She sits in such utter stillness for what feels like hours, until full daylight arrives in the garden, embracing the glass wall, illuminating the room and bathing her body.
It's a quiet summer day in Saigon. A day for her to take a pause from the hustle and bustle of life and enjoy some idleness - V.
I
The writer
She finally allows herself a day off. She promised Quang, her best friend, not to touch her laptop or phone throughout the day. Of course she didn’t guarantee she could switch her brain off from working. In her mind, she agreed to have a no-work day for show, Quang is the audience and the judge — although he’s confined in his office working relentlessly. Ironic. But if she hadn't promised him, he wouldn't have stopped fussing. When he nagged, he turned into the male and younger version of her mum, which she complained about but secretly loved. He kept reminding her of the burnout she had last year. He stressed over and again that she had forever refused to let herself rest.
And it’s true. Her brain had to be in constant work mode; when there was no projects coming in, she’d still exhaust her brain with whatever she felt like doing at the time, often research and self-education. She derived energy from working, and working absorbed energy from her: an endless circle of two parallel intertwined processes. The burnout was a product born out of that circle when the latter reached a tipping point while the first fell far behind. She thought she was strong, yet she was defeated. It took her a few months to recover. But it passed, she would protest when Quang brought it up. And here she is again, constantly hungry for work. The circle resumes. But at Quang's thousand and first attempt, as he put it, she eventually gave in to his command.
It wakes her up to reality, telling her to face the fact that there is nothing outside to meet the eye. She decides then she will go out and find something worth looking at. Perhaps she will do some people watching. Although if you look deep and long enough, some people can be as empty as her back garden. She sees that emptiness in the mirror sometimes.
It’s Friday, a hot day of summer. She wakes up at the wee hours, darkness still covering her room. She rolls on to her side, procrastinating getting out of bed until the softest light of dawn casts through the curtains. She fetches her phone from the bedside table and presses the side button. The screen says 04:11.
Coming out of the bathroom, she opens the curtains to let some light in. Still in her dressing gown, she sits down at the side of the bed, curled up in her yellow beanbag, both legs drawn close to her chest, hugged in her arms, her eyes gazing out of the glass wall to the back garden and into the dawn, drenched in the idleness she’s not accustomed to. Outside, the sky is hazy, covered in smoky grey clouds. Ron Sexsmith’s Gold in them hills playing softly on repeat from her laptop. It’s relaxation, so isn't deemed a breach of her promise to Quang, she thinks.
There's gold in them hills.
So don't lose heart.
Give the day a chance to start ...
She sits in such utter stillness for what feels like hours, until full daylight arrives in the garden, embracing the glass wall, illuminating the room and bathing her body.
The back garden was once colourful and lively. She’d wake up to the golden rays of sunshine, enchanting red of roses, pink blossoms of crepe myrtles, and merry sounds of birds chirping. Mum took that liveliness away last month, telling her she planned to give the garden a makeover by filling it with vegetables and herbs. ‘It’ll be more practical,’ Mum said, as if she was telling her to get her head out of the clouds. So now it’s temporary emptiness, as dull as the idle morning she’s forcing herself to enjoy. But something about it is nostalgic to her: its resemblance to the view from her room in Croydon when she was in England a few years back — always quiet, sometimes too quiet.
A phone ring from downstairs brings her wandering mind back into the room. It wakes her up to reality, telling her to face the fact that there is nothing outside to meet the eye. She decides then she will go out and find something worth looking at. Perhaps she will do some people watching. Although if you look deep and long enough, some people can be as empty as her back garden. She sees that emptiness in the mirror sometimes.
By people watching, she doesn’t mean to stare at people and look into their souls — she has no such ability. In fact, she’d refuse if it were offered to her. Souls are complicated, she’d like to keep her life simple. In retrospect, she used to do quite a bit of people watching in her university days. She even wrote an entry about it in her blog. Back then, she watched without meaning to — it was just to feed her curious mind, which always wondered about lives around her and how theirs could be different from the life she was having. She imagined lives. Now, her mind is more settled, less curious. She listens to people to understand lives — the lives that are real — rather than watch and imagine them. But today she is back at it: the people watching. It’s meant to be a one-off with a clear purpose: to find inspiration and the protagonist for a new novel. She has the slimmest strokes of ideas for it popping up here and there, nothing major. The protagonist, once found, will lead the way and help the process, she tells herself.
*
She opens the door and steps out, already changed into a white summer dress, her long hair down, a book held against her chest, a floral printed clutch slung on her side.
The sun is now up high. She looks up at the sky. It is amber, bright and crisp. The air smells of sunburnt leaves. As she waits for her Grab car, she closes her eyes and inhales, taking it all in — the hot summer essence of Saigon, Gold in them hills replaying in her head. I know it doesn't seem that way. But maybe it's the perfect day.
A moment later, the car arrives. She says hello to the driver as she gets into the back seat. The car smells new and clean. The driver’s quiet. She’s glad of it. Save her from small talk.
She tilts her head and rests it against the car’s window, thinking. It is two birds that she looks to kill on her trip to the city centre: the idleness, and the writer’s block she’s having — a dual mission. She’s been contemplating lately that she might try her hand at romance. Maybe enemies-turn-lovers kind of romance. She is a nonfiction writer but she wants to write something different — something outside her usual scope. From her research, it seems that readers are keen on love-hate romance. At least where she lives. People here love dramas. If they say they don’t, they must be either in denial or too embarrassed to confess — the same way most men will never concede they cry in secret or most beautiful women won't admit they feel intimidated by other beautiful women.
*
She is headed to this café called Soul. Souls are complicated but Soul isn’t. It’s a two-storey café with simple design. On the first storey: a high open ceiling, a grey cement floor, black walls, framed posters of quotes scattered around, wooden tables, three choices of seats: wooden slim chairs, fabric armchairs and sofas with soft cushions; the tables are arranged in such a way that even during peak hours, customers at each table can still have their privacy, which is what she likes about this place. On the second storey: almost the same, the difference being an extended sitting area — a balcony that sits a long wooden table and a few black metal stools. The balcony is often unoccupied. No one chooses to sit outside in the daytime under the heat of the sun, she guesses.
She arrives at Soul at around nine o’clock, walking in to the smell of roasted coffee beans and freshly-baked pastries, and is welcomed by a girl in a black T-shirt with Soul in white letters embroidered on the front. She orders a Soul coffee, which is black coffee with milk foam and some Soul magic poured in, presumably. She isn’t big on coffee, more of a tea person, but today is a try-new-things day so she is delighted to try that signature coffee the staff taking orders suggests. After making payment, she moves a few steps aside to the collection area. As she waits for her order, her dark brown eyes cast around the place, searching for a good spot to carry out her mission.
She picks a table accompanied by two wooden chairs at a corner, her back against the wall, her left side view to the street, her front view to the whole room. Ideal spot. It’s three hours until lunch time so the café is still quiet. The whirr of the coffee machine takes up the room. She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s rich and creamy. She likes it. As she sits and enjoys her coffee, more customers come in. Office people mostly. She is by no means Sherlock Holmes but the thought of watching people and profiling them gives her a tingling sensation of excitement, gradually wiping away the dullness she's been feeling since the early morning.
Happy faces. Worn out faces. Blank faces. Chatting to each other. Fixating on phones. Staring at laptops. Loud voices. Murmurs. Giggles. The busyness of life, copied and pasted from one person to another.
She looks with enthusiasm at lives stepping in, wandering past her, scattered throughout the room. She keeps watching for an age. Males. Females. Old. Young. Different figures. Distinctive features. Various types of clothes. She also watches for subtleties in their gestures. But the longer she watches, the more she realises that through her eyes and retreating mind, somehow they all look the same. She feels a speck of disappointment in her stomach. It's proved yet again how ignorant she is when it comes to figuring out people. Sometimes she wonders if the ignorance comes from her being a private person and enjoying a quiet life.
As a social and lifestyle writer, she meets people from all walks of life, listening to their stories and putting them into words, her words mainly, but through their lens. It’s already no easy task to try on their shoes and immerse herself in their worlds as she writes, though she always tries her best to. And this. Just watching at arm's length. No talking. No listening to their stories. It's mission impossible. She lets out a sigh a bit too loud. But she keeps on watching, her book inches from her nose, pretending to read. Occasionally, she puts it down, slowly sipping her coffee.
Another Soul coffee later, she has drawn a blank. Customers walk in in pairs, or in groups, mostly. Rushing steps through the doors, trying to make the most of their precious lunch hour. Happy faces. Worn out faces. Blank faces. Chatting to each other. Fixating on phones. Staring at laptops. Loud voices. Murmurs. Giggles. The busyness of life, copied and pasted from one person to another.
She often wonders how other people slow down and enjoy life if they manage to, or rather, are willing to. We live in a world where ambition, passion, risk-taking, and chance-grabbing are the norms. You are those things. You keep moving forward. At speed. On fire. Non-stop. Otherwise, you fall behind. Or you’ll regret not living your life to the fullest. Or you are deemed lazy. Or fearful. The lot. Those clichés they say. So we throw ourselves into rat races. She is one amongst so many running a race.
But today, thanks to Quang, it feels like she’s taking life slow, and as it transpires, part of her is liking it. Part of her enjoys being here: amongst a busy crowd but allowed her own space, and her own pace.
In something like a moment of epiphany, she realises right there and then she is ready to trade her mission for idleness. She will treat herself to a nice lunch. Then she will move upstairs, sit outside at the balcony for fresh air and an open view. She will order Chamomile, her favourite tea. She will read her book — for real this time. She will forget about the world around her and enjoy her own world as it goes in slow motion. Yes. Isn't it what she is supposed to spend her precious time off doing? She smiles as she thinks about how pleased Quang will be when she tells him this.
She picks up the menu, browsing it, and gestures for the staff standing nearby to come over. She orders black spaghetti with seafood veloute. As the staff walks back to the counter and she stretches her hand to fetch the book, out of the corner of her eye, she sees a figure approaching her table.
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