Single White Female in Hanoi by Carolyn Shine Page A

When I first saw her, she was lying down between two others in the entrance – napping in the noonday heat. She lifted her head and smiled at me, and the smile exuded warmth and humanity. She wasn’t young, although her hair was still black and her face still beautiful. But she was thin. Terribly thin. While I was shopping I bought her a coconut milk drink. When I handed it to her, she seemed joyous. The next day, I bought her a vitamin drink – one with glucose and amino acids as well as vitamins and minerals. I decided to buy one every day for her.
    Yesterday, when I went out for groceries, she waved when she saw me. But as I handed her the vitamin drink, I realised I’d never seen her open the bottle. Maybe she didn’t drink the stuff. Maybe she didn’t trust it. I wasn’t sure, but I knew I needed some help to communicate with her. I presumed the drink was just what she needed, but maybe she was ill, and needed medicine instead.
    Ralph’s wife is Vietnamese, and a doctor.
    So I ring him, and listen patiently as he offers his grievances and lamentations of the day.
    â€˜This town is nothing but trouble,’ he tells me. ‘These people are terrible, they only care about money. And they are such thieves. You have to tie things down. Things are different in Singapore.’
    The bulk of today’s sermon, for some reason, is a dissertation on the dangers of older Western men marrying younger local women for their ‘beauty, not their true nature’. He ‘can’t stress strongly enough’ how these marriages will always come to a nasty end. I know, from our earlier communications, that Ralph is pushing fifty.
    â€˜How old is your wife?’ I ask casually after he mentions he used to be married to a Zulu woman during a stint in South Africa.
    â€˜Thirty-one,’ he replies without a trace of irony.
    Before he hands me over to his wife, I also learn that they spend Sundays in church. This is the surest sign yet that they’re not going to form the centrepiece of my social life in this town.
    His wife tells me I can call her Tina, although her real name is Thanh. She’s taciturn but kind. She agrees to turn up with her husband at my place tomorrow afternoon, so I can take her to meet the homeless woman.
    The rain continues through to the evening, but abates as I dash over to Global College, running a little late for my first class observation. It’s the last class of the day. It starts at 7.45 and goes for an hour and a half. Owen’s not around, but the staff at the front desk are friendly and I’m led upstairs to a classroom where Natassia has already begun teaching a lesson called ‘My Disastrous Day’.
    Natassia’s tall, lean and slim-hipped, in well-fitted clothes. Dark, straight hair, pale blue eyes. Horn-rimmed glasses and a severe fringe – she strikes me as humourless and rather prim, especially for such a young thing. Her mood is serious, and at no time during the lesson does she smile. But every time she says the words ‘disastrous day’ I nearly curl up in mirth. She has a strong Germanic accent with a slow low-pitched drawl and it comes out as a long, drawn-out ‘deezahsterrerss deyyy’. Her speaking voice is also very soft and scant on intonation, and I wonder whether any of the students understand her at all.
    Her first impression of me isn’t great either, I’ll find out. She thinks I’m arrogant. This initial, mutual lack of interest is the signature state from which most of my friendships evolve. This may be in part because any time I feel out of my depth, I seem to feel the need to feign invulnerability. It’s a grave character flaw since, besides alienating people, it also hampers my ability to absorb important information. Admitting vulnerability can be the first step in a learning curve. Like many teachers, I can be a bad student.
    But Natassia’s glad when, at her