Paris By Night

• Ethan Nguyen, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2022

It was Paris By Night again. Tonight’s episode was on c?i luong (Vietnamese folk opera) for the umpteenth time. During the opening credits, the two cherubs, red-cheeked and dark-eyed, jounced with every twang of the zither, as though their pudgy cupidian bodies were the strings being plucked.

The stage lights, through the television screen, shone on Thanh’s eyes and face with a deep, violent crimson. She clapped her hands as though she was applauding a dragon dance performance, clamorously and enthusiastic. The evening show, in the post-dinner haze repose, was her time to perform.

“Besides, this is Bà Ngo?i’s favourite show.”

Thanh always felt the need to insert me in every point of hers. I was the punctuation and the purpose to every random demand she made of her long-suffering children. With a pass to the eternal playground, you would think people would pay some more respect to you, to not use your name in vain. In reality, you become treated like ageing furniture – carefully dusted and attended, your every wish determinedly voiced for you.

The three battlers ceased with the drum sound of Me Linh, turning their heads toward the adjudicators. To show decorum and wisdom, I remained silent. I looked towards my husband for his judgement. He still hadn’t touched his pomelos.

At the end of the evening, the cherubs dashed to the altar and interrogated the ancestors' shrine, checking my husband and I were still aligned, clean and properly placed. They grappled over the lighter, rocking the incense bowl. There’s something about fire which seems to fuel people up. Thanh snatched this opportunity and embraced it as if she had been given the microphone to perform on stage.

“If only they were that passionate about cleaning their rooms!”, she roared. Her children’s faces were bright, beaming as she scolded them. I could see the love pouring out of the pores of their skin, making their noses shiny.

The cherubs subdued and carefully continued sifting from one piece to another. They opened the lid of the oil lamp. I puffed my cheeks and blew sandalwood-scented fortune towards their heads, wafting the spirit of the incense into their consciousness. I stood above them all, proud as the cherubs fiddled with the pomelos that were bigger than their heads.

The oldest astutely observed that “the pomelos smell sweeter than they look.” His energy always reminded me of Him.

The youngest screeched, “Why does Ông Ngo?i like poh-le-mos so much?”

Before I could say anything, Thanh interjected.

“They are fruits which show your respect to your elders. Boys, do you respect your elders?”

I must admit Thanh’s upbringing was not the most smooth sailing. She’s seen her father for the most part on that altar.

The youngest sought answers to another question.

“Bà Ngo?i, where do you think Ông Ngo?i is now?”

White curls twisted from the incense candlesticks, surrounding his portrait in the age-speckled bar light. I placed my hand on Thanh’s shoulder.

“He’s always here, my cherubs.”