The road to Gia Lâm was familiar, hated territory. Parts were potholed dirt tracks, turned to treacherous mud rivers by the storm. Rain sheeted across his visor, forcing constant swipes. The world was a blur of engine noise, wheels sluicing through sludge, and the drumming downpour. Fields vanished into the wet night, marked only by scattered ghostly lights.
The destination, Đồng Tiến village, had an address that made no sense. The app navigated him to a dead end choked with weeds. Van circled twice in the downpour, frustration smothering the earlier desperate impulse. He stopped outside the only lit place—a small shop named "Huệ"—and called the passenger.
"Driver? Here?" A low, calm male voice answered in Vietnamese tinged with an accent, but fluent."Mr. Chen? Grab driver Nguyễn Văn. Your pin led to a field. Maps are wrong. Can you guide me?" Van fought to keep urgency from his voice.A pause. "Hard to find. See a house with banana trees? A small shrine?"Van scanned. "Too dark. Rain. I'm at Huệ's shop.""Huệ's... Wait five minutes." The call ended.
Five minutes later, a figure emerged from the rain, holding a large black umbrella masking most of his shape—an average-built man in dark casual pants and a plain grey jacket (splotched with damp). He was around fifty, hair neatly combed, strands of silver plastered to his temples by rain. Definitely Chinese.
"Yes, sir." Van nodded, rain dripping from his chin.The man nodded back, glancing at Van's dripping form and mud-spattered bike. He pointed silently. "This way. Rough path, drive carefully."
The "rough path" lived up to its name. Narrow earth tracks beside fields became tire-sucking mud trenches. Van controlled the throttle with intense care. Mr. Chen (Chen Qiming, the app said) walked steadily, holding the umbrella with one hand, a flashlight illuminating the way for Van with the other. When Van's wheel suddenly slipped, nearly throwing him off, Mr. Chen's hand shot out, steadying the bike's tail.
"Thank you!""Take it easy. Slippery." Mr. Chen's tone was flat.
Finally, an old house with a small courtyard appeared, surrounded by tall banana trees rustling loudly in the downpour, a tiny, incense-lit shrine nestled in a corner. A dim bulb glowed under the eaves.
Mr. Chen paid in cash, counting exact notes from a plain, worn wallet. As Van took the money, Mr. Chen peeled off another 100,000 dong note (about $4.30 USD) and pressed it into Van's soaked, white-knuckled hand.
"Keep it. Storm. Hard work." No hint of charity, just a matter-of-fact recognition.Van was stunned. Tips were common from tourists, but here? Now? From someone seemingly poorer? He searched Mr. Chen's calm face but saw only a deep, weathered composure. Warmth battled the chill.
"Thank you... truly! Sir Chen! Very generous!"A nod. "Go carefully." He turned to unlock the door.
As the key turned, Van glimpsed a motorcycle leaning in the shadows: caked in mud, old, basic. Beside it lay tools and a deflated tire. His transport? Broken?
"Sir Chen? Your bike?" Van blurted.Chen glanced back, a wry smile flickering. "Oh. Flat tire today. Far out. No repair shop. Thought tomorrow." He dismissed it.
A wave of kinship, fueled by the unexpected tip and shared scrabbling, pushed Van into action. He stuffed the wet banknote inside his jacket and walked over. "Flat? Let me see." He crouched, expert fingers finding the tear. "Got a tube?"Chen walked to the bike's dented plastic storage box. Moments later, he handed Van a spare tube and a small toolkit.
No words. Under the eaves, one soaked Vietnamese driver and a plain Chinese man worked silently by dim light: one holding the torch, the other quickly changing the rear tire. Rain hammered the banana leaves and roof tiles, isolating their muddy bubble. Smells of damp earth, rubber, and faint herbs (something medicinal?) mingled.Van worked fast, fingers numb from cold and grease. He needed to get home, the debt clock ticking. Done, he straightened. "Finished, Sir Chen. Try it."Chen started the engine. It ran. He nodded, no effusive thanks. "Seven tomorrow. Pick me up? Ba Dinh Square." Not an app order, but a request.
Ba Dinh Square? The political heart. Van calculated quickly: early, far from Gia Lâm. But this man... different."Of course. Seven sharp? Here?" Van confirmed."Yes." Mr. Chen didn't haggle price. "Usual rate plus?""No need! Your tip covers it!" Van insisted quickly.Chen gave the faintest nod. "Until then."
Van swung onto his mud-caked bike, fired the engine. Yellow light pierced the murk again. As he drove away down the muddy track, he looked back. Mr. Chen stood silhouetted in the doorway's light and mist, quiet and watchful like a stone.
Riding back through the mire, the damp 100,000 dong note felt strange against his skin. Who was this quiet man paying big tips from a shabby house, riding a junker bike? The image stuck, a puzzle lodged in Van's mind.