Fishing for Tigers (28 page)

Back at the hotel I told Cal about the tigers.

‘That's stupid. Never happened,' he said. He sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, looking down at his knees.

‘I'm just telling you what the guide said.'

‘Yeah, no offence, but I think he was having you on. It's too contrived, too perfectly metaphorical.'

‘Maybe.'

‘You think it's true. Admit it.'

‘Okay, yes. I mean, I don't actually get what the metaphor is. Sorry, I'm a bit thick sometimes.' I touched his arm, trying to get him to look up and see the smile I hoped was self-deprecating enough to defuse things.

He continued glaring at his legs. ‘Why do you always try to dodge conversations?'

‘I'm not trying to dodge anything. I liked the story and thought you might, too. That's all.'

‘Liked? It's fucking horrible. Tigers starving to death or rotting from the throat down.'

‘You're right, of course. I didn't really think about that part. I just liked the idea of the jungle back then, full of wild animals and the occasional brave, lone hunter, instead of tunnels and bomb-craters, everything dead.'

‘Mish, come on, are you serious? You must know there were tigers during the war – it's common knowledge. There were all these unburied bodies everywhere. All this
meat
. The tigers got a taste for it and became man-killers. Soldiers on both sides were eaten. You must've heard the stories, men sitting in pitch black listening to terrified screams and unidenti­fied grunts, not knowing what had happened until the sun came up and they found some poor half-eaten . . .'

‘Maybe I'd heard about it, I don't know. Some things I choose to forget.' I went to the window and drew the curtains, muting the neon buffalo's glow. ‘Can we stop talking about this now?'

He looked at me with contempt. ‘How do you do it? Just switch yourself off like that?'

‘Cal, I'm lost here. What is it you want me to say?'

‘I want you to stop playing dumb.'

‘God. Listen. I don't know what you think I'm playing dumb about, but it doesn't matter. I'm sure I'm guilty. Go ahead, hand me my sentence, Judge.'

He left my room and stayed away all night. A brutal punishment indeed.

In bed, alone, I remembered Ho Quyen, a crumbling arena on the banks of the Perfume River that I had visited in
last year. The guide told us that in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries the emperors used to hold gladiatorial battles between tigers and elephants. The tigers – symbols of independence and rebellion – were drugged, declawed and had their teeth filed down before being released into the arena. Still, they'd charge at the elephants, scratch and bite with all the force of a newborn kitten. The elephants barely bothered to stomp them to death.

The people cheered, because they knew the elephants represented royalty and up there was the emperor, watching
them
rather than the animals. But secretly, our guide said, the people were sick with worry about the treatment of the tigers.

‘Tigers hold the spirits of the oldest and wisest of our ancestors. Sometimes we use the word for “grandfather” when we speak of them. So the people worried: what will become of us if we continue to abuse the grandfather spirits this way? I think soon the answer came. Yes? The emperors did not last much longer and their people suffered very much without the tiger spirit's protection.'

In the morning over breakfast I told Cal what I remembered about the arena in
. I thought I had a handle over the meaning of this one, that people everywhere use folk beliefs and religion to explain inconceivably large, historically ­tangled events. That they take impersonal events personally, believe their lack of muttered prayers or correctly bundled offering has affected the fate of the world. That most people would prefer to feel guilty than to feel powerless.

Cal didn't respond right away, just continued slurping his soup. His forehead was coated with sweat even though we sat underneath the icy air-conditioner.

‘So you really didn't get it yesterday?' he said at last.

‘What?'

‘You spent all night thinking of a different story about
tigers
, as though . . . Oh, man.' He laughed, the first authentic, uncontrolled laugh I'd heard from him in so long. ‘Next, will you tell me the one about how the tiger got his stripes? Or about why the medicine men boil tiger bones for soup? Wow. I'm sorry, Mish. I really thought you were playing dumb. But you were for real.'

I made myself sit still, smile at him, shrug. ‘Yep, apparently I'm genuinely dumb. You going to explain to me why?'

He looked me in the eye. ‘Figure it out yourself,' he said.

We'd been in Saigon only five days, but it felt much longer. I was close to sorting out Matthew's mess, but it looked like he would not be fit to travel for several weeks. Cal insisted he would stay and keep his dad company, but when we were alone again he asked me if I could call work and extend my leave.

‘Maybe, but I don't particularly want to.'

We were walking single file down Bui Vien, a street on which you must keep moving or be swamped by book and postcard sellers and shoe-shine boys and bar touts.

Cal threw a look of contempt over his shoulder. ‘Great, thanks a lot.'

‘Try not to take everything so personally. It's tiresome.'

He stopped and I stepped on his heels. He faced me, glaring. ‘How else should I take it?'

‘No,
,' I said to the shoe-shine boy approaching from behind Cal. ‘Think for a minute. I have a job and a life in Hanoi. Coming down here to help a friend was the decent thing to do, but – No,
, no – staying on now he's capable of managing his own affairs would be weird. People will ask questions. He'll ask questions. No, no,
, no. Cal, we need to keep walking.'

He scowled, but continued along the path. A moustached man sidled up to Cal, who stopped, damn him, to listen.

‘Hey, brother, you come in my bar. Cold beer, nice girls.' The man pointed towards a nearby shopfront, the window painted black with the words
Crazzzy Girls
in pink.

‘No, I'm with—' Cal waved a hand in my direction.

‘Forget her. Much more beautiful girls here for you.'