America's incessant knocking returned the next week. Vietnam opened the door, bleary-eyed.
"Vietnam! For a second thought that you weren't home. What took you so long?"
"I came home from the fields to take a nap. And it only took me a minute to answer, Mr. America."
"A nap in the middle of the day? That's strange!" he laughed.
"Well, maybe to you."
He was oblivious to her comment. "So, Viet, what'll we be doing today?"
Puzzled, she said, "Um, well, there isn't really a Viet Minh meeting planned until later this week. There is some intelligence to be gathered and more supplies to be distributed, so—"
He snapped his fingers. "Don't you worry! I've got an idea. Let's go to your biggest city and figure things out from there."
She wondered what he had in mind, exactly, but decided not to question it. He was, after all, a world power and therefore a more experienced ally for this sort of thing. So, she agreed.
In Saigon, America was fascinated by everything, looking around and pointing to things sold at shops. Vietnam navigated him through the bustling people, answering his questions and wondering if Saigon compared to any of America's golden cities. Glancing around to see if anyone was within earshot, Vietnam whispered, "So, what's the plan?"
"Let's get something to eat!"
"Ah, alright, but what about afterwards?"
"Well duh, Viet. Dessert."
She gave him a quizzical look before her jaw dropped open in disbelief. "America! I thought we had some mission against Japan!"
"You did? I was actually just hungry. That restaurant looks good. Wait—that one too! Let's try everything," he insisted, eyes bright.
"We are in a city with Japanese headquarters, and all you want to do is eat?" Vietnam scolded.
"Aw, come on, Viet," he pleaded. "Trying out new food is my favorite thing ever. I really wanted you to introduce me to your best stuff."
"But we are in the middle of a world war!" She paused. "What is that face?"
"What face?" America asked, somehow maintaining his begging puppy expression, pouted lips and all.
"Stop that—I'll take you whatever restaurant you want, okay? For heaven's sake; you're five years old," Vietnam complained, as America let out a "yippee!" She cast her eyes around and led her child to a steaming food stand.
"Mmm!" America approved, wolfing down an ensemble of carrots, sausage and scrambled eggs enfolded in a wrap.
"Please don't choke yourself. How many other things would you like to try?"
"Evrthing," he replied, mixed vegetables spilling from his lips.
Many dumplings, pancakes, seafood, cups of coffee and coconut milk, and bowls of rice and phở and salad later, Vietnam and America sat in yet another restaurant. They had visited nearly every one in the city, as well as the plentiful food stands. "Is your appetite endless?" Vietnam groaned, rubbing her temples.
"I get asked that a lot," America laughed. "Why? Are you running low on money?"
"Not really. Food here is quite inexpensive—I know because France has let me visit a few European countries before. What's the point of having to pay so much for an essential pleasure?"
"Couldn't agree with you more."
At that moment, a waiter arrived. Vietnam put a finger to her lips, thoughtfully going through a mental menu. She turned to him. "Do you want to try another soup?"
"Whatever you think would be good, Chef Kim," America replied reverently.
She smiled through her finger. Though it made her self-conscious at first, introducing Alfred to her cuisine was fun. It was nice to see someone so thrilled about her culture, for a change. "Bún bò Huế, làm ơn. Cám ơn," Vietnam told the waiter. Once he left, she turned back to America. "I certainly didn't imagine allies to be doing this sort of thing. Are you sure we shouldn't be doing something more serious?"
"Allies is just another word for friend, ya know. So it's important for us to get to know each other better."
She folded her arms, incredulously raising a brow. "It's definitely a more formal type of friend. And what are we learning while we find things to stuff your face with?"
"A lot of your food is fresh and really healthy. It always looks simple, but then it turns out tasting a lot richer that it seemed. You learned how to cook from China, but France gave you a few pointers, too—like those crepes and baguette sandwiches and that coffee. You're always really polite when you ask for things," America listed in one breath.
Vietnam blinked. "That—that is very astute of you to notice. Thank you," she said, feeling embarrassed for some reason.
"Y'welcome! Say, one day you'll be able to visit my place, and we'll do the same thing! There's so many things to try, Viet. I'm not called a melting pot for nothing."
"…I think I would like that. Yes, I would."
"Oh man, you've haven't lived until you try a burger."
America's soup arrived, a bowl full of lemongrass and thick noodles, and he excitedly took a large spoonful. Instantly, he coughed, tears springing to his eyes. "Hot," he gasped. "Hot."
Vietnam poured a cup of jasmine tea, spilling some over the brim in her haste, and pushed it towards him. He gulped it down and gestured wildly for more. The tiny porcelain cup was passed between them until the pot was empty. "I am so sorry," Vietnam said. "I should have known you weren't used to spicy food."
"Id's aright. D'you think we coud go back to your house?" he asked, inarticulate with his burnt tongue, which made her feel worse.
"Of course. We can go now."
Once the two returned, America noticed that she headed straight for the kitchen and started setting ingredients on a cutting board.
"What're you up to?"
"I forgot to introduce you to one of my favorites, so I'm making it now. It is a cool dish, so it should help your burned mouth," she explained, smiling apologetically at him.
"Aw shucks," he said, plopping himself down at the table.
"You know, we didn't have to go to the city. You could have asked me to make anything for you."
"I woke you up from a nap. You must've been exhausted. I didn't want to make you work."
"That is…very thoughtful."
America watched her delicate, deft fingers chop up vegetables and shrimp, which she then bundled up with translucent rice paper. There was something so domestic about sitting at the table and watching her prepare food for him that made his scalp tingle.
"It's done," she said, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and setting the laden plate on the table. As they ate, she glanced sideways at him, and asked, "Mr. America, in your opinion, what do 'friends' do?"
"Fun stuff like what we just did! Friends tell each other everything. And they definitely don't call each other Mr."
"But you are the more powerful country," said Vietnam, shocked. "It would be rude of me if I did not."
"Friends don't worry about rudeness." At Vietnam's blank expression, he laughed and said, "You'll see."
She was doubtful, yet at the same time, curious.
Vietnam could expect the loud American to come by once every two weeks. Sometimes he came alone, other times with the OSS. During his private visits, America and Vietnam discussed Axis activity, or America prattled on about nothing in particular. When he was finished dispensing words, America would put his military cap back on, declaring, "Well, back into the fray!" And he would be off.
Vietnam felt more comfortable when they conversed about war. It was common ground—they both understood what it took to fight like hell. Plus, she liked how he exclaimed, "Aha! This is great news, Viet!" when she shared secrets that she overheard from Japan. She liked the feeling that she was holding up her end of the alliance. A feeling she didn't have when America blabbered about personal nothings. She found herself unable to contribute. His words painted such vivid pictures of his home, that Vietnam just preferred to silently admire. What was there to tell about her country? He was in it.
She did notice, however, that when there were dark circles under her eyes and the mood was spoiled by her sighs, he retold the victories of his own Revolution. In that way, his chats weren't so bad after all.
When the OSS accompanied America in his visits, they met at the primary Viet Minh base and asked Ho Chi Minh questions.
"So, your organization, the Viet Minh…" an OSS officer began. Five Americans (including the country), Ho, and Vietnam sat around a large table. "It opposes the French, as well as the Japanese. When the war is over and Japan possibly withdraws, you will turn your efforts primarily to eliminate the French?"
"I understand your concern, sir. France is America's ally, after all. But we are not anti-French, merely patriots deserving full trust and support."
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Ho," spoke up one major, proceeding as gently as he could, "there is some confusion on your stance towards communis—"
Ho waved him off. "We are all united now. We will discuss politics later."
"'We' meaning…us, or the Viet Minh as a group?"
"However you take it. Most of the Viet Minh is made up of people who do not yet know about these different social ideologies. They only know the word 'freedom.' Your statesmen make eloquent speeches about helping those with self-determination. We are self-determined. Why not help us? Am I any different from Nehru, Quezon, even your George Washington? Was not Washington considered a revolutionary? I, too, want to set my people free."
"And there is a high chance of that coming true, Mr. Ho," said one official with clear admiration. "President Roosevelt supports post-war independence of the world."
"Ah, but of course! The United States is a country of freedom."
Ho Chi Minh, as the group learned, liked talking about America a lot. Understandable, thought Vietnam, he had lived there for several years. His tendency to bring up the nation, however, often took their conversations to irrelevant tangents.
It was moments like these where America's attention drifted, particularly to the attractive woman seated next to him. In contrast, Vietnam never looked at America unless he was a part of the discussion. She watched the men with thoughtful eyes, nodding at Ho's points. Once, out of boredom, he nudged her, causing her to jump; she had been so intent on the conversation.
"What?" she whispered while the others continued talking.
"Wow, you are really into this, aren't you?" he marveled.
Her expression became annoyed, realizing he only had small talk to offer. "It's interesting."
"Really? They're talking about how Ho Chi Minh waited tables in Massachusetts." Vietnam turned back to the others, clearly affronted. "Maybe I'm just not as interested because I don't need to ask any questions to know that I want to save you," he hurried to add. She ignored him, unimpressed.
Vietnam rejected all of America's attempt at small talk until one day, when France was once again the topic of discussion, America muttered under his breath, "Did you know that France's new flag is entirely white?" A laugh burst out of Vietnam's mouth. The two nations spent the rest of the meeting whispering chides about France, which Vietnam had no limit of.
Thereafter, America and Vietnam retreated to the opposite end of the table so they could have side discussions without disturbing the OSS and Ho. In these conversations, Vietnam opened up slowly, became more comfortable around him. She began to use the honorific 'mister' less and less often, until eventually she admitted that it felt awkward being so formal to him. America's heart flipped and rose on a bubble of hope.
"Great! You can start calling me Alfred now. Or just plain Al! I don't mind either one."
She laughed. "Human names? Don't you think that's over-sentimental?" The bubble burst.
He didn't let his spirits stay downcast for long, though. After all, he had made her laugh. And that was definitely something.
"I'm sorry," America mourned. "I didn't realize I'd scare them all off."
Vietnam sighed and rested her chin in her palm, staring at the now-empty water beneath her feet. "It's fine, America. I'll catch a fish later. Or I can buy one from the market. Just be quieter when people are fishing, alright?"
He sniffled an "okay" as Vietnam stood from her seat on the edge of the dock and rolled in the line of her fishing rod. "So what do you have planned today?" she asked. Recently, America had taken habit of demanding Vietnam to take him on silly tourist-like trips around her country. She only hoped that he didn't want to go on another picnic.
"I was thinking we could do something quiet." Vietnam looked up at him with alarm, wondering if he was sane. "I feel bad for being loud and ruining your fishing, okay? We should do something you want to do. All I ever do is talk."
"I-it's okay, America," she said, raising the brim of her hat to look him in the eye. "I mean, you talk about yourself a lot because you're homesick, right? I've never had to fight out of the country…there must be a lot to miss."
America stared at her in shock and was overcome with the urge to embrace her. He was restrained by the thought that she wouldn't like it and by the emotion welling up in his throat. He swallowed and forced a smile, clapping his hand on her shoulder. "Right-o! You're so smart! Still, though, I'd be a bad friend if I didn't let you decide once in a while. It's all on you today!"
Friend. Was that what this was? Vietnam was still unsure. "Well…if you insist..."
Minutes later
Vietnam's paddle sliced through the clear water, pushing the canoe down a turquoise river that stretched out to a wall of mountains. Though the boat was slim, it was long enough for America to stretch out and lie on his back with Vietnam sitting close to his feet, "to balance out his weight." Vietnam had ordered Alfred to keep his excited chatter for later, as to not scare off the wildlife. Therefore, all that could be heard was the rhythmic swish of Vietnam's practiced rowing, twittering birds, and the rustle of river reeds. Vietnam mostly stayed silent herself, sometimes shutting her eyes as if soaking in her own surroundings (Alfred watched her quite closely). Occasionally she would point her oar towards a notable feature, like a shy animal or a mountain, and say a few words. He asked her many questions (some of them dumb, which she called him out on), because he never realized how much he liked her voice. Well, he had always thought her accent was cute, but he had never appreciated the low, smooth sound of her words. Like dark chocolate, America thought.
"Y' know, you're a really good guide," America said at the end of their tour. The two were sitting cross-legged in the canoe, the audience to the last sliver of sun disappearing behind the jagged horizon.
Vietnam smiled shyly. "Thank you. You were a good listener today. And you didn't sink the boat."
"You're terrible!" America complained, laughing.
And suddenly Vietnam understood. Friends didn't need formalities. They already knew that they respected and liked each other. That's what I have. I have a friend.
At this epiphany, she exclaimed, "America!"
"Yeah? O-oh…" Vietnam had laid her hands on his shoulders, and America's cheeks turned bright red. And with one firm shove, she pushed him into the water.
In the river, America spluttered and cursed. He heard Vietnam's laugh from the canoe. "What the hell was that for?" he cried.
"Friends don't worry about rudeness!" she answered, giddy with her discovery.
America stopped splashing at the realization that 1) the water was shallow and 2) she was quoting him. A grin spread across his face. She called me her friend. True, he did not quite understand what just happened, but that's what he liked about her. She always had that aura of mystery. He reached out his arm to be pulled back into the canoe. When she took his hand, America yanked her into the water. Their shouts and splashes disturbed a nearby heron, which lifted its head, spread its wings, and took off into the air alone.
Historical notes:
Much of what Ho Chi Minh said in this chapter were actual words from his mouth, documented by the OSS. They were pretty big fans of him, and vice versa. Despite leading the fight against the Americans about thirty years later, Ho Chi Minh rather admired the United States initially, even as a believer in communism. And now for some more cultural notes.
I think I read somewhere that it's more normal to take naps in certain parts of Asia, especially if you farm.
Vietnamese food is banging. The South is known for having more flavor (like spiciness) than the North, so that's why the food scene is set in Saigon. I've never had Vietnamese food, but I tried my best!
Bún bò Huế, làm ơn. Cám ơn: Bún bò Huế (a type of soup), please. Thank you. (Better translation credited to the generous miyujunes).
A/N:
And in this chapter you see their awkward alliance bloom into a closer friendship. I gotta admit, America and Vietnam as a brotp is quite beautiful. Their relationship is such a gem.
Unfortunately, I'm going to be going to sleep-away camp for three weeks, and then to China for two, but when I return I will be updating regularly. Hey, I might be able to upload the next chapter sometime in those five weeks. Cross your fingers!
I'd love to know your opinion on this chapter. As always, critique is welcome and expected. Thanks for reading!
~mysterywings
