The Rainy Season Read online

  Hugh walks into the foyer a bit after midday wearing a short-sleeved cream shirt and jangling keys. He smells faintly of cloves. We smile and say ‘hi’ then stand awkwardly for a few seconds until he asks if I’m ready to go. I follow him out to a grey Honda.

  ‘A motorbike,’ I say, stupidly.

  He smiles. ‘Is that okay? Would you prefer to catch a cyclo?’

  ‘No, no, that’s fine.’ But I am wondering what I am doing climbing onto the back of a motorbike in Saigon with a total stranger. I should be on a bus to the Mekong Delta, visiting the Island of the Coconut Monk.

  He kick-starts the bike; it comes to life with a roar. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a helmet,’ he says, and then we are bumping gently down the curb and into the fray.

  I start off by clutching handfuls of his shirt, trying to keep some space between us, but I’m soon gripping his waist. The wind whips my hair back, makes my eyes stream. We weave slickly through the jam of traffic, overtaking everything before us, but for no obvious reason I feel safe, like a little girl on a fairground ride with her dad.

  I’m almost disappointed when we land outside a restaurant down a narrow laneway. Hugh collects a ticket from a boy squatting alongside a row of bicycles and motorbikes; I guess he must be the parking attendant.

  The small room is packed. A woman leads us to a table that has just been vacated and clears off the dirty dishes. Crab shells crunch beneath our feet. All the other customers in the restaurant are Vietnamese and wherever I look there are curious faces staring back.

  ‘This place is famous – locally,’ Hugh says. ‘Every dish is based on crab.’

  ‘I’ve only eaten crab once … it was good.’ We smile politely at one another across the table.

  ‘Would you like a beer? A soft drink?’ Hugh asks.

  ‘A beer would be good.’

  Hugh says something to the waiter who brings back a bottle of Saigon Bia with two glasses of ice. We both watch him pour.

  ‘So do you go to the Smiling Café much?’ I ask – for something to say – then feel my face flush. ‘By the way, I’m sorry about the other day.’

  He smiles. ‘It wasn’t a problem. I was just concerned … that you were okay. But, no, I don’t spend much time down there. I had some business in the area.’

  Two bowls of crab soup arrive and a plate of crab spring rolls.

  ‘How long have you been in Ho Chi Minh City?’ I ask him.

  ‘Almost nine months. I export clothes – blouses, dresses, skirts – to a chain of boutiques in the States.’

  ‘Do you like it? Living here?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ Hugh picks up his keys, lets them clack against his palm. He frowns. ‘It’s a hard place to do business. There’s always a queue a mile long of people who need to be paid off, endless permits to be rubber-stamped. To be honest, I’m still trying to make it work.’

  ‘What do you like about it then?’

  ‘Actually, I was born here. My mother was Vietnamese.’ He says this quickly, with a small, direct smile, then continues without pause, not allowing me to respond, ‘What about you, Ella? What brought you to Vietnam?’

  ‘Um …’ The question makes my brain fog up. I stare over his shoulder at the waitress clearing tables. I shrug. ‘I’m not sure really.’ It’s a dumb answer.

  We both seem to float for a minute, lost in our own thoughts, before Hugh launches into a story about a new Saigon office complex built three levels higher than the official permit allowed. The local People’s Committee demanded the extra storeys be removed but money was exchanged and they were allowed to remain on the condition they be painted sky-blue, just the top three levels: a static shade against an ever-changing sky; a parody of the country’s renewal.

  I laugh, though I’m not sure I’ve fully understood. More food arrives – crab noodles. We serve up small bowls and drink some more beer.

  Hugh talks about the lifting of the embargo, how things might change, or might not. He talks about the fall of the Soviet Empire and the introduction in 1986 of Vietnam’s program of market reform, Doi Moi. There is great pressure for change, he explains, but equally strong resistance from those within the Party afraid of losing control of their economy and their culture. It’s a time of recovery and optimism, of infinite possibility, also of fear and uncertainty. Who knows where the country will be in five years, he says. The only thing for sure is that there can be no going back.

  I feel myself frowning in concentration. No going back.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been talking too much,’ Hugh says.

  ‘No, it’s very interesting. I know so little about Vietnam … as it is now.’

  Then, for a while, neither of us speaks. We eat our noodles. The ice in my glass has melted and I finish off the flat beer. I wonder vaguely if the ice is safe, if I will get sick. Sweat trickles down my stomach. I dab at it with my T-shirt.

  The silence between us becomes starker. If Tim were here, he’d be asking Hugh questions. I imagine him sitting across from me, his look of wry amusement. He’d appreciate the tale of the building with the blue hat; he’d be excited about the embargo and crab done ten ways and the afternoon stretching out before us.

  I take a big breath of hot, damp air. Hugh looks up.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m not very good company at the moment.’

  He smiles. ‘You’re fine.’

  Then for a few seconds our eyes meet and I see in his a sadness, a bewilderment, I hadn’t noticed before. They are like a mirror.

  ‘It was actually my boyfriend’s idea, this trip,’ I blurt. ‘But now he hasn’t come.’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned something about that at the café.’

  ‘Did I?’ And then it comes pouring out, the chaos I have been holding in my head for the past fortnight. I tell him about Tim walking out on that beautiful afternoon, how every minute since, every breath, has been a struggle; that I am here in this legendary place, trying to experience it, but it feels like I am underwater and I can’t see clearly, can’t hear for the rushing in my ears, can’t speak without fearing I will spill over. I talk randomly at him, breathlessly, like I have been uncorked. I tell him about our cat, Book, and my plan to return to uni to study social work. I describe the block of land Tim and I were going to buy near Daylesford when Tim finished his thesis, how Tim was going to keep bees and I would sell the honey.

  Hugh pats my hand gently, like a father might. ‘You’re still in shock,’ he says. ‘Things will get better.’

  ‘I don’t even know why I came, to tell you the truth. I think I felt I had to prove something.’

  He nods so slowly at this, smiles so sadly, that I feel he understands just what I am saying. ‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Did you leave someone behind?’

  He hesitates but then his face seems to close up. I sense I have overstepped some invisible boundary. He picks up his keys again and smiles tightly. ‘I lived alone in Sacramento.’

  I nod, waiting for him to go on, but he doesn’t. Instead, he calls for the bill, and insists on paying. It is an abrupt ending.

  We go outside. Hugh gives some dong to the boy by the bikes. I notice he speaks fluent Vietnamese and I wonder about his mother but it doesn’t seem possible to ask now.

  The ride back to the hotel is like a dream sequence, the colours, the noise, the action. I will us to crash and die instantly and painlessly but I don’t really mean it. When we get back, I thank Hugh for lunch and his kindness, but he is withdrawn. I wonder if I spoke too much about Tim; I wish I could take it back.

  He fishes a business card from his wallet. ‘Look, if you need anything at all, while you’re here, please call.’

  I take the card and thank him again. I feel sorry to see him ride away; I don’t imagine we’ll meet again.

  Six days before our due departure Tim came back. He rang first to tell me he was coming. He had to pick up clothes and books to tide him over till I found somewhere else to live. But there’s no hurry, he reassured me. His
parents own the unit and had let us live there rent-free.

  I rushed around getting dressed, brushing my teeth, putting coffee on, throwing dirty dishes into the sink. I put on music – his music, Haydn – and opened all the windows. I checked myself in the mirror, put Vaseline on my lips and tried to rub the frown lines from my brow. I took the coffee and newspaper outside and sat against the potted olive tree with Book stretched out, belly to the sun, on the concrete beside me. I tried desperately to focus on the news, to be at ease.

  Then I heard the van. I heard the key in the lock. I heard him thudding down the hall.

  He wandered out into the courtyard. Hi.

  He looked just the same. I put my head in my hands and cried.

  El, he said gently. Don’t. But he didn’t touch me, not at all, and then he went inside to pack his bags. It didn’t take him long.

  When he came back out I wouldn’t look at him. He squatted down a few metres away. I saw he was wearing new sandals. He told me he’d spoken to our travel agent and she’d said they’d be able to credit us for the tickets but not refund the money. I had to go in to do the paperwork.

  I’m still going, I said.

  What do you mean?

  What do you mean what do I mean?

  You’re going to Vietnam?

  Yes.

  Pause.

  Do you think that’s a good idea?

  Fuck off. Fuck off. FUCK OFF!

  An hour later I rang him at his parents to see if he would come back, because I needed to talk. I begged him to come back. He refused.

  I leave on a tour of the Mekong Delta, only one day behind schedule. It feels good to be out of the city, surrounded by lush green rice paddies and vast shimmering waterways. I eat a lunch of fried eggs and bread, oppla and banh mi, at a roadside stall with a Norwegian couple. A brace of ducks waddles right past our table and on over the road, interrupting the traffic, before slipping soundlessly into the paddy on the other side. We all laugh and take photos and I almost feel present but not quite.

  In My Tho, I run into Mick and Marcus. It’s like finding old friends. We go to a thatched café by the river and order beer; a middle-aged Vietnamese man is strumming a guitar, singing ‘Hotel California’. After a few drinks, I decide to abandon my tour and join them. I keep telling them how glad I am to have run into them again and I can hear the edge of hysteria in my voice, the spilling over.

  For three days we climb on and off hot, crowded local buses, countless ferries. We visit a snake farm and row down the river from Can Tho to a floating market. The Vietnamese look poorer out of the city, smaller: they have less meat on their bones; their clothes are more threadbare; there is a greater air of desperation. But there are beautiful things too, like the sun setting against the river bank, a mother washing her child’s hair over the edge of a houseboat. I take two rolls of film with my new camera and send a postcard to Jess saying I wish you were here.

  On the last night, while Marcus is playing pool, Mick asks if he can kiss me. We’ve been drinking beer all afternoon. I tell him about Tim.

  ‘Maybe I could just hold you,’ Mick offers.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say, deadpan.

  He laughs. ‘You’re a funny girl, for a sad girl.’

  Nothing more is said. Marcus comes back with a bottle of snake wine. They talk about a surfer friend in Sydney who got bitten by a shark and I drink the sour liquor and chain-smoke Vietnamese cigarettes from a packet labelled ‘Boy Boy Boy’.

  We arrive back at the Saigon depot mid-afternoon of Day 8. After five hours on the bus, hung-over, we’re all subdued. We agree to meet at the Smiling Café for dinner and I catch a cyclo back to the Hotel Van Mai. Mick and Marcus return to their guesthouse in Cholon.

  Hien is sitting at her desk listening to the radio when I come in. She nods at me, her mouth almost but not quite making the shape of a smile, and hands me the key to Room 513.

  Struggling with my pack up the five flights of stairs, past the plastic palm on the third-floor landing and the cluster of empty thermoses on the fourth, feels almost like coming home, yet as soon as I shut the door to my room I am overwhelmed by the silence. It’s like all the doors in all the world are shutting. I can almost hear them echoing, one after another. I throw the pack down and open the doors to the balcony to let in some noise. I do a load of hand washing, then shower and dress and head straight out.

  On the corner I buy a mixed juice from the old man. Then, to kill some time, I wander into one of the shoe shops opposite the hotel. A young woman appears from the back and tries hard to sell me some gold lamé mules. I look at my watch and say I have to go. She looks wounded.

  The next shop is unattended so I stay in there for ages, picking up shoes and turning them over in my hands. There are men’s brogues, leather, plastic and rubber sandals, a profusion of tiny, gaudy high heels. I try on a pair of sandals and as I’m studying them in a mirror my eyes pass over the doorway at the back of the shop. I gasp with fright. There is an old woman squatting there, watching me. She is completely still. She must have been there all along. I put a hand to my galloping heart and smile, but she doesn’t smile back.

  For a moment I am frozen in the tableau: my shamed smile, her empty eyes. I imagine she can see right into me, that she knows my secret. You are not welcome here, her eyes seem to say. You should not have come.

  I put the shoes down and walk out.

  At the Smiling Café, Allan is sitting at a table near the front, reading a newspaper. Beside him, a bottle of whisky and a glass. I stride past; he doesn’t look up.

  ‘Ah, Miss Ella come back! So happy!’ Chanh shimmies over in blue jeans and a skin-tight black T-shirt.

  ‘Hi, handsome. It’s good to see you too.’

  ‘Miss Ella drink rum today?’

  I make a pained face. ‘No, I’ll have a 333.’

  Chanh brings the beer and I take several long, greedy gulps. I look at the itinerary. I should be up in the hills of Da Lat now, visiting the Valley of Love and the House with 100 Roofs. I do some calculations, draw a couple of arrows. If I leave tomorrow, or even the day after, I could go straight to Nha Trang and be back on course. Mick and Marcus said they want to get to Nha Trang soon, surf in the South China Sea. Maybe we could travel up Highway One together. It could be fun!

  Dusk comes and the café starts to fill. They should be here soon. I finish my beer and order another.

  I find myself watching Allan. He has his back to me, his head bent forward slightly. His neck is red and thick and ropy, invulnerable. He picks up his glass and drinks deeply. I notice he is wearing rubber slides like all the Vietnamese men and it strikes me that perhaps he lives here, that this might be all he does. Is that what Chanh meant by same-same man Vietnam?

  Then a young, barefooted girl wanders in with a wooden tray of cigarettes harnessed to her front. She looks like all the other children who work the street but instead of approaching tables she walks straight over to Allan and puts her hand up for a high-five. He lifts his lazily and she slaps it, sits down opposite him.

  She is facing me. I try to tune out the rest of the room. ‘You buy me Coca,’ I hear her demand.

  ‘No way.’ His voice is harsh.

  But then he says something else and the girl nods. He beckons Chanh over and Chanh takes an order to the kitchen. Allan returns to his paper. The girl pretends to read it too, upside down. Chanh comes back with a bowl of something. He puts it in front of the girl and she eats. As soon as she’s finished she gets up and walks out. Allan pours more scotch.

  It gets dark and Mick and Marcus still haven’t shown. The fan spins and rattles. I watch the door; people come and go. I flick through the Lonely Planet and try to read up on Nha Trang but I can’t take anything in. I drum the table with my fingers.

  It gets so all I am doing is sitting and watching the door.

  At nine I order fried noodles and force myself to eat.

  By ten, I know they are not coming. It’s ridiculous, but I feel
like I might cry. I feel conspicuously and grotesquely alone.

  At ten-fifteen I pay Chanh and walk out, past Allan, who looks up at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  I wake in my pea-green room, with the emptiness gusting through, and know with a sudden clarity that I won’t be going north. I won’t be catching buses and trains, finding places to stay and to eat, visiting pagodas and beaches and monuments to war. I am falling apart. My life is in pieces. I will stay here at the Hotel Van Mai for the next nine days and then get on a plane and go back. This was a mistake. I don’t know, any more, what I was trying to prove.

  I spend the morning trying to change the point of exit on my visa. I go to a travel agency on Pham Ngu Lao, who sends me to the Ho Chi Minh City Office of Foreign Ministry, who tells me it should be arranged through a travel agency. Then I have to find the Qantas office, which has no signage at all. Eventually I get there and a woman with long orange nails adds a sticker to my ticket with new flight details, departing Tan Son Nhat. Ghost airport.

  By this time it is midday and sweltering. I’m a little breathless but it feels good to have taken control. I buy a banana and then find a café on Le Loi where I write a fax to Tim. It takes an hour and four drafts. I try to keep it light, positive.

  I tell him it’s the eve of Tet and I’m still in Saigon. Everybody calls it Saigon, I explain, it’s only Ho Chi Minh City for the paperwork. I say the city is buzzing with the lifting of the embargo and I tell him about meeting an Amerasian businessman who took me to lunch. I describe the sun setting in the Mekong Delta. I write, Life is strange without you. It takes a long time to choose these words, to get it just right.

  I check the Lonely Planet then walk to the Rex Hotel to use their fax service. At a desk inside I copy the message out again onto their letterhead and draw an arrow to the return fax number. And then, just before I hand it over, I add the postscript I’d earlier ruled out: Everything happened so fast. Couldn’t we try to work things out? I love you.

  I watch the fax go through and imagine it sliding out of the machine in his parents’ kitchen. Then I walk back to the hotel and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.