Single White Female in Hanoi (19 page)

‘He has written a complaint to the railway authority. It say they should refund some money to the passenger because they didn't clean the carriage. It say the railway authority did not do their job properly.' Dat laughs and signs his name at the bottom. The petition is passed around and we all sign.

An hour passes and the lights go out. We're sitting in the semi-dark still chatting with our carriage-mates when our door is yanked open again, this time by the dour ticket inspector who reaches up to switch on the reading lamp and sits down heavily on the bunk. She surrenders a scrap of paper and I peer at the page. It's written in a far less practised hand, on a thin piece of paper torn messily from a notebook. With difficulty, Hung translates the scrawl. He and Bich are laughing helplessly.

‘This one say that Tulip is to blame for the bad service. This is the Tulip carriage and it is their responsibility to look after it.'

We add our signatures to this one too. It's a game of no consequence. It's obvious the buck will be passed backwards and forwards until the foreigners are out of sight. The truth may be unknowable. I've taken pity on the ticket inspector, realising she's more tired than ill-willed.

Some time after she leaves, we try to sleep, but there's a fresh round of yelling outside. Hung pipes up in the dark.

‘Are you awake?' I can hear the smile in his voice.

‘Tell us,' I call back.

‘Now Thinh is saying this is not the Tulip carriage – they've given him the wrong carriage.'

The dispute continues into the night. I wake up during a particularly loud bout and peer through the curtain on the door to find that two police officers have transubstantiated into the carriage from nowhere and are now involved. There's some low key discussion, then another loud outburst. I recognise Thinh's voice again, sounding more anguished than ever. Hung wakes up and translates. ‘The ticket inspector has discovered that Thinh does not have a ticket. She told him he must buy one, because he claim this is not the Tulip carriage.'

In Hanoi, we roll off the train into pre-dawn darkness. The streets are not yet conscious, eerily quiet, except for the station exit, around which are scores of very persistent
xe om
and
cyclo
drivers. My place is only metres away so we don't need one. They grab at us and I shake them off irritably. I have an eight am class at Global in just over two hours. Natassia comes back to my place too and we shower and lie down for an hour or so. We listen to Hanoi start the day. With the tourniquet of night removed, the din returns like blood rushing back into a limb.

The cool hush of Sapa, cradled high in the mountains, is barely a memory.

Zac's sitting in the staffroom looking gloomy when I arrive at Global. I make myself a cup of green tea and sit in the empty chair beside him. The Vietnamese English teachers are sitting around the table too, reading
Tin Tue
, the local daily newspaper. Trying to make conversation, one of the Vietnamese English teachers looks up from the headlines to ask him ‘Mr. Zac, have you heard about this epidemic that has spread through the country?

‘You mean communism?' he asks, as the staffroom crunches into a dead silence.

‘Nice one,' I tell him. ‘How was National Day?'

He shrugs. ‘I dunno. Ask someone who went out of their house.'

I tell him a bit about the weekend and he listens with the air of a doomed man listening to a prattling child.

‘Caz,' he cuts in, finally. ‘I've decided we're wasting our lives here. Over the weekend I realised that in terms of lifestyle and job satisfaction, I'd be better off working as a garbage collector in Darwin. The work wouldn't be any less mentally stimulating, and after I knocked off I'd be able to talk to interesting, intelligent people.' He leans back into the chair, his face set in a glum sort of pride. Lan walks past and the two engage in a mutual hate-stare.

‘Hey. You just had a bad weekend. ‘Cos we were away. You missed me.'

‘Not you – Natassia. It's her voice.' He sighs a long sigh. ‘I hope she never finds out how much time I spend alone fantasising about it.'

‘She won't – if you start being a bit nicer to me.'

‘Caz,' he begins gently, unperturbed by my peeved attempt at blackmail. ‘You know if I'd met you when you were, say, 28, I'd have devoted my entire life to trying to root you.'

Groaning, I lean forward and ask him, ‘Zac. Have you ever been laid, here?' I'm starting to wonder if he's ever been laid at all.

He hesitates. ‘Not really. I was seeing a Vina girl earlier this year who let me kiss her, but after I had a feel of her titties I never saw her again.'

‘I don't think you should worry too much about Vietnam turning you into a feminist,' I say crisply. He smiles, relieved, and I add: ‘What about paying for it?'

‘Whores? You obviously don't understand how I feel about AIDS. Allow me to explain. I wouldn't trust a whore here even through two condoms.'

‘So the answer's no then. You haven't had sex in … how long is it? Nearly a year!' I watch his face move through a series of contortions, and then he cracks.

‘ … Well, I didn't want to tell you this, but you've left my dignity with no choice … ‘

This is when I learn Zac's secret. He's actually been having an affair with his ‘lucrative' Korean private student, a lonely housewife whose husband is off playing golf and screwing local girls. I pat him on the back, relieved.

‘What about you?' he asks me. ‘Have you had any action?'

‘You know I only have eyes for Vina guys,' I tell him, knowing how he hates this.

‘You disgust me,' he says predictably, then has a thought. ‘I've got a friend like you – hungry for small cock … ‘ I splurt out a mouthful of green tea onto the glass table and start choking. Ngoc, the teacher sitting next to me, thumps me on the back, and the bell rings for class. ‘But she's got more sense than you,' he continues. ‘She only goes for rich Japanese businessmen.'

It's been slowly dawning on me that thirty-something female expats in this town don't get laid much. The male expats my age, unprepossessing as they generally are, are pairing off with gorgeous young local girls left right and centre. And ‘young' means barely twenty. I seem to be at least ten years older than even the Western girls they occasionally chase. And then there's the mysterious lack of sexual attention I've had from local guys. Has the enervating climate of Hanoi drained every last remnant of sex-appeal from me? Have I suddenly aged ten years? Under Hanoi's signature fluorescent lighting my face in the mirror is starting to show signs of wear and tear that I hadn't noticed before. I could be having my first aging crisis.

Come to think of it – I've hardly seen Hanoian guys with Western girls of any age. Could it be they're just not attracted to us? What's gone wrong? I was an Adonis-magnet in Bali.

Some of my questions are answered a few days later in a Global classroom. I'm trying out a new lesson for upper-intermediates in which the students are living two hundred years in the future at a time when sexual reproduction is no longer the best option. Inhabitants of this brave new world have to order their baby from a laboratory, after designing it from a generous range of options. Student groups, representing the new marital units, must choose their baby's specifications. Hair-colour and eye-colour, for example, can be any colour imaginable. The first group, a mixed bunch of lively students, selects a very tall girl with wavy pale yellow hair and purple eyes. They name her ‘Atlanta' and give her an IQ of 140. I nod approvingly.

But the next group, all boys, isn't settling for mere mensa-level brainpower. They've given their new daughter an IQ of 200, despite my suggestion that this may make it impossible for them to have a conversation with her. Given her other traits, this might well be her only distinguishing feature. For hair-colour they've selected black; for hair texture, straight; for eye-colour, dark brown.

‘You've made her Vietnamese!' I cry out in abject disappointment.

‘Of course', they smile back.

‘We're living two-hundred years in the future, in an incredible world populated by a completely new type of human being,' I remind them. ‘And you've created a Vietnamese girl! Where are your imaginations?'

‘No need. We think this is the most attractive choice.'

Zac now has a confirmed crush on Nguyet. The tits and arse observations have given way to more circumspect musings on her warmth, humanity and obvious intelligence.

‘She's exceptional. You were lucky to meet her,' he tells me, regularly. He seems a changed man.

I find the crush rather touching, and while matchmaking the two would probably be unconscionable, I can't deny him the opportunity to find out if there really is a spark there.

With this in mind I made sure to let Zac know that Nguyet was playing piano in the lobby of a five-star hotel tonight. Sure enough, he surprised even himself by suggesting a trip to see ‘some live music'. Natassia and I didn't need much convincing. An evening of live piano in an air-conditioned foyer sounded like the height of luxury.

Nguyet, her posture on the piano stool, perfect, is playing a Chopin prelude. Her long hair is loose and brushed and she's wearing make-up. I've never seen her look so beautiful. Moreover, she's in a low-cut, backless black dress and I note with some surprise that Zac's anatomical observations were perfectly correct. This serves to reinforce the disturbing suspicion I've had for most of my life, that men have a sixth sense – a kind of x-ray vision, that they've kept secret from the other sex since the dawn of clothing.

But my reflection in the gilded mirror to my right reveals a forehead crimped into a frown of despair. My role as go-between and moral support is looking untenable. Zac's not playing his cards right, and I fear all may be lost.

The last few months of all-you-can-eat buffets have not been kind to his figure, and the humidity outside has taken its toll on his sweat-glands. He's turned up in an out-sized bottle-green polo shirt. There are dark, almost black, patches under the arms, across the back and down the chest area. And now he's ordered no less than two full meals for his supper. From where we're seated, right near the stage, Nguyet has a full frontal view of Zac's binge-eating disorder.

While Zac eats, Natassia and I quietly discuss her latest lover, Guillaume.

‘He's passionate, but so stubborn,' she tells me.

‘How much do you like him? Is it serious?' I ask her.

‘I don't think so. We fight often but he's really good in bed,' is the reply. I notice Zac has his eavesdropping stare on and that unnatural tilt to his head.

Guillaume wanted to see Natassia tonight but she wanted to come out with us and see Nguyet. Now he's off somewhere sulking. I wonder whether his present condition might be related to the public dressing-down Zac and I watched her give him yesterday.

‘I told him he can meet us here if he wants to,' she shrugs.

‘Nats,' chomps Zac, thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever considered that you might be a ruthless man-eater?' Natassia tuts angrily, glares at him, and slaps him on the upper arm.

But I picture Guillaume being told what to do by a woman, and shake my head in silent admiration for Natassia. A dangerous-looking mixture of African, Asian and European, this is a guy who got the genes for gangster rapper, Yakuza membership and spoilt Lord. I expect he has his good points, but I imagine that without seeing him naked, I won't get to appreciate them. Whenever I see him, he's sullen and non-communicative, and strangely at the mercy of an indifferent Natassia.

I'm starting to realise that Natassia doesn't hold her lovers in high regard. She told me her father walked out on her mother when she was young. She's been making cocksure men pay for it ever since. And it works like a charm. The harder she is, the harder they queue up for more. This phenomenon has come to the attention of other female expats, who sometimes come up and congratulate her as though she's some kind of feminist folk-hero.

But now she drops a bombshell.

‘Hey. I'm going to leave Hanoi and go travelling again.'

‘When?' Zac and I chorus in horror.

‘Soon, I think. Maybe in two months, or less,' she says. After a moment's silence she adds: ‘I don't know when I'm coming back.' The silence lengthens.

‘I've only got two friends in this country,' says Zac bitterly. ‘And now one of them's about to leave.'

I watch Nguyet playing for a few gloomy minutes before an amused-sounding ‘hi!' from Zac breaks the mood. Looking round, I spot a familiar Vietnamese face sitting beside him. It's a beautiful face with ruby red lips.

‘Where do we know him from?' I whisper to Natassia, whose memory for people is almost infallible.

‘Your farewell dinner. Remember? I think his name was Binh. He's Nguyet's friend.'

Zac has overheard us again, and leans over to slip in an extra epithet. ‘The poof.'

I smile at Binh and he smiles fetchingly back. Another gorgeous Hanoi guy with no interest in me whatsoever. I experience a sudden wave of self-pity.

Nguyet is behind him, on a set break. She hugs me, kisses Natassia, then sits on the other side of Binh and greets Zac with great warmth. I watch closely. In the periphery of my vision I see Natassia's eyebrows rise. Mine have probably lifted a little too. It's a sign – as surprising as it is promising.

Zac is tongue-tied for a minute, but then launches into one of his long anecdotes in Vietnamese. The intonation, as always, is Australian. Natassia and I watch as Nguyet and Binh strain to follow what is, judging by all the accompanying hand and face movements, a lively tale involving police harassment of an elderly vendor.

I try to imagine how Zac's Vietnamese must sound to locals and decide it would be something like hearing the electronic voice of Stephen Hawking with the word order changed radically and most of the vowels replaced by different ones, although consistently. Much later, when Natassia and I are exasperated with the effort of learning the impossible tones and phonemes of Vietnamese, I'll realise that all Westerners are doomed to sound like this.

But as Zac pantomimes his way through his narrative I lean back in my chair and notice something curious. Nguyet and Binh are holding hands under the table.