Duong sat on a low step, stretched out his legs, and leaned back on his hands. His shirt collar sat crooked after the bike ride and the climb. The wind tousled his hair, but he didn’t bother smoothing it down.

Phong slipped the large sheet into its folder. His hand paused over the brown sketchbook at the bottom of his backpack.

He took it out.

Duong glanced over.

“You said you’d sit still,” Phong said.

Duong looked at the sketchbook, then turned toward the tower.

“Is this all right?”

“Yeah. Don’t tilt your head back so much.”

Duong lowered his chin a little.

Phong turned past the house with the corrugated roof, past the road lit by a headlight, and stopped at the next blank page.

He began with the profile. The bridge of the nose, the chin, the ear. When he reached the hair, he looked up for longer, then bent to adjust a few lines.

Duong sat fairly still. Occasionally, he blinked or shifted a hand. Phong didn’t tell him to stop.

“Why not draw it on that big paper?” Duong asked.

The pencil paused.

“That’s for handing in.”

Duong asked nothing more.

The wind lifted the edge of the page. Phong held it down and continued with the collar.

A little later, Duong asked:

“Can I turn and look yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay.”

He faced the tower again. Phong lowered his head, adding shadow beneath the chin and folds at the shoulder.

When he finished, he looked over the drawing once, then closed the sketchbook.

Duong turned but didn’t ask to see it. He stood, brushed off his trousers, and stretched.

“Hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

“Okay.”

Phong put the sketchbook away. Ten blank pages remained, but this time he didn’t stop to count them.

On the way down, Duong carried the board while Phong wore the backpack. They took their time over steps scattered with dry leaves. Duong told him how Tin had made him buy sugarcane juice before lending him the bicycle, then warned him not to scratch the paint.

“There’s hardly any paint left to scratch,” Phong said.

“Exactly what I told him.”

By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, dusk was settling. The streetlights were coming on.

Phong’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

Grandma.

“Hi, Grandma.”

“Where are you?”

“At Nhan Mountain. I’m heading back.”

“All right.”

There was a brief silence.

“Someone brought a few boxes this afternoon. Your father sent them.”

Phong stopped walking.

“Okay.”

“I asked them to leave them under the porch. Haven’t been able to bring them inside. Too heavy.”

“Leave them there. I’ll carry them in when I get home.”

He ended the call.

Duong stood beside the pink bicycle, holding the lock.

“Your mom’s things?”

“Yeah.”

Duong nodded, handed him the board to put away, and unlocked the bicycle.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. Go back to your room.”

“We’ll get them inside quicker with two of us.”

Phong zipped his backpack without answering.

Duong wheeled the bicycle out and looked down at the low seat.

“Besides, I need to get my money’s worth.”

“You rented it?”

“One bag of sugarcane juice.”

Phong looked at him. Duong waited, his expression perfectly innocent.

At last, Phong unlocked his own bicycle.

On the road, he slowed so Duong could keep up. The pink bicycle creaked with every turn of the pedals. Sometimes Duong had to stand to pedal, both hands firm on the handlebars.

Normally, Phong would have laughed.

Tonight, he only glanced over and waited until Duong sat down again before continuing.

They didn’t stop for food.

At the entrance to the alley, Phong saw the boxes before he had even parked.

Three cardboard boxes stood beneath the porch beside Grandpa’s potted plants. Brown packing tape sealed their edges. Words had been written on the sides in black marker.

Phong recognized his father’s handwriting.

Ngoc’s belongings.

His mother’s name.

He stopped, still holding the handlebars. One pedal pressed against his leg, but he didn’t move it away.

Grandma opened the door. Seeing them, she came to the threshold.

“You’re home?”

“Yeah.”

Phong answered without looking away from the boxes.

Duong parked the pink bicycle against the wall and returned to his side. He put a hand on the handlebars, holding Phong’s bicycle steady.

Phong let go.

He hadn’t moved toward the boxes yet. Duong stayed where he was, waiting with him.