Short Story: Dancing With Dragons

Short Story: Dancing With Dragons

The sky’s swollen stomach grumbles, a dormant dragon stirring in its dark, smoky lair. Anh lifts her face, scanning the turbulent folds in the clouds for signs of the dragon’s tongue unfurling, tasting the ashen air. The rumble fades, leaving its memory hanging heavy in the sullen air.

Not yet.

Anh sighs and releases the slippery hand squirming in hers to rub her right eye with a curled up fist: a childish gesture of fatigue that makes her undernourished body look even younger. She’d easily pass for nine, maybe younger, maybe eight. Huy’s age. Anh is twelve.

With her left hand, she hikes her burden up higher onto her tiny hip – a large, woven satchel with a frayed strap and a protective flap flung back to reveal questionable bounties: postcards, flowers and trinkets too grimy to entice the tourists without the silent sales pitch of Anh’s old-young eyes gazing up at them, wide open, like fresh wounds.

With a cry of triumph, Huy leaps into the dusty road waving newly freed fingers in glee, ten sticky brown caterpillars wriggling in joyous unison. He twirls, oblivious to the motorbikes that swing around him more casually than the frenetic honking suggests, flinging enticing sparkles from far-apart jet-black eyes and still-gleaming crisp-white teeth back at his sister. His faded plastic sandals slap awkwardly on the hot concrete. They used to be red. They’re too small for him.

Anh counters with a practised steely glare.

“Huy! Lại đây!” Come here!

Do you want the policeman to catch you? Remember last time?

Huy’s grin falters, stumbles and collapses into a scowling heap under thick, bristling eyebrows, his dark, grubby face as mutinous as the thundering sky. Yes, he remembers. Once-red sandals scuff stubbornly against the ground as he slowly returns to Anh’s side, his left hand creeping up her back towards the bedraggled ends of her ebony ponytail, then thinking better of it and slipping innocently back into her outstretched palm. His nose starts to run, the snot blackened by dirt and exhaust fumes; he wipes it on the edge of the baggy blue sweater that hangs over the button-less top of his once-yellow shorts.

Gripping her brother’s wayward fingers firmly, Anh scans the street. A pack of cyclo drivers cluster at the corner; some exchange banter and play cards, while others catch a quick snooze in the torpid humidity, their thin, muscular legs propped up on the handlebars, flip-flops twitching occasionally. Anh likes the foreign word flip-flop, how it lopes along her tongue like a too-tall, too-thin man, with gangly limbs and a gregarious grin .Flip-flop-flip-flop-flip-flop.

A couple of shoeshine boys take a break from their labours, squatting together on their boxes containing shoe polish, brushes and some pieces of old cloth. Drowsy flies crawl over the meagre remains of a dead rat in the gutter. The sounds of the hooting motorbikes, creaking cyclos and sing-song enticements of street sellers seem to have dulled, faltering in the face of nature’s clenched fist as it shakes the sky in preparation for the storm.

A café sits halfway up the road on the opposite side to Anh and Huy, garish green plastic stools and tables languishing lop-sided under its slightly grimy white awning, as though they, too, are exhausted by the tense humidity. A sign outside proclaims ‘Hello Café!’ in jocular cartoon letters, with a list underneath of its other offers: a cultural rather than gastronomic menu of historic temple tours, sweaty treks to the hill tribe village of Sapa, sleepy boat rides in Halong Bay; the assured ability to speak English, French, Japanese, Spanish, Dutch. Anh nods to her brother and the two dart across the narrow street, weaving a miraculous path through the frenetic traffic towards the café; two silent stragglers in a cacophony of commercial life. Neither can read English, but they know what the strange symbols on the café sign signify: money.

Admittedly, it’s a hopeful gesture on the part of the café owners rather than a central stream of income. Not only is it the low season, monsoon-time, but they’re outside the heart of the tourist district here. Anh knows as well as anyone in the city that the real money sashays its privileged path amongst the bright-painted, colonial-style hostels and slender shopping streets of 36 Pho Phuong; the ancient pagodas and luxurious homes of western ex-pats in West Lake; and the plentiful museums, bars and restaurants of Hoan Kiem. But she remains wary of the policemen who patrol such districts, seeking to sweep snotty-nosed street urchins out of the sanitised snapshots of a perfect tourist paradise, and into the so-called social protection centres.

Anh shivers in the heat as the memories fall on her like sticky, insistent cobwebs: claustrophobic rooms crowded with desolate strangers; night’s tranquillity banished by unceasing sterile light; snatched minutes of sleep on dank concrete floors with no space to roll over between bodies; the humiliating stench of a tin bucket in an unsheltered corner. And the gnawing sense of dread when the watchful eyes of the law fixated on their chosen victim and approached: gaining in stature, metre by metre, with each measured stride; eyes narrowing into cold, reptilian slits; olive uniforms transmogrifying into rattling scales; tongues hissing in disgust at the street rat before it. Rubber truncheons brandish forth in triumph, like burning torches; the pain scorches, blisters.

Hai Ba Trung is a safer retreat for the siblings, crowded with local markets and com bias (rice stalls) that beckon and beguile the more adventurous tourists in search of the ‘real’ Hanoi. By which they mean the squawks of live chickens sold in the marketplace for throttling at home; the chattering, diminutive women thrashing out bargains to suit their household budget; the heady aromas of dishes steeped in Vietnam’s ubiquitous nuoc cham, a spicy, garlicky fish sauce; all undershot with exhaust fumes and the unmistakeable reek of excrement from swollen monsoon drains.

Anh and Huy pass a food stall serving up banh beo, rice dumplings with shrimp powder and nuoc cham. The pungent, sour-sweet-salty scent of the fish sauce swims up Anh’s nostrils and floods the back of her throat with sudden, supplicating drool. Her stomach growls in response, a petulant bear with sharp claws that swipe at her insides.

It’s been several sweltering hours since breakfast: a fistful of glutinous sweet rice wrapped in a fragrant banana leaf, stolen from a backyard family altar at 5am. Anh and Huy had scuttled away to the banks of Thien Quang Lake to consume their ill-gotten gains, snatched from the sacred lips of divinities, while the sun rose over the water, wispy tendrils of mist rising from the warming surface like disapproving spectres at the feast. Anh had stopped feeling guilty about resorting to such survival tactics months ago. Or was it years? She was starting to forget.

Starting to forget village life: the glistening green of padi fields that never failed to startle her eyes and catch at her heart; the pulsating back of a baby lizard blinking in the rain; cool, gelatinous mud yielding lazily beneath and between her bare toes. Her mother’s sharp cheekbones and soft chin were melting into mist, like the water ghosts; her far-apart, jet-black eyes were indistinct and fading. Her favourite snack of tangy starfruit dipped in chilli-salt, though, Anh remembered that; how she would smack her lips together like a newly landed fish and gasp her fanciful certainty that she was consuming the sour-sweet heat of sunshine. And the way her mother’s smile stopped suddenly, and the lines of her lips thinned, sharpened by pain, and mortality etched its indelible presence into the sun-cracked furrows of her brow – Anh remembered that, too.

The siblings position themselves half-in, half-out of the moody shadows hunkering in an alleyway next to the café. Afternoon is dying. Soon the schools will close and beautiful girls in their long, white ao dais will adorn the streets like floating jasmine blossoms, soft and fragrant; they’ll cycle past, dusty white gloves pulled up to their elbows and pastel-blue scarves drawn across their faces, shielding their pale, pristine skin from the poverty-branding rays of the merciless sun.

The sky dragon turns and stretches in his heavenly lair once more, grumbling louder this time as consciousness rudely impinges on his carefree dreams of magical adventures in otherworlds. He’s late today; he should have risen a few hours ago. Lazy dragon, sluggish in the heat. Anh envisages one eye opening and a silver-steel gaze, bleary at first, slowly sharpening as it seeks out its prey below.

And then, the prey arrives. Anh’s body stiffens as the street clamour rises in renewed force at the end of the road and she looks up to see a tall young couple turn the corner; their gait relaxed and confident, their skin the colour of freshly chopped bamboo; fair, floppy hair frizzing in the heat; brand new, bright blue flip-flops on their feet. Flip-flop-flip-flop-flip-flop. Westerners.

Clad in long, khaki-coloured shorts and a grey T-shirt proclaiming ‘Angkor Wat’ over the beatific face of a crumbling Buddha, the young man shakes a half-bearded head sternly at the insistent street sellers, who wave T-shirts, watches and chopstick gift sets into his broad chest. One arm protectively encircles his slender girlfriend, who wears navy shorts and a yellow spaghetti-strapped top, and smiles at the touts from her safe enclave. The sky dragon growls at the strangers threateningly and the tourists look up at the clouds, faces creased by doubt.

One of the cyclo drivers peels off the pack on the corner and languidly pedals towards the couple, his bicycle chain squeaking its displeasure at being woken abruptly from a pleasant mid-afternoon snooze. The tourists pull away as he draws level, shaking their heads, and he opens his hands wide in a conciliatory gesture, still pedalling, a gap-toothed grin stretching across his face. Sun-scorched skin crackles in the creases of his knees, elbows, stomach, neck. A shock of black hair stands up straight on his scalp in a startled exclamation mark, like the uplifted wing of a bird lying on the road, its body half-crushed by a careless truck.

“Hey! Where you go? You like to see puppet theatre? WarMuseum?Ngoc Son Pagoda? I take you toHo Chi Minh Memorial, you see Uncle Ho. He dead, but you can still see, you know? I take you anywhere you wan go. Ver cheap!”

The girl smiles apologetically and turns away awkwardly; her boyfriend frowns and mops a hand across his dripping, crinkled brow.

“You wan go hotel? Rain come now, walking no good. Come, I take you!”

A murmured exchange takes place between the couple and they turn as one towards the café. Huy leans forward eagerly as the westerners pass within his short-armed reach; Anh squeezes his fingers and steps back into the shadows.

Not yet.

As if she were a mirage, the café owner materialises from nowhere, clucking welcomes and brandishing menus, slapping the plastic stools invitingly. The couple perch and place their order: Coca Cola, coffee, a banana pancake, pho. The cyclo driver hovers for a moment, then proceeds to park up alongside the café, propping his feet back up on the pedals, his territory marked. Business is slow, the clouds are threatening to break; he can afford to wait for a potential fare. The boyfriend sighs impatiently; his girlfriend pats his shoulder, then strokes it gently, easily, in a familiar gesture foreign to Anh.

It’s time. Anh releases Huy’s hand and he bounds up the steps of the cafe like a baby tiger released into the wild, arms outstretched, startling the couple from their drinks.

“Hah!”

He stops short and grins infectiously, tiny brown caterpillars wriggling in a welcoming salute. The couple chuckle and wave back. Safe to approach. Ahn sidles up, wary of the long limbs and languid impatience of the man, aiming instead for the slender girlfriend with the soft smile and mouse-coloured ponytail. She gazes at the paler skin exposed at the base of the girl’s neck, at the tan lines that reveal the presence of a string-tied bikini in her backpack. Huy continues to act the clown, dancing like a deranged monkey. A dusty, dusky monkey in once-red, too-small sandals.

Catching movement in the corner of her eye, the mousy-haired girl turns towards Anh, who lifts her bag on cue and stares directly into the girl’s eyes; green eyes, diluted with brown towards the centre, like a clear pond stirred by the paddles of a boat.

“Haa-llo. You wan pos-card? Prit-tee flower? Where you from?”

A soft voice, non-threatening. A smile that begs to be reciprocated. Her eyes plead, fingers rustling among dusty trinkets, drooping blossoms, postcards declaring with conviction: ‘Beautiful Vietnam!’ The girl sighs; her boyfriend scowls and waves his hand dismissively.

“No postcard. No.”

Anh stands her ground. The season is low, business is slow; she knows the two have nowhere to go. There’s nothing to lose. The dragon growls once more, a grim crescendo that climaxes with a roar as the sultry tension rises and the young man’s face darkens in frustration. He leans forward and opens his mouth to speak.

“Hey! You have coin? Powen coin?”

Huy leaps to his sister’s side, arms waving, demanding attention.

“Powen coin? French franc? For my collec shun!”

Anh knows the game and glares at her mischievous brother, but his gleeful grin seems to relax the western man, who reaches into his daypack and slips a coin out of a battered fabric wallet.

“Here you go, kid – an Australian dollar. Australian money, see?”

Huy grabs the bronzed coin eagerly and turns it over in his hands, rough fingers stroking the raised outline of an outlandish, mythical creature with a tiny head, two misshapen too-large legs and two small front paws raised daintily; its large tail thumps the ground. The cyclo driver shifts in his seat and stares over, flashing a gap-toothed conspiratorial grin at Anh. The dragon cackles theatrically overhead.

Huy holds the coin back towards the tourist, beaming broadly, and cries:

“Okay, now you change! Change for Vietnam money! You owe me twentyđồng!”

Anh frowns at the tired trick, expecting an outburst of anger and instant dismissal. But the tourist gapes, then throws back his mane of floppy fair hair, stretches out tanned legs and bellows with laughter. Huy grins wider: a shining mass of tiny teeth, sweaty limbs and a golden coin.

“Here you go, you cheeky brat,” says the man, wiping at the mirth in his eyes as he hands over the cash to the young moneylender. “And you can keep the bloody coin.”

Huy whoops in delight. Despite herself, Anh giggles in response, a gurgling chuckle released from the pit of her churning belly. And, finally, the sky splinters and cracks like an eggshell as the dragon, too, roars its appreciation of the joke, its forked tongue, white-hot, purple-edged, piercing the heavy yellow clouds with a fiery crackle.

Tension releases in a downpour of relief. Bulging raindrops pelt the pavements, pouring like the tears of a grieving mother for her lost children. Huy leaps up and down in the rain, waving his winnings in the air and hooting at the street sellers hastily covering their wares from the pounding droplets. The half-bearded, wholly-bamboozled tourist jumps up and joins Huy, bright blue flip-flops and once-red sandals kicking shining jewels of water up from already-deep puddles with glorious abandon.

Anh and the mousey-haired girl lean towards each other and giggle helplessly, watching tension, responsibilities, transactions, cultures melt away into the delirious dance of the monsoon; the hard-pelting rain that never brings this industrious city to a standstill, but that sometimes, just sometimes, gives it a chance to play.