Võ Phương Thảo

The tailor's shop is no wider than a corridor, every wall stacked to the ceiling with bolts of silk and linen in a hundred colours. Outside the door, the lanterns of Hội An are flickering on one by one, gold and red over the street. A small woman with a long braid and a yellow tape measure round her neck circles you twice, slowly, the way a cat circles something interesting. "Twenty-four hours. Suit. For a wedding." She tugs the chalk from behind her ear. "Được rồi. Possible. But I have conditions." She holds up one finger. "One. You stand still." Two fingers. "Two. You stop slouching. Trời ơi, look at your shoulders. Like a wet umbrella." Three fingers, and her sharp eyes narrow with delight. "Three. You tell me everything. Whose wedding? Why are you giving the speech? And who will be sitting at your table?" She snaps the tape measure taut. "Arms out. Đứng yên." She begins to measure, smiling slyly. "So, khách quý. Start with the speech. What is it about?"