“Hue!” Bao called out in surprise. “Hue, get out here.”
Bao stared in disbelief at the sight unfolding before his eyes.
“Holy god, Hue, a foreigner is taking photos of a dead rat.”
Bao heard his wife murmur disapprovingly from the back room, annoyed at being disturbed so shortly after her bath.
“What is it?” she asked, tempering her irritation as she emerged from the house.
Bao didn’t look at his wife, but he could sense her next to him as he sat on his low stool outside the shop. She was drying her hair, leaning slightly to one side so she could work the towel down her long tresses. Bao could smell the tamarind she used to condition her hair. This smell always attracted his attention, because his wife was the only woman he knew who stilled used the old techniques to perfume her hair. When she leaned forward more to look at the foreigner, he was tempted to reach out and touch her leg, but they were outside and he put these thoughts aside to focus on the bizarre event he had just witnessed.
The foreigner by now had put his camera away. He was young and well-dressed, particularly his leather shoes. He didn’t look like someone who would stop to take a photo of a dead rat. Bao’s wife missed the action, but seemed amused nonetheless.
“Are you serious?” she asked, watching the tall, strange-looking but well-dressed man as he got on his bike and slowly cruised across the street, cutting through the grain of traffic on Doi Can.
“Holy god, I’ve never seen anything like it. He drove by, looked at the ground, then swung his bike around and came back. That’s when I noticed him, because he was looking at something on the ground, really concentrating on it.”
“That dead rat?”
“Yes, the rat. He got off his bike and pulled out one of those really small but expensive little cameras. He put it really close to the rat, not even an arm’s length, and took about ten photos.”
Hue looked doubtful.
“No really. He moved the camera around and kept taking photos. He took about ten photos of a fucking dead, smelly rat!”
Bao lost control and barked a quick staccato laugh. The old man fixing bikes nearby stopped his work to laugh along with him: “I saw it, it’s true,” he said, shaking his head.
Hue continued drying her hair, looking first at the foreigner, who had parked his bike just down the road and was now entering the bia hoi, and then at the rat, cold and dead since two days ago, with a tire mark right down the middle and most of its guts pressed out its mouth.
“Very strange,” she admitted.
“Fuck me, those foreigners are crazy,” Bao concluded. He knew his wife didn’t like his cursing, but this was too much. And he was in good spirits, as she had given him a little extra money to spend just a few hours ago. Today was her turn to collect from the hui circle, and she had slipped a few bills into his shirt pocket while he was unpacking milk cartons to display in their small shop. The rest of the money would be used to replenish their stock. He had already shared a bit of rice wine with the bike repair man, and later he would meet his friends for a drink. The traffic was thinning as the sun went down and people returned home, so there would be fewer customers and he could soon leave the shop to his wife.
Hue walked back into the house, putting her hand lightly on his shoulder as she went by. He made a little appreciative noise, just loud enough for her to hear. He was going out drinking tonight, but she knew he would return for her later. She was a great wife, after all. He would even bring a little wine home for the two of them to share. He reached up and fingered the bills in his shirt pocket in anticipation, shaking his head some more at the foreigner and the dead rat.
A rat killed on the streets of Hanoi goes through at least seven stages of death.
Rats are rarely removed from the street when they die. They lie there, ignored and disdained, for a long time. Some die from ingesting poison, but most are hit by motorbikes. So a dead rat in Hanoi begins its afterlife as gruesome roadkill, teeth bared in surprise and blood spattered across the pavement, torn innards on display to all who pass by. This first stage lasts until the dust kicked up by motorbikes covers the violence and gives the rat a less grisly appearance, the dirt of the street a death shroud giving some semblance of respect to the deceased. The rat is still very dead, surely, but the evidence of its death has faded, like a cadavar at the morgue. The next stage begins after the rat, exposed to the hazards of traffic, is inevitably hit again and again by drivers not paying enough attention to steer away and avoid soiling their wheels. After several of these collisions the dead rat is flattened into a most unnatural shape. The number of wounds innumerable, like a piñata beaten to the point of bursting.
The fourth stage is a further progression of this flattening, the animal now stretched out like a skin drying in the sun. The rat’s compressed state gives it a sterile, almost unoffensive appearance. But still, it’s immediately identifiable as a dead rat, and therefore worthy of that little cringe humans reserve for those creatures we judge vermin. Only much later, perhaps after the wheels of several cars or trucks have left their mark, does the corpse become almost featureless. A quick glance and you might miss it, as a determined gaze is needed to reveal the form of the legs and tail. That’s the fifth stage in the death of a rat on the streets of Hanoi. After this the animal is reduced to little more than a puck; a thin sliver that rises only millimeters off the pavement. You would need a spatula to pry it from the ground. Further reduction, and the dead rat is nothing more than a stain. But even in this seventh stage there is evidence of the animal that once lived, as the shape of the tail is still visible trailing out from the discolored cement. After this final stage has passed, there is nothing. Any blemish that remains is indistinguishable from the other stains of the city, of garbage and motor oil and piss and spit and bits of food and shreds of plastic that gather in waiting for the passing of street sweepers, who kick it all up into the air in a cloud of dust that looks as majestic as mist in a painting if the late afternoon light hits it just a certain way. And if you asked a neighbor where the dead rat was a few weeks back, they won’t remember.
Tonight was Kyle’s first opportunity to impress Hoa. He was nervous, despite believing he would make a good impression. He was realistic enough to know it wasn’t really a ‘first date’ – it was just going for pho at the top of the alley. But that’s how relationships seemed to start here – a number of informal get-togethers for coffee or streetfood, sometimes involving other friends. ‘The Hanoi Citadel wasn’t built in a day,’ one of his cheeky English students had put it, evidently realizing he was parroting an old expression. ‘Good girls don’t do anything fast.’ Not only was it a mere bowl of noodles, they would be sitting at Binh’s, in full view of the entire alley. Kyle was pleased with this though. If he could show Hoa how comfortable he already was with their neighbours, that might further help his cause.
So Kyle was somewhat concerned to see Walter and Ted at the bia hoi when he arrived at the alley. He didn’t need to get dragged into a drinking session an hour before meeting Hoa. And he didn’t want them sitting there later, when he’d be twenty paces away at the pho stall. Nonetheless, it would be rude to just pass by, so he parked his bike on the sidewalk and hopped up the low steps into Kien’s little bar. He grabbed two stools, dropping onto one and placing his shoulder bag on the other, safe from the litter on the floor. Walter and Ted were in mid-conversation. It was not yet 6:00 pm, but judging by their ruddy complexions and the volume of Ted’s voice, they had already finished several beers.
Peanut shells covered the table and most of the floor surrounding their stools. A half-eaten plate of dried squid sat next to a green-and-white Fujifilm envelope. Ted had been taking photos again.
Kyle looked his friends over: Walter, his older, unkept roommate in a pink golf shirt and white plastic sandals, and Ted, young and preppy in shiny brown dress shoes and a button-down shirt. His two American friends were an uncanny pair – Walter wizened by years of down-and-out expat life in Asia, Ted still brimming with schoolboy enthusiasm. Kyle knew that, try as he might to appear more moderate and measured, Walter must put him in the same ‘young-punk’ category as Ted.
“Take a look,” Ted said, sliding the envelope of photos toward the middle of the table. Kyle waved a beer over, then pulled the photos out and shuffled through them as Ted launched into a story:
“So there I was at one of the big state stores on Trang Tien Street today, right? You know these places – you wander up and down the aisles looking at every size, shape and color of polyester and acrylic… I mean this place is a bazaar of industrial fabrics – shirts, pants, vests, sweaters, jackets…”
Ted took a breath, grabbed his glass and used it to wipe his sweat-covered brow before passing it across his lips.
“So you were looking for an acrylic vest?” Kyle offered. He flipped through several photos of a walls stamped with old cat be tong advertisements, then several shots of flourescent lights hanging over street vendor stalls, and finally, a number of images of a dead rat, poorly composed and out of focus, with overblown highlights from the flash. They were taken at night, implying a high likelihood that Ted was drunk when he took them.
“No, you missed this: Underwear. You ever bought underwear in this city? I didn’t think so. But I’ve been here almost a year now, and I gotta admit I should have brought a few more pairs with me. I almost knew it would be impossible to get good underwear.”
Here there was a pause, Ted shaking his head in an admission of foolishness. He relaunched his story:
“So anyway, after going down all the aisles I circle back to the front of the shop where there’s a small glass display case. Inside on the top level were socks and underwear. Get this: the colors available were a sort of mustard-yellow and baby blue. I stared at the case for several minutes, hoping another option would emerge, but it didn’t.”
“Mustard yellow undies?” Walter cut in. “That doesn’t seem right.”
“I know, but the mustard pair had this neat mesh layer on the front,’ Ted continued, “So I thought I would give them a try. I selected size ‘large’ and paid a few thousand dong. Let me say that again: the package said ‘large.’ When I got these things home and opened them up, I found the smallest pair of briefs that modern technology could possibly sew together.” Here, Ted lifted his hands and held his fingers inches apart, as if gripping a doll-sized dress.
“Never mind the color. You could not squeeze these things over a baby’s diaper. I pulled them on and they got completely jammed four inches up my calf.”
Kyle had been trying to remain aloof from this rather banal conversation, flipping nonchalantly through Ted’s latest photo essay efforts, but even he had to chuckle at the underwear misadventure. Ted had an irrepressible enthusiasm for life as an American in Hanoi, discovering and documenting what his cultural studies training called ‘the other’ and then applying his Western logic-trained perspective to innumerable photo essays and writing projects, each more obscure than the previous. Kyle wasn’t clear on this part, but the logic component had something to do with recording ‘stages of change,’ or patterns that the local population took for granted, without ever defining. Ted called his obsession ‘documenting the impermanence of change.’ Although it sometimes sounded like meaningless art-gallery jargon, Kyle sensed a modicum of genuine intellectualism in Ted’s intentions and descriptions. But he was less impressed by the actual results. He wasn’t at all sure how photos of dead rats fit into it.
Walter, meanwhile, was sympathetic to Ted’s unlucky shopping outcome: “Listen, that sounds bad. When you need underwear, you need underwear. And they gotta fit right. But there are ways around that you know – sometimes just let it dangle and go free.”
Walter paused before adding a caveat: “I try to remember to be wearing pants for that though.” He lifted a leg, to model his Bermuda shorts.
“Listen guys,” Kyle said, “this is riveting stuff, but I can’t stay. I’ve got plans this evening.” Kyle collected his bag and shifted in his seat.
“You got that date with Hoa tonight?” Walter asked.
Kyle eagerly wanted to leave, but knew this would evoke a reaction from Ted.
“Really? How did you manage that? Where are you taking her – cuddling by the lake on her dad’s Honda?” A sheepish chuckle accompanied this jibe, and Kyle acted quickly to forestall further comments.
“It’s not a date. We’re going for pho, right here at Binh’s, and I would appreciate it if you guys left us alone.”
Ted was still looking for a response when Walter cut him short.
“Relax, we’re not gonna cramp your style. But listen to this – and you may actually need to know this one day. Proper underwear sizing is crucial, but you young cats may not realize the latex skivvies come in different sizes too.”
Kyle and Ted exchanged a glance, each taking a moment to ponder this observation. Walter continued unabated:
“Now, I only use condoms when absolutely necessary, but when I do pick some up I always double-check to make sure I’m getting the right gauge. You see, in this part of the world if you look at the package close enough you’ll see most of them are forty-nine millimeters wide. I don’t know if that’s the diameter or the circumference or whatever, but it’s forty-nine millimeters.”
Kyle was still trying to figure out what ‘only when absolutely necessary’ meant, given the diverse range of street walkers and bicycle whores that Walter cavorted with. Ted had put his glass of beer back on the table to give Walter his full attention.
“This is just not the same as an American condom. I did some research and low-and-behold most Western brands are fifty-two millimeters. And it sometimes says so right there on the package, although you really gotta look for it. That may not sound like much difference, but in actual field use those extra three millimeters are a lot of breathing space.”
Ted laughed enthusiastically, recovering his beer from the table to slam it into Walter’s glass, clearly thankful for such informative insight on life in Asia. Kien walked by at that moment to place another small plate of peanuts on the table. “Chuyen gi hay the?” she asked, what was so interesting, but Kyle had no intention of telling her that Walter was warning them to stay away from Chinese condoms.
Kyle tried not to show too much enthusiasm for Walter’s stories of life on the seedier side of Hanoi. But his friend relayed them with such matter-of-fact alacrity, as if they held such true and legitimate concern for his fellow man, that Kyle couldn’t help but feel both entertained and enlightened. Nonetheless, the cautions and aphorisms of his older roommate had little meaning for Kyle. In this year of 1997, Kyle seemed to be the only expat man in Hanoi actively trying to avoid shopping for condoms, given that it meant either, a) you were sleeping with prostitutes, or, b) you were sleeping with a woman who would expect to marry you. There seemed to be nothing in between; a dialectic that was too much for Kyle to handle. For now, he was happy going for pho.
“Fellas, this is great stuff, but I’m heading back to the house. I’ll try to catch up with you later.”
“What’d’you think of the photos?” Ted asked.
Kyle paused before replying, as if to indicate he was reflecting seriously on the matter.
“Dead rats. Go with that. Just get some in focus.”
The small bia hoi was filling up with customers and the street was still packed as crowds of Hondas made their way through a cloud of dust kicked up by early evening street sweepers. Headlights cut through the dust and glittered off the reflective tape covering the vests of the sweepers. Kyle grabbed his bike and walked around to the alley side of Kien’s little bar. He passed in front of Binh, seated as always behind her noodle stand. She smiled broadly. Kyle wondered if she already knew he would return shortly. This little alley where everyone lived almost on top of each other. Did they already know Kyle was falling hard for the pretty girl at number 17/4C?
This is an excerpt from an unpublished novel, Love in the Wrong Alley.
Did my colleagues know about the gnomes?
You know how it is, they just give up after a while.
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