Fishing for Tigers (32 page)

When I got home, Cal was sitting in the doorway of my building. On his knee was a giggling toddler wearing a racing-­car t-shirt and no pants, my neighbour's grandson. His older sister, a scrawny child of seven or eight, was crouched nearby stirring a pot of something pungent while scowling at her brother.

‘Living dangerously there,' I said.

He looked up at me, apparently startled. ‘What?'

‘There's a reason they don't bother putting pants on him.'

‘Oh.' Cal let out a whoop and lifted the boy over his head, before placing him on the ground. The child grabbed at Cal's knee, attempting to hoist himself up, but Cal shook his head and slowly stood. The girl shouted something in Vietnamese and the boy stumbled across to her and came to a collapsing stop millimetres from her steaming pot.

‘How long have you been waiting here?'

‘Not long. I was going to call, but . . .' He drew a line on the ground with the toe of his shoe. ‘I thought if you saw my number you wouldn't answer.'

‘You were wrong.'

Cal smiled at the children chattering two feet away. Still watching them he said, ‘Dad's got the nurse for another week. I think he's going to ask Henry to come down for a bit after that. I was willing to stay, but he's so . . . He thought it best that I leave before things between us became unfixable.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's not your fault.' He nodded towards his bag. ‘Do you know a hotel I can go to?'

‘Really? You couldn't find a hotel amongst the thousand or so lining the streets of the Old Quarter?'

He shrugged and looked at me, somehow embarrassed and pleased with himself at the same time. Over his left shoulder, I saw Mrs Nguyen and Mrs Thuy huddled in their shared doorway, watching.

He showered and I wondered whether I should unpack his bag for him and how long he would stay and whether Matthew knew where he was. As a precaution I called Hoang and told her I was very sick and that she shouldn't come in for the next week. She sounded upset until I told her I would pay her as usual. Then she said, ‘Drink ginger tea, Miss Mischa. See you next week.'

I opened my laptop and picked away at an article that I was supposed to have finished editing today. Not even an article, really, just a sidebar to a larger feature.

During the American war when Vietnamese boys and men from the north were called upon to serve their nation, and Vietnamese boys and men from the south were forced by threat of torture and death to betray their brothers by fighting with the imperialist invaders, the mothers of these sons became the mothers of all soldiers.

Mothers of the soldiers from the south vowed to feed and protect the soldiers of the north who came to liberate their villages. While they mourned their own sons who were lost to them thanks to the menace of the imperialist recruitment, these mothers not only prepared food for and nursed the injuries of northern soldiers, they proved that no Vietnamese son could be the enemy of a Vietnamese mother. This they proved by digging tunnels to assist patriots.

One Heroic Mother who came from the Central Provinces, so was neither north nor south but from the part of the land which was covered in bombs and blood and which lost its sons to the imperialist forces and to the patriots said that although her three sons were sacrificed she drew strength and even some joy from watching the young southern – and sometimes even American – soldiers slurping noodles she had prepared for them. Every time she ladled out another bowl of soup she felt sure that somewhere another mother was feeding her own boys. So it was that the Vietnamese Mothers kept the Vietnamese Family alive during the terrible struggle for independence and freedom.

Cal came in with a towel wrapped around his waist. ‘Am I interrupting?'

‘Are you kidding? I feel like I've been waiting hours for you to get out of that shower so I can dirty you up again.'

He didn't smile. He sat on the edge of my bed and held up both hands when I moved towards him. ‘Wait. I need to talk to you.'

I slumped back into my chair and sighed.

‘I know that talking about feelings irritates you, but that's too bad. I can't do this anymore, Mischa. I need to know how you feel about me.'

I forced myself to look at his face. ‘You
do
know. I adore you. When I saw you waiting out the front I was so happy I nearly burst.'

‘Yeah, yeah. I know that, but . . .' He looked at the ceiling. ‘I need to decide some stuff. It's nearly Christmas. Mum wants to know if I'll be back or not. And if not, if I stay here, then how long for? I need to enrol in uni or else defer so I don't lose my place. And my money is going to run out sooner or later. Do I get job here? Can I even get a job here? That's another thing. I'm on a three-month tourist visa. I need to extend it or replace it or I don't know what. I need to decide all this stuff, Mish, and I can't unless I know how you feel.'

I stared at my computer screen and thought of all those soldiers. All those boys like Cal heading out to the jungle to kill each other and then, amongst the rusted-iron lock-jaw traps and gas triggers and land-mines, in the midst of vomiting up poison weeds and losing toes to foot-rot and sanity to the memory of a battalion mate's missing head, being found by the mothers of the boys they had killed or would kill and given soup and dry socks and clean clothes.

‘Wow. Okay. Silence is an answer, I guess.'

‘No. It isn't. Sorry.' I sat beside him, resisting the urge to touch him. ‘I don't know the right thing to say here. I think what is best for you, probably, is that you go home and hug your mum and enrol at uni and get a girlfriend your own age and talk to your grandpa about Vietnam. I think that's best for you. But what I want is for you to stay here. So, it's difficult. I think if I was a good person I wouldn't have said all that. I would've just told you that I don't want you here and then you would go home and be happy.'

‘I wouldn't be happy.'

‘Not right away. But soon.'

He picked at a loose thread on his towel. His belly was pale against the southern-brown of his arms.

‘Maybe you're over-thinking all this,' I said.

‘Maybe.'

I placed my hand on his thigh, felt the ripple of his tensing muscle. ‘Right now, what do you want?'

‘I want to be with you.'

‘Okay, well, you are. So that's good, right?'

‘Yeah.'

He looked as miserable as I'd ever seen him. I didn't trust myself to speak. I was too aware of the way that lust ground away at my heart and conscience, making me calculating and shameless. I kissed him, eased him on to his back. I told myself I needed to sate my desire so I could think clearly about what to say.

It never came to me, that perfect thing to say. We fucked and then he fell asleep.

I don't know what made me go to the window. It was the middle of the night and I couldn't have expected to see anything except darkened windows and a deserted building site. But when I opened the curtains and saw the locksmith and his wife looking down at me from their third-floor window I didn't feel surprised. I nodded across at them as though it was a sunny morning and we were meeting in the street. They did not nod back. I could see clear into their front room to the mattress in the middle of the floor and the family altar under the opposite window. I jolted the curtains shut and will never know whether they had seen past me, to the great big bed and the sleeping naked boy sprawled across it. It doesn't matter. My guilt was a flashing red light.

I took my phone into the bathroom and called Mel.

‘Chemo started eight fucking days ago, Mischa.'

‘I know. I'm sorry. How is she?'

‘Are you serious?'

‘I meant to call.'

I heard her breathing, the TV chattering, children calling out.

‘Mel?'

‘The thing is, our lives have been taken over by this. We've all cancelled every non-essential activity. Brad's taken long-service leave and Karen and I have cut back work to the barest minimum we can get away with. Ryan's skipping soccer to watch the younger kids, Joel's been having panic attacks and Lucy has started wetting the bed again. And poor Margi, she's trying so hard to carry on like everything's okay, but she's so damn sick she can hardly sit up in bed most days. Every waking minute is about this right now and I just cannot understand how you can go days without even making a bloody phone call. I don't get it, Mischa, I really, really don't.'

‘Me either.'

‘God. When you were with Glen, I could understand you keeping your distance. I hated it, but I understood. But now . . . Shit. Margi could die. Margi. Your sister. Do you understand that? Do you get what is happening here?'

‘No. I suppose I don't. I'm sorry.'

‘I can't talk to you right now. I have to go.'

The line went dead. I tried to conjure up an image of Margi hooked to the chemo machine, but couldn't even visualise her face. Nausea swept over me. I redialled Mel's number.

‘Please don't hang up. I just want to know how she is. Just, please, tell me how the first chemo went.'

Mel sighed. ‘Not now. Brad just brought her over. I'm going to give her a massage, see if I can get her digestive system moving again.'

‘She's there? Can I speak to her.'

‘Not now.'

‘Just to say hi?'

Another sigh. ‘Margi, your long-lost sister says hi.'

‘Hello, brat,' Margi called and something inside me broke.

‘Oh! Margi. Oh. I'm sorry. Mel, please, put her on or put me on speaker or something. I need to—'

‘You're already on speaker, brat.'

‘Margi! How are you?'

‘Top of the world, lovely. And you?'

‘I'm in trouble,' I said without knowing I would.

There was a silence and then muffled whispers. I held my breath, pressed my heartbreak down, down, down.

‘What kind of trouble, sweetheart?' Margi said finally.

‘I miss you too much,' I said. ‘I can't stand this distance. I'm coming home.'

‘Bullshit,' said Mel.

‘Really?'

‘Yes.' I felt sick and dizzy and like nothing was real. ‘I haven't made all the arrangements, but I've decided. I need to be with you through this.'

My sisters were crying and shouting. I heard a man's voice and thought it was my brother-in-law until he addressed me directly and I realised it was my nephew.

‘My next chemo's in a week, but maybe you'll be here for the one after that. Three weeks. Do you think, lovely?'

‘I'll do my best.'

The next day I gave two weeks notice. When I told Thuan I was going home to take care of my sick sister, she kissed my cheek and said she was very happy for me.