By Madiha Abdullah
Every once in a while, the mist would descend.
It was a heavy sort of vapour, one which settled into the cogs of Nguyen Linh Marie’s mind and rusted the cognition of it, muddying her thoughts and stripping her surroundings of all of their familiar lacquer and varnish. It seeped into her skin and turned her translucent; a ghost inside of a shell; a spirit unmoored. A soul in search of its anchor.
Sometimes, Linh wondered if it was the gentle touch of her name on her rigid life, marking her existence with its presence, whispering, ‘Let me out.’ After all, had not Pythagoras once theorized that the soul was trapped within one’s own body? A cage tailored for individual use. Perhaps her mother had named her Linh in hopes that her spirit would always be free. Perhaps she had; but had forgotten that when she sealed her daughter in the fate of her foreign expectations in a foreign land; the red of fortune so close to the red of blood that it was hardly distinguishable when it dyed Linh’s life all the same shade in its soulless success.
At least the money was good, she thought vacantly. Money and … Anh.
Luong Anh Lucille was perhaps the only tether Linh had in this world. The shore that Linh came back to time and time again: the lighthouse of her turbulent sea. Her best friend from the moment she found Linh on the shared balcony of their university dorm rooms, looking over the luscious sprawl of their campus; lost to the mist. Linh had said, ‘I want to die.’
And Anh had looked at her, gaze as clear as water, and said, ‘Come have pho with me.’
They had ended up at the dorm kitchen at 2 am, making pho from what they could scavenge: bouillon cubes in the paltry dollar-store vegetable broth, the last two spoons of the fish sauce between the both of them, thin slices of chicken breast, and more spring onions than noodles.
But the pho was hot, and the company was kind, and Linh realized that, that was enough.
Through the mist that turned Linh subliminal, Anh was a tangible destination she could reach. A harbour where she could rest until the world became a kinder place to return to.
And now, just as always, Linh found her way to Anh through the fog. Stepping off the train, she did not notice the drizzle that came down upon her when she left the subway. The rain weighed down her hair and pressed liquid fingerprints to her spectacles, but she trudged on, a ghost to its grave.
Her clothes felt distant where the wool of her long coat grew heavier on her tall frame, the tweed of her trousers darkening in the rain. The sky bore down on her, but it could not penetrate the fog.
Onwards Linh walked, through the main avenue unto St. Paul’s Street, to the six-storey building on Lane 5, up the stairs to flat 4B; onwards she walked, all the way to Anh’s doorstep.
“Luong Anh Lucille” read the nameplate next to the doorbell Linh pressed. But Lucille was not the one Linh had come to. No, Lucille was a successful corporate lawyer, efficient and fierce, severe and prudent. Just as Marie was the head of a ten-man research and development division of an international IT firm, steadfast and reliable.
No, the person she had come to was not Lucille, adorned in fortune’s red. No, the person she had come to was Anh, dressed in soft loungewear and confusion, her hair frizzy where it was held haphazardly in a claw clip. Anh, home incarnate.
‘Linh? What are you doing here?’
Linh could see the exact moment Anh noticed her state, for her eyes immediately widened, and she pulled Linh inside by the arm. Linh took off her shoes at the entrance, watching Anh rush to get her a towel, amusement breaking through the mist which had already begun to lighten at the sight of Anh.
She put her shoes in the little case by the door as Anh returned, plopping the towel on Linh’s head and roughly drying her hair. Her movements were brusque, practical, but her gaze held affection and patience, and Linh’s heart warmed.
Standing upright, she met Anh’s eyes through her water-logged spectacles, and held up the plastic bag of spring onions she had carried all the way, and said simply, ‘I wanted to have pho with you.’
Anh’s gaze softened, even as she grumbled, ‘So she says. Could’ve at least sent a text before running through the rain like some action hero. I would have come to pick you up.’ But for all her reprimands, she never stopped trying to dry Linh’s hair.
‘Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?’
Anh rolled her eyes and did not deign that with a reply. Linh felt herself out a smile. Once Anh considered her sufficiently dry, she sent her off with the instructions to change into clean clothes as Anh prepared the broth. From the day Anh received her first paycheque, she made sure to always have homemade broth ready at home, boiled down to a concentrated gelatine she could dissolve back into flavourful soup: a silent I will always want you around that Linh could remember when words fell short.
Linh diligently followed, but not before throwing an errant, ‘Do we have more than two spoons of fish sauce this time?’ And grinned when the reply came of, ‘That was only one time, and you didn’t have any either!’
As Linh changed into the loungewear fished out of Anh’s wardrobe, she wondered how it was that Anh could so easily thaw the rust of her mind. How swiftly her presence cut through the heavy mist and drew out banter and grins from Linh when she could barely manage a word with anyone else.
Perhaps that was the unique ability of best friends, Linh thought, as the scent of warm broth floated through the house. She followed it into the kitchen; the aroma rich with flavour and memory. It was a full-bodied fragrance, lush in its spice and soothing in its warmth.
Anh stood by the stove, stirring slowly, the warm sepia tone of the kitchen light softening the edges of her sharp features, and casting deep shadows: the most picturesque of all of Caravaggio’s paintings.
Linh joined her by the stove, stepping seamlessly into the empty space by Anh’s side, sliding the cleaver and chopping board out of their racks and beginning to chop the spring onions for garnish. They gathered in little ringlets of green and white to the side as the knife came down in rhythmic motions.
Once done, Linh went through the cupboards to gather the bowls; setting them down onto the counter next to the simmering pot with dull clinks. After washing her hands, she gently added the toppings that Anh had prepared. First was the handful of rice noodles, thin and flat, eddied in the bottom of the bowl with careful hands. Second came the raw beef, sliced to perfection, fanned out to the right of the bowls like the edge of a blooming dahlia. Third in sequence came the smattering of bean sprouts, fresh and stiff, promising a delectable crunch. Last came the black ear mushrooms, as soft and chewy as the thinnest of cartilage, made to bring a burst of earthen sweetness with every bite.
Finished with the toppings, Linh stepped aside to allow Anh to serve the broth. She watched the light glint off of the steel of the ladle, a slow descent of sunlight, as Anh poured the broth into the bowls with a steady hand. The heat of it cooked the meat, turning soft red into dusky pink. The last touch was a sprinkle of fresh spring onions, bright green and ivory white, to complete the bowl of pho.
Finally: it was time to eat.
They sat at the kitchen island, Linh with her designated blue chopsticks and Anh with her red. The steam rising from the bowl fogged up Linh’s glasses, and the broth gleamed golden in the light.
As she tilted her bowl to take the first sip, Linh’s eyes closed in bliss. The aroma was soothing and fragrant, smelling of safety and comfort. It seeped into her bones, and it felt as if she had returned to tangibility once more. As if the world had become tolerable again in the presence of Anh.
Linh set the bowl down with a quiet clink and a satiated sigh; and opened her eyes to see Anh looking at her with an amused smile. ‘Good?’ she asked.
But she already knew the answer.
‘The best,’ Linh replied, and Anh laughed.
‘Flatterer,’ she said.
‘Slander upon my name,’ Linh returned, slipping a mushroom into her mouth. ‘I only ever speak the truth in your presence.’
‘Oh? Really now?’
‘Mhmm.’ Anh chuckled at that, and took a bite of her noodles.
After a few minutes of companionable silence, Linh started, apropos of nothing, ‘Hey. What does Anh mean again?’
Anh gave her a look over her bowl, biting into a slice of beef. ‘Why?’
‘I was thinking of names and their meanings on the way here.’
Anh nodded, as if it made perfect sense to be thinking of names and forgetting to text one’s own best friend to come pick them up in the rain. ‘It means peace. Or safety. Both, I suppose,’ she said.
Linh did not have to think about it as she said, ‘It’s perfect for you.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so,’ Linh said, feeling the mist lift and life find its way back to her.
For after all, peace was a bowl of hot noodle soup, and Anh, as steady and clear eyed as that fateful spring night: her voice an anchor at sea.
Come have pho with me.