Special medicine

The green ceiling fan in my room has five speeds. It’s a kind of barometer. In August fifth gear hardly stirred the air. By late September, fourth gear seemed to do the job. By October, third gear. By the first week of November second gear was more than enough. Now, late-November, the fateful day has arrived. With a click of finality, the fan is off. I sleep clutching my bedding about me. In the morning I put socks on, then boots. Soon, at night, when the boots come off, the socks stay on. Outside, the sky gets lower, and dark-coloured padded ski-coats proliferate, like a bloom, on motorcyclists.

Luckily I packed my red woollen Turkish poncho. I wrap it luxuriously around me before leaving the house. The xe om drivers gather round to inspect it, grinning, and I smile back like a rock star giving it up for the fans. Within a block of travel, I realise I have the attention of everybody within seeing distance. I take an objective look at myself and realise, with a sinking feeling, that I look ridiculous. My red tasselled poncho sticks out like a dog boner. Hanoi is a town where no one dares to be different.

In haste, I ask my way to the coat district and for about US$6 I get a beauty. A dark-coloured padded ski-coat. No one will stare now. The poncho goes back in the wardrobe for good.

Hien, meanwhile, is tearing through the bales of lurid yellow, electric orange and hot pink. I now have the not-quite-long-enough orange scarf and three yellow knitted shoulder bags of different sizes. The last one has a spectacular lacy trim in hot pink. But she wraps up in cotton rags to stay warm. I buy her a blanket and a pillow.

The sublime smell of Hoa Sua still lingers on some streets, but weakly. The creeping chill heralds its demise. I’m downcast by the fact the flower has come and gone without Natassia managing to smell it once. She seems to regard its very existence with some cynicism. Her smoker’s nose detects only industrial-strength smells. It’s true this is mostly a blessing in Hanoi, but for me, Hoa Sua is the payoff for all the lurking stenches.

One moonless night I get home late, tired. The street and the compound are in total darkness. I realise when I try to turn on the light at the bottom of the stairs that there’s a late night power cut on. By the light of my imitation zippo I make it up the stairs and get my key in the lock. Mieu Mieu prrrinks a happy entrance from upstairs as I open my bedroom door. I undress and crawl into bed.

In no time I’m dozing happily with the cat on top of me. I snuggle harder into the cosy bedding and drift off thinking about how much I love my warm bed, how I love to feel the weight of a doona on me in winter. I’m almost asleep when the jarring note sounds. What is wrong with this picture? My bed isn’t cosy. I’ve been cold for the last week. My top bedding consists of an empty doona cover I brought from Australia and a little polyester blanket. With one finger, I explore my doona cover in the darkness. Huh?

I sit up and reach for the torch I keep on the dresser. Its pale beam reveals a stuffed doona. Someone with a key has let themselves into my apartment, stuffed my doona cover, and snuck out again. I suspect Xuyen.

No party ever claims responsibility.

I tell Zac and Natassia over lunch at the Kiwi café.

‘What a beautiful story,’ Natassia glows.

‘Ah, the milk of human kindness,’ Zac sighs joylessly. He orders a strong cappuccino and sinks his head into his hands. His new neighbourhood is turning out to be a non-stop shop of horrors. Last week he claims to have watched, whimpering, from his balcony as two junkies injected heroin into their penises under the shelter of the overgrown weed patch opposite his front gate.

‘I’m living beside an enormous outdoor brothel,’ he intones, without a trace of enthusiasm. ‘I can’t leave home at night without falling over at least one man in the throes of … ’ he shudders, ‘ … ministrations.’

‘Of what?’ squints Natassia.

‘You know. Like, picture two people, hiding in the shadows and they’re almost invisible except for the flash of jiggling jewellery,’ he explains, illustrating with a hand gesture.

‘Really!’ her eyes light up playfully. ‘Aren’t you tempted?’

‘Get real!’ he sneers contemptuously. ‘Why would I pay a stranger for a service that I’ve spent nearly fourteen years perfecting myself?’ There’s a pause while we digest this piece of reasoning. It’s watertight, there’s no denying it.

‘Are you thinking of moving out?’ she asks him, carefully.

‘No chance. The location’s perfect, I’ve got five bedrooms to myself, ridiculously cheap, and the rent’s only gonna get cheaper when I tell my landlord about this.’

‘Good! So, you’d better hurry up and have your housewarming party,’ she says in a tone that strikes fear into Zac and me. ‘I’ve set the date.’

The fact of the matter is, November’s almost over and Natassia’s still here. For a long time, the question of her travel plans has lingered in the air, but Zac and I were loathe to remind her of it. Her departure seemed to be mercifully fixed to an ever-receding time in the near future. But now she announces an actual date, with more than the usual certainty.

‘I’m leaving on the tenth of December,’ she declares.

Call it a coincidence, but the thought of being in Hanoi without Natassia seems to cripple my immune system. With Natassia, even the most depressing, most unfair, most offensive things about Hanoi are bearable.

I leave the café feeling fine. On the way home I swallow and notice a slight irritation in my throat. By sunset, my throat is carpeted in angry pustules. By night time it’s so infected, I can taste blood when I cough, which is now quite often. I’ve been struck down by the fastest bug in town.

I cancel all work and spend the next week in bed, whacked out on over-the-counter codeine. Natassia brings me groceries and makes me hot drinks. An, the goofy architecture student, makes an unannounced visit, hoping to take me to an art gallery. He’s joined the list of students who have taken it upon themselves to show me their culture. When he sees I’m sick, he returns the next day with fruit and flowers. He sits on the far end of my bed and with great seriousness, delivers a Vietnamese lesson, teaching me to ask for a glass.

‘Xin, mot cai coc nay’. Word for word, this translates to ‘please, one thing cup this.’ I know intuitively that he’s just taught me a piece of puffed-up text-book Vietnamese, perfectly correct and perfectly unusable.

My convalescence is slow. By the end of the first week, my course is clear. I ring Thai Airways and book a return flight back to Sydney for Christmas. Five weeks of summer with family and friends, maybe some gigs. I feel better immediately. Pre-emptive nostalgia kicks in, and Hanoi suddenly looks better, smells better. I care about everyone around me that much more. Like many places, maybe all places, Hanoi looks most spectacular when viewed through the warm ruby lens of imminent departure.

But back at the computer at NER headquarters, I cough for weeks, distracting everyone around me. Eventually, Chanh the Stooge sidles up to me with a maternal expression, puts her hands on my shoulders.

‘You very sick,’ she declares. I look up at her in wonder. She’s never spoken a word to me before. My cough was considerably worse last week.

‘I’m getting better,’ I assure her.

‘No! You must take special medicine, traditional medicine of Vietnam,’ she says. Her pronunciation is abominable. ‘Now I bring you to the Nha Thuoc.’

‘Now, I’m working on this story, very busy,’ I try. But Chanh, sister-in-law of ‘Malcolm’ upstairs, knows better.

‘Not important,’ she snaps.

My protests are fruitless. As she prises me out of my chair, I decide some herbal medicine probably won’t kill me, and I wouldn’t have the knowledge or vocabulary to order it myself.

Gripping my elbow, Chanh guides me out through the compound gates and across the main road to a Nha Thuoc. A small, dusty, old man shuffles out in a white coat and leans across the glass counter full of medicaments. Chanh speaks to him, pointing at me as though I were a sore knee. Periodically she nods at me reassuringly and says ‘special medicine.’

Eventually the old guy unlocks the glass counter and reaches inside. His bony hand roves along like the hydraulic claw that picks up fluffy toys in the amusement arcade machine. In place of furry gonks there are boxes with pictures of tigers and seahorses, and packet upon packet of pills. He brings his claw to a halt over a packet labelled ‘Keflex’. I squint at the generic name: ‘Cephalexin’. This is no fruit and herb cocktail.

‘This is antibiotics.’ I say.

‘Very good medicine,’ she replies, taking the packet from the man.

‘Yes, I know Chanh. Western medicine.’

‘No!’ she says sternly. ‘Vietnam medicine. You must buy.’ She brings her face close to mine for emphasis, and adds ‘You too thin. This make you strong.’

I pay for the pills, figuring I can throw them away when I get home, but Chanh is as cluey as a psychiatric nurse. She orders me a glass of boiled water over the counter, opens the packet and puts a pill in my hand. She and the dusty vendor watch me in pointed silence. Resistance is useless. I take the pill.