Someone I already knew

by Rachael Haywood (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Vietnam

We first met on the corner of Bùi Viện street, just across from Crazy Buffalo bar. I was wrestling against a pack of tourists shoving their way through a traffic barricade, and as I jostled through the jungle of backpackers onto the hectic street with the gaudy lights and plastic chairs, I saw him standing somewhat apart, just smiling at me. It was as if he was the owner of the street, proudly waiting to welcome me for the first time, and he felt so familiar that I was suddenly half-sure that he was someone I already knew. Bùi Viện was choc-a-bloc with people; sellers offering crinkled dry fish and tightly dressed hostesses encouraging men into dark bars. Through the flux of the crowd I found my way to him. He put a placatory arm out, just in front of me but not touching my skin. “You look so angry” he commented in English, as if making a clever observation about an old friend. “Why so angry today?” “I’m not angry, but I argued with my husband today, so… Chị buồn lắm.” I was self-conscious in my attempts to speak the language, but his face lit up with surprise. “Chị nói tiếng việt giỏi quá!” he pulled me aside to the pavement as if I was suddenly important, hurrying on in a frenzied rush of Vietnamese. After that we met at local coffee shops, sitting together on tiny chairs. I learnt more about him; that he worked for a spa on Bùi Viện providing massages; that he didn’t earn a salary, but just relied on tips, with work not over until the punters fell back into their beds early in the morning. It took me a while to understand that he also slept there, rising at 6am and showering in the filthy employee toilet. We were so different, but we were friends and I like to think I helped him in small ways. He was resilient and never complained, but he was also neurotic about his health, one day beside himself due to a splinter on his thumb. He was proud of his family, who lived 8 hours away in the countryside. They were farmers and worked hard to get by. He showed me a photo; next to his parents was a young woman with a straight smile and bob of dark hair. He explained she was his love but that she had left him a few months ago. “I’m not successful,” he said, almost factually. “I don’t have any money or a good job. She said I had no hope.” “Of course you have hope,” I said. “You’re only young and you’re determined and hardworking. She shouldn’t give up on you.” He dismissed my opinion as if I hadn’t quite understood. “She is right, chị” he said. “Why would she want to be with someone who has nothing?” I met him one last time just before travelling for the summer, he was excited to have been offered an interview for an office job, selling apartments within large complexes. “If I can make money maybe she will come back to me, chị. I’m so lonely without her, even though I have you.” It was then that I realized I was one of the only friends he had in Saigon, and I’m ashamed to say that I felt afflicted by this knowledge; suddenly burdened by his need of me. We messaged sporadically over the summer. Then my phone was stolen. With it, I lost access to my messaging account, and therefore, by default, I lost him. When I arrived back in Sài Gòn I found his spa, but despite being overwrought and desperate for answers, I only learnt that he had quit some weeks before. In a city of over 9 million, I felt a true sadness in my certainty that I would never see him again. It’s been three years now, but earlier today as I was walking through the expat area of Thảo Điền, a motorbike slid up next to me. “Chị ơi!” the driver said, and before he even lifted his helmet I had this feeling; I was suddenly half-sure that he was someone I already knew.