Life in Saigon can often be stranger than fiction. Even after three years in the city, there’s still so much that catches me off guard, as if I’d only been here for a few weeks and everything was still as raw, new, and fresh as when I first arrived. There’s sights like seeing a refrigerator tied down to the back of a small motorbike, or of a dog standing on its hind legs while his owner drives around—paws up, tongue out, enjoying what little it can catch of the afternoon breeze. There’s images of daily life fractured by doorways and tight alleys. These only give you a glimpse of the strangeness, the realness of people going about their routine but anytime you meet their eye, their faces burn in your mind with so much detail and truth it’s as if you’ve known them for years. I’ve heard the indecipherable call of street vendors doing their rounds. I’ve felt the mid-day heat that turns to pouring rain without warning. I’ve seen the sky at sunset blaze red, purple, and pink, making me wonder while I admire all its heavenly glory: Is this place even real? Of course, you know it’s all real. But life in Saigon can often be stranger than fiction, and places like Fiction Cafe & Bar remind you of that fact.
If there’s a time of year when Saigon’s stranger than fiction, it’s during the Tết holiday. The city, during that week, is a different world. Neighborhoods empty and a deep, heavy quiet settles. Each morning during this past Tết I stood on the balcony of my apartment, poking my head out to scan the alleyways and see whether anyone was around, or whether, as the silence suggested, everyone had disappeared. Occasionally, I’d hear some noise from below. Neighbours chit-chatting as if sharing secrets, the crackle and pop of an opened beer can, some far-off putter of a motorbike. On the days I stayed at home I remained in the bubble of that silence, sitting on my balcony and watching the sun’s shadow creep along the floor with the hours. It was only fitting then, in the midst of all these rich, sensory details that might make up a good novel, I found myself wandering over to Fiction.
Fiction is located off Võ Thị Sáu street in District 1. When I went there with my girlfriend on the second night of Tết, Saigon remained in limbo. The city was caught between the joyful festivities welcoming the new year, and on the other side, a sleepiness, something close to an emptiness when you wandered its streets or stood on your balcony, listening for even the slightest echo of sound. We turned into an alleyway and walked towards the bar. Alongside Vietnamese flags, traditional Tết decorations hung from houses and passing by a few, I saw the shutters to some people’s homes were open. Peeking in, I caught the flicker of a television, saw an outstretched leg, spotted a fan blowing back and forth but there were no signs of the merry celebrations and drinking that filled other parts of the city. Perhaps this area was set in a different story than the city's other neighbourhoods. Here was a different cadence, a different rhythm and plot. My girlfriend pointed out Fiction to our right, and walking ahead, paused by the door which was made of different coloured panels. She pulled it open.
The first thing you notice when you step inside Fiction are the lights. The side of the bar counter is made up of red, green, yellow, and blue blocks that glow with the effect of a Church’s stained-glass window. Lights seem to be everywhere: draped along the ceiling, glowing around framed posters, sitting on tables as different sized and shaped lamps. The centerpiece, however, is the pale-white ball that hangs in the middle of the bar, resembling a full-moon illuminating the bartenders making drinks underneath. With the way the place is lit—a storm of jewel-toned colours drifting around the calm, pearly light of the central orb—stepping into Fiction gives you the impression of having left Saigon for a different world. Perhaps you’re drifting in deep space, far, far away from Vietnam as it draws a curtain to one year and slowly gets ready for the next. Outside the bar’s darkened windows, I can make out two girls. They’re dressed for the occasion and taking photos of one another.
The second thing I noticed was the music. Fiction, beyond just being a cafe and bar, also prides itself in its listening room experience, most notably depicted in the volumes of vinyl stacked behind the bar. On my visit they were playing a number of songs I’d never heard—groovy French disco from the seventies and funky Japanese citypop that reminded me of being back home in Tokyo. The songs perfectly complimented the space and I found myself having to pause every now and again to pull out my phone and Shazam whatever was on.
We were in time for happy hour so we tried a few cocktails: a Matcha Sour, an Umeshu Tonic, their Espresso Martini, as well as something called a Silent Reader— gin-infused Earl Grey tea with Campari, Rosso, and shiitake mushrooms. It was, surprisingly, quite good. Over time Fiction filled up with more customers. Mainly couples. One sat at the counter and ordered two Orions on draft. Another sat a few seats away from them, taking out their phones once they were seated, barely saying a word to each other. I figured everyone in the room was trying, in their own way, to escape Saigon’s limbo state during Tết. So here we all were, suspended between the old year and the new, reflecting on what had passed and unsure of what was to come. I’m certain we each had our plans, our dreams, and we might’ve thought of them during the week, in-between the fireworks, the karaoke, and the dancing lions. In-between the week’s impenetrable quiet.
After a while my girlfriend and I went outside and sat on the ledges by Fiction’s entrance. I ordered a Catcher in The Rye which was their version of an Old Fashioned, finished with a spicy kick. The guy from the couple who’d been on their phone all night was sitting right beside us and after a while, his girlfriend joined. They continued not to say anything to one another and I got the sense that perhaps I’d been mistaken—they weren’t actually dating. But after another chunk of silence they finally started talking, and though I couldn’t understand what they were saying it was obvious they were having a fight. They whispered the whole time, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness, as if they were afraid to burden anyone with their arguing. Eventually they left. The guy went one way and the girl went the other. Several minutes after they’d gone the couple who’d been drinking Orions left, hand-in-hand as they disappeared down the alley.
When my girlfriend and I finally went as well, we walked back down the way we’d come. The shutters to some people’s homes were still open and passing by one, I saw an old lady who just then happened to be closing hers. I waved but she looked back with her thick eyebrows set stern, pulling down the shutter which made a rough clack at the bottom. Her night came to a close. My girlfriend and I got into a cab, wished the driver a chúc mừng năm mới as he pulled away from the curb. Soon I spotted some drunken revellers. Families and friends celebrated, perched on the sidewalk around plastic tables filled with food and drink. Kids shot fireworks into the sky, karaoke singing ballooned in the air but sitting inside the air-conditioned taxi, all the noise was muffled, as if it were covered by a thick blanket. Home, again. I flicked on the lamp, opened the door to my balcony and took a step outside. More fireworks, shooting straight up in sharp bursts of white. Some dogs barked, calling to the moon which hung low in the oil-black night. In the distance, Landmark 81 glowed red. I watched it for a few seconds before going back inside.
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