Monsoon

by Di Morrissey

  Hung shrugged. ‘Last time, there were no other tourists . . . now the Swedish pair, I don’t think they will want to climb up.’

  ‘So we’ll let them stay on board. Be alone,’ Anna said. ‘They’re on their honeymoon.’

  They exchanged smiles. ‘Of course. Going into the grotto, that is not something we do every time,’ said Hung uneasily. ‘But if your friend wishes to climb, the nun will be pleased to receive visitors.’

  Now that she was so close, in this mystical bay with its strange formations, Anna felt an overwhelming desire to meet again the serene and wise old nun on the peak.

  11

  SANDY SAT AT BARNEY’S small desk and logged on to his computer to check her emails. She was pleased to see there was one from her mother. It had been a week or more since she’d heard from home. She skimmed through details of the weather, health and family until she reached the gist of it.

  It was a lovely surprise to have a visit from your acquaintance Tom Ahearn and hear news of you first hand. He had a good chat with your dad and I was surprised – and a little nervous – at him talking about the war and this reunion, anniversary or whatever it is at Long Tan. You know how sensitive he is about the war. Tom is writing a story; in fact, did you know when Tom was a correspondent over there he thinks he actually interviewed Dad when he was in the hospital! Anyway, Dad listened but I don’t think he’s keen on the idea of having anything to do with it. I confess though, later I called one of the organisers – Tassie Watts – he was in Dad’s unit. Your father got a letter from him about the reunion. I know he’d do nothing, so I did. Hope it’s not interfering but from what I’ve heard it seems it would be good for him to get back in touch with his old mates. Share things, you know?

  Wow, Mum, way to go, thought Sandy. Patricia was not usually the type to ‘interfere’.

  Then a few days later a lovely fellow called Father Max turns up. And would you believe it, Dad was thrilled to see him! Turns out he was the chaplain over there and helpful to Dad when he was in the hospital. So they talked and then Fr Maxie – as they call him – took him off to lunch at the pub. Apparently Maxie had planned it and there was Tassie and two other chaps from Vietnam, not sure if they were in Dad’s group too, but anyway when Fr Maxie brought him home, they’d obviously had a good time! Dad hasn’t talked about it to me much, of course, but said it was ‘all right’. I went down to the shops and called Tassie the next day on his mobile and he said it had gone well and they were working on him. I hope that means getting Dad to go over there. I really think it would be so wonderful for him to go with his mates. So what do you make of all this, then?

  What indeed, thought Sandy as she skimmed through the last bit of the email dealing with domestic trivia. What a train of events Tom had started. She didn’t believe her father would make a trip to Vietnam, but at least it seemed he was talking about the war. She’d never known him to go out for a beer with his mates from those days. Anzac Day was just a public holiday, a day to stay at home or work in the car yard. Sandy sent a quick email to her mother saying she thought it all sounded great and to keep her in the loop.

  It was a torpid, still mid morning. The street was quiet. Ho had gone to the markets for some last-minute fresh items for the lunch menu. There was only an elderly man with coffee and cake reading his newspaper in the cafe.

  Sandy took a coffee outside to sit in the sun and think about all this news. The idea of her father coming to Vietnam, with his hatred of the war, was hard to adjust to. And the thought that she might have to accompany him to the reunion made her uncomfortable. And she thought he’d feel the same.

  But then she started thinking about her dad visiting Saigon. She began to think of nice places in the city to take him. She didn’t know if he’d ever been there. If he was at Long Tan he must have known Vung Tau. Did he have any pleasant memories of Vietnam at all? She suspected he wouldn’t want to come to Hanoi, which was a shame as she loved this city. But the north had been identified as enemy territory so it might be hard for him to cope with that. God, the idea of taking her father around today’s sophisticated Saigon would be an eye-opener for him.

  She felt a stir of pleasure – this could be a chance for her to get close to him, share things, talk about, well, whatever. She had no illusions of him talking about his war experiences or the two of them madly bonding like they’d been to some therapy group. But it would certainly be a change. And this Tassie Watts sounded like he knew what he was doing. Sending the chaplain to see Dad. Good one.

  A car pulled up outside and the occupants emerged, walking purposefully into the cafe. The two men wore outfits of deep olive green and dark glasses. Sandy assumed their outfits were uniforms, but none that she recognised. They had sophisticated communication gear hanging off leather belts and wore solid boots. There was some sort of logo on their shirt pockets. The cloth badge had a rearing tiger and some initials around it that meant nothing to her, and their peaked hats looked a cross between those of the police and the military. They took the table nearest the kitchen door.

  Sandy approached them, smiled and asked in English if they wanted to see the menu.

  ‘Coffee.’ They sat on the edge of their chairs, not taking off their sunglasses or hats.

  Sandy asked if they wanted local or American and then went in the kitchen where the waitress was working. She put the small cups with condensed milk in the bottom ready for the thick local coffee in its small drip percolator and wondered who the two men were.

  One of them was now standing at the doorway looking into the street. The other glared at the elderly customer, who got up and left. Sandy asked the man at the table if they wanted something to eat.

  He shrugged. ‘We no come for food. We come for payment.’

  Sandy looked at him blankly. ‘Payment? What for?’

  ‘Security. Monthly security. Mr Barney pay every month.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ The protection pay-off or whatever Barney paid these goons for. ‘I thought Barney said he’d paid. He’s away, you know.’ She continued to speak in English as she tried to remember what Barney had told her. The seated man called to his partner in Vietnamese, ‘The owner is away. We can double the price for this girl.’

  The other man strolled back and sat at the table, giving Sandy a demanding look. ‘You bring money. Then coffee.’

  Sandy went to Barney’s small alcove office where he’d put the money for these payments. A pile of dong secured by a rubber band was in a plain envelope. She went back to the table, annoyed that her knees were starting to shake and wishing Ho was back. She put the envelope in the middle of the table.

  ‘I’ll get the coffee.’ She returned and put the two coffees on the table.

  The envelope had gone. The first man spoke with some anger. ‘That not correct money.’

  ‘That’s what Mr Barney paid,’ she said firmly.

  He shook his head. ‘Price go up. Security more expensive now.’

  Sandy heard the scrape of a chair as someone sat at an outside table. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have any more money. This is not my business. I have given you everything Mr Barney said to hand over.’

  One of the men lifted the coffee drip off his cup and began stirring the thick coffee. ‘Some American dollars then.’

  ‘No. I don’t have American dollars.’ She heard someone come into the cafe behind her. Another customer, thought Sandy with relief.

  The top man leaned forward and snarled in a low voice, ‘You get American dollars. We come back.’

  Sandy knew they were taking advantage of her and if she didn’t make a stand they would keep harassing her. Moreover, she didn’t want to set a precedent that would mean Barney had to keep paying. More boldly than she felt, she said, ‘Can I see your identification? What is your company?’

  One of the men rose out of his chair. ‘You no ask questions.’ He glanced behind Sandy and sat back down.

  Sandy turned around to deal with the customer.

  Jean-Cl
aude was holding a menu. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. I would like something to eat.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Sandy smiled, guiding him to a table by the entrance. ‘Of course, let me tell you what we have on special today.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ whispered Jean-Claude. ‘What do those men want?’

  ‘Money. They’re standover merchants. Let me deal with it.’ She raised her voice and rattled through any dishes she could think of.

  He ordered fried spring rolls and lotus tea and pretended to gaze into the street, ignoring the two men.

  As Sandy passed their table to go into the kitchen, one of the men grasped her wrist. ‘You do as we say or we make trouble for this place.’

  Sandy snatched back her arm and spoke loudly in Vietnamese. ‘No. There won’t be trouble. If you are security, you are supposed to look after Mr Barney. He has been good to you and he has paid you.’ She enunciated the last phrase emphatically and strode into the kitchen. Shaking, she grabbed her mobile and rang Jean-Claude. ‘What’re they doing? Who should I call?’

  He chuckled. ‘They’re leaving. Didn’t like the coffee, I guess.’

  Sandy joined him as the car with the men sped away.

  Jean-Claude kissed her on each cheek. ‘I’m impressed. Very bold of you to call their bluff. Did you give them any money?’

  ‘Just the regular payment that Barney told me to. They thought they could double the price and con US dollars out of me.’ She sat down. ‘That was scary.’

  ‘You didn’t look the least bit scared. Their faces were shocked when you rattled off all that Vietnamese. But still, you might want to keep an eye about in case they cause trouble.’

  ‘Oh, great. And just when Anna and Carlo are away too.’ Ho poked his head out from the kitchen, letting her know he was back. ‘Did you really want spring rolls?’

  ‘No. But I will take the tea.’

  ‘What are you doing in Hanoi?’ asked Sandy after she ordered tea and a strong coffee for herself. ‘How were Laos and Cambodia?’

  ‘Interesting. I’ve been investigating the status of the mangrove wetlands. During the 1990s, the investors from Thailand financed a black tiger shrimp aquaculture operation that devastated the mangroves. The giant ibis, among other wildlife, has almost disappeared. It’s an example of poor farming practices we don’t want to see repeated in Vietnam. So now I am moving to Hanoi for a while. I have a lot to do here in the north and I have to work with government officials – and that, as you know, takes time. But of course I will still have to travel down the coast. What are you up to? Where’s Anna?’

  ‘She’s gone to Halong Bay with her boyfriend. Of course, you don’t know about Carlo! When we got back from Hue he was waiting for us in my flat. They’ve both been helping in the cafe. Anna loved Halong and thought Carlo might chill out and like it. But I’m doubtful.’

  ‘How could you not like such a magical place?’ said Jean-Claude.

  ‘Carlo’s more into business than sightseeing,’ said Sandy.

  They settled themselves at a table and Sandy filled Jean-Claude in on Carlo’s surprise visit and his plans to export landscaping items to Sydney. The waitress put the tea and coffee down and gave Sandy a big smile. She had told Ho about Sandy and the standover men.

  ‘Jardinières. That could work, provided he has a good manager this end. What are Anna’s plans?’

  Sandy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Go back to her public service job. I don’t think marriage is an immediate option. I hope not.’ She smiled. ‘You should have seen her the other night: she went to a function and wore an ao-dai. She looked stunning. Carlo was furious.’

  ‘That she looked beautiful? A jealous man is an insecure man.’

  ‘No, I think it was her flaunting her Vietnamese heritage. And he is probably insecure here,’ said Sandy. ‘He just hates to lose control.’

  ‘Anna seems very compliant,’ said Jean-Claude. From what Sandy had told him, Anna’s boyfriend sounded a bit of an ass, but then, there was no accounting for the men some women chose to love. ‘Whereas you!’ He grinned. ‘Chasing off the standover dogs. They went out of here with tails between their legs.’

  ‘Do you think so? I’m worried they’ll be back with reinforcements or something.’

  Jean-Claude touched her arm. ‘Don’t be. They’re young and full of bravado. They’ll try it on other establishments on their beat. They’re probably grateful there weren’t other people in here to see them lose face. You aggressive western woman, you.’

  They laughed, and Sandy relaxed and told Jean-Claude about the email from her mother.

  ‘It would be good if your father came here,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘For you and for him.’

  ‘Don’t think it’s going to happen. Anyway, we’ll see.’

  ‘I came over this morning to ask if you would come to dinner with me this evening. Or tomorrow, before I leave for the south.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Sandy. ‘But I’ll have to check with Ho. With Anna away I don’t want to leave him understaffed.’

  ‘We could make it a late supper, after the kitchen has slowed down. Say around ten?’

  ‘How very European. Where did you have in mind? Not a lot of places stay open so late,’ said Sandy.

  ‘I could cook for you. A cassoulet, some good bread, a nice wine.’

  Sandy was curious about the place Jean-Claude had just rented. ‘Sounds wonderful. Give me the address and I’ll come over.’

  ‘I also have tickets to a concert at the Opera House. But perhaps we can leave that for another time.’

  ‘That would be fantastic. You can’t spend time in Hanoi and not go into that great building,’ said Sandy.

  Jean-Claude’s apartment was in a complex that had been built in the style of the French-colonial era. A security gate in the wrought-iron fence opened onto a small tiled courtyard with topiary trees in brass pots on either side of the entrance. Sandy pushed the buzzer for apartment five and Jean-Claude’s warm friendly voice gave her instructions about how to get into the lobby and then into a quaint iron-cage lift that swayed slowly upwards.

  He opened the lift door and welcomed her with a kiss. ‘The elevator isn’t speedy, but in keeping with the ambiance. This is rather a new building. It’s heartening that there weren’t too many hard feelings towards French architecture.’

  ‘It’s just lovely,’ said Sandy, taking in the understated but expensive elegance as she followed him down a carpeted hallway lit by two small, tasteful chandeliers.

  As Jean-Claude flung open the door to number five, Sandy couldn’t help stifle a gasp. ‘This is gorgeous. Are they all like this?’ She glanced around at the all-white, airy living room, scattered with antique rugs, dark-blue sofas and a deep armchair covered in a rose chintz pattern. It was an open-plan apartment with the dining area to one side and a long granite bench top dividing off the modern kitchen. A hall led around a corner to the other rooms.

  ‘It’s not huge by western standards but you know what apartment buildings are like in Hanoi: long and narrow. Interestingly, the builder–designer is from Hanoi and he lives in number three. Has the best view, of course. But I have a glimpse of the lake out there. Now, how about a glass of wine?’

  ‘The builder is Vietnamese? Who else lives in this building?’ Sandy was staring at the walls, which were hung with an eclectic collection of paintings, and she noticed a lot of sculptures standing about on shelves and on the coffee table.

  ‘Mostly Vietnamese, but there is an attaché from the French embassy and an American couple. Some apartments are owned by companies. I assume most of my neighbours work for corporations or high-end companies. There’s an intriguing woman downstairs, although she isn’t here often. I think you’ve met her. Madame Nguyen, from Hoi An.’

  ‘She gets around! What do you think of her?’

  They settled on the lounge in front of the bay window, which looked over the city.

  ‘She’s smart, obviously, because she
’s rich and successful. She’s into construction, got silk shops and dabbles in antiques. I saw a particular piece in a gallery and when I wanted to negotiate, she turned out to be the dealer.’

  ‘Did you get it?’ Sandy glanced around at the many pieces of art.

  ‘Mais, non. She was too tough for me. But you, you’re interested in ceramics? Why aren’t you working in that field?’ Jean-Claude asked bluntly.

  Sandy settled into the scattered silk cushions, reached for her glass of wine and took a sip before answering. ‘I didn’t want to be stuck indoors, cataloguing, doing dry stuff. At home the museum and gallery scene can be pretty suffocating. Petty and corrosive. Lots of infighting and having to suck up to potential donors and so on.’ She shook her head. ‘Not for me. I wanted to travel.’ She paused. ‘You’re a bit of a collector,’ she continued, waving an arm around the room.

  ‘Oh, I’m only an amateur. And not all of this is mine. Some of it comes with the apartment. But you can’t live here and not be interested. There’s so much visual culture in your face all the time.’

  ‘Do you know Rick Dale? He’s a nice guy. Works as an art buyer for a New York gallery. He’s the one who invited Anna to the Fine Arts Museum,’ said Sandy.

  ‘In her ao-dai. I would have appreciated that,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘I’d better see to the food. I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘I should be, it’s late enough,’ said Sandy cheerfully.

  He laughed. ‘You Australians, you’re so up front. In French society people play such games. In France you ask someone if they want something to eat or drink and they say no, thank you. So you ask again. No, no, I am fine, thank you. So you persist, please, do try, do have a little something. And they reluctantly say, well, if you insist, when they wanted it all along. Australians, when they ask if you want something and you say, no, thanks, that’s it – they don’t offer again.’