I am going to die. Kieu thought as she stood in front of the baguette stall in a corner of a busy street, her stomach growled. The smell of juicy, homemade, marinated meatballs, seasoned with garlic, herbs, Siracha and fish sauce, wrapped in a bun, enthralled and enchanted whomever lucky enough to pass by.
The morning commute, began its engine by waking up the many Saigonese, to prepare for a new day, by the only means it knew how – going to work. Motorbike, by the thousand, in partnership with trucks, cars, and anything that had wheels and engine, harassed the roads, and added the smell of diesel to the wonderful Vietnamese sandwich. Nonetheless, the food still smelled great and tasted even better, it could be said that the smell of gasoline added a zing to the overall experience. One could only speculate.
Kieu looked at the stack of the long, yellow-crusted sandwich, bundled-up in various meat flavors, behind the stall, she salivated, and swallowed. Her tummy complained one more time. It had been 2 days; she had not eaten a meal.
“I’m so hungry. I need food.” Kieu commented. Behind the stall, the door to the house was opened. The owner could be heard chopping and yelling instructions from within. A motorist stopped, shouted into the house. The owner, a sort, plump woman, in her late 50, with hair runs like the river tied behind her head, rushed out, hands still wrapped in cilantro, wept it under her pajamas, and sold 2 sandwiches before heading back inside, not without looking at Kieu, to size her up. Kieu gave a face as long as a fiddle, the plump woman had no time for sympathy, clamped down her lips, as if to say, “don’t you ever of thinking of stealing my food.”
Just one baguette, she won’t miss them. The thought ran through Kieu’s head. No, she stopped herself immediately; my parents didn’t raise me to be a thief. Just the thought of her parents, Kieu’s eyes rimmed with tears. Two motorbikes carrying kids, with backpack and school uniform stopped in front of the stall, honk. Two, three times, the plump woman, appeared from the door, smirked, greeted her customers. The children seized the merchandise while the father fetched for his wallet. Flipping through various bills, the wind picked one off, and blew it by Kieu’s foot. She stomped on it. The customers stared at the bright eyes, skinny girl, barely 9, in ragged clothing, shoulder-length hair, and with face that hasn’t been washed for a week.
Kieu bent down, pickup the bill, she looked at it, uncle Ho with his gentle smile, long white beard, stared back. Kieu had the urge, wanting to run away with it. It could buy her food, subsided her body for wanting nourishment. She could buy dozen of these breads, she had stare full of lust in the last hours. She could eat. “Just this one time,” Kieu thought, “and I promise not to ever do it again. All I have to do is, pick up one foot, put myself forward, and push with the other leg; simple, easy as chewing a piece of meat. The father and his boy will be too much for them to chase after me. They will not catch me, beside I run fast. Yes, I’m fast. I could run down the nearby alleyways, and made couple of quick turn before long I will be gone. Beside, finders keepers, losers weepers. It’s their fault for not being careful. I found this on the street. It’s a fair game. Go home and cry to mommy if you miss your money.”
The picture of a gentle, kind, old woman, appeared in Kieu’s head, as soon as the though of mom utter from the depth of her mind. Came with that picture were the memories of her parents: the love, the happiness, and the teaching gushed toward. The wind blew strand of hair into Kieu’s eyes; using her finger she took great effort to place it neatly behind the ear. The touch of her fingers, reminded Kieu that her mother hands touched this same face every morning. Telling her how pretty she looks. And with that voice, telling Kieu how great of a person she would be when she grows up. It was the same sort of things that a mother would say. The same sort of love that a person walks through life would remember, always. The same sort of thing that kids being taught at home and at the dinner table. And Kieu was no exception.
With the red and blue 200, 000 Vietnam Dong in her hand, she looked at the customers, then the money. A decision must be made. She stepped over where the motorbikes parked.
“Sir, you drop this.” Kieu said somberly. Her stomach called in protest. And she was the only who listen. She fought to have it stop, to silent the beast but only end in self-defeat.
“Dad, she looks dirty” The child sat in the front seat commented. The father fished the currency from Kieu, not a word of thank you, or acknowledging, or looking at the dirty girl, pushed the vehicle forward, spread quickly leaving a fume of gasoline behind, adding additional layers of dirt onto an already helpless child. Few second later, the second bike exuded the same pattern, but a bit nicer, the rider slowed a bit as he past by, stared into the girl’s eyes, and spit at her foot, before increasing his speed and merged into traffic.
The plump woman stared at Kieu, from behind the counter. She had seen the girl since this morning. At first, she thought, within few minutes, the girl would leave, like many wanderers, who passed by her stall. They would eventually move on. Later she thought the girl would steal her food, and run away. She was fine with that; she had seen it before, too hungry, and too young to know better. Much like two of her children, that were sleeping inside.
“Are you hungry?” The plump woman demanded, throwing the garbage at the curve.
Kieu nodded, holding her gut. Soothed it, begging it, to stop rumpling. She stared at her barefoot.
“Here” The plumped woman shoved half a sandwich at Kieu’s face. “Leave, before I get a broom and swept you out. I have a business to run.”
Kieu, wrestled the food onto her chest. Food, she thought. Lovely food. I can eat. The smell of bread, punched her nose, and made her salivate more than a puddle on a hot summer day. She turned around aiming toward the alleyway across the street. She would eat it there. She would enjoy every bit and pieces of crumb, until the smell of fresh dough gone from her tiny finger. She would go slow, savouring every bite, every chew. Too excited to care, to look and to check for anything beside the piece of baked flour. She was too preoccupied with the thought of eating that she didn’t see the red motorbike coming at full speed, too hard to brake, and to late to miss.
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