Chapter Six: A Good Pot of Red Sauce

A cool breeze was coming off the Lake front as we walked to Mai’s apartment. She only lived three blocks from Lake Michigan. We had taken the El to the Argyle stop, a first for me. I had never taken the train going south before never had a need to until now. It was also the first time for me walking through what the locals called “Little Vietnam”; it was like another place all together with the sweet mint and Jasmine smells coming out of the Asian shops and Restaurants.
Shop owners peeked out at us from their doorframes, some who were sweeping off their patch of sidewalk stopped what they were doing to stare at us. Quiet stares, expressionless faces, no one stopped to say hello to us. As we quickly passed, I looked away, I did not want to be rude, and stare back at them. Everything was so clean, so neatly kept, but so unlived; nothing like my neighborhood with its pungent smells of curry combined with the heavy exhaust coming off Devon Ave, as people shouted profanities at each other from their car windows; one of which would be my mother.
I wanted to explore every shop and wander around the neighborhood to find out what made it tick. But, as we walked, I felt a little uneasy, and I thought as we walked that Mai was walking faster than usual especially when we past a group of boys, who shouted something in Vietnamese to Mai; she grabbed my arm hard, pulling me along to walk even faster along side her. I asked her what they had said. She didn’t answer me. I looked around, I was the only white person on the street and even though Mai and I were still in our school uniforms—walking side by side, I really felt out of place. But, still I wanted to venture into the shops. I wanted to feel as if I was part of this neighborhood even though I was white, and I knew by their stares that they distrusted my presence, maybe even questioned why Mai had befriended me. I shook off these negative thoughts, and only thought; this is my friend, my friend, a friend that even though we have nothing in common we still have something to share with each other.
Mai lived in a shabby, run down high-rise that was a pasty shade of pink. We took the elevator up to her apartment, which was on the sixth floor. Again, I asked her what those boys had said to her when we were at her front door, and I saw the tears in her eyes.
“Everyday it is the same thing, everyday; they say the same thing to me, ‘Bui Doi’.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dust of life.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked again.
“It means I am shit, I am nothing. Get it? Dust of life.”
“Oh,” I said feeling suddenly sad.
She unlocked her front door and the first thing that caught my eye was some sort of altar up against the living room wall, and then an over-powering smell of Jasmine.
“Take your shoes off,” Mai commanded.
I slipped my penny loafers off and stood at the doorway. Mai’s apartment was neat and tidy, but really small. And there wasn’t much furniture. There was a couch facing the balcony. The balcony had some wilted potted plants on it. There was a card table in the kitchen, and the odd part was that there was not one painting or picture on the white apartment walls — but there were a lot of books everywhere, some were stacked near the side of the couch, others in little piles at the foot of the bookcases.
I followed Mai into the kitchen. We were alone in the apartment. Apparently, her mother was still at work. Mai was moving around the kitchen, taking food out of the refrigerator and setting various dishes onto the card table. Again, I got the whiff of mint, every time she opened the refrigerator door. She motioned me to sit down, and we began to eat. Mai was silent, not looking at me at all. At first I thought she was mad at me and she kept eyeing the front door. I was a little uncomfortable, but as always food has a way of relaxing me—Mai had served me spring rolls and Pho, a soup made out of beef and rice noodles.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked through bits of my spring roll,
“No, I am just worried that my mother is going to walk in any minute now.”
“Is that bad?”
“Yes, I didn’t tell her you were coming over.”
“Why not.”
“Because she is distrusting of strangers.”
“But, I am your friend.”
“Doesn’t matter, you’re still a stranger to her.”
We hurried up and finished eating, clearing away any evidence of having been in the kitchen. I didn’t want Mai to get in trouble because of me so I asked her if she wanted me to leave.
“No, I’ll deal with my Mother when she gets home,” she said as I followed her down the hallway.
**
Her twin bed was pushed up against the wall. She had a cheap set of drawers to the left and a black plastic radio alarm clock on it. Again there were no pictures, no posters, and not one thing hanging on her bedroom walls. We sat on her floor and spread our books out in front of us. Mai got up and turned on the radio, and opened her bedroom window, letting in the noises from the late afternoon traffic off of Sheridan Ave.
“What’s up with the altar in your living room?” I asked, not looking at Mai.
“It’s in honor of my dead grandfather,” she said, flipping through her notebook. “He was some scholar in South Vietnam, and he died over there.”
“What about your grandmother?” I asked, sucking in air.
“She died when my mother was three.”
I wanted to ask more but than I heard the front door open and Mai quickly ran to the living room and started speaking to her mother in Vietnamese. It was quarter to five, and I needed to get going as well but I waited until Mai returned, and then I heard the front door open and close again.
“Did your Mother leave?”
‘Yeah, she had to go to her second job”
“Jesus, she works a lot,” I said, gathering my books from the floor. “What does she do?”
Mai looked embarrassed and crossed over to her radio and started flipping through the stations until she landed on a Pop song.
“She works as an interpreter during the day at some Refugee Resource Center, and then at night she works at a Vietnamese Restaurant around the corner.”
****
Mai walked me to the El station. She didn’t trust the boys at the corner. Once again they shouted at us as we passed by them. Mai gave them the finger, and told me that one day, she was going to get the hell out of her neighborhood, and away from these people who will never accept her. “But you are Vietnamese,” I said to her.
“Yeah, but I am a ‘Con Lai’.”
“What does that mean?”
“A half breed.”
***