Fishing for Tigers (22 page)

I would've said I couldn't imagine Henry shouting and making a public scene, except here he was in front of me, drunk beyond reason, swaying in his seat, murmuring murderously.

‘Run by gangsters, that place. Never should've gone in. Racist fucking gangsters.'

‘There were no gangsters. We got booted because of your spectacular tantrum.' Kerry turned to me. ‘He got into a fight with Mai and she left and he went tropical.'

‘No! No that's not what it is. It's . . . It's . . .' He conducted an invisible orchestra. ‘It's everything. This place. Bloody sick of it all.'

‘Bullshit. You were fine until Mai told you to piss off.'

‘You think I care about that? I don't care about that. It was the last straw, is all. The bloody last straw. You know what I mean, Mischa, don't you? You know how things are lately.'

I looked at Kerry. She shrugged, then hurled herself up off the lounge and over to the fridge. ‘Anyone else want a drink?'

‘No. And don't help yourself, thanks. I want you both out of here. I was asleep, you know.'

‘You're up now. Might as well make us welcome.' She took a slug of Tiger, then plonked back onto the lounge.

‘Henry, darling, maybe this is just birthday blues. It's not unusual to feel all grim and down about everything on a birthday.'

‘No! Mischa, listen. I couldn't give a rat's arse about my birthday. No, it's this place. It's ruined. Girls like Mai, might as well be British or American even with their bloody . . .
me
,
me
,
me
bullshit. Don't roll your eyes, Kerry! It's not just that, it's . . . it's . . . Mish – you know my balcony? You know what I see when I stand out there? Bloody high rises, that's what. I used to be able to see all the way to Tây Ho on a clear day, but now . . . There used to be more clear days, too. I used to ride an old bicycle everywhere and it was easy, but now I'd be run down by all the SUVs, with their idiot drivers talking on their fucking iPhones.'

‘I love my iPhone,' Kerry said. ‘I bawled like a baby when I lost it that time.'

Henry shook his head. ‘You don't know what it was like. It didn't used to be like this. It's all wrong now.'

‘What bullshit. Leave Hanoi, once in a while. See how they're living in the rural provinces. It's third-world and it shits me, it really does, that you think it's better like that.' Kerry shook her bottle at him, sloshing beer onto my lounge. ‘Why the hell shouldn't they have iPhones and SUVs if they want them?'

Henry blinked at Kerry like she was suggesting the Vietnamese embrace cannibalism. I placed a hand on his arm and turned him to me. ‘You're overreacting, it's the weather, the drink. The old Hanoi is still here. You know that. The other day I got caught in a downpour and I ducked down this alley near my office and there was a coffee stall run by this tiny villager woman with betel-stained teeth wearing black pyjamas and using a dented tin spoon to scoop the coffee from an old milk tin.'

‘Did you have some?'

‘I did. I plonked myself on a stool under the awning, had to awkwardly tuck my feet under me to stop them getting wet. No menu, no order-taking – the old woman slapped a
phin
and a bowl of hot water on the stool next to me, then stood back. There was a chicken pecking the ground near the woman's feet and a couple of old men, dressed the way they used to dress – you know, black trousers, tucked-in shirts, worn leather belts – squatting against the opposite wall, smoking. And I sat there with the rain hammering down and watched the coffee drip.'

He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, that sounds lovely.'

‘We'll go there together. You'll see.'

‘Ugh. Count me out.'

‘Wouldn't dream of counting you in, Kez.'

‘Up yours.'

‘Henry, listen. Mai was a sweet girl, but obviously not right for you. It doesn't mean anything. There are plenty of other girls.'

He nodded at his hands which lay limp between his thighs. ‘Don't know what I was thinking, taking a girl out with you lot. With my friends. Mixing busin— ha! Mixing pleasure and pleasure, no good, no good.' He lunged, took hold of my shoulders, kissed my cheeks. ‘You're a fine woman, Mischa. Bloody good woman. If only I could be attracted to someone like you.'

‘God, you're an idiot, Henry.'

‘It's a compliment! She knows that. Don't you, Mish?'

‘Sure. Now, you two need to piss off. I'm exhausted. Will I call some cabs or—'

‘No, no. This is still Hanoi after all! Walk a couple of feet and the drivers will come.'

I walked them out, hugged them both, let Henry kiss my cheeks again. As I closed the door I heard Kerry telling Henry he'd been unbearably insulting to me. I turned back to find Cal waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded.

‘Sorry. Got rid of them as quickly as I could. Seems that Henry—'

‘I know. I was at the top of the stairs the whole time. Heard everything.'

‘God, what silly old drunks, hey?'

‘Why did they come
here
?'

‘Oh. I suppose . . . I suppose they were drinking nearby. I didn't ask. Sorry, anyway. Let's go back to bed. We've got a couple of hours.'

He pushed past me, into the living room where he snatched up the remote control and turned on the TV. He flicked through the channels too fast to see what any of them was playing, then switched the TV off and dropped the remote with a clatter.

‘Okay, what's wrong?'

His left shoulder twitched and his lips formed a pronounced pout. I felt a flicker of panic at his startling adolescence. I went to him, buried my face in the crook of his neck, kissed him softly, rubbed his back. ‘Come on now. You're making me grovel and I don't even know what I've done wrong.'

‘You haven't done anything wrong.' His voice was gruff.

‘So . . . ?'

‘I just didn't like hearing you like that. With Henry.'

I felt the strain in his neck and jaw as he spoke. ‘How was I?' I asked.

‘It's hard to explain. You have this way of listening, of responding. It makes me feel like I can't trust you.'

I pulled back and looked into his face. ‘I don't understand. Do I seem insincere?'

‘No. The opposite. When you're talking to me, I feel like what I'm saying is fascinating and whatever you say makes me feel that you really get me. But you're the same way with everybody. And I know you mustn't be all in tune with every­body and so that thing you do . . . with the soft voice and, the, the intensity . . . it's convincing, but not real.'

‘Why can't I be in tune with everybody? Or, at least, not out of tune. I can almost always find some point of connection. I guess I've never thought of that as a bad thing.'

‘So your point of connection with Henry is what?'

The accusation registered as a lurch in my stomach. ‘Hanoi,' I said.

‘That's it? Because you talk to him like you're soul mates.'

‘On the matter of Hanoi, we are, I suppose. Why is this a problem?'

Cal looked at me. ‘I can't argue with you. You're too clever,' he said and I understood that he meant I was too experienced.

‘When it comes to you I'm an idiot.' I forced a kiss on his pout. ‘I can't think properly. I talk in clichés. I'm powerless.'

‘You're doing it now. Talking me around.'

What could I say that wouldn't be interpreted as cleverness, as seduction? I sighed and laid myself out flat on the floor at his feet. I lay silent and my breath came fast and shallow and that was real. He came to me. His weight, the heaviness of his faith, was extraordinary.

Cal did end up reading
The Tale of
, or some of it at least. I know because I once found the beginning of a hand-written letter from him. In it he quoted Kim's argument to the guilt-ridden, ‘soiled'
:

How skilled you are in spinning words!

You have your reasons – others have their own.

Among those duties falling to her lot,

A woman's chastity means many things.

For there are times of ease and times of stress:

In crisis must one rigid rule apply?

True daughter, you upheld a woman's role:

What dust or dirt could ever sully you?

He didn't write anything after that. The note was abandoned underneath a stack of magazines. I don't know what he was getting at, why he picked out those lines. I suspect his interpretation is different from mine. It doesn't matter. Things were bad by then, and knowing he had once wanted to communicate anything at all was enough.

al and I had always met at my place, always after dark and he always left before morning, both because Matthew would expect him home and because my maid, Hoang, arrived at eight on weekdays. But six weeks into our affair, Matthew went to Saigon for a three-day conference and so I told Hoang I was staying with a sick friend, took the Friday off work and moved in to Cal's.

We started making out in the front hall, my overnight bag still in my hand and then dropped at my feet. Cal tried to lead me to the master bedroom – Matthew's bedroom – but I said I'd prefer not to.

He broke away. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I'd just feel weird about it.' I tried to start things up again, but he stepped back from me.

‘Weird how?' His lips were wet and swollen, his chest bare.

‘I just don't like the idea of Matthew coming home and climbing into a bed where I've been fucking his son. Doesn't that feel wrong to you?'

He gave me a withering look. ‘I wasn't thinking about it being Dad's room. There's a mirror across from the bed, is all. I thought it'd be hot. I think it's weird that you're so anxious not to fuck me in there. He's not
your
dad.'

His erection was pushing at the front of his shorts and I was fast losing any concern for propriety. ‘You're right, a mirror does sound hot. Forget what I said. Let's go.'

‘Yuck. Not now that you've made me think of Dad in there.' He slouched against the wall, his chin tucked in, his eyes narrowed.

I pressed up against him. Kissed his stiff neck. ‘The bathroom then. There's a mirror there. Bend me over the sink. Please, baby, come on.'

‘But Dad showers in there. Wouldn't that be weird for you, Mischa? Won't you be thinking about
Matthew
showering while we're doing it?'

He never seemed so much a teenager as when he was in a strop. The speed with which my ardour cooled at such times is reassuring, I think. I do not have a thing for adolescents. I wanted to fuck his teenage body, but only when I felt it was controlled by a man.

I buttoned my shirt and walked into the kitchen. I put the kettle on and prepared a pot of tea. I heard Cal stomping around in the back of the house. I went to the bookshelf and chose a non-fiction collection of stories about Central Vietnam. I was halfway through an essay about war ghosts in Danang when he came and sat across from me.

‘Sorry.'

I put the book down and took his hands. ‘Can we go to bed now? Any bed. Or the sofa. The floor. This table. I don't care.'

‘Can I have some tea first?'

‘Of course.' My neck and shoulders ached with tension and I wondered if he had orchestrated this whole fight, just to torture me. I gritted my teeth and poured his tea. I pretended to read while he drank it.

‘I called Mum this morning.'

‘Oh?'

‘It was pretty bad. She cried. I've only ever heard her cry once before and that was when my sister died.'

‘What? I didn't know you had a sister.'

‘Yeah. April. She only lived three days. Hole in her heart.'

‘God. When was this?'

He looked to the ceiling. ‘I was six. So, twelve, close to thirteen years ago.'

‘So it . . . She was Matthew's? I mean, your parents were still together then, weren't they?'

He looked at me sharply. ‘I'm surprised he never told you. I though you were close.'

‘I suppose it's painful for him to talk about.'

‘I suppose. Anyway, it was bad this morning. I told Mum that I'd . . .' He glanced at me, then down at the table. ‘I told her I'd met someone.'

‘Oh, Cal.'

‘I didn't say it was you. I mean, I didn't say anything about who . . . I said I was going to stay a while longer because I'd met someone and I wanted to see how it turned out.' He glanced up again. ‘She went crazy. Sobbing and shouting. She calls out to my grandpa, babbling away in Vietnamese so I have no idea what she's on about. She
never
speaks Vietnamese. Never. He came on the phone. He said, “Is true? My grandson has love with one of the
dich
? Your
bà
dead in the soil of Malaya so you can be free and now you leave your mother for a Northern whore!”

‘And I try to explain, no, Grandpa, she isn't from here. It's okay, she's Australian. But he's too angry. Not listening. Mum comes back on the line and I try to explain to her, but she won't listen either. She says this is what she feared, why she didn't want me to come here. She said I am like my father and her heart is broken. Then she hung up.'

‘Cal, I'm sorry.'

He tapped the table with his fingertips. ‘Can you call her?'

‘What? Why? Won't that make things worse?'

‘No, no, because she'll hear your accent. She'll know that you're not Vietnamese and she'll calm down.'

‘I don't . . . I don't think I should get involved.'

His face melted and for a second I saw pure pain, then he sucked in his breath and looked at me calmly. ‘Go home then.'

All week I had been looking forward to this long weekend. I'd gone to three different stores to stock up on condoms. I'd bought a pair of satin pyjama shorts and a matching camisole. I'd even gone to the pricey salon in the Metropole for a Brazilian wax. My underpants were soaked from the hallway make-out session.

‘What do you want me to say to her?'

Instantly, his face opened up. ‘Really? Okay, um, just introduce yourself. But not your real name. Something that sounds Aussie, though. And just say you wanted to reassure her that I'm not defecting. That I'm hanging out with you and other expats, not with Vietnamese. Then she'll want to speak to me, and it'll be fine.'

He dialled the number and handed me the phone. When a woman's voice answered I felt a wave of nausea.

‘Hello? Mrs – Ms—' I turned in panic to Cal, who pointed to himself, mouthed ‘Watkins'. ‘Ms Watkins? My name is Kylie. I'm calling from Vietnam. I'm Cal's friend.'

‘Yes?' Her tone was sharp.

‘He's very distressed about having upset you earlier. It seems he went about things all wrong and didn't explain properly. This is awkward to say, but I'm, ah, I'm the girlfriend Cal was talking about. Apparently he gave you the impression that I was Vietnamese, but I'm not. I mean, I live here at the moment, but—'

‘You are Australian?
?'

‘No, I mean, yes, I'm Australian, but not
.'

‘What are you doing in Vietnam, Kylie?'

‘I'm working here. I—' Cal waved a frantic hand in front of my face.
Lie,
he mouthed. ‘I teach English. Sort of a working holiday.'

‘I see. When will you return to Australia?'

‘When my work visa expires, I suppose. A few more months.'

She exhaled. ‘Okay. Thank you for calling. Please can I speak to Cal?'

‘Mum—' he said. ‘Yeah . . . I know, I should have . . . Red hair . . . Ah . . . Yes, yes.' He smiled at me. ‘Really pretty . . . No . . . Yeah . . . A little bit. Um, twenty-five. I know, I know, Mum. Listen, I have to go. Tell Grandpa, okay? Okay. Love you too.'

‘Twenty-five?'

He smiled apologetically. ‘She said you sounded older than me.'

‘Ah.'

‘So.' He took my hand. ‘What now, Kylie?'

I had slept in the room that was now Cal's several times over the years. It had polished floorboards and bay windows with a view over the back of the Opera House. The furniture was classic French colonial, right down to the four-poster bed draped in an unnecessary mosquito net. When I'd been here before it was immaculate, but now the dresser was almost hidden under t-shirts and jeans and there were shoes, socks, music magazines and paperback books scattered over the floor. The mess itself didn't bother me, but it did remind me that I was going to bed with a teenager which bothered me quite a lot, although it sounds disingenuous to say so.

I kept thinking,
What would your mother say?
I tried to imagine but I knew too little about her. On the phone she sounded brittle, but who wouldn't in her place? How would Margi react to her eldest – was he eighteen now? nineteen? – taking up with a woman in her thirties? I didn't know the answer to that either. My own mother . . . I knew how she'd react to nail polish on the bedspread and illicit candy bars stashed in pockets, but not this. Not anything like this.

My mother's mother, my Nana, was furious at me for marrying Glen. I thought it was because of the six-year age difference, which at the time seemed enormous. She told me it wasn't that, but I didn't believe her. I wouldn't hear the things she said about respect and friendship and integrity. I told her she was ruining my happiness and making me feel unsupported and alone. I told her she should keep her mouth shut if she couldn't say anything nice or else I simply wouldn't see or speak to her anymore. ‘I can't be silent on this,' she said. ‘When you're a mother, you'll understand.'

Not
when you're older,
but
when you're a mother
. Is it motherhood and not age or experience that separates the girls from the women? I can't know, but I don't believe it. The greatest, bravest, most grown-up thing I've ever done – the
only
thing about my twelve-year marriage of which I'm proud – was to not get pregnant. Three years in, Glen decided a baby was what we needed. After six months of trying and all-clears from our doctors, he began to suspect I was sabotaging his efforts. I was, but he couldn't prove it. Every month, when my period came he was reminded of his failure or my deceit – of both. Those rapes and beatings hurt less than the others because I knew I had won and I knew that he knew.