Blackout on Milk Flower Street

Hanoi is melting and I'm whisking milk with salt.

It's ten past six in the evening and the fan at the cà phê turns so slowly it looks like it's praying. The place is a narrow tube on Milk Flower Street, with the door wide open and the air still as a lying dog. Sweat runs down the back of my neck and slips between my shoulder blades. I serve a glass of cà phê muối to a guy in a hard hat and wipe my hands on my apron. Behind the counter, Mrs. Hạnh counts change with damp fingers.

—Thu, close at seven, there's a cut today —she says without looking up.

—A cut?

—From six in the evening to four in the morning. They announced it on the neighborhood loudspeakers. Twelve hours.

I look at the sign on the ceiling, the fan that barely moves the air, the freezer where we keep the ice. Twelve hours without power in July in Hanoi is a sentence. Mrs. Hạnh keeps counting coins as if she'd told me it was going to rain.

I live at number 14 in the alley, third floor, with my mother and with the memory of my father shut in a closet. My mother has a bad knee and the habit of calling me at night to have me put the ice pack on. Before going up, I buy two bags of ice at Mrs. Bích's stall, and she hands them to me with a funeral face.

—Twelve hours, Thu. Twelve. My fruit is going to rot.

—I know, cô.

—And you, do you have candles?

—I have three.

—Well put them on the balcony, so it's clear we're alive.

Mrs. Bích is the moral owner of the alley. She knows who owes money, who cheats whom and who leaves the trash out late. I love her the way you love a traffic light: because it's there and because it stops the traffic.

I climb the three floors with the ice bags dripping on my wrist. The landing smells of fish sauce and hanging laundry. On the second, Mrs. Bích coughs behind her door. On the third, my mother naps with the radio on.

At a quarter to seven the power goes out. There's no flicker: there's a snap and the world goes deaf. The radio cuts off mid-sentence. The living room fan slows and stops. My mother wakes up and says my name.

—I'm here, má.

I put ice on her knee, open the window for her, put the hand fan on her chest. Then I take a candle out to the balcony and light it. The flame trembles, crouches, rises. The street is dark from top to bottom, a black well smelling of hot asphalt. Someone shouts an address, someone laughs, a child cries and his mother tells him to be quiet.

Across from me, on the balcony of the building opposite, four and a half meters away, there's a silhouette.

It's a man. He's standing with his arms resting on the railing, and he's looking at me. I can't make out his face. I make out the outline: broad shoulders, tank top, shorts. Behind him, a stopped fan like just another piece of furniture.

We stay like that for a while, two stains in the dark.

—Do you have a candle too? —I say, because I don't know how to keep quiet.

His voice reaches me low, calm, with a lilt I can't place.

—I have two. And a lighter that won't spark.

—How's it going to spark if it has no flint?

—Good question.

There's a click, another, another. Then a curse.

—And? —I ask.

—You're right. It's missing the flint.

I laugh. The laugh escapes before I think about whether I should. He doesn't laugh, but something in the air changes, like when someone stops standing and sits down.

—What's your name? —I ask.

—Dũng. And you?

—Thu.

—Thu. —He says it slowly, as if writing it down somewhere—. Do you have water, Thu?

—I have two bags of ice and a half-empty jug.

—I have a full jug and no ice. I'll trade you.

—How are you going to pass it to me, if we're in different buildings?

—With a rope.

And that's how it starts. It takes him twenty minutes to find a rope, because in his house nobody knows where anything is, and I spend those twenty minutes leaning over the railing, dying of heat, watching a candle move from one balcony to another without reaching either. When the rope finally appears, tied to a bucket, the jug goes up and the ice goes down, and the bucket comes back up with the bag of ice inside and a can of beer I didn't ask for.

—I don't drink beer —I tell him.

—Me neither. But it was cold.

I open it. It's warm.

—Dũng.

—Yes?

—It's warm.

—That's because it took a while.

I laugh again and he makes a noise that must be a mechanic's laugh, short, with air through the nose.

We talk until ten. We talk about the heatwave, the price of ice, a neighbor on the fourth floor who plays nhạc vàng at full volume and Mrs. Bích, who from the second floor tells us to be quiet every time we laugh.

—Do you know her? —I ask.

—She's been letting me run a tab on bananas for eight years.

—So she's fond of you.

—She's got me on file.

At some point, between laughs, it slips out that I take care of my mother. I tell him without meaning to, the way you tell things in the dark.

—Is it bad? —he asks.

—The knee. And her head, at times. Mostly the knee.

—And who takes care of you?

Nobody ever asks me that. I stay quiet a second too long.

—Eight cats —I say—. The alley ones. I feed them at eleven.

—At eleven there's no light anymore.

—That's exactly why. They behave better in the dark.

—What are their names?

—They don't have names. They get counted.

—And how many so far?

—Five today. Seven yesterday. Eight on Tuesday.

—And what happens when they reach eight?

—That's it. They've eaten everything.

He really laughs this time, and the laugh comes out deep and lasts. Mrs. Bích coughs two floors down, like a warning.

At eleven I go down with the candle and the bowl of rice. In the alley you can't see a thing. The cats arrive with their eyes lit up like coins: five, six, seven. The eighth, a tabby with a torn ear, stays on the step and looks at me as if I owed him money. I count them out loud and Dũng counts them with me from the balcony.

—Eight —he says—. That's it.

—That's it.

And I don't know why, we both go quiet for a moment, as if we'd finished a job together.

The candle in between

At one in the morning the air has turned into a solid thing. My mother sleeps with the window open and the fan in her hand, and I can't sleep. I go out to the balcony with the last candle and set it on the floor, among the basil pots. The flame stretches upward, toward the starless sky.

—Thu?

—Here.

—Can't sleep?

—No.

—Me neither. —A pause—. Are you hot?

—I'm so hot it's driving me out of my mind.

—Lower the candle to the floor. That way the air reaches your face.

I do it. The flame sits at knee height, and from the balcony opposite the light hits my chin, my neck, my T-shirt. He's lowered his too, and now we see each other's faces halfway, two half-yellow faces floating in the dark.

He has the face of someone who fixes things: broad forehead, straight brows, a three-day stubble badly shaved. He's in his thirties, somewhere. He has still eyes.

—Now I see you —I say.

—I saw you before.

I touch my hair, which I have pinned up with a clip, and I realize I'm wearing my sleep T-shirt, an old T-shirt, and that the outline of my bra shows through it. I don't care. It's too hot to care.

—What are you doing? —he asks.

—Nothing. Looking at you.

—That's not nothing.

—Dũng.

—Yes?

—You're too far away to argue.

He leans on the railing with his elbows, tilts forward, and the distance suddenly becomes shorter and longer at the same time.

—You know what's the worst part? —he says—. That tomorrow the power comes back and this ends.

—Three hours to go.

—Yeah.

He stays looking at me. He has one hand hanging over the railing, fingers open, and I look at that hand the way you look at a place you want to go. Then it occurs to me.

—Pass me the candle.

—How?

—With the rope. Pass me the candle.

He ties it to the bucket, lowers it, raises it. When I have it on my balcony, with the two flames together, the air between the two buildings seems hotter. He laughs quietly.

—Now I have less light than before.

—But I have more. And you see me better.

—That's true.

I lean on the railing just like him, on my elbows, and the T-shirt stretches across my back. I know what shows. I know he's looking at it.

—What do you see? —I ask.

—Your back. Your neck. A hair clip.

—How boring.

—The hem of your T-shirt —he says, lower—. A piece of you.

I bring my hand to the hem of the T-shirt and lift it a hand's width, just a hand's width, so the air reaches it. The fabric stays bunched over my waist. He says nothing. I hear him move, lean further, and I know he's looking at the strip of skin I've just left bare.

—Thu.

—Yes?

—Show me your hands.

I stretch my arms toward him, palms open, over the railing. It's a child's gesture, a "look, I'm not holding anything." He does the same. Our hands hang in the air, four and a half meters apart, two pairs of yellow hands in the candlelight.

—Closer —I say.

—I can't.

—Yes you can. Lean in.

He leans until the railing digs into his stomach. I do the same. Now there are three meters, maybe two and a half. The tips of my fingers reach for his and don't make it. We both laugh, hands stretched out like idiots.

—We need a stick —he says.

—Or longer arms.

—Or a narrower building.

I lower my arms. He does too. And then something else occurs to me, and this time I'm embarrassed.

—Dũng, do you have a broom?

—I have three.

—Pass me one.

—What for?

—To touch you.

He goes quiet for a second. Then he disappears from the balcony and comes back with a long-handled broom. He passes it along the rope, up through the bucket, and when I have it in my hand he props his on the railing, tilted toward me like a bridge. I do the same with mine. The tips of the handles touch.

—Hello —I say.

—Hello.

I push the handle forward and his gives. He pushes and mine gives. We play at pushing each other for a while, and each push is a laugh, and each laugh is a little more hot air between us.

—This is ridiculous —he says.

—This is the best thing that's happened to me in a month.

—In a month?

—In a year.

And that's where the joke ends. He stops pushing. The handle stays still, touching mine, and the tips of the two sticks hold themselves up in the air like a living thing.

—Thu —he says—, I'm going to do something silly.

—Do it.

He takes his broom with both hands, lifts it, and with the tip of the handle touches my shoulder. It's the lightest touch, a wooden stick on my shoulder, and my whole arm breaks out in goosebumps. It goes down slowly, along my arm, my elbow, my wrist, and stops in the palm of my open hand.

—There —I say—. There you do reach.

—There I do.

He moves the tip across my palm, in circles, and it's ridiculous that a broomstick makes me press my thighs together. Then he takes it up my forearm, my elbow, my shoulder again, and veers to my neck. He touches my neck with the tip of the handle and I tip my head back without meaning to.

—Do you like it? —he asks.

—Yes.

It goes down my sternum. It stops at the edge of the T-shirt, where the neckline begins, and waits there, still, as if asking permission. I lean forward a little and the handle goes in a centimeter. Then two. The wood is warm from his hand.

—Dũng.

—Yes?

—You're touching me with a broom.

—I know.

—And I like it.

His breath escapes. The tip slides down, over the fabric, to the hem of the T-shirt, and then underneath, over the strip of skin at my waist, and it stays there, resting on my navel, trembling a little because he's trembling too.

—I can't reach any lower —he says.

—Yes you can.

—No, really. Look.

He pushes a little and the handle pulls away. It's come up short. We both look at the gap of air between the tip of the stick and my waist as if it were an abyss.

—We need something else —I say.

—A cable.

—A cable.

And that's when the cable occurs to me. He has a roll of brake cable in the workshop downstairs, or so he says, and he goes down to get it with the candle in his hand. I stay on the balcony, with the two candles together, listening to him open the metal shutter and rummage through boxes. It takes ten minutes. When he comes back, he's carrying a thin, flexible cable, and he ties it to a screwdriver to give it weight.

—You pull —he says—. I'll hold it.

I pass it along the rope and pull it up. The end of the cable stays in my hand like a snake. He keeps the other end, taut, and looks at me.

—And now?

—Now you touch me with this.

—Where?

—Wherever you want.

The cable is soft and weighs just enough. He moves it slowly, with a mechanic's precision, and it brushes my neck, my collarbone, the top of my chest. It catches on the edge of my neckline and he pulls carefully and the fabric pulls away. My bra shows. More of me shows than has shown in months.

—Thu.

—What?

—You're very close.

—So are you.

He moves the cable down, over my belly, and I stay very still. It stops at the elastic of my shorts. It waits. I say nothing. He pulls the elastic down a finger, two, and the cable slides underneath, over the skin of my lower belly, and there's no more joking possible.

—I'm soaked —I say, because it's true and because in the dark you can say it.

—I can tell.

—You can't tell. It's a cable.

—I can tell by how you pull.

I smile. He takes the cable up again, slowly, to my neckline, and hooks it on my bra strap. He pulls. The strap stretches and pulls away from my shoulder, and then he lets it go and it snaps softly against my skin. I laugh and complain at the same time.

—Sorry.

—Again.

—Did you like it?

—Again, Dũng.

He does it again, and again, and on the fourth the strap slips all the way off and my shoulder is left bare. He stays looking.

—Show me the other one —I say.

—How?

—Your shoulder. Show me your shoulder.

He pulls the strap of his T-shirt down with his free hand. He has a brown, round shoulder, with a small scar at the top. I stare at it as if it were something you could eat.

—More —I say.

—More?

—Lower the T-shirt.

He lowers it. His chest shows, his sternum, a bit of belly. The cable falls from my hand and he lets go of his, and we both stay like that, looking at each other through the candles, with our clothes half off.

—I'm coming down —I say.

—To the street?

—To the street.

—There's a gate. The building's gate.

—I know.

I go down with the candle. The stairwell is black and my bare feet sound on the steps. On the second floor, Mrs. Bích coughs in her sleep. On the first, the gate is locked with a padlock, but it's the kind that opens from inside with a latch. I open it, step out into the alley, and Dũng is already crossing the street with his candle.

We stop a step apart.

He's taller than he seemed. His chest is rising and falling. The candle lights his badly shaved beard and his mouth, which is a wide mouth, with a thin lip, and which is now half open.

—Hello —I say.

—Hello.

—We've been talking for five hours and we haven't touched.

—Now we have.

I raise my hand. He raises his. We touch fingers in the air, like before, but now they really touch, and the first contact is so electric that we both let out our breath at once. His fingers close over mine. He pulls me a little toward him. I take the step.

The first time is with the hands. He puts his palms on my waist, under the T-shirt, and my skin breaks out all over. I put my hands on his chest, on his sternum, and feel his heart pounding. We touch each other like two blind people learning a map: he goes up my back, my ribs, and stops at the edge of my bra; I go down his belly and stop at the elastic of his shorts.

—Can I? —he asks.

—You can.

He unhooks my bra with one hand, which a mechanic would know how to do, and slides it down my arms. The fabric falls to the floor. He stays looking and then crouches and kisses my chest, above the nipple, and the heat of his mouth is unbearably good.

—Not here —I say—. The gate.

We go into the building's entrance. He closes the gate with the latch and blows out his candle. We're left with mine, on the floor, and the black stairwell around us. He pushes me gently against the wall of the first flight and really kisses me, with an open mouth, with tongue, and I take his face in both hands and kiss him back as if I'd wanted him for years.

He pulls the T-shirt down my other shoulder and takes it off. He pulls down my shorts and panties in one go. He puts his hand between my thighs and slides it up, and when he touches me a sound escapes against my mouth.

—Thu.

—Shut up.

He touches me slowly, with two fingers, in circles, and I grip his shoulders and tip my head back and bite my lip so as not to cry out. Mrs. Bích is two floors up, with her door open because of the heat, and every time he speeds up I think of Mrs. Bích's cough and hold back my laugh.

—Turn around —he says.

—What?

—Turn around.

I turn. He puts his hand on the back of my neck and bends me a little against the wall, and touches me from behind, one hand on my hip and the other between my legs. It's different. It's deeper. I grip the railing and push back against his hand.

—Like that —I say.

—Like that?

—Yes. Like that, don't stop.

He doesn't stop. He moves his fingers with the patience of a man who fixes things, adjusting, searching, until he finds the spot and the rhythm and then he keeps it, the same, without varying, and I start to tremble from the knees up. A moan escapes me and he covers my mouth with his free hand.

—Mrs. Bích —he says in my ear.

I laugh against his palm and he keeps going, and the laugh turns into something else, into a long tremor that climbs up my back and bends me over. I come like that, standing, against a building's entrance wall, with a stranger's hand on my mouth and the other between my thighs, and when I finish my legs give out and he holds me by the waist.

I stay leaning, breathing. He moves my hair off my neck and kisses me there, on the neck, with an open mouth.

—Your turn —I say.

—No need.

—Dũng.

—Really, no need.

I turn and pull down his shorts. I pull down his underwear too and take him in my hand, and he lets out all his breath at once and rests his forehead on the wall above my shoulder. He's hard and hot and he pulses in my palm. I move my hand slowly, squeezing, and he starts moving his hips forward.

—Like that? —I ask.

—Like that —he says, voice broken—. Like that, fuck.

I speed up and he bites his forearm. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open and the candle on the floor lights his throat, and seeing him like that, undone, on a stairwell, turns me on again. I squeeze harder. He rocks his hips back and then forward, and he grabs my wrist so I won't stop.

—I'm going to come —he warns.

—Come.

He comes with a low grunt, against my hand, forehead pressed to my shoulder, and I hold him until he stops trembling.

We stay like that, pressed together, sweating against each other, with the candle burning down on the floor.

—Well —I say.

—Well.

—This is nothing, huh?

—It's nothing —he says, and looks at me—. It's a blackout.

Four in the morning

At half past three we go up to my balcony, because my living room floor is tile and cool, and because he said "let's sit where there's air" and we both knew it was a lie.

My mother sleeps. We tiptoe past her door with a finger to our lips.

We sit on the balcony floor, backs against the wall, and he puts his hand on my thigh and I put my head on his shoulder. We talk nonsense: about the cats, about Mrs. Bích, about a customer who orders coffee with seven spoonfuls of sugar. He tells me he has a workshop on the street behind and that he's been fixing motorbikes since he was nineteen.

—And what motorbikes do you fix? —I ask, eyes closed.

—All kinds. Honda, Yamaha, whatever they bring.

—Honda Super Cub?

—Mostly Super Cubs. Those are the most common.

I sit with that for a moment. My mother's Super Cub. Blue, from '98, with the license plate bent. She's been taking it to a workshop on the street behind for seven years and they never charge her anything, because the owner says it's a bike that's already paid for.

—Dũng.

—What?

—Where's your workshop?

—At 7 on the back alley. Why?

I sit up and look at him. He looks at me without understanding, face calm, and suddenly I see something I hadn't seen: the flip-flops. He's wearing them. They're blue rubber flip-flops, old, with the sole worn at the edge.

—Those flip-flops —I say.

—What about them?

—You dropped them into the alley the first night. At a quarter past nine. They fell into the trash bucket and I gave them back to you with the rope.

—Right. And you gave them back to me wet.

—They were in the trash.

—They were in the trash —he admits.

I stare at him. Seven years. Seven years taking my mother's bike to a workshop whose address and price, which is zero, are all I know. Seven years hearing my mother say "the boy at the workshop is very good, Thu, he doesn't charge me" and never asking his name.

—You fix my mother's bike.

—I fix a lot of bikes.

—The blue Super Cub. From '98. With the bent license plate.

His face stops. It stops in a way that's funny.

—Cô Thanh's?

—My mother.

—Cô Thanh is your mother.

—Yes.

—And I fix her bike for free.

—Yes.

He runs a hand over his face. Then he laughs, and the laugh comes out short and a little silly.

—Seven years —he says—. Seven years and I'd never seen your face.

—Me neither.

—And now what?

—Now —I say—, nothing. It's a blackout.

And I lean in and kiss him. He takes me by the waist and sits me on his thighs, and I stay there, knees on either side of his hips, and the kiss stretches until we both forget the bike and the seven years and everything.

He pulls my T-shirt down again, the one I'd put back on, and this time he takes it off completely. He takes my breasts in both hands and squeezes them, and then brings one to his mouth and sucks my nipple, and I grip his hair and push my hips forward without meaning to.

—Wait —I say—. The floor. The tile.

—What?

—It's cooler inside. On the living room floor.

We go in. I spread a mat on the kitchen floor, next to the balcony door, and lie down. The tile is cold on my back and it's glorious. He lies down beside me and kisses my shoulder, my chest, my belly, and goes down, and goes down, and when he reaches the bottom he opens my thighs with his hands and licks me slowly, from bottom to top, one long stroke.

I cover my mouth with my arm. His tongue comes and goes, and then it stops in one spot and makes circles, and I lift my hips and grip the mat. He takes me by the hip and holds me against the floor, and keeps going, and keeps going, and when I'm about to come again he stops.

—Bastard —I say.

He laughs against me. He kisses my thigh and comes up.

—Do you have anything? —he asks.

—In my bag. In the drawer by the door.

He goes to get it. He comes back. He puts the condom on kneeling beside me, and I watch him do it with my elbow on the floor. Then he lies down on top of me and kisses me and positions himself, and waits there, at the edge, looking into my eyes.

—Yes? —he asks.

—Yes.

He enters slowly. He's wide and he's slow and I open my mouth and nothing comes out. He stops halfway, forehead against mine, breathing.

—Okay?

—Okay. Move.

He moves. He starts slow, deep, hips pressed close, and each thrust drags me a centimeter across the tile. I put my hands on his ass so he won't pull away. He speeds up and I lift my legs and cross them behind his back, and that way he goes deeper and he curses against my neck.

—Thu, I'm going to come.

—Don't come.

—I can't hold it.

—Hold it.

He slows down. Breathes. Then comes back, slower, deeper, face buried in my neck, and that way he holds it, and I come again with my mouth open and no air, trembling all over, scratching his back.

He holds out three more thrusts and then lets go with a long moan, with all his weight on top of me, and stays there, crushing me, and I don't mind being crushed.

We stay on the floor, sweating, pressed together, hearing the neighbor's fridge and a dog and the hum of a transformer starting to sound.

—Thu —he says against my neck.

—What?

—It's about to come back.

And at four o'clock exactly, it comes back. The fridge starts up, the living room fan begins to turn, the hallway light comes on and leaves us both on the kitchen floor, naked, with idiot faces, hair stuck to our foreheads.

We look at each other.

—Hello —I say.

—Hello.

—You look really ugly in this light.

—So do you.

And we laugh, but it's a different laugh now, shorter, clumsier, the laugh of people who have seen each other in the dark and suddenly see each other.

The third-floor stairwell

He gets dressed. I put my T-shirt on. His hair has stuck up and he has a mark from the mat on his cheek.

—I'm going —he says.

—Yeah.

—I have to open the workshop at seven.

—Yeah.

He stops at the door. We both know there's a step to take and neither of us takes it. In the end he takes it, halfway.

—Well. Thanks for the ice.

—Thanks for the beer.

—It was warm.

—I know.

He leaves. I close the door. I stand in the hallway, with the light on, staring at the door like an idiot. Then I turn around and go to bed.

And I don't sleep.

At a quarter past seven I go down to the street. The day is already burning. Mrs. Bích is sweeping in front of her stall and looks me up and down.

—Good morning, cô.

—Good morning. —She sets the broom down—. Last night there were two candles on your balcony, Thu.

—Yes.

—And this morning there's one.

—It burned down.

—Right —she says, and smiles with her whole mouth—. Right.

I go into the cà phê and put on my apron. I serve coffees. At nine, a guy brings a motorbike and says to leave it at the workshop on the back alley. At ten, Mrs. Hạnh sends me to buy ice and I take the long way, the one that passes number 7.

The workshop's shutter is half up. Inside there are three motorbikes taken apart and a standing fan turning. He's crouched next to a wheel, hands black with grease, and when he sees me he lifts his head and everything stops.

—Hello —I say.

—Hello.

—Do you fix wheels?

—I fix whatever they bring me.

—Well bring me… —I look around. Nothing comes to mind—. Bring me a coffee with milk.

—We don't serve coffee here.

—Right. But I do.

He laughs. He wipes his hands on a rag and doesn't come closer.

—Thu.

—What?

—If you stand there, the people in the alley are going to know about the balcony in two hours.

—Then let them know.

—And tonight you're going to have to feed the cats with me.

—Eight cats, Dũng. And the eighth one bites.

—I know. He bit me on Tuesday.

I stare at him. He stares back. And in that moment, while we look at each other not knowing what to do with the daylight on top of us, Mrs. Bích coughs two houses down, loud, on purpose, and we both turn toward the same spot.

—Good morning, cô Bích —we say at the same time.

—Good morning —she says, and keeps sweeping, and doesn't stop smiling all morning.

That night, at eleven, I go down with the bowl of rice. He's already in the alley, leaning against the wall, wearing the blue flip-flops.

—Five —I say, counting the cats that arrive.

—Six.

—Seven.

—Eight.

And the eighth, the tabby with the torn ear, arrives last, looks at both of us, and weaves between Dũng's legs as if he already knew whose he was.

—That's it —I say.

—That's it.

And we stay there, on Milk Flower Street, with the heat stuck to the back of our necks and the streetlight on top of us, not pretending to be strangers for one more minute.