Chapter 7
When Pasqual woke, it took some minutes to orient that he was on another continent; the smell of black coffee mixed with the scent of petrichor from a gentle rain outside his window. His bag had remained packed; his body reeked of travel and anxiety. The temperature was oppressive; the location of the fan stand at the foot of his bed made sense once the blades began to purr. A shower and change of clothes enlivened his appetite and encouraged his curiosity about the sounds outside his door.
A powerfully petite woman greeted him amicably at the utility closet outside his door. “Chào buổi sáng” she chirped, meaning nothing at all to Pasqual, but possibly hello.
Guided by instinct and smell, he pinched his fingers together miming gulps while pointing in the direction of the strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee; the pretty woman returned to her work pointing down the covered hallway with a knowing smile.
He entered the compact dining room, taking a seat closest to the door he’d entered - two young couples were engaged in serious destination research and took no notice of the bedraggled caffeine junky jonesing for a fix.
No longer the enchanting local ingenue from the night before, Thần the homestay owner placed a piping hot glass of Ca Phe down with a menu and a distant smile in a warm kind of way before turning back to her staff and guests. Thần’s brother, Luong Ngon stuck his head through the door and handed a folded paper to Thần, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. Pasqual ordered eggs from the menu and waited; halfway through the finest cup of coffee Pasqual could remember, Thần returned with his eggs and handed the folded paper to Pasqual explaining it was a contact who might be able to help with both of his inquiries from the night before.
Impossibly, the breakfast was more invigorating than the coffee elixir, but when Pasqual stretched out on the bed when he returned to his room, he woke 8 hours later trembling from dreams he could feel as though still asleep. Sweating like a pig in the darkening room, and ravenously hungry, he ventured out the door in search of food. The kitchen was dark and dining room locked. He took out his keys and ventured into the streets of a foreign nation. Stopping at the first restaurant he found that had a sign he could decipher, “Cafe Banh Mi Diámetro,” Pasqual stepped inside and took a seat miming to the waitress for a menu by unfolding his hands. She returned a minute later with a menu; he chose “The Hoi An Buffalo Burger” with a boilermaker, though he had to explain the concoction, pointing to items on the menu.
Finishing his meal Mordecaise’ “Mephisto” began chiming on his phone. “Hello, Boss,” was as far as Pasqual got, and settled into stunned silence scribbling quickly, punctuated with periodic “Holy shit’s”. When it was his turn, he asked the phone, “Please number, from hot to cold; I just woke up and won’t be renting wheels, until i know whether to hire a translator and a car, or wing it on a Moped,” after the two out-of-place ‘suits’ had entered the bistro, Pasqual told Mordecaise, “I gotta go,” and kept texting. He’d already motioned the waitress over and held his phone up so she could read the google translation: “Please bring my bill and include the tab for the gentlemen who just came in, please tell them dinner was on me.” Leaving three times his bill on the table in Dong, Pasqual rose from his seat and hailed a cab that was stopped at the light.
He gave the driver the address that Luong Ngon had given Thần that morning, then slouched low enough to observe if he’d been followed or the two suits just fit the profile of professional goons.
The address on the note directed the cab out an artery East through rice fields toward what he thought was the beach; the taxi veered off just past a dog leg in the road leading into a small hamlet with older housing stock; the cab stopped in front of a weathered habitation deceptively tall with a traditional tile roof - a single lantern lit the covered porch. Getting out Pasqual paid the fare and turned around to ask the driver to wait, but he was already gone.
Pasqual’s knock on a massive, finely-crafted door opened to a birdlike man incongruous to the task - “Xinh Chao Anh Pasqual,” · closing the great door with but a breath. “I am Trâu Bet, Ong Luong said that you would be calling with questions regarding an ancestor of yours, and seeking information about a foreign resident of Hoi An who had died in Hue 6 months ago. I hope you are rested from your travels and find some comfort in the cool of the night. Our climate can be disorienting.” The gentle motions of the man seem to guide Pasqual into a large room laden with powerful “color field” paintings that defied description as landscape, skyscape, or seascape, or undulating visual anomalies. Trâu Bet waiting patiently while Pasqual disentangled himself from the labyrinth of color.
When he finally sat down, a glass of fragrant tea appeared at the low table next to his chair. Trâu continued to study his guest; Pasqual had never worked as an artist model, but found the gaze of this artist disconcerting. Eventually he remembered the purpose of his visit and glad that language was not a barrier as he tried to explain the reasons he was searching for information about someone presumed dead for over 60 years. Trâu Bet listened with the same intensity that he had looked at Pasqual. When Pasqual finished his story, Trâu Bet wrote in a small sketch pad, then handed Pasqual a note with a name and address explaining, “Ong Pasqual the way you have described your uncle and his relationship to your family, it is easy to understand your reasons for wanting closure, I will look into the matter.
As it happens, I knew Reynaldo Schmuck, and may well have been the last person in Hoi An to speak with him. I had driven him to the bus station when he went on retreat to the Từ Hiếu Pagoda. Here is the name and address of a homestay in Hue which has close contacts within the Pagoda, if anyone can help you gain information about Reynaldo’s death it will be the people at the Purple Haze Homestay. I have called you a cab, for I can only imagine your fatigue. It was a pleasure to meet you, thank you for coming; I hope you will come again.”
There was nothing left to say, and Pasqual followed Trâu Bet back to the entryway where, again the massive door seemed to open by fingertip and breath to the waiting taxi.
A little over 24 hours in Vietnam and Pasqual felt comfortable with what he’d accomplished but unprepared for what he found in the dimly lit kitchen upon his return to the homestay - Thần was beside herself in a fit of pique; her stolid wise-eyed mother stood on while the enchanting hostess from the night before railed tearful imprecations. Pasqual was at a loss, feeling very much the intruder within a cauldron of profound emotion - in an act of solidarity; he stepped to the mother’s shoulder; as she glanced up from her deep contemplation, Pasqual thumped his chest with a closed fist over his heart standing as close as he could for as long as possible; before retreating; he paused at the seat of Thần’s beatific face and looked as deeply as he dared into the unmasked pain of her expression; all he could conjure was a slow shallow bow, Thai Style, hopefully honoring the depth of her sacred emotion; he left quietly to a nearly sleepless night alone in a foreign land.
The Pretenders “Working on a Chain Gang” chimed at 6:30 that next morning, “Bonjour mon ami,” Leslei was full of bon vivant, “What?” without the slightest curiosity is the best the groggy Pasqual could muster, muttering to his co-operative “Thanks for reaching out, it’d be better to talk later - are you safe, are you okay?” . .. ···
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
jts 09/02/2021
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