By the middle of July, Mai could hardly walk without feeling as heavy and sluggish as one of the tanks at the Bien Hoa Air Base. She was grateful for the breeze from her Vespa, which, though hot, moved the air around. She was grateful, too, that it had been a normal pregnancy, with little morning sickness or bleeding problems. The cousins’ wives at the Binh Tay advised her what to buy for the baby. A bassinet would do for at least the first year. They told her to buy a stroller as well and to stock up on baby towels, diapers, and a few one-piece outfits. “Oh, and a pacifier or two.”
“Why?” Mai asked. She’d seen babies with the plastic nipple in their mouths. It looked like they could choke at any moment.
“You’ll see.” One of the women laughed. “Your own nipples will need time to recover.”
One day during her ninth month, the cousins at the market surprised her with a manicure and pedicure. Long, a woman from a neighboring stall, came over with a small basket filled with tools. Mai had seen them in the market and was curious. She had always done her nails herself with an emery board and polish. But this woman made it into an art form. She made Mai sit down in one of the chairs at the counter of the stall, squatted in front of her, and placed a tray on the counter. The tinny noise of buyers and merchants in the market swirled around them, but Long seemed unperturbed.
She unwrapped each tool. In addition to the emery board was a cuticle knife, an orange stick, a nail clipper, three tools that looked like scissors, a pumice stone she explained was to get rid of calluses, creams and potions, and ten—Mai counted them—different colors of polish as well as clear varnish.
Long inspected Mai’s hands. Since Mai was no longer at the Stardust, she hadn’t paid much attention to them. At the market, she lifted, moved, opened and closed boxes, packages, and items like carpets, cushions, and clothing all day. As a result her nails were chipped and dirty, and there were patches of rough skin on her wrists and palms. Long scolded that she needed to take better care of her hands.
“They are the—the door to a woman’s beauty. What did the French do when they first met a woman? They took her hand. Kissed it. Perhaps held it. You want men to have a favorable impression, yes? To linger on the beauty of your hands and wonder what other treasures you hold?”
“But we’re not French.”
Long smiled wistfully. “Sometimes I wish we were. The good ones were willing to touch us and make us feel beautiful. Not like our husbands, who won’t hold our hands at all.”
Mai’s eyebrows went up. She’d never thought of her hands as beautiful. Her hands had always held something with which to work. A broom, a hoe, a shovel. Her little brother. A tray of drinks at the Stardust. The handlebars of her Vespa. Soon, an infant.
“And your feet.” Long said. “Vietnamese women have beautiful feet. But we must make sure everyone sees their beauty. When I am done, you will no longer want to hide them from the world.”
The delicate feet May once had at the Stardust were in her past. Now her feet were swollen and red from the pregnancy. She was under no illusions they could be made to look beautiful.
“Do not worry,” Long said, as if reading her inner thoughts. “I know how to make your hands and feet so silky and tempting you will never feel the same way about them.”
Mai recalled how perfect Madame Thạc’s hands and feet looked; perhaps hers might be even better.
The manicurist took her time. First she soaked Mai’s fingers in sudsy rose-petaled water until her skin was soft. She applied coconut lotion to make her skin even softer. She rubbed the pumice stone over her calluses, and they gradually disappeared. Then she carefully cleaned Mai’s nails, lifting out all the dirt. She shaped, clipped, and filed them into perfect ovals. She pushed the cuticles back so that the tiny moons at the base of her nails were clear. The woman then buffed her nails until they were shiny.
“See?” Long looked up at Mai. “Look how pretty they are. You have good moons.”
The woman applied what she called a clear base coat to her nails. “This will make them stronger, so they will keep the polish.” Then she stood the ten tiny bottles of nail polish in front of Mai and asked her which one she wanted. The shades of pinks, roses, and reds made a glamorous display.
“Oh,” Mai cried. “Which one should I choose? I love them all!” She picked up one bottle, then another, and brought them to her nails. “I can’t decide.”
Long laughed. “Come. If you don’t like one, next time you choose another.”
Mai finally chose bright pink.
“The color of passion.” Long smiled.
After two coats of polish and another coat of clear polish, the woman spread a small towel in front of Mail. “You rest your nails here until they are dry while I start on your feet.”
Long repeated the entire process on Mai’s feet. When she was finished, Mai was astonished at how delicate and pretty they were. Her feet looked like those of a rich lady.
She felt pampered and beautiful. She had never realized there were such elaborate rituals attached to manicures and pedicures. She left the market flashing and flaunting her nails to anyone who noticed.