THEY'RE WALKING: ahead of them and ignoring the traffic are the two children, absorbed in their gifts – Japanese dolls made in China. Sunset was an hour ago and now Bui Thi Xuan Street is crowded: people going home from work or the market or on their way out for the evening. It’s dusty and the smell of smoke and cooking in the air mixes with the stink of the open drains on either side of the street.

     ‘I know it’s bothering you. I’m really sorry,’ Lan says.

     Vinh keeps walking.

     ‘How’d you find out?’ Lan asks.

     ‘You should’ve told me. It was obvious.’

     ‘I’m sorry.’

     ‘You had all the signs.’

     Lan has her hands in her pockets, her eyes on the ground.

     ‘I was going to tell you. It’s just … it’s not easy. I would have told you.’

     Vinh says, ‘I’d known for weeks. All the things you said. The complaints. I know I’m not that bad. I’m not such a terrible man.’

     ‘I wish you’d get just angry. It’d be easier for me,’ Lan says.

     Vinh rubs a palm against his light beard. ‘Sure. It’d be easier.’

     Lan’s face, drawn with stress, is still attractive, and could easily be mistaken for that of someone in her late twenties.

     ‘Look, I was drunk the first time it happened. I was.’

     ‘Sure,’ Vinh says. ‘Drunk. For weeks. While I was …’

     ‘Now, don’t. Let’s not go back …’

     Vinh lights a cigarette. He’s walking in shadow and his face has a faint red glow. Lan is on the inside, closer to the shops, and her oversized denim overalls look more faded under the blue-white neon light which washes her white T-shirt an odd shade of blue and makes her face pale. Her raw silk scarf is a heavy mass around her neck, and she has covered her close-cropped hair with a piece of tribal fabric. Her blue-and-white sneakers are loosely tied. People stare at her as they pass.

     ‘Do you want to know about him?’ Lan asks.

     ‘You’re abusive.’

     ‘I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to tell you.’

     Vinh stops and turns around, flips his cigarette into the street.

     ‘You know, it’s not that big a deal,’ Lan says. ‘I was drunk. I liked what he said about me. I thought it was nice he paid that much attention to me for a while.’

     ‘Lan. Will you …?’

     ‘You know, you’re always so calm. But I know that’s how you control me. You’re a controlling man.’

     ‘It’s all about me, and how bad I am again, right? You were drunk. What’s with that? You’ve been drunk a lot lately.’

     ‘So? Can’t a woman get drunk? You’re drunk a lot, too. It’s not easy, you know.’

     Vinh again turns away. Lan stands still, looking at the ground, ignoring the people around her. After a moment, Vinh takes a few steps back towards her.

     ‘I’m not sure what to do now,’ Vinh says.

     Lan keeps her elbows close to her side. ‘You know, you meet people. Things happen.’

     Vinh turns towards her. ‘Yeah, things happen. You get drunk.’

     They look at each other as a scooter slides between them.

     Hanoi has long been a difficult city for pedestrians; the footpaths taken over by tea or beer stalls where people sit on low plastic chairs, chatting and drinking. Men smoke tobacco through bamboo water pipes, the water hissing each time they draw a smoke. Women in pyjamas sit on stools and boxes, picking lice from each other’s hair, commenting on neighbours, passers-by, dogs, food, life. Every few feet, someone fans a crude charcoal burner to grill meat for bun cha; the noodles are a lunchtime crowd-pleaser. Teenagers wash and rinse pots and bowls in aluminium basins, tossing into the street the dirty water, which mingles with spat-out bones and paper napkins and cigarette butts. No one cares about pedestrians forced into the street by the crowded footpath. Even after a short walk, clothes feel unclean and stink of grease and cooking fumes. And it only grows more crowded, more chaotic – the city’s population multiplies like frogs.

     Lan raises her voice over the noise of engines, horns and barter. ‘Now you know why I couldn’t talk to you.’

     Even walking along the road is becoming impossible, more hazardous. The newly rich have gone insane, forcing their massive Bentleys and Cadillacs and Japanese seven-seater SUVs through thousands of scooters going in all directions.

     Vinh watches the children walk obliviously toward a cement truck stopped in the middle of the street, the driver sticking his head out the window and yelling at the people from a construction truck unloading bricks, cables and steel bars. Vinh wonders if the government has not gone insane too, letting trucks into the city centre just as the work day ends.

     Around the cement truck, cars lurch forward in first or second gear, stuck between impatient scooters, pedestrians, rubbish collectors pushing metal bins on noisy iron wheels, and hawkers with plastic buckets, bottles, and straw mats hanging everywhere on their bicycles. Few obey the traffic laws. The honking is unceasing.

     Vinh quickens his pace to catch up with the children. Lan’s path is blocked by beggars and shoeshine boys, relentless and whiny. She pushes them out of her way, only to trip over a newspaper seller and two hawkers of pirated DVDs crowding near teenagers sitting on stools around a low table sharing dessert pudding, laughing and shouting. ‘Cool style!’ one says as he flips an undisguised and appraising look at Lan.

     Lan falls in behind Vinh. He seems not to notice her.

     ‘Stop it,’ she says as she catches up to him. ‘It was just a few days. I was just … I don’t know. I wanted something.’

     Vinh sees that the kids are safe ahead of him. He waits for several scooters and motorcycles to go past before turning back towards Lan. ‘D’you want noodles?’

     He waits. She says nothing.

     ‘Chicken rice?’

     ‘Let’s see what the kids want. I’m not really hungry.’

     ‘You’re nearly thirty-five years old.’

     ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

     Vinh keeps his head down, and a moment later, places his fingers on her elbow. She lets him.

     ‘What time is it?’ he asks.

     ‘I don’t know. Let’s see what the kids want.’

     A young women on a scooter speeds blindly out of an alley.

     ‘Watch it!’ Lan shouts. She turns to Vinh, ‘She looks like a whore.’

     Vinh says, ‘I wouldn’t know.’

     They reach the kids. The older one shoots them a glance but she doesn’t slow. The boy reaches a hand up to Lan’s arm. ‘Ma, can we go get a kite after dinner?’

     ‘I don’t know,’ Lan says. ‘What do you want a kite for?’

     Vinh takes the boy’s hand. ‘We’ll get you one this weekend; just don’t make your mom upset.’

     ‘Don’t pamper him,’ Lan says to Vinh. ‘His dad always does that.’

     She pushes the boy ahead, towards his sister.

     ‘I knew what I wanted at thirty-five,’ Vinh says. ‘I didn’t run around … looking for things.’

     ‘I’m not like you. I’m not as good as you. Are you happy? I don’t know things. I am confused. I was confused. Can’t people be confused? He happens to …’ Lan lets her sentence drop. ‘Ah, shit. I don’t know. Fuck it!’

     Vinh raises his hands towards her, signalling ‘enough’, and turns toward a busy restaurant with rows of tables covered with shiny sheets of tin and lit by long fluorescent tubes. The walls are covered with pastel tiles, the dust and grime thick and visible. Bui Thi Xuan Street has many such eateries competing daily for office workers, students and labourers looking for a cheap meal.

     ‘Kids!’ Lan calls out.

     ‘I don’t want to eat there,’ says the boy. ‘I won’t.’

     Half a dozen people at the entrance point at trays of ready-made food and shout their orders.

     ‘You want spaghetti?’ Vinh asks the boy.

     ‘I don’t want spaghetti,’ Lan says. ‘Why do you want him to eat spaghetti?’

     ‘I want spaghetti,’ says the boy’s sister.

     The boy is silent, watching Lan and Vinh, waiting for them to decide.

     ‘Your mom says no spaghetti. Let’s go further up the street.’

     ‘I don’t want noodles,’ Lan says.

     ‘I don’t mind what it is. I just want to get home fairly early.’

     Lan lowers her voice. ‘The boy’s staying with us. We won’t be able to talk much. Let’s eat here.’

     ‘It’s filthy,’ says the girl.

     ‘I know,’ Vinh says.

     ‘Yeah, it’s filthy,’ says the boy.

     ‘Don’t start any trouble,’ Lan says. ‘I’m going in. What d’you want?’

     She turns, walks to the front counter and begins ordering. Vegetables, clay-pot fish, tofu. She finds an empty table, pushes the basket of chopsticks and spoons to one side, reaches for a paper napkin and wipes the surface, slides the bottle of fish sauce toward the middle of the table.

     Vinh and the kids push the plastic stools into place around the table. The girl fidgets with her plastic carrier bag, uncertain where to put it.

     ‘D’you want to sit with your mom?’ Vinh asks the boy.

     ‘I ordered spinach for you,’ Lan says.

     ‘But I want French fries,’ the boy says.

     ‘French fries will make you fat,’ the sister says. She drags out the word ‘fat’.

     ‘They don’t have any here,’ Lan says.

     ‘It’s not that kind of a place,’ Vinh says. ‘Maybe …’

     ‘No French fries,’ Lan says.

     A waitress brings out a tray with their food and sets out the dishes on the table. The boy points to the bulky wall-mounted television.

     ‘Mommy, mommy! It’s …’

     ‘Sit down and eat,’ Lan says and starts scooping out rice. She pushes a bowl toward Vinh. She turns to her daughter. ‘Sit down. Get your brother some rice. I want to get out of here soon. Hurry up!’

     Vinh guides the boy down to a plastic chair and sits next to him. The boy immediately picks up a pair of chopsticks and starts drumming on the table.

     ‘Nam,’ Vinh says to him, ‘it’s not polite to make noise at the dinner table.’

     ‘Stop it, Nam!’ Lan orders. The boy stops. He turns to Vinh. ‘Uncle, can I watch TV in mom’s room tonight?’

     ‘Don’t you have homework to do?’

     ‘Ma …?’

     ‘No TV,’ Lan says. The boy looks at Vinh, who turns away.

     ‘You’re so old-fashioned,’ Lan says.

     Vinh calls out to the waitress. ‘Can I get a beer? A Tiger?’

     He turns back. ‘Old-fashioned? What does that mean?’

     The two kids glance at Vinh and Lan, then turn to the television.

     ‘Nam, eat!’ Lan says.

     ‘Take it easy, Lan,’ Vinh says. Lan looks at him, her lips moving slightly. A second goes past. She keeps her silence.

     The children fidget, glancing back and forth between Vinh and Lan, then go back to the programme on the television. Vinh looks at his food, Lan keeps eating.

     ‘Mom, can we get a Harry Potter DVD tonight?’ Nam asks.

     ‘Stop pestering me. Just eat!’ Lan says. She turns to Vinh. ‘You’re always telling people what to do.’

     ‘But I like Harry Potter,’ Nam says.

     Lan raises her voice. ‘I don’t care. Eat!’

     A couple takes the table next to them. The woman is carrying two shopping bags with a Burberry pattern. The man wears a jacket with the same pattern over a white shirt, and jeans. His wife, heavily made-up, looks like an office worker: colourful knit blouse, black velvet jacket, a thick crease where her stomach bulges out.

     ‘Don’t tell me how to talk to my kid,’ Lan says. ‘You’re possessive.’

     The couple sits down. The man picks up the napkin at his setting, squeezes its plastic wrapper to make a bubble and pops it open.

     Nam turns and looks at the similar napkins on their table. He glances at his mother, then at Vinh. Vinh silently shakes his head.

     ‘You going to eat?’ Lan asks.

     Vinh says, ‘I will. Now I’m possessive.’

     ‘Order something else, if you want.’

     The food arrives at the next table and the man begins scooping out the rice. He picks up some morning glory and shoves it into his mouth.

     ‘Do you want some pork tongue?’ the woman asks him. He continues chewing, says nothing.

     ‘I know the boy’s not mine,’ Vinh says. ‘I’m just …’

     ‘I’m eating,’ Lan says, her voice lowered. ‘I don’t want to talk.’

     The kids stare at the couple, forgetting the TV, and the girl leans over to Vinh and whispers: ‘That man makes such loud chewing noises.’

     Nam says out loud, ‘My teacher says it’s rude to make so much noise when you eat.’

     Lan slaps her palm on the table. ‘Nam, will you concentrate on your food?’

     The couple looks over at them.

     ‘I’m not hungry,’ says the daughter. She goes back to watching the TV, but she’s also watching the couple. The man fills another bowl of rice. The woman takes a dish of pork tongue from the waitress, asks, ‘Fish sauce?’ and places the plate in front of the man. ‘Do you want some iced tea?’
she asks.

     Reaching out to touch the daughter’s hand, Vinh signals with his face for her not to stare at the couple at the next table.

     Vinh leans toward Lan. ‘There’s always an excuse. When are we going to talk?’

     ‘I can’t talk to you. You don’t listen. You want to hear, but you don’t want to know.’

     A shoe-shine boy snakes his way into the restaurant, walks up to Vinh and waves a black brush. Vinh shakes his head. The boy turns to the man at the other table and gets the same response.

     ‘You never say anything either,’ Lan says. ‘You’re a good actor. You never let anybody know what you think. I’m tired of that. This whole country is like that. Nobody dares say the truth. Nobody does what they want to.’

     Vinh raises the beer bottle to his mouth and, head back, drains it. He places the empty on the table to his right. Lan puts her bowl down and begins watching the man. He waves the waitress away when she brings out two glasses of iced tea. The woman calls her back. ‘Give me one. Sorry.’

     ‘You don’t want to talk – never,’ he says.

     The man at the next table wastes no motion. He picks up his food, shoves it between his lips, chews, picks up some more. The woman scoops up some rice, lifting it toward his bowl. He puts it down, waits for the rice. ‘We need to pay the school fees tomorrow,’ the woman says. The man keeps chewing.

     ‘There’s nothing to say,’ Lan says.

     ‘Every time I want to talk, you’re too sleepy, too tired, too drunk.’

     ‘That’s right,’ Lan snaps. ‘I’m always drunk. There are others you can talk to. You pretend like the rest of them. Be nice, be forgiving. But you don’t forget.’

     The girl looks up at Lan, waits for a moment, then says, ‘Mom, I’m not hungry. Can I go next door? I need new jeans.’

     ‘Can I go, too?’ Nam says.

     ‘Nam, please don’t talk with your mouth full,’ Vinh says.

     ‘Why, Uncle?’

     ‘It’s impolite, Nam.’

     ‘Wait Mai, I’ll go with you,’ Lan says to her daughter. ‘Nam, you stay with Uncle. Finish your food.’ She stands up. Nam lowers his head, pushing out his lower lip.

     Mai is already outside, shopping bag in hand. Lan calls out to the waitress for the bill. The waitress nods and shouts, ‘Check, table three!’

     ‘I thought we were getting married,’ Vinh says quietly.

     The man puts down his empty bowl, pushes what’s left of the pork tongue towards his wife and reaches for a toothpick. His wife says, ‘Why don’t you finish the vegetable?’ and slides the plate towards him. The man pushes it away and sticks the toothpick in his mouth.

     Lan hands the waitress some money while checking her mobile phone for messages. ‘I thought so, too,’ she says and walks away.

     Nam sits with his shoulders hunched up. Vinh places a piece of tofu in Nam’s bowl. Nam looks at the man at the next table, who sticks two fingers in his wife’s tea and extracts an ice cube. He rubs the ice against his lips and throws the melting cube back into the glass. He rubs his mouth with the palm of his hand. Done, he slides the glass back towards his wife and lights a cigarette.

     ‘Nam,’ Vinh says. ‘Eat the tofu.’

     ‘Mom says you’re always bothering her.’

     ‘She said that? To you?’

     ‘When you called yesterday. She said it to my sister.’

     ‘She said it to Mai?’

     ‘She did. My dad never calls my mom.’

     The couple at the next table gets up to leave. The man glances quickly at Vinh. The woman silently waves a hand in front of her face to push her husband’s cigarette smoke away, then turns and glances at Nam.

     Vinh ignores them and motions to the waitress. He points to the bottle of Tiger beer on the table to his right.

     ‘And she said this yesterday? I’m not bothering her, am I?’ Vinh asks.

     ‘Uncle, she says you don’t let her breathe. Why do you do that? I mean, why can’t she breathe?’

     ‘It’s not true. She’s just saying that. It just means …’

     ‘Will you get me a Harry Potter DVD tonight?’

     ‘Look, Nam. Finish your food. I just gave you a DVD last week.’

     ‘I watched it already. We can get a Michael Jackson one. Mom won’t let me buy anything when you two fight.’

     Vinh takes the beer from the waitress. He leans close to Nam. ‘We’re not fighting.’

     The boy smiles. ‘I know. Mai says you’re not going to live with mom.’

     ‘You should eat.’

     ‘Dad says if you marry mom, I can live with you two.’

     Vinh takes a gulp of his beer. ‘Your dad doesn’t know. Did you tell him about me?’

     The restaurant is emptying. The waitress turns off the television.

     Nam pushes his bowl away. ‘I don’t want to eat any more. Can I stop? Only once, I showed him the mask you made for me.’

     Vinh puts down his bottle. ‘Let’s talk about this another time. Let’s go find Mai and your mom.’

     Nam stands up. ‘I want to go home and watch Mr Bean with you.’

     ‘I don’t know,’ Vinh says. ‘Let’s go talk to your mom. I need to talk to your mom.’

     ‘Yesssss!’ the boy says. ‘Talk to my mom. Tell her we can all watch Mr Bean tonight. Tell her, please.’