Fishing for Tigers (30 page)

I saw the maid a moment before she turned her face away and left the room and re-locked the door behind her. I lay frozen, listening to the cleaning trolley clunk down the stairs. The late afternoon sun pulsed through the thin, gold curtains.

‘Shit. Cal. Shit.' I shook him awake as I fumbled for my clothes.

He sat up, rubbing his puffy eyes. His torso was striped where he'd lain across the crumpled bedspread. ‘What time is it?'

‘I don't know. Late.'

He reached for the phone. ‘It's four-thirty. We'll just tell Dad we went to another museum or something.'

‘No. Listen. We didn't put the “Do not disturb” thing on the door. Housekeeping just came in and saw us.'

‘Oops.'

‘No, Cal, not “oops”. This could be very serious.'

‘What? Why? You think she'll tell Dad? Wait, would she even know who I am?'

‘Just get dressed and get out of here, okay?'

There was a sharp knock on the door.

‘One moment,' I called out. I checked myself in the mirror while Cal pulled on his shorts and t-shirt.

I opened the door to a dour, middle-aged man whose badge identified him as Manager and the sweetly smiling front desk attendant who greeted us by name every day. Behind them, the maid stared at the floor.

‘Yes, Miss Mischa, good afternoon. I am sorry to disturb, but there is a problem.'

‘What kind of problem?'

The woman continued smiling, but the strain was clear. ‘The hotel policy does not allow unregistered guests to stay in the room.'

‘Oh!' I gestured to Cal, without looking at him. ‘You know Cal. He's Mr Watkins's – Matthew Watkins's – son.' I forced a laugh. ‘Cal is not feeling well today and the medicine Matthew takes for his broken legs makes him snore so loudly, it is difficult for Cal to rest down there.'

The receptionist translated for the manager who barked something at the maid who gave a barely audible reply. The manager barked at the receptionist and her smile slipped.

‘I am very sorry, Miss Mischa. I need your understanding, please. Sometimes police will check registers, check rooms. If you have Mr Calvin in your room like this there would be very much trouble. Trouble for you, for Mr Calvin and for this hotel.'

‘Yes. I see. I'm very sorry. It won't happen again.'

She spoke to the manager and he said something back without looking away from my face.

‘Miss Mischa, please understand. I am sorry, but the manager says that you must leave our hotel now.'

‘No, no. Look, I'm checking out the day after tomorrow. I've booked my flight and everything. I'll be here two more nights and there won't be anybody else in my room. Okay?'

She shook her head. ‘I am sorry. I need your understanding, please. You cannot stay any longer. The manager will not allow.'

I pressed my fingertips hard into the heels of my palms. ‘I'll need to pack up my things, okay?'

As I closed the door, the manager grabbed it, muttering in Vietnamese.

‘Yes, sorry. Please excuse me, Mr Calvin?' The receptionist looked by now like she was going to cry. ‘Please will you come with us?'

‘What? Why?' He was beside me, staring down the manager.

‘Actually, we will like for you to come to your own room now. Thank you.'

‘This is bullshit.'

‘Cal, just go down. It'll be fine. Don't worry.'

‘Fucking bullshit,' he said, but he went.

There is no privacy in Vietnam. I knew, but had forgotten. The women on my street chattered and laughed as I passed them and I knew they were commenting on what I was wearing, who accompanied me, what was in my shopping bag, how much I must have paid for my hat. The key cutter across the street knew who came and went when and reported it to the
lady on the corner who told the gang of
drivers who knew the addresses of most of my friends. Because I could not understand the talk I could pretend it was not about me. I forgot that the fact I was rarely questioned or challenged, or prevented from doing exactly what I wanted to do, was not because nobody noticed, but because they'd decided it wasn't worth the fuss at the time.

The staff of the Best Saigon Hotel had decided it was worth the fuss. As I packed my things, I raged at the injustice of it. I was sure Matthew had brought a woman – perhaps more than one – back to his room before his accident, and I was sure Matthew was not the first man to do so. Hotels in this neighbourhood would have scant business if they kicked out every westerner who shared their bed with a non-registered guest.

It didn't matter. I was in the wrong and no amount of complaining about hypocrisy and selective blindness would help my cause.

I would have to go down and see Matthew. I felt ashamed, but also a sense of relief. I've heard it said that secrecy is sexy, but it only made me feel married again. Like I had to keep track of every detail of my manner and demeanour in case I gave away my true feelings.

My knock was answered immediately. Cal shook his head and stepped back to allow me in. Matthew was in his usual position, but his expression was new. I realised I'd never seen him hurt.

‘Cal, go for a walk,' he said.

‘I think I should stay.'

I was sure to look only at Matthew. ‘I think your dad's right. Leave us alone for a bit.'

‘Let Mummy and Daddy talk, huh?'

Matthew's face contorted. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?'

‘Sorry, I forgot it's the end of the fucking world.'

‘If I could get out of this bed it would be, you little shit. Get out of here. I mean it.'

‘Mish?' Cal stood to my right. I did not allow myself a glance.

I nodded. He swore. The door slammed.

‘Matthew, I—'

‘There's nothing you can say that won't make this worse.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Are you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sorry that you fucked my son or sorry that I found out?'

‘Both.'

‘I'm glad he didn't hear that. He couldn't stop defending you and this – this – whatever it is you have. He says there's nothing to be sorry for. Says you love each other.'

I suppose I sighed. Matthew reared up and I saw the physical pain slapping at him.

‘Matty, please, you'll hurt yourself.'

He closed his eyes, sank back into his pillows. ‘I can't deal with this, Mischa. I don't even know where to start. Do me a favour and get me a couple of the yellow pills and some water.'

‘The sleeping pills?'

‘Yeah.'

I did as he asked and stood close by as he swallowed them. His brokenness dulled the edge of the rage knifing through my guts. After all, he was my friend and I knew, watching his grey, old-man face collapse in on itself, that his own conscience would do more damage than anything I could say.

‘Get some rest. We can sort all this out later. When you're feeling better.'

‘I suppose you'll be off to fuck my son again while I sleep.'

I pushed his sweaty fringe off his forehead. ‘Of course not. It's over. I promise, Matty.'

I don't know whether I meant it, but it was the only thing to say at the time. Cal was waiting for me in front of the hotel, out of his mind with anger and worry. We caught a cab to
and I checked into a hotel expensive enough to assume a privacy bribe was included in the tariff.

We made love and then cuddled under the luxuriously wide, high-pressure shower until our fingertips puckered. We ordered up burgers, which we washed down with German beer and then we stood at the window and watched women with cotton scarves over their faces and black muck over their arms rake steaming bitumen into potholes.

‘I hate this place,‘ Cal said.

‘What is it? The velvety robes, the room service? The double shower?'

‘Fucking Vietnam. I hate it. My mum was right. It's a cesspool. Blood doesn't matter, heritage or history or whatever you want to call it. It doesn't matter. The people who got out are lucky and the people who stay out are smart. And people who choose to be here – people with American and Australian and European citizenship who fight to be allowed to live
here
– Jesus, Mum was right about them too. Wanting to live without connections, without responsibility. As long as they have cash they can have anything they want. Never have to make real decisions or contribute anything to society. Never have to be real. Would rather be a kid forever than live in a civilised country.'