by Di Morrissey
While Kim and Jean-Claude flipped through a sheaf of papers and talked statistics, Sandy looked at the tiny creatures milling in their thousands in the big tank. In several large containers shrimp fry still at the larval stage were being readied to go into the main tank where their growth would be closely monitored.
The man tending the tank smiled at her. She greeted him and in Vietnamese asked what he thought of shrimp farming.
‘I was a shrimp farmer. I turned over my paddies to raise them.’ He gave a shrug. ‘The money I borrowed is all gone. Shrimp have very big mouths: they have eaten my house and all my land. I wish I could go back to growing rice.’
‘What happened to your shrimp?’
‘The same as many others. They got a disease and after a few years the ponds are no good. I did not have the money to make fresh ponds. And now the land is spoiled.’
Kim joined Sandy. ‘I have to spend a few moments going through these papers and chat to Jean-Claude. Do you want to wait? Or I could meet you back at the cafe.’
‘You are welcome to sit in with us, Sandy,’ said Jean-Claude as he put the papers back in the folder.
‘I’d love that. Sure you won’t mind?’ Sandy couldn’t immediately explain it, but the shrimp industry interested her. The story of the old farmer, now working on the model farm, had touched her. She recalled the initiative to subsidise programs such as aquaculture but had heard the government only released ‘good news’ stories. Even though Kim was involved in the project she thought she would like to find out more. She wished Tom, the journo, was here. He’d be reaching for his notebook.
Jean-Claude took her arm. ‘Sandy, you are most welcome. And feel free to contribute. Half an hour, and we’ll be done.’
Sandy was thoughtful as she and Kim walked back to join Anna and Tom at the cafe. Although her official work with HOPE had ended, she realised she couldn’t easily walk away from this country. Not only would she have to leave the projects she’d been involved with – especially the orphanage school down on the coast – but there were still so many areas where she could see help was needed. More strongly than ever she now questioned whether her time here was over.
4
ANNA STROLLED SLOWLY THROUGH the Old Quarter while she waited to meet Sandy. It was day’s end and she found herself falling into the rhythm and flow of local people around her: those finishing work, those setting up for evening trade, those who were refreshed, holding toddlers in pyjamas, chatting with neighbours, or going out for a meal, even if just simple street food. The relentless traffic seemed to have a communal purpose – everyone was anxious to get home, or to their destination, before darkness. Tourists were not obvious, it being siesta time after shopping and sightseeing before heading into the nightlife of Hanoi’s restaurants, hotels, shops and bars.
The maze of thirty-six streets dating back to the thirteenth century where craftsmen formed guilds and businesses side by side in a single area charmed Anna and, as Sandy had pointed out, it was a convenient way to shop. Many of the old crafts and trades had died away to be replaced by European boutiques, or silk shops, or shoes, or lacquerware aimed at tourists as well as locals.
But what Anna loved about the Old Quarter was its bohemian atmosphere generated by the French colonial architecture and the concentration of artistic endeavour. Hang Ma – Paper Street – intrigued her with its shops selling colourful paper replicas of everything one could desire to take into the next life. It seemed a shame to Anna that the miniature paper motor cars, jewellery, furniture and clothes were all to be burned in offerings to ancestors. But there were modern paper goods on sale too, so she bought some greetings cards and a pink and an orange paper lantern for Sandy to hang in her courtyard.
The sidewalk was narrow and Anna was frequently forced to step into the street as the pavement was jammed with small business operations of incredible variety. A man could set up a bicycle or motorcycle repair shop, lining up spare parts, tools and bicycles in various stages of repair on the footpath. Often a barber or a letter writer merely set up a chair, a table or a mirror and was in business. Shopfront dentists and pharmacists had their waiting rooms on the street, chairs lined up for customers to wait their turn. Stacks of postcards, T-shirts, plastic goods, food, clothes and souvenirs were displayed and sold on the street. Women squatted with baskets of sweet bean cakes or fresh produce to sell.
In the next block, shops which catered more for tourists displayed merchandise behind glass windows with large signs announcing Air Con.
Anna skirted a cluster of huge and elaborate flower arrangements on easels and in large containers framed by ribbons and placards. They stood outside a small art gallery, its freshly painted walls hung with an exhibition of modern art. A few people were standing inside admiring the bold canvases. Although Sandy was the art aficionado of the two, Anna stepped inside on impulse. She was welcomed by a beautiful shop assistant in an ao-dai.
She greeted Anna in Vietnamese, then French, then, with a little giggle, in English. ‘Welcome to our exhibition. Would you like to meet the artist, Mr Bien Dinh?’ She gestured towards an earnest young man talking to a small group of people.
‘Not just now, thank you. I’m only looking. This is very dramatic work. Very abstract and unusual,’ commented Anna.
‘He is up and coming. Many foreign people buy his work. You like modern art?’ the assistant asked.
‘I don’t understand modern art very well. I prefer traditional art,’ said Anna, making conversation.
‘Ah, old masters, you want good copies old art?’
Anna shook her head. She’d seen the tiny art shops where teams of young painters sat by their canvases copying famous classics – Rembrandt, Botticelli, Monet, Picasso. Reproductions of their works were lined up for sale for a few dollars. Anna recalled something Sandy had said about a friend who had a gallery that specialised in antiques, ethnic and anthropological work. ‘I suppose I mean more realism, crafts and art from Vietnam.’ Anna was repeating what Sandy had told her.
The girl nodded. ‘Traditional. Yes, Vietnamese people very artistic. Our old artists trained under the French, but since 1950s our artists start to combine western and Asian art. Now modern art very popular.’
‘I’ve never seen a city with so many art galleries,’ said Anna. She’d also noticed that there were a number of bookshops and how everyone read a local newspaper.
A voice beside Anna added, ‘The art and intellectual life here is very healthy. Hanoi is very cultural.’
She turned towards the low-key American accent and found an attractive man in his thirties smiling at her. He held out his hand. ‘Rick Dale. Are you a visitor or do you live here?’
‘Anna Fine. I’m staying in Hanoi with a friend. I was just passing . . .’ She suddenly wondered if this was an invitation-only function, as trays of rice rolls and cold drinks were offered around.
‘Come and meet the artist; everyone is welcome at these things. Hanoi is exploding with galleries, artisans, craft places. It’s good, but let the buyer beware,’ Rick said, steering her towards the painter before she could object.
‘I’m afraid I’m a neophyte in this scene. My friend, whom I’m staying with, is more the expert.’
‘It’s always interesting to hear the expert’s viewpoint. Where is your friend?’
‘At her office.’ Anna didn’t have time for details, as Rick introduced her to the artist who gave her a soft handshake while avoiding her eye. Sandy had told her this was a sign of respect and humility: a strong handshake and bold eye contact was considered arrogant in Vietnamese society.
‘Congratulations on your show. Er, what is the theme of this exhibition?’ Anna was fishing, as some of the geometric cubist-style paintings, while colourful, didn’t convey much to her. Rick gave her a smile as he translated her question.
Bien led her to the largest canvas and explained to Rick, ‘This is my dragon series. This one represents the nine dragons of the Mekong River which is the most importa
nt river in Vietnam.’
‘At the delta the river splits into nine tributaries,’ explained Rick.
Anna angled her head. ‘I see it.’
‘It’s a dragon with the beak of a phoenix. It is said that the largest one, the ninth dragon, held incredible powers,’ said Rick.
The artist moved to the next painting. ‘And here is the descending dragon at Halong Bay.’
As Bien pointed, Anna could see the interpretations of the limestone peaks rising from the blue paint representing the bay. ‘Of course, I see it now. We just went there. It was a wonderful experience,’ she said.
‘It’s pretty stunning scenery, that’s for sure,’ said Rick.
‘Yes,’ said Anna quietly. But she was thinking of the little nun in her lofty remote pagoda.
More people had arrived and were pressing around the artist, so Anna thanked him and followed Rick to a table where there were cold drinks.
‘How long are you here for?’ Rick asked Anna. ‘By your accent you’re an Aussie?’
‘Yes. My girlfriend Sandy has been working here so I’ve joined her for sightseeing before we go home.’
‘Is that Sandy Donaldson who works for HOPE?’
Anna was surprised. ‘How do you know her?’
‘The expat community in Hanoi is very small. I’m sure Sandy will show you some great places.’
‘Absolutely. We have an itinerary worked out. I think Hoi An is next.’
‘That’s a popular place. Make sure you get off the beaten track though. I’ve travelled through most of this country: there are still a lot of unspoiled areas, but for how long?’ He sighed. ‘One of the islands off the central coast has a five-star resort – very elegant, very upmarket. However, now there’re plans for five more international big-name resorts along the beach. The fishermen are being moved inland, away from their boats and nets, and soon there’ll be more visitors a year than to Bali.’
‘Goodness, tourism is certainly taking off. So what do you do here?’
‘I’ve just finished my PhD and I’m working for a New York gallery sourcing artworks. It’s an interesting job that allows me to travel and indulge my passion for antiquities. I buy for private clients.’
‘So is there a big market for Vietnamese antiques?’
‘Yes,’ said Rick warmly. ‘Almost everything has a market. Some through the front door, some through the back door.’
Anna raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean by the “back door”?’
Rick laughed. ‘Ah, Asia. Someone always manages to turn up at the back door with what they whisper is a rare find. Such things are hyped as antiques, but genuine ones are thin on the ground.’
Anna thought back to the old ceramic plate at master potter Thinh’s as Rick chatted about places to see and things to do.
‘Well, excuse me, I’d better go and help our star, do some translating now a couple of tourists have arrived,’ he said. ‘Enjoy Hoi An. I go down there often; it’s got a very good little museum. I’ll give you some tips on Hoi An if you’d like.’
Anna smiled at him. ‘That’d be great. I can be the expert for a change!’
Anna walked to the lake where she was to meet Sandy, bought an ice-cream and sat on a park bench to watch the after-work joggers on their circuit of the calm and beautiful water. She was beginning to love the moods of the lakes in Hanoi, particularly Hoan Kiem. Sometimes misty and melancholy in the early morning, sometimes golden and mellow like now, or sparkling blue green in the middle of the day. But there was something special about sunset as the pace of life slowed and the twisted tree trunks cast shadows across the water. No matter how many people clustered around the rim of the lake, each appeared to be in their private cocoon, their own little world.
Anna had enjoyed her afternoon, especially the art exhibition and meeting Rick Dale. She finished her ice-cream and wandered across the lakeside park to the Italian cafe where she was meeting Sandy. In two days they were going to Hoi An, the pretty and historic town south of Danang. Rick had told her that it had become something of an arts and craft centre and had given her some good ideas about places to see and she was keen to ask Sandy what she thought.
It occurred to Anna that even though she was on holidays and playing at being a tourist, it was more than that that made her life here so different, so relaxed and interesting. There wasn’t the pressure she felt at home and, with a guilty start, she realised she hadn’t thought of Carlo as often as she usually did. She resolved to borrow Sandy’s laptop and send him a long email about all she’d seen. She had a sneaking feeling that Carlo wouldn’t be at all interested in what she was doing in Vietnam, but she still wanted to let him know that she missed him.
Sandy was in the HOPE offices checking her emails and messages and touching base with everyone. Although she was officially off the payroll, it was hard to sever all ties. She still had a desk with her coffee mug and HOPE computer as the new staff hadn’t yet arrived.
Sandy had tried to explain to Anna how the attitude of the local staff reflected that of Vietnamese people – family came first. And HOPE was surrogate family. The Vietnamese staff adopted and included the westerners in the minutiae of their lives. There was a protocol involved in meeting people for the first time which continued into the relationship where personal inquiries about families, their wellbeing, activities and health had to be dealt with before the business at hand. Sandy had initially been shocked at being asked her age, until she realised it was necessary to give them the key to the proper form of respectful address.
She had passed these details on to Anna, who had listened but made no comment. Sandy was surprised that while Anna was becoming quite fascinated with all the facets of life in Vietnam, she still didn’t seem to relate to the people personally.
Sandy walked to the lake, where she met Anna. They hopped into one of the pedicabs to go to Barney’s Bar, where a farewell drinks gathering had been arranged for Sandy.
The popular bar and cafe was brimming with expatriates, local business people and a group of trendy young Vietnamese. It was something of an institution in Hanoi. It started as a small cafe in the ground floor of an old French building that combined Parisian wrought-iron balconies with Vietnamese decorative trimmings. Unlike most houses, it was set back from the pavement which allowed space for several tiny tables and chairs. A recent addition of sliding doors melded the interior with the outdoor tables and conversations and patrons flowed from the pavement to the tiny bar in the rear of the long main room. The kitchen was hidden behind the bar where a narrow staircase went to the private quarters upstairs.
The building was painted ochre yellow with red trim and the sign Barney’s was in turquoise. But the colourful exterior was no match for the inside walls and stairwell which were covered with paintings. Even some of the old wooden tabletops had been used as canvases for landscapes, portraits, modern art and calligraphy. The cafe, in a previous incarnation, had been a hangout for artists back in the mid 1920s and for students from the Ecole des Beaux Arts de L’Indochine, which later became the Hanoi College of Fine Arts. Students would trade a painting for a meal. When Barney took over he had inherited hundreds of paintings stacked in the small rooms upstairs. Lai was tempted to throw the pictures away but, being the businesswoman she was, thought perhaps she might be able to sell them to one of the little galleries springing up in the district. Fortuitously the first place she walked into was a tiny art shop owned by an American, Charlie Ralston and his Vietnamese business partner, Miss Huong.
When Miss Huong went through the collection she recognised that many were by great Vietnamese artists who had begun experimenting with western and Vietnamese styles. She negotiated the sale of most of the paintings and encouraged Barney and Lai to protect the ones painted on the cafe walls and tables, for the artists were all famous names now. Barney had kept a lot of paintings against Lai’s wishes, which were hung in the upstairs quarters. Miss Huong made it a habit to drop into Barney’s to check on his collectio
n. Following the quaint custom of the past, art students short of cash continued to drop in to Barney’s offering to trade one of their works for a meal.
Tom Ahearn waved from a table to one side where he’d managed to hold several empty seats. An older western man with a younger Vietnamese woman were seated with him. The table next to them was filled with Sandy’s friends from HOPE.
Barney, big shouldered, flushed face, his clipped moustache speckled with drops of perspiration, hurried to the girls. ‘Howdy, Sandy. You’re popular: you’ve got two tables – Kim and the HOPE lot and your pal Tom.’
‘You’ll have to table hop,’ grinned Anna. ‘Quite a gang here.’
‘Miss Huong and Charlie Ralston are here,’ said Barney.
‘Great, that Charlie is quite a character,’ said Sandy.
She was swept into the HOPE group as they pushed the two tables together. Anna sat opposite Tom who introduced her to Charlie and Miss Huong
‘Charlie runs a pretty famous gallery here and Miss Huong is his business partner and curator. Sounds like they have a very impressive collection,’ said Tom.
‘Where do you find things for your gallery?’ Anna asked Miss Huong.
‘I source them from all over the country: ethnic minority villages, the hill tribes. At present I’m searching out some pieces for a New York gallery and their representative Mr Rick Dale.’
‘I met Rick at an art show earlier,’ said Anna. ‘It’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Not really – Hanoi can be a small place even with four million people,’ said Charlie.
Barney took orders and relayed them to Lai behind the bar, who looked as cool and calm as he was flustered.
