Bác Kỹ

"I'm about to tell you some very bad news... Uncle Kỷ has passed away.

Yesterday, on Thursday, the cleaning lady came in the morning as usual. She knocked on the door, but since Uncle Kỷ didn't answer, she had the inkling something was terribly wrong so she called the firemen. 

They arrived soon after and broke the window of the bathroom in order to get in. They found Uncle Kỷ lifeless in his room, on the groundfloor.

The police came. 

At 12:30, Mrs Continent, the neighbour informed me about his passing. The police ordered me to come as quickly as possible.

I reached the house at 1:40. The policeman said that since it was a natural death, it wasn't their duty have to handle the matter, so I had to find a doctor to pronounce him dead and call the funeral service in order to bring the body to the funeral home.

With the help of Mrs. Continent, we called many doctors of the district, but all of them declined to come.

I eventually managed to reach Dr. Dê, who is his personal doctor. He told me to call the city hall.

We finally got an appointment after 8pm. The wait was excrutiatingly long.

At 10pm, the doctor came to pronounce Uncle Kỷ dead.

At 11:30, the funeral service took the body to the funeral home in Bry.

When did Uncle Kỷ pass away????"

Chị Nga

La famiglia mia

                                                                             I

"Hello stranger" my mother greeted me as I passed the door. The return of the son after one year of absence. Time seemed to have stopped for a few seconds as I stood at the threshold of my parents' house. The feeling that I was watching a repeat of a familiar film. Time resumed its course when I stepped inside. Had my mother changed since last year? She and my father hardly seemed any older. I looked for signs of alteration in her words, in her stare but didn't see any. She hugged me tightly. Jan was standing behind me, smiling at this moving reunion between mother and son.
A few minutes later, we were having tea around the dining table. It seems time stands still in this house. I had brought a box of pineapple cakes which she loves.



                                                                              II

Grey sky. The temperature has dropped. I drove my parents to my brother's house. It's Wednesday. A much anticipated day for my mother, for that's when they can spend it with their grandson. My brother's house is located at the other end of the capital, in the suburb. I always dread going there. It's a long walk from the train station. I know the houses and the buildings are inhabited, but I can't chase away the feeling that I'm walking through a cemetary.
No traffic on the road today. My father freaks out whenever he takes the car. He's getting old so his reflexes are not as good as they used to. If I jump a few years back, I wouldn't say his reflexes were that great then. He would never have been hired for a car chase scene. His anxiety become words and when he's not the driver, it's nearly maddening!
Their Wednesday with the grandson follows the same pattern: go to the nanny, pick up the baby there, bring him home, feed the baby, put the baby to sleep for his afternoon nap, give the baby a little snack, have a walk with the baby, bathe the baby, then bye bye baby. Yes my tone is dry. Don't I feel the family blood pounding in my veins? As I told a friend, even though I know he's my nephew, even though he looks absolutely adorable, I can't pretend to be excited when I'm not!
From relatives to friends, everybody seemed to be more excited to see the baby than I am.

Grey day. Rain? On the verge to. Not much connection with my nephew. Understandable, since I'm a stranger to him. And my mother suddenly became territorial, so I let her enjoy her grandson. I'll have time later.
I'm walking the dog and trying not to walk too fast, so my parents can keep up with the pace. They have to stop every ten meters to make sure the baby is warm - poor thing just caught a cold. We are going to the park to the park, a fifteen minute walk from the house.
The park near my brother's house is gloomy. The neighbourhood is gloomy. A young boy was racing excitedly on a miniature blue bike. I smile faintly. It suddenly reminds me of the day my dad taught me how to ride a bike. I was a five. We were practicing on the parking area near our flat. It was the end of the afternoon. My mother and my younger brother were there too. He couldn't ride a bike yet. He was only three. But he had a yellow plastic fish on wheels and would try to follow me happily with it.
Happy time.
Wasn't it?

                                                                               III

First appointment with the dentist. I badly needed it. My father came with me. I drove the car. Now that he's old, he tries to avoid the unpleasant experience as much as he can.
"Your mother only has 8 years left to live, do you know that?". He paused.
"That's what they say about people who have the Alzheimer disease. 8 years."
I remained silent. I could find nothing to reply.
"I told your brother. I guess he's really sad about it". So was I. Who wants to see his parents go? That is, if there is love in the family. I still didn't know what to say. My father would always find the most unlikely timing to send out such news.
"And many people say that the person who takes care of the patient usually dies first."
I knew it. That was the case with Isabelle's parents. His father died earlier this year, and his wife still thinks that he's always late...
"What can I say to that?" I said after a time.
"I just wanted you to know".
My parents will be 80 next year. Given their age, it will almost be a natural thing if they happen to pass away in 8 years.
Dry? Yes.


                                                                            IV

Patrick Wolfe

I didn't know much about Patrick Wolfe except for a couple of songs which happen to be in my i-Pod, but Jan insisted that I joined him. As a fan, it was essential for him to convert other friends. I was in Paris, why not seize the chance? The concert was to take place at the Café de la Danse.
"Patrick Wolfe is going to perform where Aaken once performed!" Jan said in a joke. My last concert at the Café de la Danse? in 2006... Ages ago!

"His new album is a reworking of his best songs in an acoustic orchestration. It's beautiful." Jan chimed. He was accompanied by another one of his friend - even more devoted than he was, who was ready to buy all the new releases or re-releases if he was to find any.

My cousin Nina came as well. Jan and Nina, my favourite people, a perfect evening in perspective. 

If I didn't know Patrick Wolfe's songs, I quickly got into his music. A giant of a man, he would clumsily move accross the stage, and played on ridiculously small instruments. But the man was so touching in his vulnerability and passion, it was hard to resist the invitation to join him in his world. Watching him just gave me the itch to be back on stage.

It had been ages since I last went to a concert where 95% of the audience were die hard fans. There was something moving, being surrounded by all these young kids. Everything now reminds me of my younger years...

A delicious young singer opened the concert: Abi Wade. We all wondered who that person was, where that name came from.

"Abi Wade... That could be African!!!" Jan suggested.

No she was a pure British product - with a voice that reminded me of Regina Spektor. It was just her and her cello, but the music was fresh and witty. 

When I'm done with Thanh Giong, I'll look for concert venues.

Back / on visit?

It was, once again, my faithful and dear friend Jan who came to pick me up at the airport. In my messy mind, I gave him the wrong date, in his own term, a general rehearsal... Poor Jan! 

After my brief Hanoi interlude, I found it harder to believe I wasn't dreaming awake, the half tooth in my stomach being the only item to keep me connected to reality...

Now... My parents and Paris! So far, it's the joy of the reunion.

Ten minutes before taking the taxi to the TaoYuan airport, I was still writing one last e-mail to Tim Cribb. Tim Cribb? And editor and literary agent who discovered me through Norm Yip.
The two live in Hong Kong and are closely connected to the Asian artistic world. For Tim, his mission is to promote Asian literature in Western countries. It was through a facebook exchange between me and Norm that Tim learned about me. Would I be willing to write a book related to my music, take eight songs and tell about the creative process. Anything I would want to talk about, if it could also be connected to my Vietnamese roots and the life as a musician. He sent me some pages by another musician he has discovered. The project was indeed very attractive, yet I suggested another angle of approach: since most of my works were strongly connected to events in my life, I prefered to write short stories, where the characters would What about short stories that would The man is passionate and pressed me to
I found a few messages I had spent the previous few days scribbling down the synopsis of eight short stories which would compose a book I had entitled Hyperbody. Tim urged me to come up with something as quickly as possible for he had to meet a publisher in Sydney the next week and he wanted to show her something.

Writing a book... .

Hà Nội

I had told my friends Loc and Huy that I would come to Saigon to visit them on my way to Paris, before I learned that the plane would make a stop over in Hanoi instead. 

The disappointment quickly vanished when I set foot again in this city. I had six hours. Enough time to see my friend Nam, have a stroll in the old city and take some pictures. Tim urged me to pay a visit to a writer he knew and helped publish a book. "A very talented writer!!! He has a coffee shop in Hanoi. You must pay him a visit. Tell him you come on my behalf and have a martini on me!"

I didn't have a martini, but I certainly enjoyed the few hours there. The coffee shop, named Tadioto (which means 'I take the car') was a delightful place where exhibitions and small concerts were held.

It was exquisitely decorated. The owner, Qui Duc, also designed furniture. 

"Quy Duc says that he and your father were apparently related!" Tim wrote. Quy Duc wrote to me to invite me to drop by and have a martini (sic) and I realised that a dear cousin of mine was or common link. 

I didn't imagine how happy I would be to come back to Vietnam. For too long did I postpone a possible trip there. Hearing my own language me after months of Chinese was more than a relief. Hanoi is a beautiful city. The houses are charming and colourful, in high contrast to the unimaginative architecture in Taipei. Nam picked me up at the Hoang Kiêm lake. I took a couple of hours to wander in the old city and take pictures. in five years, many new buildings have sprouted out around Hanoi, but the old city has been left fairly unscathed. I was just happy and lighthearted.

Nam drove me to Tadioto. He picked me up exactly at the same time and the same place where we met for the very first time some five years ago. There's something moving, meeting up again after all this time as if only a few weeks have passed by...

I found it hard to realise I was in Vietnam. 

"By the time I realise it, I will already be on the plane, flying to Paris..." I thought, watching people having a walk or jogging around the lake. Behind me, a little boy was escalading a little mound. The weather was ideal, as in Taipei: warm, but not too hot. Why was I going to Paris at this very season!

Tadioto was not only a café but also an art gallery as well as a workshop for Quy Duc's creations. Many of the customers that evening were French. Quy Duc also could speak perfect French. He re-created an atmosphere  which reminded me of the gatherings my parents would attend when I was still very young. They would meet at my parents' friend's place, in the northern suburb of Paris. A large house and its outbuilding at the back of the garden. The husband, a small man with moustache and glasses, had a printing company which he used to publish a Vietnamese magazine. Now as I write about it, I remember a beautiful white peacock pigeon which I would invariably see on the window sill. I had wanted to come near it to watch it, but never dared to... We children would play together while adults would discuss serious matters. The Vietnam war had just ended and they needed to meet regularly to comfort each other. Naturally, as children, we were hardly aware of the tragedy. It may a relief for the parents that the children were so carefree. I suddenly recalled some long forgotten scent as I was sitting in the backyard of the café with Nam.

"What do you wish to eat? We can order anything!" Quy Duc asked. 

"Oh my request would be food from Huê... I've been craving that for years!!! Vietnamese food in Taipei is a calamity!!!!" I said laughing. So food from Huê we had. Quy Duc ordered a perfect selection of dishes. My palate was in trance.
It was nearly time for me to go. I counted one hour to go back to the airport but didn't want to take any chances.
"Have the last one!" Quy Duc pointed to the remaining bánh ran, a sort of salty mochi made of glutinous rice filled with meat and peanuts, served on a small and very crispy cracker.  I swallowed it in one go and noticed something strange in my mouth... Half of a back teeth had gone down to my stomach with the glutinous rice!!!

We were here

The twenty-fourth hour of the day has nearly passed and I still can't believe it happened. But I have to, for it did happen, my first photo exhibition. Many have in the past months and years, encouraged me to go one step further and show my work to the public, and not only confine myself to the limits of the Internet and Facebook. Only when Nicolas and I a year ago, went to the photo shop to get prints of a selection of phototographs I wanted to offer to his godson, did it strike me that indeed, the picture would only come alive if blown up and deserved an exhibition. I was moved to see them come to life in print. Many friends came to support this endeavour of mine. Some I didn't even expect to see. As often in this situation, I sailed through the whole day like in a dream. If I was to be told that it didn't happen, I would believe it.
It was my friend Adrian who set the whole thing in motion. Adrian? A young student in cinema from Sydney, whom I befriended on Facebook a few months ago. He quickly became a little brother to me, and the relationship grew that way whenwhen he came to stay at my place during the past couple of months. He seemed to enjoy being there, having me and Ryan as bigger brothers. He lost his mother aged only nine, then was sent to a boarding school in England a few years later.
What I enjoyed in his company was his impulsive and enthusiastic (sometime erratic) nature. He suggested the idea of a double exhibition and I accpeted immediately, in spite of the many projects I was handling at the same time. Finding a venue wasn't difficult; Adrian had some contacts so we had our photos printed for next to nothing!


Thirty pictures each. Adrian's were to be in colour, and mine in black and white (what else?). It was a difficult task to select those thirty pictures among the thousands that I had taken all these years. I recalled Gilles' advice: not to make a 'best of'. I opted for those showing odd details in the urban landscapes: Paris, New York, Tokyo, Taipei, Hong Kong, and Calcuta and named the exhibition We were here.
Since Adrian and I never got to establish solid roots, travels helped us find a sense of ourselves.

Then came the big challenge of creating something interesting with a limited space. I had big ideas in my head but they could not possibly see the light this time. The venue wasn't very large. One big wall we had to share, then portions of walls here and there.
"You should maybe put most of the pictures together to make a stronger impact, otherwise they would look like decoration" my friend James told me. He was one of the few friends I knew I could trust for his taste and his sense of esthetics.
Because of the lack of time and lack of finance, I decided it was a better idea to print the photos on foam boards. 
"How much do you think I should price them in case anybody would ask?" I asked James
"I don't think you should sell them. It's foam board... It's a cheap material... You should see this as publicity."
"I know. But then it's like saying that a sketch by a painter isn't worth anything because it's done on a piece of paper." I snapped back.
"You cannot compare yourself to them. You didn't give any thought about the way the pictures were to presented. You cannot expect people to buy that." he replied. I felt hurt.
"What you say is so snobbish and contemptuous, James!"
His words reminded me of the time I started writing songs and played them to people - friends or artistic directors at record labels. They usually would focus on the unfinished state of the demos and voice disregarding criticisms instead of seeing the potential and helping me achieve it.
Fine... James graduated from a design school in the Netherlands. And he loves fashion. So unless one is respected or is the new talk of the town, respect doesn't come easily... And then maybe James was unconsciously putting me down because I dared venture in artistic fields which were not mine. But then, why should I feel bad for enjoying myself? I let the thought stew for a while then pushed it away. It was supposed to be a good day and I did not intend to keep myself in such a crappy mood.

However I was happy to see the pictures in print. Of course, James was right. I wish for a larger exhibition in a bigger venue, with more means. This was only a try out. I nevertheless felt elated.

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