I had been sitting at Givral away from direct sunlight to avoid a tan. Hours ago, the temp soared over 100 degrees Fahrenheit with 90 percent humidity, the kind of weather that made cotton shirts clung in perpetual films of sweat. Still, while the air around me tasted of damp earth as if anticipating a summer storm, there was no cloud in sight. My waiter--gaunt, wafer-like, and slightly comical in his over-sized black pants with an ill-fitting tuxedo top--bowed when he approached my table. His face--a shade of burnt umber framing a sharp, protruding nose beneath a pair of blood-shot eyes--mustered a slight smile, crooked and shy as he delivered my coffee, allowing light from the edges of my silver spoon to enter the deep valleys receding from the corners of his mouth. He asked me, gingerly, in heavily accented but still understandable English, about my stay in Saigon. I told him two weeks.
My Vietnamese had surprised my waiter. He thought I was Korean. In the new Saigon, he was right to be cautious; foreigners were a fact of life. I had told him two weeks, and maybe an extra couple of days, depending on whether I was to head north, to Hanoi, to view the property. He nodded knowingly. "Another land deal," he repeated in Vietnamese, as if assuring himself he had assumed correctly, "Another land deal. Are you coming back to live? If so, welcome!"
"No…too many uncertainties," I mumbled a non-answer, my hesitancy betraying an obvious unease. He had understood. A quick, slight bow, and he was gone.
It was hours before, when the white heat outside intensified as she lay dying, that I sought shelter from the light at Givral. This old restaurant, I was told, had survived three governments, unmarred by the upheavals and bloodshed, protected inside its own bubble of colonial glass and copper for nearly a century. My grandfather took me here when I was five, for ice-cream and air-conditioning, rare and expensive treats back then. Two commanding Corinthian columns still framed the entrance to this grand bistro, columns whose creamy marble, imported from Italy, gleamed in the midday sun, assured of its own decadence. Now, instead of looking out onto run-down shops, Givral faced the five star Park Hyatt across the street. With its exquisite facade of white walls, the hotel glorified Indochina in ways that for a time, had to be publicly forgotten in this socialist republic. But no more. In this freshly air-conditioned Saigon, everything old was new again.
He was what brought me back here, back to this city of a thousand newness. I palmed the envelope delivered to me this morning by his caretaker, feeling the thick stationery with its reflected whiteness burning in the glare. In between sips of coffee dark and deep, I closed my eyes. I allowed the hot, humid world beyond my senses to disappear behind glass windows. "Yesterday" began playing on the overhead speaker. An eternity passed. I opened my eyes to the envelope, still there, on the table, waiting. I reached for it. Amidst the muted din of cityscape rushing past me, I opened the envelope to read--old news. The house was mine for the taking, but I could sell it. Some company wanted the villa turned into a boutique hotel, another Indochina revival, but this time in brighter pastels. They said the house had great bones, what with the location, and the history, and the promise of more tourist dollars pouring into this place. Bones. Was that all that was left?
Dead noon. It was two hours before the accident, before the fall. The light was becoming unbearable. Shades were drawn.
"Sir, sir." My waiter interrupted me in a delicate, but insistent manner to be expected of a well-trained attendant. "Is everything you like? Would you want another cafe?" He uttered in English.
"Uh no, thank you. A bottle of water, if you please. And the New York Times." I mumbled, trying my best to not sound imposing.
"Certainly." He said, bowing.
I put the letter back into its crisp white envelope. Squinting through the thin bamboo slats of the drawn shade, I was surprised to see streets once choked with motorbikes suddenly empty in this terrible heat. It was as if a camera flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the glaring mansions of new wealth, the stately paved roads lined with white and green taxi cabs, the bleached white park benches, and leaves--curling high on trees draining parched earth.
"It's too hot today." The waiter spoke from behind me, breaking my reverie. "We have air-conditioning! Very lucky."
One past noon. It was one hour closer to the accident. I thanked my waiter for the paper and water ,and scanned the room. There were more people in the restaurant, tourists with saggy breasts saddled with children emerging from an unpleasant steam bath. Sweaty, overheated, they entered wearing white T-shirts soaked to translucency, with large oval swaths of perspiration around their armpits and necks, their skin baked to a blistery red. At the patisserie counter their children were pointing, tugging at their parents' shorts as they picked out sticky, glazed pain-au-chocolat while clamoring loudly for ice-cream with flavors like strawberry and chocolate, avoiding the more exotic, foreign offerings of mango and kumquat. The slight-figured boy with short-cropped hair and a broad smile behind the counter delighted in the new business. Stooping down to their height, he asked the children, "This one? You want this one? Or that one?” He couldn't resist noticing the blond children’s inquisitive eyes, pretty like colored glass, intensely sparkling in shades of blue and gray, so different from his own. They delighted him so much, these beautiful children, that he neglected to mind their pudgy, sweaty fingers smudging the pristine glass panels he had so meticulously cleaned moments earlier in anticipation of the afternoon rush.
Two past noon. The accident would soon be upon us. Despite the late afternoon hour, the scorch of midday was still in full swing. The children, meanwhile, were quieted finally with tubs of ice-cream and French fries. Overhead, 'Yesterday'. Still 'Yesterday'. I lifted the shade near my table; the light, although harsh, had been peaceful, and I was beginning to miss it. A couple more tourists with children entered, this time waiting by the front door for seating because the restaurant was full. My waiter visited my table for a fourth time. Smiling.
I got the hint. "Can I have the check please?"
"Yes sir," he responded, and quickly departed.
My eyes were drawn to a new couple who had just entered. They were fair-skinned, with rosy cheeks and brilliant mops of golden hair draped on top angular features betraying strong bones and good teeth. A young couple who spoke an inscrutable language--Swedish, maybe--they were unremarkable except for their gargantuan height. They had a son, a sprightly boy of six or seven. He, who refused to stand still while his parents waited patiently, darted between the front windows of Givral framed by Corinthian columns to make faces at passers by.
There she was, a girl, not much older than him. He made her laugh. I'd seen her wandering the streets across from Givral, furtively darting from corner to corner selling lottery slips for about 2 cents a piece while avoiding the police. She, no doubt, had risked being harassed by the police in order to rest in the shadow of the giant red awnings that shielded the stately windows of Givral from the harsh summer sun. It was nice and cool underneath the shade, with window boxes still in bloom despite the heat.
She reminded me of so many others, children who wandered aimlessly on these streets selling cigarettes or plastic trinkets or lottery tickets in threadbare pajamas and plastic sandals. Gaunt, shrunken, and blackened by the sun, they sell by begging for pity, appealing to anyone who would make eye contact. But their kind was not welcomed here. The new market economy needs no guilt for business.
A frail woman approached the girl from behind and scolded her. The woman, a street vendor cloaked in black pajamas and floppy sandals, carrying a basket of oranges, took the girl's right hand. She led the two of them away from the restaurant, toward the intersection separating the Grand Hyatt and Givral. The girl, looking gawkish in worn pink pajamas two sizes too small, with bright darting eyes and a toothy smile, waved goodbye to the teasing Swedish boy behind the glass, slightly frowning as she departed. The boy paused and, facing the loss of his sole adoring audience, turned to his father. They uttered something inscrutable, after which the father reached for his wallet, withdrawing some cash. Excited, the boy grinned and waved wildly, gesturing the girl to come back.
"Your check, sir." The waiter said, smiling. I proceeded to sign.
It was two past noon. I didn't see her when she fell.
"Oh my God!" exclaimed the Australian woman to my right. Parents shushed their children. Startled, I turned. It was as if a flash had gone off, freezing this moment, and the blinding light had vaporized all the bustle and noise and people to leave nothing but the glaring mansions of new wealth, the bleached white park benches, and a little girl lying in the middle of the newly paved boulevard, her limbs haphazardly arranged, her head cocked to one side as if sleeping. Around her a scatter of red lottery tickets planted themselves like newly bloomed poppies. Lottery tickets continued to fall from the sky, having been tossed so high into the air they now fluttered aimlessly, a silence descending softly onto the bloody pavement.
My waiter rushed out the front door. "Someone should dial the police!" the Australian woman yelled. The crowd of tourists drew themselves to my window for a better view. Outside, traffic snarled as an enlarging circle of people gathered around the girl and the frail old woman prostrated on the ground, whose wails and shrieks can be heard echoing through the glass windows. I could see my waiter, his tuxedo frame nimbly filtering through the crowd, leading policemen toward the scene. He soon came back.
"What happened?" Inquired the Australian woman. "Did they catch the guy? He didn't stop! The motorcycle kept going! How awful! And where's the ambulance? Is there an ambulance coming?"
"I don't know, madam." Stammered the waiter as he reached for his bag, grabbing his wallet." They...we...no did not catch. She will go to the hospital. Everything...ok. Please...try to continue your lunch."
"How are you getting her there?" I yelled to the waiter in Vietnamese and surprised him.
"In taxi. I will take her to hospital, in taxi, sir!" He replied quickly in English.
"Do you need any help?" I continued. "I can go with...Do you need money? Here, I have..." I muttered, scrambled, looking for my wallet. The Swedish boy's parents, still aghast at what happened, reached for their wallets and thrust up wads of cash.
Other tourists followed.
"Would they take traveler's checks?" The Australian woman yelped, waving a fist full of notes. My waiter turned to me. He gently pushed his hand against mine, thrusting money back towards my chest. "We don't need money, sir. But thank you." He told me calmly in Vietnamese, His eyes flickering with an exasperated gratefulness. He then turned to everyone else, "Thank you all. You are too generous." With a dash, he was gone. He didn't take anyone's money.
It soon began to rain, a miracle breaking the sweltering heat. I watched from Givral's windows to see the crowd outside dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Traffic thinned in the dissipating heat. Above, the sky turned an orange hue that deepened toward the horizon, and the wispy trails of clouds from earlier soon gave way to large, nebulous gatherings, gravid and gray with impending rain. With certainty the clouds broke, hurling sheets of water toward this parched city. Downtown Saigon was strangely empty again, its gleaming benches deserted, its rivers of tar devoid of motorbikes and taxicabs, cleansed of blood and lottery tickets. Except for the occasional thunderclap and the pleasant drizzle of rain splattering across my window to the tune of the Beatles' greatest hits, there was no sound inside. We had all been hushed by the storm, hushed by the uncertainties that marked our day, silenced by the inexplicable fortunes of our lives in light of the cruel fates of others. The numbness we felt was as intangible as smoke. And so we sat, in silence, as the Beatles strummed on.
The light, meanwhile, had dimmed considerably. Apart from spectacular bursts of lightning that flared intermittently, all was gray. As the rain continued to pour, water overflowing from the gutters began to wash refuse onto the pavement, bringing forth discarded newspapers and plastic water bottles and empty Coca-Cola cans once hidden from view. The intersection in front of Givral slowly filled with bits of paper and plastic bags and orange rinds that floated like little rafts across dark, uncertain waters. The water soon spilled onto the footsteps of the Park Hyatt, lapping up at the whitewashed masonry. There, it delivered bits of trash in cracks and crevices unseen in the blinding brightness hours before. But in this gray light, the crevices stood out like the deep wrinkles of a newly laundered shirt. In a slow, but deliberate manner, sewer water worked its way into the paint, depositing films of mud onto whitewashed walls, staining the satin-finish already peeling in the rain.
