Lotusland Read online

  "I rent an apartment in Thanh Binh district." She added almost boastfully: "I can see airplanes come and go from the top of my building. Sometimes I climb the stairs at night and try to imagine where the airplanes are coming from, where they're going. What languages the passengers speak, why they're coming to Vietnam. Have you ever watched a plane land from the top of a far-away building?"

  Nathan shook his head.

  "At first they're just specks in the darkness, tiny as stars. But as they approach they become these great balls of light. And when a plane lifts off, the light in the passenger windows makes the plane look like a bar filled with fire. It's beautiful before it flies too far away."

  He exchanged his parking ticket for his motorbike and rolled it into the street.

  "Maybe we can do this again sometime," he said, despite the evident futility of pursuing a relationship with her.

  "Of course we will. That's what we agreed on."

  "But I'd want to even without an agreement."

  "Why?"

  Her question hammered the point home, but he couldn't give up this quickly. "Because I want to see you again. Not as part of an agreement, either. I'll help you regardless."

  "You mean a relationship?"

  "Maybe," he said. Then, decisively: "Yes. A relationship."

  Her eyes widened. "But I'm going to leave in a few months."

  He didn't reply. What she said made no sense to him. Her skepticism made him think she was either being cold or was testing him. Or maybe she only wanted a little fun.

  "It's complicated," she said, climbing on.

  "No more than anything else."

  "Sometimes you're strange, Nathan."

  It was the last thing he wanted to hear. He thought they'd had a good time together, but this made him re-evaluate the entire evening, starting from the gallery. This, after the call she took, made him want to say something that would hurt her just a little.

  He pulled into the street. Feeling her arms around him was a painful pleasure. He guessed it was the last time she'd do this.

  "You're strange to me, too," he said over his shoulder. "It's strange to take a call this late when you're already out with me." He felt her arms loosen, and in the mirror above his accelerator he watched her grin fade. "Or should I say it's strange that you're out with me when you expect other men to call?"

  She laughed, as if his words, harshly spoken, were a joke. When she saw he was serious she smacked him on the shoulder. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Then enlighten me."

  "The call was from my uncle."

  "Does he always call you this late?" he said, unable to stop the pettiness from creeping into his voice.

  "No, but he often forgets what time it is here."

  "It's after midnight."

  She let her arms slip from him. "He knows I keep odd hours."

  "So why'd he call?"

  "To tell me he'd met an art professor from a local university. The man promised to help me."

  Like a moment ago, when she dropped her embrace, he felt something vital — not just to his happiness, but to the meaningfulness of his life here — slip away.

  "So, if you go," he said, "will you stay there?"

  "Of course."

  "And that's what you want? Or is that what your uncle wants?"

  "We both want it. We're all we have left of each other — of our family." As if she was afraid of talking more about her family or herself, she shifted the conversation back to him. "And how long will you be in Vietnam?"

  "I don't even know how long I'll be in Saigon. A friend in Hanoi offered me a job." He paused to let a kicking petulance die inside him. When he spoke, he found he still wanted to hurt her for taking her uncle's call. For some reason he felt threatened by her plan to move to America and wanted her to know what it was like. "I may have to leave Saigon in six weeks. Sooner if possible."

  In his mirror he saw her shrug as if to say you've got your life and I've got mine, and the commitments we make are worth little. He knew she must wonder why he hadn't told her this before.

  He dropped her off at the gallery and waited on the sidewalk for her to retrieve her motorbike and lock up again.

  "I hope you stay in Saigon," she said.

  "Why?" Her comment surprised him. It only made sense in the context of her staying, too.

  "Because our agreement — not to mention your idea about a relationship — is pointless if you're going to leave in a month or two."

  As soon as the words left her mouth he regretted what he'd said. Perhaps she was right that entering into anything now was pointless. More than ever before, Hanoi seemed a distant prospect now, and the job he'd nearly begged for had begun to lose its luster. She would be the only reason to stay in Saigon. He knew that the only more distant prospect than being happy in Saigon was being in love. Lust was nothing special. It was easy and it was everywhere.

  "I haven't decided to do anything yet," he said.

  "But I can't ask you to change your plans or give up a good opportunity."

  "You can. I'm more accommodating than you realize." He stopped himself from going on. Inside him, he felt a clawing of something desperate to get out.

  "Don't say that," she said, pressing the starter to her Future.

  "Why not?"

  "Because of the betrayal you'll feel when I leave. I know what that's like, and I don't want you blaming me."

  He stood there long after she'd driven away, wondering if it was the bluntness of her statement or its undressed honesty that pained him so much.

  Five

  Nathan cleared the floor of his room and lay down a map of Dong Nai province. He quickly found Buu Long ward, bisected by Route 768 and dotted with lakes and ponds. Many were in an area with the Vietnamese words for "Tourist Spot" stamped in red, as if warning of danger.

  Three days before, the editor of a local magazine asked him for an article on Buu Long Mountain. Only 25 miles northeast of where he lived, the trip would be easy, and 600 words was little work for a commission that would cover half his final month of rent in Saigon.

  The telephone on his desk rang and he looked at it in surprise. Assuming the caller was Le, he wondered why she wouldn't try to reach him on his cell.

  No one responded when he picked up and said hello, though he heard voices in the background and a shuffling of papers.

  "Hello," he said again.

  "Nate? It's Anthony."

  It was mid-April, near the end of the dry season, and Nathan had managed not to speak with him since leaving Hanoi. Le had become his priority over the last two weeks, and his preparations for moving north had stalled. With the extra writing work he'd been assigned, he had little extra time. The work was more profitable than usual, which he thought, ironically, might herald a change of fortune.

  "I've been trying to get hold of you for two weeks. Where the hell have you been?"

  "I've been out a lot. Why didn't you call my other number?"

  "Because someone at work stole my cell phone and I never recorded your number anywhere else. Did you get the ticket I sent? It went out by overnight express four days ago."

  "Yes." The ticket protruded from beneath a copy of the Saigon Times and a Styrofoam container crusted with old takeaway. Nathan had tossed the ticket there after seeing the flight was one-way. The only relief he'd felt was that the ticket only cost one hundred dollars. If he never used it, the money would hardly be worth worrying about. "I was going to let you know, but I've been swamped."

  "It would've taken you two minutes to tell me. You call, say you got it, explain you can't talk. I accept it without question and I'm grateful. But don't leave me hanging. I deserve better than that."

  "I should have called."

  This seemed to appease Anthony, for when he spoke again he sounded calme
r.

  "In the note I attached I mentioned that you can change your departure date, but I need you here by the end of the month."

  "I may need a few more weeks. I can't just up and leave right now."

  "Up and leave? I'm not dropping this like some surprise. We had an agreement."

  "I hate to say it but I'm halfway out the door. Can I call you back?"

  "What do I have to do to talk with you?"

  "I'll call you later, I promise."

  "What's your promise worth?" Anthony cleared his throat, and Nathan knew what he was working up to. "I sent you three e-mails in the last few days and you never replied to any of them. I was worried that something had happened to you. Like a motorbike accident, or that you'd gotten really ill."

  "No, nothing like that."

  "Then what's the matter? Don't tell me you took another job."

  There was no reason to tell him about the travel piece he was doing — at least not yet. "Nothing's the matter," he said. "Except I'm seeing someone."

  There was a pause on the other end, and very faintly, somewhere in the background, Nathan thought he heard someone being strangled. "What?"

  "I said I'm seeing someone."

  Anthony's laughter sounded less scornful than disbelieving, and Nathan waited for him to stop before asking what was funny.

  "Nothing," he said, already sober again. "Who is she?"

  "You don't know her."

  "Is it that pink-haired girl?" he snapped.

  "Yes."

  "After Huong, I thought you gave up on locals."

  Out his window Nathan saw a motorbike pull onto the sidewalk. He watched Le get off and, in the side mirror, fix her windblown hair.

  "I just never found anyone I could be happy with."

  "And when did you fall in love?" His tone was getting nastier and ‘love' came out sounding like a dirty word.

  "I never said I did."

  "You're going to stay in Saigon now, aren't you? That's why you've been avoiding me."

  "She plans to go to California. She says her paperwork is . . ."

  "Every Vietnamese has a plan to leave, Nate. All our students back in the day used to spout off about going to America. The cyclo drivers under the tree by our school said the same thing when we got coffee outside before classes: they'd put in applications at the consulate or had some obscure relation twice removed who promised to fly them to America. Huong had the same damn plan. Marrying me was the first step, but I never took her away." A moment passed as Anthony refocused on his original concern. "Don't tell me you're backing out. Not after all the trouble I've gone through to get you up here."

  "I know what you've gone through." Nathan couldn't find the right words, and hoped he didn't sound insincere. "But I can't walk away from her, not now."

  "What do you mean ‘not now'? Did you get her pregnant?"

  "No. But it's been a long time since I found anyone worth getting to know. And, I have to say, it's good being needed."

  "Nate," he almost shouted, "she's hardly the only great girl in this country. Get up here, man. You can't afford to pass on what I'm offering. You owe me, remember." He seemed to think he knew what Nathan was going to say, because without prompting he touched on the subject of fate. It made him sound the more desperate. "Nothing's ever meant to be. Fate's just a kind of propaganda that humanity's been leaning on for thousands of years — and the Vietnamese more than anyone. Maybe it's useful when you suffer. But when you're happy it's merely insipid and corrupting."

  Nathan heard Le climbing the stairs to his room.

  "Like I said, this is a bad time. We're about to go to Dong Nai."

  "Dong Nai?"

  "I'll tell you later. I need to go."

  "Tell me now. I don't want to wait another two weeks."

  Le was at his door, knocking and calling his name.

  "Hold on." He set the phone down and jumped over his bag to let her in. "I'm on the phone," he told her as she entered and hugged him.

  She walked to his bed and fell backward onto the mattress. "Who is it?"

  "Anthony. He's pissed off at me."

  She glanced at her watch. "The later we leave, the hotter it'll be."

  Frowning, Nathan picked up the phone. "Sorry, I had to let Le in." On the other end Anthony was quiet. "Can I call you tonight? We'll hash things out then, I swear."

  There was no telling what Anthony was thinking in his silence.

  "Anthony? Hello?"

  There came a sudden series of shrill beeps. The line had been disconnected.

  "What did he want?" Le asked, sitting up.

  Nathan didn't answer right away. He was afraid he'd hung up on Anthony.

  "Does he want you to come to Hanoi earlier?"

  "No, he just wanted to talk." He sat down next to her. She had paint on her chin, and he wiped it off with his thumb.

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I told him I'd met you. And that you meant more to me than his job offer."

  He thought he saw disappointment in her face. Or maybe she thought his answer was stupid.

  "But a job's important, and the salary's good."

  "Money's not everything. Plenty of things are more important to me."

  "Don't you owe him a lot of money?"

  "Yes, but he's not hurting for it. He said I could pay him back any time. I didn't even want to borrow it, but he was so overbearing that I . . ." The holes in his argument had begun to breathe; he heard them whistling as he tried to justify what he was doing. He shook his head, disgusted by the situation.

  "You're giving up the job?"

  Her questions were sharp, as if she were accusing him of a crime. It stopped him cold, and in a moment he realized what she was talking about. But what did she want him to do — leave her to repay a loan one or two years earlier than if he stayed in Saigon and took on extra work? Since leaving Hanoi, his desperation had given way to a hopefulness that centered on Le. With her he felt closer to a future he'd always wanted. He didn't want to let Anthony down, but as long as he had a plan for paying him back he felt it would be okay. The problem was that he had no plan.

  "I don't know," he said, shouldering his bag. "Let's go. I'll deal with Anthony later."

  They were silent as they collected water from the refrigerator and suntan lotion from the back of a dresser drawer. His backpack was full, and he hoped it wouldn't fall onto the highway from where he'd keep it between his knees as he drove.

  The temple priest at Buu Long Mountain agreed to meet with Nathan and answer his questions. Nathan apologized for not arranging an appointment but it had been impossible to locate the temple's phone number. The man was generous with his time and Nathan donated to the temple's upkeep before leaving.

  Le stayed outside for the hour Nathan was gone. Sometimes he'd glimpse her through the temple door, sitting on a low brick wall beside the giant Bodhisattva statue and sketching the surroundings in a small pad she kept in her purse.

  The Bodhisattva was the most impressive aspect of the temple. Although it sat in a lotus position, it was still so large that it resembled a strange, windblown cloud rising from the mountaintop. A bottle of rice wine had been placed in the circle of its fingers and it hung there upside-down.

  It was nearly two o'clock when Nathan left the temple to look for Le. He found her squatting at the edge of an overlook. Squatting made her more Vietnamese in his eyes and he imagined how out of place she'd be doing that in America; at a bus shelter, say, or in a crowded mall, or beside the entrance to a trendy café.

  A lush vista came into view as he approached her. The valley below was a palette of monsoon colors: a deep green of banana, acacia, and fan-shaped palm trees; of rice fields and wild grasses and clay-red roads; and brown rivers and streams winding through it all like the veins of some tropical fern magnif
ied a thousand times. Over the treetops in the distance rose a yellow-white spire. The priest had told him that Tan Trieu church, the oldest church in southern Vietnam, could be seen from here.

  A plastic bag flew across his vision. After watching it pass between the mountaintop and street, his eyes settled on Long An Lake, a short walk away. The edge of the lake was black from the shadows of surrounding trees, but the centre reflected the sky. On the far side were what appeared to be the jagged remains of a former mountain, and two young lovers pedaled around them in a swan-shaped boat.

  Nathan came up beside Le.

  "Do you ever think it's strange that you live in Vietnam?" she said, leaning against his leg.

  "This is where I want to be right now. My life here's interesting." He stopped talking when he sensed she was asking something else. "If you're talking about the war, that was a long time ago. It had nothing to do with me."

  "Do you want to be Vietnamese?"

  He shook his head. "I'm American. I wouldn't change that even if I could."

  "You sound so sure of yourself."

  "I am sure."

  He sat down and she hugged his arm. "So if I live the rest of my life in America, I'll still be Vietnamese?"

  For him, such questions were a waste of time. Never in all his years living abroad did an idea like this enter his mind. But her eyes showed her earnestness, and he couldn't say what he thought. Who she was when they were together meant more to him than the fact she was Vietnamese.

  "Part of you always will be."

  "And if I become an American citizen, it's only a piece of paper. A person's blood doesn't change when they leave where they were born, does it?"

  Now it was the subject of "blood" that annoyed him. Talk like this was nothing he'd ever engage in.

  "It's the same with you," she went on. "You're not Vietnamese, even if you do speak the language."

  "I don't want to be Vietnamese."