Xin Chào Sài Gòn

The silence between us was heavier than the stale, humid air that hung over the room. A ceiling fan whirred, mosquito-like, in its futile attempts to cool the tropical heat.

The girl before me was almost unrecognisable. She stared at her notebook, occasionally turning the page or jotting down a few notes. But we both knew we were simply stalling for time, trying to avoid the impossible discussion ahead. I watched her for a few minutes, trying to pick out features of the girl I once knew: the curve of her nose, the occasional flicking of hair from her eyes, the weary expression on her face.

“The taxi will be here in a moment,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“We should probably get our stuff together.”

She turned a page absently, her eyes locked on a single point in the book, no longer even pretending to read, “I guess you’re right,” she said, making no attempt to move.

I fell silent again, fetching my phone out of my pocket. Twelve percent. I typed out a quick message to my family. They always worried when I was about to fly. Sent.

Suddenly, the girl raised her voice, “I’ll go with you as far as Ho Chi Minh City, and then I think we should go our separate ways.”

“We already booked a hotel,” I began.

She looked back at her book again, fixedly avoiding my eyes, “Yes, I know... I just don’t want this to get any harder.”

“Why? We’re both on the same page about this, we can carry on as before?”

“How can you still pretend- We can’t win here. I can’t commit to anything after we leave Vietnam, and you refuse to.”

“That’s not what I said-”

“Then what did you mean?” She sighed, finally looking at me, her face flushed.

I closed my eyes. There had to be a way to fix this.

She sighed, “I see.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just- I don’t know. We don’t have to go our separate ways just yet.” I said, “I want to see Saigon with you-”

“Ho Chi Minh City,” she corrected.

“- And I know we can take this further. I just don’t know how.”

She met my gaze at last, holding it for a few seconds, before turning away and burying herself in the pages of the notebook.

I was lost for words myself. What more could really be said? I didn’t know what I wanted, expected. We’d reached the end, but I still wanted to take it further- drag it out, right till the last moment, before words failed us, and everything collapsed regardless. Phone out again, I began to skim through some photos from the trip. I paused for a moment on a picture of Mila and me sat on a sampan. A photo taken by a complete stranger, of, at the time, two strangers.

“We look like we’ve known each other all our lives!” She’d laughed, as she looked at the photo, “Here, send it to me,” She’d said, taking the phone from my hands, and adding herself to my contacts.

Funny how things work out.

I smiled to myself as I looked at the photo, it had been less than a month, but it felt like everything had changed since the photo was taken. Mila looked over at me, and for a second, the corners of her mouth raised. Not quite a smile, but there was something there.

We sat for a few moments more, me draining the last of my phone battery as I sat flicking through the memories and old messages. Ten percent. Photos of pagodas, mountains, karsts, crumbling temples, rivers, ruined canals…

“Taxi’s here.”

I looked over.

“He’s probably already running the meter,” she remarked, shouldering her bag and walking outside, her orange flip-flops slapping the floor as she walked.

I sighed, pocketed my phone again, and headed out after her, my bag in my arms. The taxi driver took our backpacks as we approached, swinging them into the boot and gesturing for us to take our seats in the back. It smelt oddly of vanilla.

We settled into the seats, struggling to find the safety belts. Not that anyone wore them here. The driver turned to face us, his tanned face wearing a terrific, infectious smile, “You want the airport, dạ?”

“Da Nang airport. Làm ơn.” I said, proud of my meagre attempts to speak the language.

“Half an hour, ok?”

“Dạ, cảm ơn.”

Mila leaned forward, “Trêu nó đi, nó đang cố tỏ vẻ đấy!”

The driver laughed to himself before turning his back on us, and we moved off. The hotel rapidly vanishing into the falling twilight behind us.

The taxi raced through the town, speeding through the narrow streets and blaring horns. Outside, the town prepared itself for a night of celebration, a thousand lanterns hung from trees and awnings, and candles set the town ablaze. Scooters and cyclists alike darted between the cars, a stark reminder of modernity amongst the beautiful antiquity of the crumbling buildings. The sky above, black as smoke, churned with the promise of an approaching storm.

She sat staring out the window, her handbag cleverly positioned between us, and her back firmly turned against me. Her fingers drummed against the window pane, a rhythmic tapping as her nails clicked against the glass.

“It looks like we’re gonna escape that,” I said, pointing past her, at the ominous sky.

“It probably won’t break. Have you noticed, the sky always fills with clouds, but it never seems to rain?” She replied, her nails unceasing in their movement.

“You never know. It might end up surprising us, you can’t predict the future.” I said, my head lost in the flickering of lightning.

The sound of her fingers slowed marginally, “Perhaps not. But there are patterns. I’m just going with what I’ve seen so far.”

“Patterns can be broken, since when can one predict the weather?” I replied, choosing my words carefully.

She looked away from the window for a second, her eyebrows slightly raised as she appraised my expression, “Well I guess that’s just human error.”

We’d reached the outskirts of the city now. The streams of traffic had begun to thin, and our speed was increasing dramatically. The silhouette of Hoi An was beginning to fade away, replaced by endless rice paddies and narrow, stagnant waterways.

“I guess we won’t find out one way or the other. We’ll probably be halfway to Saigon by the time this storm hits.” I said, reaching for my phone.

“Ho Chi Minh City.” Mila reminded me, “And we probably won’t, so we might as well stop worrying about it.”

We sped along the motorway, the taillights of the other cars blurring like neon comets in the dead world of the road. The occasional scooter still appeared. A young couple, their legs bared to the wind, their hair streaming in the humid night air. An elderly farmer, a wooden crate, full to the brim with greenery and sacks full of dried rice. A young man on his way to the city, heading out, perhaps to a dinner with his family.

I lost track of how long I spent watching the traffic, dreaming up the lives of these people I’d never know. There was something in it, a kind of repose, my own retreat from the real world.

“You know, it’s funny,” Mila began, “that you pretend you know me, and yet you actually know nothing about my life.”

I looked over, my gaze returned, “I know you’re from Brussels. You have a sister, she’s pregnant, your dad works in Rotterdam, so you don’t see him.”

She looked taken aback for a moment, “I don’t remember-”

“You told me when we were in Hanoi. We were sat by the lake,” I said, refusing to break her gaze, “We were having coffee, and you were reading poems from that book of yours.”

There was silence.

Mila broke away, her eyes averted.

“Yes, I remember now.” She said, “You were complaining because you had sunburn all down your back.”

It was a while ago now. We’d decided to stick together for the duration of our time in Hanoi, before going off on our own journeys. And on this occasion, we’d just finished exploring the ancient streets, and decided to watch the sunset over the lake.

“Have you ever thought about just running away from everything back home?” She’d asked, hugging her knees as she sat on the grassy verge, “Like, just staying out here?”

I sipped the coffee slowly, the fresh beans were unrivalled by anything in Europe. Bitter, yet with an underlying freshness, uplifted by a silt of condensed milk. It was oddly refreshing after a day of walking through busy streets, in a haze of humidity and scooter fumes.

“I guess so. It’s not like I have anything to go back to.”

Mila sat and watched the water. The dazzling sunlight transformed the lake into a pool of copper and lilac flames, the turtle pagoda at its heart rising from the liquid fire.

“Everyone seems so at peace here. They’re so poor, and life’s so fragile. But they’re happy.”

“Are they though? It’s not like they can complain about it, or hope for change.”

“I don’t know. But they fought for this, it’s what they wanted. Whereas back home, we fight wars that don’t concern us, and we vote for candidates that make no real change. What’s better about that?”

I didn’t reply. I just sat and watched the sunset as the trees creaked overhead, and we let the unsaid remain unsaid.

The taxi was nearing the outskirts of Da Nang now, the traffic backing up as we drove amidst the apartments and offices of the city.

Of all the cities we’d been through, Da Nang felt different. It had a pulse of its own, quite apart from the more provincial Hanoi, and entirely unlike from the smaller towns of Hoi An and Ninh Binh. I’d be sad to leave.

“I liked those poems you know. They felt so raw and personal,” I said, “Like you’d put yourself into them.”

“You said you didn’t get them.” Mila retorted, not looking round, “You said that you never understood poetry.”

We’d ground to a halt. A red Honda scooter pulled up alongside us, a young man and a girl on the back. She had her head nestled on his shoulder and her arms tightly around his waist. I imagined they were forbidden lovers, their relationship banned by the parents. Here they were, escaping into the city, to start a new life in this impossible world of riverside parks and elevated gardens, rooftop cafés and basement bars.

“Perhaps I still don’t. But then I don’t understand a lot of things, it doesn’t mean I don’t find them beautiful.”

“Well what’s the point of a poem, if it’s nothing but pretty words?”

We were moving again. The forbidden lovers accelerated through the traffic, disappearing into a side street.

“What’s the point in a painting? It’s just pretty colours.” I responded.

She turned to face me at last, scowling, “That’s not the same thing at all. A poem is an idea, and image, condensed into words. A painting is just-”

“An idea, an image, rendered in paint.” I finished.

We’d stopped again, traffic on all sides.

“What exactly are you trying to do here?” Mila asked,

Glowing head and taillights surrounded us on all sides, like frozen stars.

“I’m trying to stop you making a mistake.”

We were going to miss the flight if this traffic didn’t let up soon.

“A mistake? Breaking things off before we end up getting hurt- That’s a mistake?” she exclaimed,

“Yes? No- I don’t know! But why are you so determined to do it when we reach Saigon? We could-”

“Ho Chi Minh City.”

“Yes, fine, whatever. But we can do this last stretch together, what’s a few more days?”

“Have you heard yourself? Really?” She snapped. “You’re just thinking about yourself. Did you ever stop to ask how I feel?”

“Then tell me! How do you feel? What do you want?” I exclaimed.

I hadn’t realised how loud we were being; the taxi driver was watching the entire exchange. I didn’t know whether his English would allow him to understand exactly what we were talking about, but he wore an expression of amusement.

“Bad traffic ahead.”

“Da… Bao lâu?”

“Ten?” He said, holding up both hands.”

I nodded. We should still be fine.

The taxi fell silent again, and the driver turned to face the road again. I leaned against the window, pressing my arm up against the cool glass. What exactly was I trying to do here? Mila was right. Did I really want to drag this messy situation out any longer?

I began looking through my photos again, pagodas, mountains, karsts, crumbling temples, rivers, ruined canals. Us. A selfie from the edge of the Himalayas. A few seconds of footage of her running ahead of me on a bridge, before turning round and smiling, waving at me. Eight percent. About fifteen photos taken by her when I left my phone unattended for a few moments in a café. All of them selfies,

“So you’ll always remember me!”

“Like I could forget?”

We were moving again now, and I slipped my phone back into my pocket again. There seemed to be a break in the traffic. And we were making good speed. There didn’t seem to be any point in talking any more, Mila was determinedly staring out the window again, and I doubted that she would even bother to justify anything I said now with an answer.

After a never-ending stretch of silence, we started to pull into the sleek, modern airport,

“ Hundred thousand. You pay me.” Said the driver.

“Sure, sure,” I said, quite forgetting to even attempt Vietnamese, “Mila, do you have fifty?”

“Yeah, here,” she handed over three crumpled notes, “That’s right?”

I handed over the money, and we got out of the car, bags in hand, “Cảm ơn, Tạm biệt!” I said, as we hurried away into the airport.

Our conversation throughout check-in was kept to a minimum. I got one syllable answers at best as we walked through security, and the tone was set as we waited to board by Mila plucking out a pair of headphones and entirely cutting herself off from the outside world.

My dying phone occupied my time as we waited for the flight. There was wi-fi, and I dwindled away my time updating statuses and getting likes. All very superficial things. Four percent. Flicking through the pictures again, trying to find an answer to my troubles. We could be so happy together- if we could be together. If she didn’t keep running from her problems.

Soon enough, boarding time rolled around, and we were shepherded through glass corridors towards our vermillion Vietjet plane. And then the usual boarding queue.

I look out the window into the velvet night. It had started to rain. The tarmac was drenched and glistening with water. It was the first rain we’d had since arriving here.

“Mila, look,” I said, gently tugging at her arm, “It’s finally broken over us.”

She stopped for a moment, looking out into the rain. The queue was starting to open up ahead, but she just stood there, staring out of the window, transfixed.

“What’s your plan?” she said, “Where are you going, after Saigon?”