Description
The game is played at the foot of a few steps, on a board laid directly on the pavement. Two crouching men face each other at xiangqi — Chinese chess, recognisable by its engraved discs — and, around them, the circle has formed of its own accord: an old man with his hands crossed behind his back, cigarette between his fingers, a seated woman offering commentary, onlookers smiling. No one organised anything, and yet the composition is there, a ring of bodies leaning towards a square of wood. The black and white erases the colours of the shirts and the plastic chairs to keep only the postures, the gazes, the geometry of attention. It is a scene found every day in the streets of Hanoi: the game as a public institution, free and obstinate, where time is measured in matches rather than in hours.
