Single White Female in Hanoi Read Online Free PDF

I’m Richard Moss.’ The voice is friendly, although the handshake is limp. ‘Glad you found the place okay. I take it you’ve worked out how to catch a xe om ? This is Mr Son, my doorman.’ I follow his pointing index finger and start slightly. Only two metres to my right, seated behind a large wooden desk in the gloom is a middle-aged Vietnamese man in olive fatigues. He’s sitting bolt upright, staring hard at me.
    â€˜He’s ex-Viet Cong,’ Richard whispers.
    â€˜Ah.’ I nod, in the friendliest possible way, in Mr Son’s direction.
    Richard leads the way into the bright, noisy steam outside and we set off up the road. The sidewalk is so cluttered it’s unnavigable, forcing us to walk among the surging traffic. Richard’s voice slips in and out of audibility as horns explode around us. He’s oblivious to the chaos. It’s very clear that I’m a newcomer and he’s a hardened expat.
    Some 100 metres along, we peel off into a fluorescent-lit room, where Richard greets the young woman who emerges from behind a beaded curtain. There are shin-high plastic stools and low plastic tables. I swallow my dismay. He selects a spot next to the entrance. This puts us virtually on the street. I’m not sure which is a less appealing sight – the street, which breathes boiling fumes into the entrance like a monstrous salamander, or the ‘café’, whose every surface is coated in antique grime. The table doesn’t appear to have been wiped in days, the white-painted walls are virtually black, and an unpleasant smell is emanating from the direction of the kitchen. I shift uncomfortably on the plastic seat.
    Richard orders a beer, and through his translation efforts, I order a Western-style coffee. Despite everything, I’m excited to have met this guy. He’s lived in Vietnam for nearly a decade, and he’s the first native English speaker I’ve talked to since my arrival. I’ve got lots of questions to ask him, lots of observations to share with him.
    He kicks off the conversation, telling me about last week’s Australia versus the All-Blacks rugby match.
    â€˜Do you follow football yourself?’ he’s asking me as his beer arrives, followed by a glass containing some grey fluid. It’s my coffee.
    â€˜Er. I’m not really much of a sports fan,’ I say diplomatically. I try to drink my coffee but fail. It’s not their fault. My ordering a Western-style coffee has sent them into a flap. It’ll be a while before I know how to order local coffee served on ice with condensed milk, at which point I will become a lifelong enthusiast of Vietnamese coffee, the beans of which are pure robusta .
    â€˜Do you ride?’ Richard asks me, nodding at the throng of motorcycles on the street.
    â€˜Er, no.’
    â€˜You’ll have to learn.’
    Passing beggars extend their hats to our table. I give a note to the first one, and thereafter follow Richard’s example of ignoring them. A power cut kills the ceiling fan for a few minutes. Richard talks implacably on. The conversation so far has revolved around three epicentres: football, beer, and an unnamed Vietnamese girlfriend. At one point he digresses to talk about where to get the most delicious beefsteak and I seize my opportunity.
    â€˜Is the food here … clean? I mean, what’s the best way to avoid food poisoning?’
    â€˜Food poisoning? Oh, expect it,’ he says, making a dismissive gesture with one hand.
    A thick pall of fear descends on me as I realise I’ve made a terrible mistake. I’ve come to the wrong city. I don’t drink beer. I don’t eat meat. I have a terror of food poisoning, which I’ve now heard is inevitable. I’m not interested in football. And I’m likely to kill myself and take a few others with me trying to ride a motorbike.
    Richard kindly takes care of the bill. I thank him, mumble a