Shadows & Tall Trees, Volume 8

by Michael Kelly

  What I discovered, however, was a tent pitched by the side of a wider street. It was open at the sides and bedecked with ribbons, and held a small stage where musicians sat before unfamiliar instruments.

  The seats in front of the stage were almost full and I peered in, trying to see if Mai was there. None of the faces were familiar. They nodded along to the music as if it was some tune they recognised, their eyes gleaming back the light from the stage, none of them smiling, none of them saying a word.

  Before I’d known I was going to move, I stepped in front of a young couple walking in the opposite direction. I greeted them in Vietnamese then said, “Is this the Green Farm?”

  The man looked surprised, perhaps even offended, and I wondered if he’d understood my words. It was the woman who replied. “Not the Green Farm,” she said. “Entertainment, for anyone!”

  “Anyone?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Even you!”

  I smiled back—feeling better at once—and they walked away. After another look around for my absent friend, and a quick check of my mobile phone, I approached the tent. As I did, someone began to sing: a high, almost otherworldly sound that rose above the pressing humidity of the street, like a breath of clearer air.

  Suddenly I was tired. I would rest a moment before I tried to call Mai again. I would sit and I would listen. There were a few seats available, but they were right in the middle of the gathering, blocked by stranger’s knees and skirts and bags, so I slipped into an empty row right at the front.

  I knew at once I’d made a mistake. A loud hissing arose behind me, cutting across the music: the sound of disapproval in any language. Someone rapped the back of my seat, hard and loud, and I started to turn towards them just as a hand grasped my arm and I turned to see Mai.

  My smile faded at the sight of her widened eyes. I had done wrong, I saw that. I’d been tricked somehow. Entertainment, for anyone—but not for me apparently, not here, not now. Had the woman been having a joke at my expense? I must have gate-crashed a family party, a wedding maybe, or worse, a funeral. I slipped from the seat and Mai pulled me away, not pausing to say hello.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What did I do? I thought it was for everyone.”

  “It is.” Despite her words, she looked unhappy. “It is a—merry-making, for the festival. To honour the hungry ghosts. That is why it is so loud, you see? To reach the ears of the spirits.”

  I didn’t see, not at all, and I frowned.

  “The seat you took—that row is for the spirits, not for us. You took a seat that belongs to the dead.”

  *

  Later, we laughed about it. We found the restaurant, which turned out to be wide and candle-lit with cosy wooden tables, and ate warming bun cha while we talked. She told me about the festival—the way that people would honour their ancestors, but also the hungry ghosts who had no family to remember them; the ones who had died bad deaths or done evil deeds, who wandered, aimless, about the streets.

  When the waitress cleared the table and left us, she leaned over and whispered, “Her mother is dead.”

  “Do you know her?” I asked. They hadn’t appeared to be friends.

  She tapped her collar. “She wears a white rose. You see, everyone wears flowers. Today is for mothers too. We choose red if she is living, white if she is dead. And we remember.”

  “But you don’t wear a flower?” She had never spoken to me about her family. As her expression hardened, I realised she hadn’t wished to.

  “I wear nothing for that bitch,” she said. “She wanted my money always. But she never cared for me.” After a moment she added, “She dead, you wondering.”

  Mai laughed. After a moment, we both did. She only said one more thing before we rose from our seats: “Look like both of us make the dead angry tonight.”

  *

  The following evening, Mai insisted I come for dinner at her home. The taxi driver looked surprised when I named her district, and set me down just before a long bridge carried the road across the span of the Red River. He gestured towards some steps leading down from the carriageway and I turned to ask for clearer directions, but he was already driving off.

  From where I stood I could see a host of small blocks of flats, one much like the next. Their extent was curtailed by the wide, slow progress of the river, which despite its name flowed muddy and brown.

  I remembered that Mai had spoken of a balcony overlooking the river bend and I descended the steps, then took a side street that led in roughly the right direction. There were crumbling concrete walls, thick bundles of wires strung from post to post along the road, graffiti I couldn’t read, and indeed balconies, some full of washing, some meshed over to keep the homes within secure.

  At the corner I spotted a small shop selling cigarettes, the balcony above it half covered by a placard advertising vaping, one that Mai had laughed about. The building’s entrance wasn’t locked and I tentatively stepped inside before climbing the bare concrete stairs to the first floor. The passage was airless and humid, heavy with old smells of cooked meat, and I realised the doors weren’t marked with any numbers. As I stood there, though, one of them opened. Mai’s head appeared in the gap and she grinned, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes and when I drew near I saw how tired she looked.

  “Are you OK, Mai? Are you sure about this?”

  She didn’t speak, just nodded and gestured me inside. The lounge was tiny and dimly lit, crammed with a fraying sofa, makeshift furniture, a rack of clothing. An overhead fan stirred the damp air, its humming interspersed with a rhythmic judder as it rocked on its fitting. There was a small kitchen off to one side. Unlike the lounge it was brightly lit, and though the stove was tiny, good smells poured from it. A rice cooker gave forth steam; bubbling sounds emerged from a pot. I opened my mouth to comment on how good it smelled and realised someone was standing in the middle of the room.

  I didn’t know how I’d failed to see him before. He must have been seated in the half-dark, while the better lit kitchen had attracted my eye. He was about Mai’s age and a little taller, slightly built like many of his countrymen and yet more so, bone-thin and wiry. His eyes were narrowed but for a moment they caught the light, shining almost amber like a cat’s, but the image that came to me was of something else: coiled and secret and fanged, ready to strike. He put out his hand and I found myself staring at it.

  “Linh,” Mai said, as if I should have known. “My boyfriend.”

  I realised I was being rude and grasped his fingers, too hard, forgetting the gentle handshake that was preferred across this part of the world. He didn’t comment, only stared with half-closed eyes, making his own judgements. I hastened to find the Vietnamese to say I was glad to meet him, but Mai slipped a drink into my hand and the moment passed. I wanted to ask her about him, but how could I? I hadn’t even known she had a boyfriend. She hadn’t mentioned it in Ho Chi Minh City, hadn’t said anything the previous evening, and I wondered why; but she returned to the kitchen, was clattering pots, her expression more jaded than anyone of her age had a right to be.

  When I turned towards the room again I realised there was something else I hadn’t at first noticed. In the corner was a small shrine hung with flowers, a tray of sticky rice cakes and paper votives placed in front of it. I had visited a temple earlier and seen such things there too, awaiting the flame that would carry them to the next life: representations of clothing, cooking utensils, houses, even iPhones and televisions and air-conditioning units, all carefully made out of paper. Here too was a stack of hell-money, of a currency no use in any earthly shop; and a cleverly made paper woman, red lips painted onto her paper face and wearing a long paper dress. With a start, I realised that Linh was standing next to it. He had retreated to the corner, once more without my noticing, and was looking down at the offerings with a sudden eagerness in his eyes.

  “Is this for your ancestors?” I called to Mai. Her forehead was dampened with steam or heat or illness as she transferred fragr
ant rice into a serving dish.

  “No,” she said, her expression closed, and I remembered what she’d said about her mother. I cursed my lack of tact as she explained. “These are for the hungry ghosts. I told you. All through the seventh lunar month, the gates of hell are open. It is the only time they may feast. They can visit who they please, and can cause trouble if they are not given food and other things.”

  There was something in her voice and I suddenly wondered what it was like for her here, estranged from her mother’s memory, distant from her family, and in a place where several generations often lived together. Perhaps she knew what it was like to feel alone—but then she wasn’t, was she? Linh was here. As I looked at him, he reached out—fast and unexpected as a snake—and grasped one of the rice cakes from the offering tray. He crammed it into his mouth, pushing it past his small white teeth.

  I stared. I thought the food went to the monks, or at least the flame—was it only offered in order to be eaten by whoever desired it? I didn’t think so, but his throat pulsed as he forced the last of it down and he licked his fingers, then his lips. There was no guilt on his face at all. Neither was there anything hidden in Mai’s voice as she called out to say the meal she had prepared was ready.

  *

  We went out onto the balcony to eat, the living space being too small to accommodate the three of us around its little table. The air was warmer than it was inside, though the others didn’t seem to feel it. Hanoi was cooler than the south of the country, though more humid, the air close, seeming to press against my face. At least the view was open, looking out across the river to the distant lights beyond.

  Along with the rice, Mai had prepared spring rolls, bo kho—a huge beef stew—cha ca fish, a banana flower salad, dipping sauces and pickles. I tried them all and my spirits rose at being in this place where so few tourists came, eating not with waiters and paying visitors but with a friend. I complimented her on her expertise, inwardly marvelling that she had conjured so much from her tiny kitchen.

  We reminisced about our work on the city garden and Linh showed no irritation at our speaking of times he hadn’t known, people he hadn’t met, things he hadn’t experienced. His bright gaze shifted between us and although Mai occasionally shifted to Vietnamese, he didn’t respond, showing no sign of recognition or interest, and she appeared to expect none. He sat quite still, only his hands busy as he reached for the choicest morsels, for the bottle of Tiger beer in front of him. After a time, he put down his chopsticks and seized pieces of beef from the stew with his fingers. I watched him suck them into his mouth, a sliver of sauce clinging to his lips, and wondered that he could be so thin. He surely wouldn’t remain so for long. Or was it only that, in his own home, this wasn’t seen as bad manners but a compliment?

  But then, he wasn’t at home. I reminded myself he was only her boyfriend, not a husband. Shouldn’t he be concerned that she would grow tired of him being so taciturn—so greedy for more, as if he hadn’t eaten for months?

  Finally we sat back, and as darkness drew in Mai lit a candle and set it amid the remains of the meal. Linh, however, pushed his chair away from the table and stood, walking inside without a word. He opened a narrow door set into one side of the living space and disappeared.

  I looked at Mai, half expecting her to make some comment—to excuse him, maybe—but she didn’t speak. I realised that far from flattering her, the flickering candlelight made her skin appear almost grey, her hair lank.

  “When did you two meet?” I forced a smile.

  “A week ago.” She briefly smiled back, then looked away.

  A week? And this was how he behaved—in her home, towards her guests? I glanced at the door he’d gone through. There was no sign of his reappearing.

  “He is staying here for a while.” Mai nodded as if inviting me to nod too, to agree with her, to understand the situation. “He is in some difficulty. I will sleep on the floor, of course.”

  “You will—?” Again, my voice faded away. What could I say? It was her choice, and I had no idea how things stood between them, no idea what combination of circumstance or custom or its opposite could have brought them to such a situation. Then she cried out and I turned in time to see her wafting a dark winged shape away from the candle.

  She made a moue of disgust, throwing herself back in her chair as it fluttered towards her.

  “It’s only a moth,” I said, but she shifted again in alarm, avoiding its touch, trying to wave it away, off the balcony. It wouldn’t leave, only flying inward once more.

  “The spirits can visit in the shape of moths,” she said. “And other things. Bad ones.”

  She pulled another expression of distaste, though her eyes betrayed something else: was it fear? I wanted to tell her it was only attracted to the light, but I saw there would be no persuading her, and so I helped her carry the remnants of our meal inside. When we’d finished, I said I should go. It was still early but she didn’t protest and I touched her arm, told her I hoped she would have a restful night.

  Her gaze shot towards the closed door and once again, I realised I’d been tactless. I’d somehow forgotten Linh, sleeping within–or awake perhaps, staring towards us with those eyes, narrowed yet bright. The thought was unsettling but I smiled and forced myself to tell her it was nice meeting him, hiding my thoughts behind polite words.

  “Oh, but I should go with you,” she said. “I must find a tuk-tuk for you.”

  I had forgotten about the journey back. I glanced towards the balcony, the night that awaited me outside. I had no idea if the neighbourhood was safe or where I should go to find a ride, or if I should instead ask for a number and book a taxi.

  “The bridge,” she said. “That is the best place.”

  She swayed as she spoke, her eyes beginning to close before opening wide again. I exclaimed. “You are ill, Mai.”

  “No—no. Only tired.”

  I wondered how many nights she slept on the floor. But she’d only met Linh a week ago, hadn’t she? I realised I never found out anything about him, where he’d come from, who he was.

  It was too late now. I pressed her to get some rest, told her I’d be fine, and stepped out into the corridor. She closed the door behind me.

  As I exited the building, I looked up once more at her balcony. It was entirely dark, the light in the living space already extinguished, not even a candle burning there, and I thought of the strange boy I’d met. I pictured him sitting in an empty room, also in darkness, alone in his silence, and realised I couldn’t remember him saying a single word all evening.

  In the distance the bridge loomed, the constant flow of light spilling from its deck making the night seem darker still. There was no moon that I could see above the tall buildings, no stars I could make out. At least there was traffic. Telling myself I’d soon flag down a taxi I climbed the steps to the carriageway, pausing to look out across the wide blank surface of the river. As I did so I heard a sound, coming not from the road or the buildings spreading into the distance but somewhere beneath me. I stepped closer to the edge and heard it again, a sliding, rustling noise, distinct but furtive, and something else: a sound I couldn’t identify until I looked over the railing and peered into the dark.

  Below me was a small patch of wasteland, or perhaps the end of an alleyway, wreathed in shadow and heaped in rubbish. It was dark down there and nothing moved. The smell of rancid garbage was cloying in the damp air; I could taste its sourness on my tongue. Then something did move, a shadow shifting, and I thought of cats, or rats; but the shape that suddenly became distinct to my eyes was too large to be either.

  My mind couldn’t piece it together until it moved again. The man was naked, sprawled amid the dirt, contorting his limbs to reach after something I couldn’t make out. He dragged it towards him and pushed it into his mouth. That sound came again, part wet chewing, part choking on something crammed in too deep, gorged upon.

  He twisted his head, his neck too thin and flexible, unti
l he was looking straight up at me.

  We stared at each other. We stared as if we didn’t know what it was we saw. He was fat, I realised. His neck was thin and twisted like rope but his belly was swollen and I realised he wasn’t fat at all but starving. He opened his lips as if to speak and I caught a glimpse of some revolting morsel within before it turned to flame. It flared briefly, turning the inside of his mouth a brilliant red as whatever he had scavenged turned to hot coals before he could swallow it.

  Another movement off to the side broke our gaze. The man—the thing—swivelled his head back again and suddenly I saw them all: more figures writhing amid the detritus and the ruin, all the foul remnants of people’s lives. Soft sounds arose as they searched for what they needed, grasping old bones with long fingers, seizing on rotting food, their necks surely so thin they could never eat a thing. And then I made out what they were feeding upon: its gouged and mottled skin, the holes bitten into its flesh, the splayed, wrenched limbs.

  I staggered away from the parapet, my hand to my mouth. I couldn’t get across the stream of traffic but ran along the walkway, wanting to get as far away as I could. I raised a hand in a signal for help, anyone, only then realising that the car pulling over to the side of the road was a taxi.

  I got in and the driver turned and raised his eyebrows, as taxi drivers do, wanting to know our destination. I tried to say something about what I’d seen but one word blurred into the next and he scowled.