Chapter 15: Theater of Pretense
The space was designed to kill life. The walls were white and high. The floors were polished to a mirror-like shine, reflecting the slow, measured movements of people in designer clothes. The silence had its own sounds: the steady hum of the air conditioning system, the polite clink of wine glasses, and whispers. Scholarly whispers about the splashes of color, the meaningless shapes hanging on the walls with exorbitant prices. The air was thick with the smell of expensive wine and artificiality.
Ngan was a prisoner. A friend in marketing had dragged her here, and now she was paying the price. The tight, revealing black dress was a uniform that did not suit her soul. She felt a physical boredom, a weight on her shoulders, a sour taste in her mouth. Her eyes looked but did not see, passing over the people who were soullessly performing the play of “appreciating art.”
Minh was also a prisoner, but a prisoner planning an escape. He had been dragged here, and he had turned his presence into an act of resistance. His ash-dyed hair, his colorful floral shirt in the midst of a black-and-white forest. He did not try to appear knowledgeable. He leaned against the wall, holding his drink like a weapon, his eyes scanning the area with mockery. He was an outsider watching a farce.
Then, amidst the fake crowd, two real eyes met.
It was not a coincidence. It was a law of physics, two magnets of the same poles forced into a narrow space, they were forced to find each other. Minh’s eyes cut a straight line through the heads, the backs, and pierced straight into Ngan’s eyes. He recognized his “foster sister” immediately. A wink, quick, neat, full of mischief. A silent signal: “I saw this farce too.”
Ngan, instead of shyly turning away, smiled. It only lasted half a second, but contained all her contempt for this place. She shook her head slightly. The password was answered: “I am bored to death too.”
Minh weaved through the crowd like a snake, not a single movement to spare. He came to Ngan’s side, standing close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He didn’t look at her, just stared ahead, his voice whispering, loud enough for her to hear over the mournful classical music.
“Sister Nuoi also has to go to these places? I thought you only liked mountains and forests?”
“You were fooled.” Ngan whispered, a tired breath. “My friend said there would be delicious food. But it was just tiny pieces of bread.”
Minh glanced at a picture of a red smudge on a white background, his expression like he was looking at a bad joke. “What do you think this means?”
Ngan replied, her voice calm and emotionless. “It’s ‘the author ran out of red ink’.”
Minh laughed. A real, hearty laugh, lost in the midst of all the programmed laughter. It was an act of sabotage. They had found an ally. Minh discreetly pulled out his phone, his fingers typing rapidly. An invitation to escape. A conspiracy born.
The exhibition space is still performing its play, but for Ngan and Minh, the stage has collapsed. It has turned into a prison, and an escape plan has just been set in motion.
The phone in Ngan’s purse vibrated. A physical jolt, a signal. She discreetly flipped it open. The screen lit up, revealing a single text message.
**Minh:** “So bored. Want to run away? I know a much more fun place.”
Ngan did not hesitate for a millisecond. Reason did not have a chance to interfere. Only instinct. Her fingers slid across the screen, resolute.
**Ngan:** “5 minutes, back door of the toilet.”
The show began. Ngan put down her glass of wine and stood up, each movement exuding a pre-programmed elegance. She walked towards the bathroom, her gait unhurried, like a true lady. At the same time, on the other side of the room, Minh frowned at his phone and walked quickly out, muttering something annoyed, as if he had an urgent work call.
They are two actors in two different plays, but heading towards the same destination.
The hallway beyond was a different world. Gone were the white lights and polished stone floors. There was only the yellow light, the smell of bleach, and the stuffy air. This was the reality behind the stage. As Ngan stepped out, her heart beat a little faster. Minh was already there, leaning against the wall, his fake irritation gone, replaced by a mastermind smile.
He said nothing. He just took her hand.
That hold was the point of no return. Skin touching, a confirmation of their agreement. He pulled her running.
They ran. Not a walk. A real escape. They dashed through the kitchen, a world of stainless steel, steam, and screams. The chefs in white looked on in amazement as the two figures, one elegant, one gaudy, ran as if chased by ghosts. Ngan’s giggles burst out, uncontrollable, mingling with Minh’s guffaws. Their sounds were an intrusion into the order of the place.
They threw open the back door and rushed out.
The hot, humid air and the noise of the Saigon streets hit them like a slap in the face. A shock to the senses. They stopped, both panting, hands still clasped. Then, as if at the same time, they looked at each other and laughed. Not a giggle, but a wild, hearty laugh, a laugh of release.
Minh spoke while breathing, his voice unable to hide his triumph. “See! Going with me is just fun, Sister Nuoi!”
Ngan had to hold onto his shoulder to stand steady, tears flowing from laughter. “I admit it. You are really an expert at avoiding work.”
The first act of rebellion was complete. The “best friend” relationship was officially born, not with words, but with a spectacular escape and uncontrollable laughter.
The sidewalk snail restaurant in District 4 is an assault on the senses. The air is not for breathing, but for tasting. The saltiness of sweat, the heat of chili, the smoke of charcoal, and above all the rich aroma of scallion oil and seafood sizzling on the grill. The sounds are a cacophony of laughter, clinking glasses, shouting orders, the roar of motorbikes on the street. This is a world completely opposite to the sterile glass cage they have just escaped. This is life, naked and without a trace of pretense.
As soon as he sat down on the plastic chair, a physical transformation took place. Minh, without hesitation, ripped off his expensive floral shirt, tossing it aside like a peeled skin. He was left in only a tank top, revealing his toned arms. He sat with his legs crossed on the chair, a posture of occupying space, comfortable as if at home.
Same with Ngan. She was no longer the lady in the black dress. She used her hand, the long slender fingers that had just held the wine glass, to pick up a snail, bring it to her mouth and suck it. The sauce stuck to her lips, but she didn’t care. She had taken off her mask.
They ordered a tower of beer and dishes whose names were as blatant as the dishes themselves: snails, blood cockles, grilled chicken feet. They ate, they drank, they held no reserve. They were like two prisoners just released, devouring their first meal of freedom.
Minh, after taking a long swig of beer, slammed his glass down on the table. There was a loud “pop,” a real sound. He said, his voice raw and undisguised. “Damn, those fancy places are hell. I’d rather sit here and smell the smoke.”
Ngan also clinked glasses, the sound of glass clinking was sharp. Her eyes were full of contempt as she remembered. “Me too. Seeing those women act like they understand art, when they probably only care about whether their skirts get wrinkled. Fake.”
Minh sneered, a smile of sympathy. “Exactly! Like those guys who always preach morality but book call girls behind her back.”
They had found a common language. A language of contempt. They cursed together, they cursed the world together, they laughed at the hypocrisy of society together. They didn’t need to impress each other. They didn’t need flowery words. Their intimacy was built on a much more solid foundation: a common enemy. They were two soldiers on the same side, and in that moment, they were the most real people in a world full of hypocrites.
Almost 3am. The snail shop had cleared out, returning the sidewalk to its usual silence. Only the two of them remained, sitting in the middle of a battlefield of snail shells and empty beer glasses. The smell of coal smoke, beer, and scallion oil still lingered in the air, like an echo of the battle just past. The world had fallen asleep, leaving only them, two sober people in a drunken stupor.
Minh took the motorbike. Ngan sat behind him, but she didn’t hug him like other girls would. A hug would be a dependence, a romance. Instead, she just put her hand on his shoulder, firmly. Her fingers felt the firmness of his shoulder muscles under his shirt. It wasn’t a lover’s touch, it was the touch of a teammate who trusted the rider.
The car sped away. The night road was silent, except for the steady hum of the engine and the yellow streetlights that flashed by like slow motion. The noise of the city had receded into a thick silence. The night wind blew her hair, a feeling of naked freedom.
Minh shouted, his voice lost in the wind.
“Are you happy?”
Ngan laughed loudly, her laughter no longer drowned out by any other noise, it echoed in the empty street. “Fun!”
“Next time someone asks you to go somewhere boring, remember to call me!”
Ngan patted him on the shoulder, a pat of recognition. “Sure, ‘best friend’!”
The phrase was spoken, over the sound of wind and engine. It wasn’t a confession. It was an oath. A contract had been sealed. They were “buddies,” partners in the fight against boredom.
The car stopped in front of the hotel. There was no romantic kiss. No tearful goodbyes. Minh didn’t even take off his helmet. He just turned around, his voice slurred from drunkenness.
“Go to sleep, sister. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He drove away, blending into the night, leaving Ngan standing there alone. She stood still for a long time, watching his disappearing figure. Then, a slow smile spread across her lips. A smile of satisfaction. She had not found a hero to protect her. She had found an accomplice to burn the world together. And for her at this moment, that was much more interesting.