The Rainy Season Read online

  In the late afternoon I go downstairs and ask Hien if I can use the phone. She reminds me, curtly, that it’s for local calls only. I dial Hugh’s number.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, this is Ella, from the crab restaurant,’ I say, as if his life is full of strange, desperate women.

  ‘Hi. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. I was just wondering if you could recommend a good place to see in the New Year. I haven’t made it out of town.’

  He hesitates. ‘Look, I don’t have any plans. Would you like to meet for dinner?’

  ‘That’d be great,’ I say, quickly. ‘If you’re not doing anything else.’

  ‘No, no plans. Do you like Mexican food? Most Vietnamese restaurants are shut tonight but there’s a place called Buffalo Bill’s.’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’

  Buffalo Bill’s is a jungle of cardboard cacti and heavy, dark wood tables. A map of the Americas hangs on one wall, a map of Vietnam on another. A sound system at the back of the room is playing Edith Piaf.

  ‘Bit different from the crab restaurant,’ I say, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. The room is airconditioned and for the first time since I arrived I feel cold.

  ‘Expats,’ he says, smiling enigmatically, as if he were not quite one of them.

  A waiter wearing a sombrero leads us to a table, draws back our chairs, whips napkins onto our laps. He hands us hard-backed menus and asks, in perfect English, if we would care to see a wine list. When he stops at the next table I hear him speak French.

  I look around at the other diners; no one is looking back. They all appear relaxed, oblivious to their surroundings, clean-shaven and well dressed.

  We order. The food is expensive but I don’t care.

  ‘Most restaurants close tonight so that staff can be home with their families for the traditional feast,’ Hugh explains. He describes the special dishes banh chung and banh giay; the first a square green sticky rice cake stuffed with pork and mung beans, meant to represent the earth, and the second a round white cake symbolising the sky. ‘There’s a tale about their origins but I won’t bore you …’

  ‘No, go on. Please.’

  The waiter brings stale corn chips, an oddly sweet guacamole and Coronas stuffed with wedges of lime.

  ‘Well, there was a king who had twenty-two sons and couldn’t decide which to choose as his successor. So he decided that the son who brought him the most delicious and unique dish in all the world would be king. He gave them three months. They spread out to all corners of the globe, into the deepest oceans, the thickest jungles. One came back with peacock sausage, another with bear paws, liver of rhinoceros; a fish with seven eyes in seven different colours …’

  I listen and drink my beer, lulled by Hugh’s voice. I feel grateful for his stories, his courteous distance. I don’t really know why he is here, keeping me company, but he doesn’t seem to expect anything. I think he must just be lonely too.

  ‘… and so, a big smile appeared on the king’s face as he held up the two cakes and he said, “I want you all to learn from your youngest brother that the most valuable thing in the world is made from your own hands and your own hard work. Lang will make a great king.” ’

  ‘It’s always the youngest, isn’t it?’ I say.

  Hugh nods.

  ‘I’m an only child so I didn’t have that problem.’

  He smiles. ‘Yes, me too.’

  The waiter brings bowls of bland chilli con carne and a bottle of French burgundy. Edith Piaf is replaced by the Beatles’ White Album, which seems equally incongruous. Hugh tells me he likes country music; I tell him I listen to a lot of classical. Neither of us finishes our meal.

  Hugh refills my glass then picks up his own untouched one and raises it in a toast. ‘Tet is supposed to be a time to make amends, start afresh.’ He pauses. ‘So we should drink to new beginnings.’

  We clink. Our eyes meet briefly and it is there again, that sense of recognition, of a shared grief. ‘What do you wish for in the new year?’ I ask him. ‘What new beginnings?’

  He exhales, and shrugs. ‘I hope that business improves … and that my neighbour stops learning the violin.’ Then he says, as if he’s only just realised it, ‘Banh chung actually tastes awful,’ and we both laugh for longer than is warranted.

  It’s still only eleven so we ride to the Rex Hotel and catch a lift up to the roof for dessert. The restaurant and bar are both packed but we find a table and eat chalky chocolate ice-cream out of silver dishes.

  We chat about what makes a good guidebook, how hard it is to pin down a place that is changing so fast. Then Hugh mentions that the Rex was used as a billet for American soldiers during the war and, with this, we both fall abruptly silent, gazing out at the night.

  My father would have been here for Tet, 1970, two years after the Tet Offensive. I wonder if they threw a party at the ’Dat, brought out a few extra slabs of VB. I picture him grinning, holding up a beer can in salute, surrounded by other wholesome, upstanding young soldiers, all doing their best under the most difficult of circumstances. I try hard to think of it like this sometimes, to imagine the barracks like a vast school camp and the grunts like overgrown scouts, working overtime to win the hearts and minds of the people. I know the Australians helped build schools and orphanages; they inoculated babies and established youth clubs, organised athletics carnivals on the beach. They shipped in swings and slides. It was not all murder and mayhem – not all of it.

  ‘The fireworks will start soon,’ Hugh says. ‘The noise is supposed to drive away evil spirits and bring luck for the new year. Would you like to stay up here or go down? It gets pretty wild.’

  ‘Let’s go down.’

  We stand on the footpath of Le Loi; there are people everywhere. Hugh keeps checking his watch. The first bang goes off just before midnight and then they’re everywhere, explosions of light and colour, as if hundreds of stagehands have been waiting in the wings, matches poised.

  A shower of pink bursts high over our heads; to our right, a shower of blue. A young boy ten metres away lights a big box cracker and steps back – red sparks shoot straight up into the sky. There are Catherine Wheels and Jumping Jacks, and funny little crackers that hiss and wriggle around our feet like cut snakes. All along the shopfronts, strands of penny-bangers go off machine-gun style: pop pop pop. Even they seem incredible.

  It’s so loud I have to cover my ears with both hands. The air is full of smoke and gunpowder and I flash to Apocalypse Now and the eerie, coloured smoke grenades set off during every contact scene – dreamy clouds of pink, blue and yellow against the thunder of bombs, bullets, whirring choppers. The terrible beauty.

  I look at Hugh; his face is strangely blank.

  ‘Happy New Year!’ I shout to him.

  He smiles. ‘Happy New Year.’

  FIVE

  On the second day of the Year of the Dog I put a call through to Australia at the Saigon General Post Office. It takes forty minutes from when I fill in the necessary forms to when the woman summons me to the phone.

  Mum is waiting on the other end of the line. It’s mid-afternoon in Melbourne and she’s still sober. I give her my new flight details. She says the back shed is all ready. She’s had the window resealed and put an armchair out there. I say that sounds good – though I would rather die than go back there. I say that calling is expensive so I won’t chat. Then she tells me that she knows I am strong, that I can look after myself. She sounds pleased with herself for having said this, as if it’s something she’s rehearsed. I squeeze my hands into tight little fists.

  I want to tell her: I had to look after myself because you didn’t look after me. Because often you were too pissed to walk straight and you’d sway all over the house talking about all the great things you might have done. Sometimes I looked after myself by escaping into the bottom of my wardrobe and covering myself with coats, waiting for you to fall asleep and prayi
ng you would forget to come looking for me. Those times were worse than when you disappeared. I was afraid of you.

  I suck in air; I let it out. I say, yes, I am doing fine. Then we hang up and I walk out of the post office and straight to the Rex. No fax.

  For the next few days I walk aimlessly, in circles, like the tigers in the picture book that just kept running round and round that tree, faster and faster, until all you saw was a blur, then flames, then a small pile of butter. I eat pho at the stall outside the hotel. I drink mixed juice. The streets are littered with dead flowers and firecracker casings. I go to the Smiling Café most nights for dinner; most nights, Allan is there, always alone. I don’t see Mick and Marcus again. They must have gone north.

  From time to time single penny-bangers go off. They’re like gunshots. They make me jump.

  At night I lie in bed and imagine Tim coming back to me. I see him walking towards me across anonymous and wide-open spaces. There are always people in the background but they don’t matter. He is holding out his arms. Or I imagine him behind me in the bed, encircling me with his body, his hand between my legs, his teeth on the back of my neck. If I really focus I can almost smell him.

  On Day 15, when I should be arriving in Hanoi for the last leg of the trip, I go to the Rex. There is a fax waiting in a sealed envelope. I walk outside and rip it open.

  Ella,

  It was good to get your fax. For what it’s worth, I think it’s great you’ve done this. But as far as we’re concerned, you have to understand that it’s over. I wish I could tell you what you want to hear but I can’t. I don’t believe, any more, that we can make each other happy.

  I’ve been seeing a woman, Lisa, for a couple of months. I didn’t set out to do this. We knew one another a long time ago and when we met again something just clicked. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you sooner.

  Don’t think I’m not sad too. I am. It’s been a great five years, Ella, and I wish you the very best – with everything.

  Tim

  PS: I had to move back into Willow Street. I packed up the rest of your stuff. I’ll take it to your mum’s. I thought it would be easiest for everyone. I’ll keep Book until you get back and we can talk.

  A low guttural moan erupts from my throat. I fold the paper and put it back into the envelope. I put the envelope in my day pack. I shake my head, no, at a young woman who offers me steamed corn. I dab the sweat from my face and swing the pack onto my back. Hail a cyclo; sit tight; out and pay; buy bottle of US$2 Genuine Russian Vodka and pack of Boy Boy Boys; return nod to mixed juice man; key from Hien; Room 513.

  I open the bottle and start to drink.

  Tim used to call me Snow White because my skin was so pale. The first time we made love he stood over me naked. He was lean and had smooth olive skin. I was lying on the bed and he was standing with his feet either side of my hips. He had this huge erection. He looked slowly up and down my body. He didn’t smile. I was almost afraid, more excited than I’d ever been.

  He was my tutor, in ‘Philosophy and the Object’. He had dark blond hair that fell over his eyes and wore frayed old-man shirts that reminded me of Pop. He’d bring packets of biscuits to class; he had a thing about plain, sweet, dry biscuits. Maries and Malt-O-Milks. Everyone liked him. He’d make laconic comments about our lecturers and always offered to read drafts of our essays.

  His mother and I washed the walls of the unit before we moved in. We planned a vegan Christmas dinner because Tim didn’t eat meat.

  Tim finished his Masters and started his PhD. I finished my degree and worked at the bookshop. All I ever wanted was to be safe. The Italian man next door taught us how to preserve the olives from the tree in the courtyard. One weekend we went to the Cat Protection Society and brought home Book. We always said we’d have two sons and a daughter.

  When I cried about my father he’d hold me and whisper, Ssshh, El, everything’s going to be fine.

  He had a mole on his upper right thigh. Sometimes he tied me up and stood above me, like he had that first time. He said he’d never loved anyone this much before.

  ‘Hugh, could I come over? Please?’

  I am at the front desk. I am having some trouble standing up. I’ve drunk a lot of vodka. Hien is standing beside me, pinching bits of my back so hard that the pain is breaking through. I have no idea why she is doing this. I think she is trying to help.

  Hugh’s kitchen table. He is trying to get me to eat bread and tinned tomato soup but I just keep saying, ‘I make them all go, Hugh. I can’t hold on to anything.’ He has taken my vodka. I didn’t want him to but he gave me a beer so I let it go.

  SIX

  I lie very still and watch sampans glide over a shimmering silk lake. It’s morning and I’m fully dressed, in a single bed with pale blue sheets. There’s a matching bed across from a cane bedside table; a cane wardrobe and two chests of drawers. The room is airconditioned but still has a faint musty dampness. With the floral bedcovers and the lack of personal effects it could be a tropical resort room on Hamilton Island; outside, nothing but white sand, blue sea and pink cocktails.

  After a while, there’s a light knock at the door. Hugh comes in with a glass of orange juice. It’s too late to salvage any dignity. ‘And you thought you’d seen the last of me,’ I joke.

  He smiles. ‘The shower’s through here.’ He indicates an en suite. ‘There are towels. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’ He turns to go. ‘Hugh, I’m so sorry to impose on you like this – again. I’m not usually like this.’ I am never like this. This is what my mother does.

  ‘Ella, it’s okay. I understand.’ He closes the door behind him.

  I pull myself up. My head is spinning and I have to sit for a while on the edge of the bed before I can undress. I feel about a hundred years old. The bathroom is white and spotlessly clean. There is hot water but it doesn’t help anything. I dry and get back into my sweaty, smoky clothes.

  Down a short hallway and into the living room. I gaze around at the fluffy white rug, the black suede couch and armchairs, the sparkling hi-fi, the enormous TV. Everything new and in its place – like the guest room, characterless. I wonder if Hugh is happy here, if ever he has friends to dinner.

  He appears in the doorway to what I think is the kitchen – I should remember. ‘Are you sure you won’t have coffee?’

  ‘Actually, a coffee would be great. Thanks.’

  While he is out of the room I sneak a closer look at the two photos in matching silver frames on top of the hi-fi. A young girl, around twelve, and a slightly younger boy. They look like Hugh and I realise with surprise they are probably his kids. He has never mentioned them. The girl’s dark brown hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. She has perfect white teeth, Hugh’s clear green eyes, and the kind of confident smile I always longed for. The boy has softer, brown eyes, a warier look. They look like nice all-American kids.

  ‘My children,’ Hugh says quietly, behind me.

  I startle. ‘They’re beautiful.’ I say it consolingly, without really knowing why.

  ‘Catherine’s thirteen. Toby’s eleven.’ He smiles, the proud parent, but there is nothing he can do about the grief in his eyes.

  I sense I need to tread carefully. I pick up my coffee, made with real milk instead of the usual sweetened condensed stuff. ‘So, do your kids live in the States?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘My wife left me eighteen months ago.’ There is a long pause. ‘We’d been married for fifteen years.’ He’s gazing at the photos so I look at them too. ‘I miss them.’ He says this softly; I hear his breath catch.

  ‘Oh, Hugh, I’m sorry.’ I reach up and put my hand on his back and we stand together in the middle of his living room, both watching the photos, as if they’re about to become animate, as if his kids might spring out and into his waiting arms. ‘It must be very hard, not being with them.’

  He nods. I hear his jagged breaths, all that he is holding in. ‘And being here,’ he says, ‘well �
�� I wonder, too, what I’m trying to prove.’

  I rub his back. ‘What a pair we make,’ I mutter, and then we both laugh and it is a real laugh, full of relief.

  We sit down with our coffee and he tells me, in stops and starts, about the day he came home to find the note, how it seemed to come out of nowhere, how, even now, he can hardly believe it has happened.

  On the phone, the day before I left, Tim said I should have seen it coming.

  It’s been dead for a long time. You must know that.

  It wasn’t dead for me!

  Ella, we haven’t talked in months. We went to the supermarket and watched TV. Occasionally we had sex. We don’t even know each other any more. You must feel that too.

  I feel it now, okay? I feel it now.

  Seventy-two hours to go. I had been looking forward to the trip coming to an end, a return to sanity, but since the fax something has shifted. I think I was imagining I could get on that plane and somehow return to where I was before all this happened, to Willow Street and Tim, and that his leaving would seem like a weird, bad dream – something attached, perhaps, to the crazy country. But now I see there will be no going back, wherever in the world I am. And the idea of home without him, of my dead-end job and Mum trying to pull me in with her loneliness and bottomless needs, fills me with a hammering dread. Even the social work was Tim’s idea.

  I walk half-heartedly to the Ben Thanh market to find something for Jess, some kind of souvenir. The market is a maze of steaming, narrow, overcrowded aisles; people bargaining over hats, spices, plastic colanders; fabrics, saucepans, transistor radios; perfumes, legumes, lacy red bras. The further in I get, the less air there is. It’s like a great, rancid sauna. I buy Jess a red and white Ho Chi Minh T-shirt and for Mum a couple of little tin contraptions for making coffee. I buy myself three new T-shirts. I can’t find anything else I want.

  On the way back to the hotel I stop at a building site. A man in a white singlet is using a big stick to stir a wheelbarrow full of wet cement. Four storeys of the building have been finished but the scaffolding rises up another few levels above that. The scaffolding is made of bamboo tied together with rope; men scoot up and down with long beams of wood. The whole thing looks unbelievably precarious and I reflect on how few foundations are in place to accommodate the changes sweeping through this scrap heap of a country.