Apocalypse Hotel: A Novel (Modern Southeast Asian Literature)

by Ho Anh Thai

  And then came the third blow. While everyone was sitting around a dinner table filled with Yên Thanh’s cooking, Thế brought out one more agreement and told her to sign it. It was an agreement to transfer ownership of the house to me, Captain Tạ Dương Đông. The agreement also clearly stated that Động was the person who had purchased the house. However, this time her woman’s cleverness and keenness had enough time to rear its head. She choked and coughed, spewing pieces of half-chewed food from her mouth. As she coughed, her eyes overflowed with tears and her nose with snot. Amid the unending waves of coughing, the sound of “no” bubbled up like little hiccups. Sign it now! No. Sign it. No. Sign. No. Tell me whether you’re going to sign it or not. No.

  Phũ stood suddenly. His two friends continued to sit there indifferently, awaiting their time to act. Phũ would give it a shot first. If that didn’t do it, then Cốc would grind her down. If that didn’t do it either, then Bóp would employ his wrench-like hands. But, in the end, Phũ’s skills at leverage were enough to put an end to it. He grabbed her hair and shoved her face into the bowl of bamboo shoots and soy sauce. She couldn’t struggle. When he pressed her down into the bowl of broth a third time, she surrendered. Cốc gave her a napkin to wipe off her hands and face and then gave her the pen to sign the clean copy of the agreement.

  Thế went straight back to Hanoi. The three younger guys stayed there to advertise the sale of the house. They let Yên Thanh stay there until she found a place to stay with her uncle. The three times she’d had her face dipped into the broth had left an impression on her. Full of hatred, she’d cleared out as soon as she could.

  A year later I found a wife. Well, more correctly, Thế found a wife for me. I needed to have a stable family to act as an anchor for my overseas voyages. I’d loved a lot, and many people had loved me. But Thế had his reasons. Many of his friends, and many of my own friends, had married for love, and then left each other after five years, three years, even after only one year of living together. One of my friends had lived with his girlfriend for six years, and then once they’d decided to go and register their marriage, they left each other after just three months. Thế saw the durability of a marriage as the highest ideal for a family. He’d also gotten married hurriedly, so that his foolish younger brother could live comfortably while he went abroad to work. They’d lived together for twenty years, without warmth, but also without any other feelings. He told me that such a marital life would suit me well, too. True happiness is something that doesn’t exist—it’s just a fantasy of humankind, the product of an artistic style full of illusions.

  I clicked my tongue in answer. From any direction, I couldn’t avoid the truth of his statements. Both families were eager to arrange things. My wife was a public high school teacher, which meant that she would make a good mother and a good teacher for my future children. This is how Thế figured it. I thought so, too. Many people thought so.

  But family life turned out to be an anchor dropped at the wrong time, an anchor that regularly held the ship firmly in place even when the ship needed to be let free. My unending days living on the ocean had indulged my vagabond nature. My sense of freedom and desire to explore strained at my bonds. And I couldn’t get used to having a strange creature stirring in my bed every night. I couldn’t get used to the regular breathing of the woman lying in my bed. Living together with her in love for a dozen years wouldn’t have added more than our living together a few months as husband and wife. She wasn’t a skilled or deft wife in many people’s eyes. Neither had she been prepared fully with knowledge about sex. That generation went through a period where the parents were responsible only for feeding their young children, and didn’t give them anything in terms of sexual education. In this area it seems that the Vietnamese are still less civilized than a number of the mountain peoples: the mountain women, upon reaching puberty, meet with their mothers, who teach them how to use a species of leaf gathered in the jungle as birth control, thus educating them in basic sexual education.

  The result was that after the first six months of marriage, I was totally discontented and had lost all sympathy with this person that I’d married and gotten to know. Six months was too big a chunk of my thirty years, too slow in this era of speed. I went down to Hải Phòng to hang out with my friends, and prepared to go back out to sea. But I didn’t sail anywhere myself anymore. When we’d sold the place in Hải Phòng, I’d given up my nomadic occupation. Thế announced that I’d already spent enough time out at sea. I concentrated my capital and my labor in my brother’s hotel. Thế mentioned that people who had the kind of jobs he and I did traveled so much that they would only come home to divorce their spouses. The people at home consumed money and goods that seamen sent back to them as if they were sending emergency aid from developed countries to developing countries. One buddy of mine went to work in the foreign service and spent five days struggling to obtain a low-interest loan so he could buy things to send home; at the same time, his daughter sold the motorbike, the goods, everything that he’d sent back home so she could go out and party and then so she could pay for her several abortions. From then on, whenever he’d read sensational stories in the state newspaper about divorces and children plundering their parents’ wealth, he’d feel like his face was being stepped on. He started to hate that cursed state newspaper.

  I saw enough of my friends’ world to see that having children didn’t necessarily mean having happiness. I understood that people have to have children to pay back the debt that their own entry into this world had incurred. My past lives must have been something special to birth me into such pain and suffering. But my current worthless life had led to the birth a young girl who was beautiful and who had to accept an unjust death on the celebration of her second birthday. The day she was born, I only cared to head to the hospital to quickly see my child. Her eyes settled upon me as if in reproach, drawing tears to my eyes. I heard that when she was born that she didn’t cry out like babies usually do, but instead just swept her luminous eyes over each person, one after another, as if in recognition of the whole of humanity. As if expressing her judgment that just one look at the world was enough. I cried for the sins we carry, for another life added to those that must bear the hardships and suffering of this life.

  For my daughter’s second birthday party we’d invited many friends and relatives. Although in reality we’d been living like a separated couple within one house, both my nominal wife and I had an urge to fill our place with people. It was as if we’d intentionally arranged for everyone visiting to say their final farewells to the child. My wife’s students managed the delivery of flowers, toys, and candy. My daughter’s bright eyes regarded all with benign tolerance, like those of a queen favoring her people. The bright brown light in her eyes sparkled passionately, as if she were a member of that group of her parents’ friends. The deep, calm light of her eyes was that of a woman who had suffered the vicissitudes of life, and so had labored as hard as any of the old men in the family.

  I was a bit taken aback when a lady who’d just arrived picked her up to kiss her. The woman had just bent forward when my daughter took the initiative to plant her lips on the woman’s forehead. One kiss, in gratitude and indulgence. The woman gave my daughter a bouquet of roses. But all of a sudden, as she was taking the roses, a thorn pricked her wrist. A tiny bit of blood dribbled out. The child dropped the roses to the floor and looked up at the woman with pity and comprehension. Everyone crowded around her, asking if she was okay. Her mother went to get an antiseptic wipe. She pushed her mother’s hand down. No. It doesn’t hurt. She examined all the guests as if saying good-bye to them a final time. Then she announced that she had to go to sleep, as if telling everyone to relax and have a good time until the party broke up: the queen had been in attendance long enough. I was surprised once again when I realized that the woman wasn’t in the room any more. I ran out into the courtyard, out the gate. The entrance to the alley was wide open, but I couldn’t see a sing
le soul. A gentle breeze moaned through the tops of the mahogany trees. I sprinted back into the house. The people were still celebrating joyfully. I rushed into the inner room. My daughter was lying on her back on the bed, a pillow covering her face. I yanked the pillow off of her and saw that her eyes were wide open and fixed on some distant point. The corners of her lips were frozen in a slight smile. At the edges of her mouth were two deep creases, as on the face of an older person. Her smile and these wrinkles were the vestigial remnants of someone who had been beautiful.

  During her visit to the mortal world, she’d observed us intently, as if she’d wanted to peel back our layers. Crushing this life down to its essence of dust, she’d seen through us and grinned at our ridiculous childish games.

  Thế didn’t allow an autopsy, although he also believed that she’d either been killed by poison on the roses’ thorns or else that she’d been suffocated with the pillow. Just as I had, he’d recognized that the woman who’d suddenly appeared and disappeared was Yên Thanh, come to take revenge after three years of total absence. Examine, find a reason, take revenge—revenge following revenge in a never-ending cycle of violence.

  Thế stepped out and told the partiers that their queen had passed away from a sudden chill. Luckily Phũ and his buddies had been off watching one of Cốc’s performances. Thế said that it was lucky that they didn’t know the real cause. If they did, they would hunt down and destroy Yên Thanh within days.

  Of course, that was exactly what I wanted to happen. But Thế knew how to restrain me, and to keep me from saying a word to the three younger guys. My brother controlled me. He believed that he could control everyone and everything. But in the end he couldn’t control our trip down to the beach at Bình Sơn, which led to a string of three consecutive deaths.

  After my daughter’s death, my wife finally truly did leave me.

  One night, in the middle of a nightmare, I saw my daughter reappear. She had the appearance of a young woman, her hands holding a bundle of roses bristling with thorns. She said that she’d been poisoned. “It wasn’t anything strange,” she added. “The poison is still working.”

  FIVE

  I became obsessed with Hamlet’s final line before he stabs Claudius: Then, venom, to thy work.

  There, that was exactly what I needed to use; that was exactly what I needed to do. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Poison must be paid in poison. But for now I didn’t dare. I wasn’t worried about the dangers to my own well-being. Thế reminded me that now our family just had us two men. My daughter had died. Phũ had just died. The vicious cycle of suffering that we called our family history could finish here and now.

  A dreadful emptiness. As if it were only I left. Though of course I’d have to add Cốc’s German shepherd. After Phũ’s funeral, I went to Cốc’s house to pick up the dog. But it wouldn’t cooperate. It lay motionless in front of the family altar where Cốc’s ashes sat. It was useless to try and pull him away. Finally I understood that I needed to burn incense and carry Cốc’s urn out. As I carried his urn out, the dog followed me obediently.

  I took the urn of ashes into my bedroom, on the side of the Captain’s Studio. The dog stayed in there with me. Now only the studio with the paintings was open for sightseeing customers. The other two private rooms attached to it weren’t available for rent anymore. Those doors would stay locked as long as I still lived.

  Then, venom, to thy work.

  I had the poison. Real poison, not the kind of fake poison that people sold everywhere in the hazy hours, to hazy people; a single dose of that so-called suicide poison made you feel good, two doses and you felt excited and stimulated. My poison, on the other hand, was super strength; just a shirt-button’s worth was enough to immediately knock out a giant water buffalo. It really did look like a button. I would always keep it in my pants pocket to use in case the opportunity arose. I felt a thread of connection to one young girl named Mai Trừng and another named Yên Thanh. This dose of poison was aimed at both of them.

  I searched through the phone directory, and found the phone number of the Wild Rose Limited Liability Company. A computer company. The director was one Mr. Quốc Đài. I had no idea if he was a real mister or just some immature young guy. Limited liability companies had popped up in those days like mushrooms; their directors crawled around all over the earth like worms. During the era of the subsidy economy, the name “director” was like a title of nobility or aristocracy. Families that attached that magic term to their names had pride and bragging rights. Back then, the man who guarded the gates of authority still had the right to be swollen with pride, and even the heads of construction projects had times when they looked enviously at those high-ranking bureaucrats. But when the era of the market economy arrived, the limited liability company became an icon of the new private economy. Fathers started their own companies; mothers started their own companies; kids started their own companies. Abracadabra! and suddenly everyone and his mother was a director. The former title of nobility became ordinary and common. All it meant was that one had the power to dispense his scrawl or stamp, or request a company car or office supplies. There was no lack of ghost companies, with their empty offices, their directors barely past youth, a quick-study book on computers held in one hand and a book on introductory English in the other. There was no lack of companies without responsibilities and without limits that duped their customers as if they were carrying cows to market. There were companies in which the owners robbed all the capital and then said bye-bye to mom and dad and ran off as boat people. But the truth was that among all the flotsam and jetsam, some heads did rise above the others, some intellects were liberated, and some individual cars were able to speed ahead once they were given the green light. Perhaps Thế belonged to this group. And on top of that, he was someone who had given up a position of authority to become the director of his own hotel.

  I stared fixedly at the information I looked up about Wild Rose, LLC. I also wasn’t sure if the director, Quốc Đài, was a man or a boy. In any case, what I wanted to do didn’t have anything to do with him; I had only to use him to get close to the girl. I called Quốc Đài on the phone and arranged to meet him right away. Directors are always happy to meet you these days. “I’m planning to install some computers in my office,” I said. “I need to meet with you and ask your advice about which models would be the best for my needs.”

  “Hello, I’m very happy to meet you, please come down and we’ll give you some good reliable advice.” The stench of marketing seeped through the telephone receiver, the means of communication of the unskilled masses. He spoke in a wheedling, sensually melodious male voice, like the voice of a male prostitute.

  I was in no hurry to go straight there that afternoon, so I made an appointment for the next morning. It was the instant the cat has caught the mouse but hasn’t killed it yet, when it draws out its death, playing with its prey. Still, I wasn’t foolish enough to go to his office. I arranged to meet him on neutral ground.

  Quốc Đài was about forty, though his appearance and style managed to make him seem a few years younger, so that at first sight he looked like he could be the same age as I. I patiently listened to him introduce the different kinds of computers. Halfway through, I pretended I’d suddenly remembered something and then asked him about a lady named Mai Trừng. I told him that I’d met her by accident one time and that she’d told me about the Wild Rose Company.

  “Well sir, she actually quit recently. It’s a real shame.” In spite of his words, he sighed lightly, as if relieved. It was a sigh full of mystery. I guided him back to the possibility signing a contract to purchase some of his computers. He offered me a discount of about 10 percent off the contract price and told me that he was prepared to write me a separate receipt so that my office would have to pay around 10 percent more. That way, I’d gain from both sides of the transaction, and pocket 20 percent. I pretended that the measly 20 percent was of no importance to me, but managed to a
sk him again about Mai Trừng’s address. He gave quickly gave me the address of one Mrs. Miên, Mai Trừng’s aunt, explaining that Mai Trừng lived with her.

  “But why do you care about Mai Trừng? If she already arranged another contract with you, I’d be happy to transfer it for you.”

  “She’s deeply in debt to me,” I said, full of implication. He stiffened in surprise. He’d started to feel that something strange was going on.

  “If it’s a financial debt, I’m sure that she’ll settle it quickly. If it’s some other kind of debt, then I would advise you to forget about it. She’s a dangerous person.”

  I knew that she was a dangerous person before I decided to destroy her. The death of my nephew and his friends was proof enough. But I just sat back and let the parrot go ahead and squeal everything out on his own. He told me a story about himself and Mai Trừng, as if it were a bonus for a good customer, on top of the 20 percent in my pocket that he’d offered me previously.

  • • •

  Quốc Đài had hired Mai Trừng two years before, to work as his personal secretary. Although eight girls had come in to be interviewed, he’d immediately selected Mai Trừng. She had strikingly beautiful facial features and, above all, a figure that no casual clothing could hide. Her beauty caused turmoil in the office. She made even the most serious men grow dizzy with lust when they met her for the first time. All of the company’s employees, from the old retired scientist under contract to the eighteen-year-old gofer, would search high and low for any pretext to hang around Mai Trừng’s desk. The eighteen-year-old was absolutely lovelorn, depressed and despondent for a full month. But then all them had to back off when they sensed that the director had attained ownership rights over the beautiful woman. Quốc Đài would find an excuse to call Mai Trừng into his private office, find another excuse to hold her hand, touch her on the shoulder, lightly kiss her hair, and come up behind her and hug her. Mai Trừng told him, piteously, to stop trying to come on to her; it was too dangerous. At the time, he hadn’t understood that she meant that to continue would be dangerous for him. He’d gone ahead and followed his passions recklessly. Finally, when they were alone in his office, he stood face to face with Mai Trừng, and wrapped both of his arms around her like a boa constrictor. Suddenly a jolt of bitter cold shot from a point under his coccyx up though his spine and stabbed into his head with a sharp pain. He shook violently. The boa released its grip. He was a bit confused because he’d never had any problems with his reproductive organs or with his performance like that. Exhausted, he let Mai Trừng leave. But he still harbored a secret regret at his lost chance. He consoled himself by telling himself that rice that wasn’t eaten was still there.