Fishing for Tigers

  Cal was vacuuming. I touched his arm and he shut the machine off with his toe, turned to me with a hungry smile.

  ‘Your dad just called.’

  ‘Shit. Is he at the airport already? His flight wasn’t until—’

  ‘No. He’s still in Saigon. Silly bugger fell off a moto and—he’ll be fine. No head injuries. Nothing internal. But his legs are busted up pretty badly and so he’s stuck down there for a while.’

  Cal kicked the vacuum cleaner out of the way, sat on the couch. ‘How come he didn’t call me?’

  ‘He wanted to talk to me first.’ I sat beside him. ‘He asked if I could come and see you, tell you the news in person and talk to you about your options.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He thinks you’ll want to go home. Now that he can’t hang out with you, he thinks you won’t want to hang around in Hanoi.’

  ‘But I do want to do that. That’s exactly what I want to do.’

  ‘The other option, he thought, is that you might want to go down to Saigon to hang with him there.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘I’m going to go down. He asked me to. He’s in a bad way, lots of medication. He needs someone to talk to the doctors, sort out his insurance and accommodation, his travel back when the time comes. And from the sound of him, I think he needs a friend. Someone to bring him newspapers and noodles.’

  Cal smiled. ‘So we’ll go together.’

  ‘That’s what he hoped.’

  ‘I’ll ring him now.’

  ‘Wait a little while,’ I said. ‘Enough time for me to have gotten over here to tell you.’

  I was seventeen the first time I boarded an airplane and twenty-nine before I boarded another one. I flew to California to marry Glen and then I flew away from there to escape him. I have never been in an airport and not been nauseated, had never fastened my seatbelt without a hot flush of terror at the enormity of what I’d done. Since I’d been in Vietnam, these feelings were easy to talk myself out of. All my flights had been pleasure trips: to and Hoi An, to Saigon, to Luang Prabang and Kuala Lumpur. When the inevitable anxiety hit, I gave myself a gentle talking to and all was well.

  On the flight to Ho Chi Minh City – which was still Saigon to the travel agents, the airline and everyone except the Party and politically-correct foreigners – the nausea and hot flush were accompanied by breathlessness and all-over pins and needles. It’s fine, I told myself, two hours in the air, a few days somewhere different and you’ll be home again. No big life-changing move, nothing irreversible. Breathe, breathe, you’re on vacation, breathe.

  Cal’s seat was back, his eyes closed, headphones clamped to his ears. What would I do if something happened to him here? If he stopped breathing or had an allergic reaction or if he was kept for questioning at the airport or our cab got in an accident? Why had I agreed to accompany someone’s child to an unfamiliar city and what would I do when we got there?

  I got in the brace position and concentrated very hard on breathing in and out.

  Why was I here, on my way to there? I knew nothing about insurance or health care, could not speak the language, did not know my way around town. I had never been close to a person suffering from anything worse than a head cold, although I had spent several dawns in emergency rooms having my ribs or nose X-rayed, having my wrist set, my forehead stitched. I would vomit if I had to dress ­Matthew’s wounds. I could not cope if he needed me to bathe him, help him with the toilet, listen to his drug-induced rantings. I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t do this.

  ‘Mish?’ His hand on my back, rubbing, firm and real. ‘You sick?’

  I sat up, breathing hard. ‘Flying freaks me out. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine. Are you going to chuck?’

  I sucked in air that smelt like fish sauce and instant coffee. ‘Probably not.’

  Cal reached up and turned the air nozzle. Stale, cold air hit my face. I closed my eyes and let it cool me. He rubbed my arm, long, hard strokes, and I became aware of the clammy plastic of the arm rest, the coolness of his palm, the crick in my neck, the cry of a baby, the chatter of Vietnamese.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m okay now. Thanks.’

  ‘Just rest.’ He kept stroking my arm and I let my mind drift.

  ‘Oh!’ I jerked forward, my heart pounding hard.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay, you’re doing fine.’ Cal tried to press me back.

  ‘No, I know, I’m fine. I just—’ Today was Margi’s first chemo session. I had planned to set my alarm for 3 am so I could call and wish her luck before she left.

  ‘I just remembered something I was supposed to do.’

  Cal patted my hand. ‘Try to relax. You’ll feel better when we hit the ground.’

  If I’d known Saigon better, then the address Matthew gave me would have rung alarm bells. , the heart of the backpacker district. An unlikely place for the annual conference of an international news corporation. As it was, when the cab stopped across from the Crazy Buffalo I began protesting and checking the tourist map I’d grabbed on the way out of the airport.

  ‘Yeah, this is it,’ Cal said, pointing to a white-tiled lobby behind us. The sign over the door said Best Saigon Hotel, You are Welcome! To the right, a construction site spewed concrete dust on to the path; to the left was a convenience store, its window plastered with offers for cheap inter­national calling cards.

  When I told the receptionist my name, her tight, polite smile widened into a genuine one. ‘Oh, Miss ­Mischa. I am very pleased to see you today. Your friend is much hurt. Everyday comes nurse, but I think your friend has more need.’ She turned to Cal. ‘You are Mr Calvin, yes? I am happy to see you today, also. There is a bed in your father’s room for you. Miss Mischa, I am sorry your room is not ready. Maybe you like to visit Mr Matthew while you wait?’

  A grinning teenager in a shiny red suit led us into the elevator and then through a winding corridor to room 254 where he knocked and waited for Matthew’s feeble ‘come in’ before opening the door.

  ‘Hello, sir. Here are your friends,’ he called and then handed the key to Cal. ‘Please, you need something you call reception.’ He bowed and backed down the hallway.

  The room was dark and blissfully cool. For a moment, I could see only a jagged crack of light where the curtains almost met, then the rest of the room: an office desk covered in pill packets and water bottles, a wall-mounted television, a neatly made single bed and, beside it, another single bed on which Matthew lay, his plastered legs raised on what appeared to be the inverted backseat of a car.

  I pushed one of the curtains open and was assaulted by the shimmering light of midday in Saigon. I blinked my vision clear and then turned to Matthew who was looking up at Cal with pale wonder.

  ‘Shit, Dad.’ Cal squatted beside his father’s bed. ­Matthew started to cry.

  I pulled a tissue from a box on the desk. ‘You’re either very unhappy to see us or you’re in terrible pain.’ I bent and kissed his cheek, which was splotched with black and grey bristles. His right eyelid was pale yellow and swollen and a line of black stitches ran down his chin. To my relief, the wounds appeared clean and the smell of antiseptic was fresh and sharp.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Mischa.’ His words were slurred, but came fast. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you for this. It’s just the greatest kindness.’

  ‘Forget it. I was way overdue for a holiday and I haven’t been to Saigon for years. I’m thrilled to be here.’

  ‘And Cal, my boy, my Cal. Thank you for coming, mate. I’m sure it’s the last thing you wanted to do.’

  ‘Wrong. I’ve been hanging to check this place out. You should’ve brought me with you in the first place.’

  Matthew’s eyes continued to leak. ‘No, seriously, son. It means so much to me that you’re here. I never should have left you in Hanoi. Listen, when I felt myself come off that bike, all I could think about was that I wouldn’t see my son
again and how stupid I’ve been in not spending every possible—’

  ‘Dad, it’s okay.’ Cal patted Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get yourself all worked up.’ He was almost as pale as his father.

  ‘They’ve got you on some heavy-duty drugs, hey, Matty?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He swiped at his cheeks. ‘Can’t feel a bloody thing. Hospitals may be shit here, but the drugs are magnificent. But, Cally, really, I need you to know this, because you never know when you could be gone from the world, and I’ve never made it clear—’

  ‘I’m going to check if my room’s ready,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  I ignored Cal’s plaintive look and left him to his father’s over-medicated love.

  My room was on the top floor, two flights up from where the elevator stopped, and was approximately one-quarter the size of Matthew’s. The double bed took up almost all of the floor space; a bar fridge took up half the cupboard space. The bathroom was a toilet, sink and a hose with shower nozzle attached. The view was of the giant satanic buffalo head over the Crazy Buffalo bar. At least there was an air-conditioner. I switched it on and stripped off my clothes. I sat on the bed and waited for relief.

  Matthew’s nurse visited at one and I spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to understand the extent of ­Matthew’s injuries and the progress and nature of his treatment. His drug regime alone was so complicated that it took four run-throughs before the nurse agreed that the list I’d made was correct. Matthew’s Vietnamese – strained at the best of times – had deteriorated to my level, which is to say, useless. Finally, the nurse said the patient needed to sleep and promptly fed him a fistful of yellow pills. I still had no idea about Matthew’s insurance arrangements, who to contact and what they would pay for. Finding a translator and attempting to have the surgeon come to the hotel to speak to us would have to wait until tomorrow.

  It was after three when Cal and I went to grab some lunch. Sapped by the heat and hunger I let Cal drag me into a tourist bar across the road from our hotel. Our table faced the blindingly bright street, but the light within was so dim I had to hold the menu at the end of my nose to read it.

  A girl of perhaps seventeen wearing a white tank top and denim cut-offs approached with an order pad. She dropped into the seat beside Cal and grabbed his arm. ‘Hey, I think maybe you are Vietnamese?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Australian.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your muscles are very big. Australians always very big. But your father is Vietnamese, yes?’

  ‘No.’ Cal studied his menu. ‘My mother.’

  The girl looked at me, frowning. ‘This not your mother?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Cal put the menu down. ‘This is my friend. We’re both Australian. Can we order some food, now?’

  The girl removed her hand and straightened. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Fish and chips. And a Tiger.’

  ‘And for you?’ she said, not looking up.

  I had given up on the menu. ‘I’ll have the same.’

  The girl took a deep breath. ‘For Tiger beer we have special offer. Buy four get two free. I bring six in bucket with ice. You want this?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cal said. ‘Thanks.’

  The waitress nodded and disappeared into the gloom. Cal tore a strip off the coaster in front of him.

  ‘I know the questions get tiresome, but she didn’t deserve to be snapped at like that.’

  He tore the strip in half, then half again. ‘It didn’t bother you? Her thinking you were my mum?’

  ‘No.’ It was half of the truth. The other half was that I was relieved.

  ‘Vietnamese people suck at guessing age. They’re always asking, “How old you? How old?” I’m gonna start lying, tell them I’m thirty. They won’t know the difference, I swear.’

  The girl returned then with a sweating silver bucket. She placed it between Cal and me and pulled out two bottles, opening each with an expert flick of a rusty bottle opener.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cal said, and she nodded curtly.

  I drank some beer and shivered. I’d forgotten how good brain-punchingly cold beer could be. I downed the first ­bottle too quickly, told myself I’d go easier on the second. But I was also thinking how Matthew would be out of it until morning and I was with Cal in a city where no one knew me and if I couldn’t be carefree and irresponsible now then I never would be.

  ‘Jesus. Look at these clowns.’

  I followed Cal’s gaze to the table closest to the street. Three blond-haired men, crouched on the cushioned cane stools, their knees sticking awkwardly up near their armpits. They were around my age, I guessed and not bad-looking, although fair men always looked overly flushed and greasy in this intense, wet heat. To the left and slightly behind each one stood a tiny Vietnamese woman. Each touched ‘her’ man constantly, rubbing his shoulders, playing with his hair, offering to get more drinks. The men were bantering with each other as if the women weren’t there.

  A metre away, on the broken footpath, a cyclo driver looked on with an expression of utter contempt. One of the men stood and the driver rushed forward, beaming. ‘Cyclo, sir? Very cheap for you.’

  ‘Not unless you’ve got a dunny in there,’ the man said to his friends, who howled in appreciation. The blond clomped into the bar and the driver retreated, his face blank.

  ‘It’s like bloody Bangkok,’ Cal said.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d been to Bangkok?’

  ‘A few times. Since I was fifteen Mum let me fly there to meet Dad once a year. It saved him having to come all the way to Sydney so often.’

  I’d been sure Matthew went to Australia twice a year, was certain he’d never mentioned Bangkok.

  Our food arrived, the fish somehow dry and oily at the same time, the chips sodden. I watched the blond bloke slap the young waitress’s arse as he returned to the table and felt a sharp pang of longing for Hanoi.

  ‘It’s not all like this,’ I told Cal. ‘It’s just around here. Backpackers, you know.’

  ‘Those guys aren’t backpackers. Fat forty-year-old grubs. Should be home with their kids. Probably told their wives they’re on a fucking business trip.’

  The eighties glam rock was loud enough that nobody beyond our table could hear, but Cal’s face was pure hate. If one of the men turned and saw him, responded to Cal’s glare with the clichéd bar challenge . . .

  I handed Cal the last bottle from the bucket. ‘Drink faster so we can get out of this place.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘Wherever you like. Another pub. A proper restaurant. There’s probably a nice, shady park somewhere around here. There are museums, shops. What do you feel like doing?’

  He drank, glared. ‘It’s too hot to do anything.’

  ‘So we’ll go somewhere with air-con.’

  ‘I want to go back to Hanoi.’

  ‘Okay. There’s a computer in the hotel lobby. We’ll go online, book you a ticket. You can be out of here tomorrow.’

  He turned his glare on me. ‘You want me to go?’

  I sighed, gestured to the waitress for the bill. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  He didn’t speak to me until we were back at the hotel. I headed for the computer and he grabbed my upper arm. ‘Don’t.’

  We went up to my room and turned the air-con on full. Icy air blasted our bodies while we soaked the sheets with our sweat.

  In the hours while Matthew slept, I wanted air-conditioned pubs or my hotel room, but Cal was restless, agitated. He said he wanted to ‘experience Saigon’ but then complained about how ugly and westernised it was. He wanted to explore the city streets, but moaned constantly about the humidity. We couldn’t take because ‘Shit, Mischa, did you see what happened to my dad?’ and cabs were out because they meant sitting still on congested roads while motos swarmed around you. My suggestion of a cyclo was met with a tirade about how watching ‘fat lazy tourists being pedalled around by some tiny, impoverished Asian dude’ made him sick. So we walked around
the city, dripping and thirsty and constantly accosted by street vendors most of whom Cal insisted on buying something from. Cal’s anger and unreasonableness rose with his body temperature and the weight of tourist tat in my handbag.

  The War Remnants museum was his idea. ‘At least it’ll be air-conditioned,’ he said, but it wasn’t. In the front gallery, the only concession to the stifling heat was a wall-mounted fan in each corner. We stood in front of the closest one until our shirts were dry and then began the viewing shuffle along the wall.

  ‘Jesus,’ Cal said, in front of the first photo. A Vietnamese boy’s melted face hung at the end of a charred sticky mess suspended in a smiling US soldier’s hand. The boy’s dead eye stared at a bodiless leg in the grass. To my right, a woman gasped and raised her camera.

  We moved on. An American armoured car dragging the bodies of two Vietnamese men through the dust. Two GIs pouring water over the swaddled face of a Viet Cong soldier. A helmeted American holding a gun to the head of a screaming man in black pyjamas. A dozen or so women and babies dead in a roadside ditch. There were more; I didn’t look at them. I followed Cal’s straight back, watched the sinews strain as he tilted his head.

  We reached the end of the wall and I stood with my back to the fan. ‘This is hard going,’ I said to Cal’s blank face. He ignored me, made a show of closely reading the information panel for the first photo on the next wall.

  This section was dedicated to victims of Agent Orange. It started with a shot of chemical tanks being loaded onto a truck, then there was one of a plane dumping white spray over thick green foliage. And then, an old man’s face on a toddler-sized body, a young girl with a tumour the size of a head growing from her groin, a child, lying like a dead insect, his five twisted limbs pointing to the sky.