The Son

by Marc Santailler

  She gave me a look from under her eyelids, looking for a moment remarkably like Eric. Then she turned and went in.

  * * *

  * Tyger, Tyger burning bright

  In the forests of the night

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy awful symmetry …

  …

  Did he who made the Lamb, make thee?

  WILLIAM BLAKE

  English poet and mystic, 1757-1827

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jack Lipton was a very different type from Nghiem. Ex-military, a former Warrant Officer with the SAS, he had served three tours of duty in Vietnam with the Australian Army Training Team, before settling down as an assistant to the Military Attaché in the embassy, where I had first met him.

  There was more to Jack than bluff military virtues. A short, chunky man who looked as if he could hold his own in a brawl, he was also a first-rate linguist, having topped his Vietnamese course in Australia before first going to Vietnam, and spoke it almost like a native. And he’d picked up a wife along the way, a sweet-faced Vietnamese called Sen*. Long retired from the army, they now lived in Strathfield, where he kept his hand in interpreting part-time for the Vietnamese community, and sometimes for the police. I’d always got on well with Jack, and they received us warmly when I took Hao there the next evening, armed with flowers for Sen and a bottle of Scotch for Jack.

  ‘Why don’t we see you any more,’ he cried.

  Jack was much more helpful, assuming at once that I was working for my old outfit.

  ‘I can’t help you much with the gangs,’ he said. We spoke in his study, beer in hand, while Sen entertained Hao in the kitchen. ‘They’re very secretive, and the police have a hard time cracking them. But if it’s the right-wing movements you’re interested in here’s what I know.’

  ‘They’re mostly ex-military, and they’re not involved in crime. Here and there they attract some youngsters, the bụi đời you mention, and that’s where you might get some overlap with crime. But otherwise they’re a different area. They’re only interested in politics. Most of them don’t amount to much, two men and a dog, and they’re getting long in the tooth, but some of them are more serious, and they can be a nuisance. I don’t know much about that man Vo Khanh you ask about, but he sounds just the type. I hear they’re planning some big demonstration against a VIP coming out from Vietnam. A guy called Loc, I think. One of the new men coming up in the party.’

  That was what Hao had said too.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Jack said. ‘I know someone who might be able to help you. He keeps a close eye on that kind of thing.’

  ‘A Vietnamese?’

  ‘Yes. I’d have to ask him first, he’s a bit wary with strangers. But you can trust him, he won’t talk.’

  ‘Any chance of seeing him this week? It’s rather urgent.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring and let you know.’

  He nodded towards the kitchen.

  ‘Nice woman you’ve got there. Has she got anything to do with this?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘She’s just a friend I knew long ago in Saigon.’

  I thought I’d have some apologising to do to Jack, if the truth ever came out. But something stopped me from telling him, some hangover from the old days, when you didn’t tell people more than you had to.

  When I drove Hao home I walked her again to the front door. This time I didn’t hesitate, and kissed her on the cheek before she could draw away. She didn’t recoil, or throw her hands up in horror, but she gave me that look again before she went in.

  I was too busy at work over the next couple of days to think much about these matters, and although I was tempted to ring Hao I resisted it. Best to wait until Sunday, I told myself. And on Saturday Jack rang me. His friend had been away. But Jack had now spoken to him, and he’d agreed to see me.

  ‘His name’s Quang,’ Jack said. ‘He lives in Bankstown. He’s expecting your call. It might be best if you go by yourself, the first time. He’s a bit leery of people he doesn’t know.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Jack gave me some details. In his fifties, a northerner, had lived a long time in the south. Very bright, worked as a financial consultant in town. Not married, but had a daughter in France.

  ‘Bit of an odd bird,’ Jack said. ‘He worked for the communists at one time in Saigon, after the fall, knows a lot about them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still in touch. But he’s OK. He publishes a newssheet for the community, preaching reconciliation. It hasn’t made him many friends. He’s even had some death threats. I think you’ll like him. He’s like you in some ways. A bit of a loner.’

  I rang Quang that evening, and arranged to meet him on Monday.

  I also rang Eric. He didn’t sound very thrilled, but he said he’d be there the next day.

  * * *

  * There was a story to this, which few people knew. Sen was the widow of a close friend of Jack’s, a Vietnamese Special Forces Sergeant who’d been fatally wounded alongside Jack in a firefight with North Vietnamese infiltrators on the Ho Chi Minh trail. Jack had reportedly fought his way out single-handed, Carrying his friend’s body back to base. Afterwards he’d looked after the widow and her children, and finally married her and brought them to Australia. A mutual friend told me. Jack never talked about it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday morning was one of those late summer days when Sydney comes into its own. It’s not a very pretty town overall – lack of planning, and the greed of the developers, have seen to that. But it has the harbour, and a sub-tropical climate, and on a sunny day in March, with the boats out in strength and a stiff breeze to chase away the smog, it’s still one of the best places on earth.

  We met at eleven, at the ferry terminal at Circular Quay, not far from where I had taken Hao to dinner. I had picked her up once again at the cousins’ house and Eric had come by train, bringing a friend as I had suggested. I recognised the waitress from the restaurant. She was older than I’d first thought, twenty-two or twenty-three, a little over-dressed in skin-tight jeans with high-heeled boots and a red vinyl jacket, but she looked sweet, and likeable, and seemed very attached to Eric, looking up at him as if he were the older of the two.

  ‘This is Hong,’ he said awkwardly, with his arm protectively around her. He wore his usual assortment of T-shirt and jeans and oversized jacket, and I guessed he didn’t have a large wardrobe. ‘My aunt you know, and this is … Mr Quinn.’

  ‘Hi, nice to meet you Mr Queen,’ Hong said, in that unbecoming mix of Vietnamese and westies accents I was getting to know.

  ‘Call me Paul,’ I said. ‘You too Eric. I’m very glad you could come, both of you. You look very pretty, Hong.’

  I gave her my best smile, and she smiled uncertainly back, while Eric looked suspicious and Hao gave me a quizzical glance. She by contrast looked almost sedate in slacks and sandals and a plain cotton shirt, with her hair in pigtails on either side like a young teenager. I was tempted to follow Eric’s example and put my arm around her waist, just to see the look on his face. But I didn’t quite dare.

  We took the ferry to Manly, across the harbour and over near North Head, one of the two giant bluffs that guard the entrance. It’s a half-hour cruise and the best way to see Sydney. As we pulled away from the wharf we stood outside to look at the view: the saw-toothed roofs of the Opera House on our right, the Bridge hanging massive and dark on the left, ahead of us the main harbour in all its glory, lined with luxury suburbs, alive with yachts and small boats. It was a stirring sight, but I had work to do, and when the women moved out of earshot I turned to Eric.

  ‘How was your week away?’ I asked. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘On Thursday. We only went for a few days.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Up in the hills somewhere – I’m not sure exactly.’

  ‘Very far out?’

  ‘About an hour and a half, I guess. I didn’t check the time.’r />
  He seemed no keener on answering my questions than at our first meeting, and only the press of people stopped him from moving away. But this time I wasn’t going to let him off so easily.

  ‘Where – up in the Blue Mountains, near Katoomba?’

  ‘No … further north, I think. Past Windsor, up that way.’

  ‘Beautiful country up there. But pretty rough when you get off the roads. What kind of farm has your friend got?’

  ‘He’s not really my friend. Just someone I know.’

  ‘Is he Vietnamese too, like your other friends?’

  This time he didn’t answer, and I left him alone for a moment. We were ploughing through a light swell, a race was taking place nearby, all sails out like butterflies or tropical flowers. A large yacht slid close and heeled over to change course, the crew scrambling to their new positions.

  ‘That’s what I’d like,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of those.’ I pointed to the yacht. ‘I keep dreaming of taking off one day and going sailing up in the Whitsundays. Up in Queensland, near the Great Barrier Reef.’

  ‘What’s stopping you?’ he asked, in his blunt fashion, and I laughed.

  ‘Money, for one thing. Those boats don’t come cheap. And I’m not ready yet to throw my hand in … So, what did you do on that farm of yours?’

  ‘Nothing much – bushwalking, a bit of horse-riding, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You must have walked through a lot of bush to get your arms in that state. What happened, did you fall off a horse?’

  He had taken his jacket off in the heat, and his forearms were covered in scratches, and a couple of bruises.

  ‘What’s your birth-sign, by the way?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a Cat. Why?’ He looked surprised at my question.

  ‘Just curious. What’s this?’

  I had noticed a tattoo on his upper arm, under the hem of his sleeve. I lifted the hem with a finger. He moved his arm away, but not before I had caught a glimpse of it, what looked like a buffalo’s head, seen from the front and lowered as if charging, with wide sweeping horns and plumes of smoke coming out of its nostrils. It was scabbing and looked fresh.

  ‘Some secret society badge?’ I asked facetiously. He shot me a dark look and pulled his sleeve down.

  ‘Hey, what went on up there?’ I went on. ‘You didn’t have that last week.’

  ‘Nothing! It’s just a tattoo. Look, what’s with all these questions anyway? Stop treating me like a suspect! I don’t have to tell you everything I do.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You’re a legal adult, you’re free to do what you want. But I’m curious about that group you’re mixed up with. What’s wrong with that? I’m only trying to help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help! I only came because of my aunt anyway. Why did you tell her I’d gone out of town? It was none of your business.’

  ‘I didn’t! What makes you think I did? I thought I’d leave that to you.’

  He looked disbelieving.

  ‘She rang me on Friday. She kept asking where I’d been.’

  ‘Believe me, I didn’t tell her anything! But you should have told her. You know how she worries about you.’

  ‘I don’t want her mixed up in this.’

  ‘Mixed up in what, for God’s sake? What’s so mysterious about what you’re doing?’

  He glared at me, still suspicious. Hao glanced in our direction, alerted by the sound of our raised voices. I shook my head slightly and she looked away. The girl hadn’t noticed anything.

  ‘Anyway, you said you were going to tell me about my father,’ he said reproachfully.

  ‘So I did. And I will. But first I want you to tell me more about that farm.’

  ‘That’s blackmail!’

  ‘Yes it is. But it’s for your own good, Eric.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Why can’t you? What’s so secret about it?’

  ‘We’re not supposed to mention it.’

  ‘Who’s we? That group of yours?’

  He nodded reluctantly. I felt like an interrogator beating a confession out of a suspect. But I wasn’t going to stop now.

  ‘Anyway, it’s nothing much. We just get together–’

  ‘Where, at the farm?’

  ‘No, that was the first time. In town sometimes, of an evening.’

  ‘Who’s your leader? Vo Khanh?’

  ‘Yes. But he wasn’t at the farm, he had to stay at the restaurant.’

  ‘Alright. What did you do up there?’

  ‘I told you. We went for bushwalks. Had some discussions.

  About Vietnam, in the old days, and what the communists have done – all the people they’ve killed, or put in prison, like my grandfather.’

  ‘Were many of you there?’

  ‘Not many. About a dozen.’

  ‘All Vietnamese?’

  He nodded again, unhappily. ‘Apart from me. But they seem to trust me.’

  ‘Any firearms?’

  He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Come on Eric. I need to know. It’s just between you and me.’

  ‘I fired a rifle a couple of times. Really, that’s all there was to it! Stop questioning me like this! There’s nothing wrong with what we did.’

  ‘Maybe not. But there are laws against private armies in this country.’

  I relented. I could see I was pushing him to the limit, and I didn’t want to break whatever slender trust remained between us.

  ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Now I’ll tell you about your father. I would have told you anyway. But thanks for talking to me so frankly. I won’t tell your aunt. What has she told you about him?’

  ‘Hardly anything,’ he said miserably. ‘I don’t even know his name. She says she can’t remember. I think his first name was David, I seem to remember my mother saying it when I was little, but I’m not even sure.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘His name was David. David Harper. He worked in the embassy, in Saigon. The Australian embassy. Did you know that?’

  ‘I wondered, after you said you knew him.’

  ‘I replaced him there when he was killed. He was a diplomat. A second secretary in the political section.’

  ‘What’s that? Some kind of spy?’

  I smiled wrily. Out of the mouths of babes …

  ‘No,’ I said reassuringly, with the ease of the practised liar. ‘That’s just a general name, for the part of an embassy that deals with official relations between the two countries.’

  ‘How – how was he killed?’

  ‘He’d gone down to the countryside, to the Mekong delta, on some embassy business. He came back late along a dangerous stretch of road and his car was shot up by the Viet Cong. It was just an accident of war.’

  I remembered Hao’s phrase.

  ‘I was in Saigon when it happened,’ I went on. ‘Doing language study. I didn’t know him before I went to Vietnam, but we became good friends there.’

  ‘What was he like?’ He wasn’t interested in my reminiscences.

  ‘He was – how can I best describe him to you.’

  I had thought more about David in the past few days than in the previous ten years, but I still had to force my mind to remember him.

  ‘He was two years older than me. Fair-haired, a bit taller, very handsome. Very popular with the girls too, as I remember. I didn’t know your mother so well. I know now he was planning to marry her before he left Saigon, but of course he was killed before that. What else. He got on well with Vietnamese, his house was always full of Vietnamese friends, and he gave some of the best parties in town. I remember that too. He was full of life, always getting into the thick of things, he hated standing still and doing nothing. He was intelligent, courageous, quick-witted–’

  I was gilding the lily a little. David had been all of those things, but he’d also been superficial at times, not always concerned with the effect he had on others, and a bit slapdash in his work too, a
s if he was too busy keeping up with life to have much time for detail. I guessed there’d been a few broken hearts in Saigon when he’d settled on Hien. But I wasn’t lying when I said I had liked him. There was something infectious about that boyish enthusiasm. And I wanted to give Eric a picture of his father he could be proud of.

  Eric had put his sunglasses on and was looking straight ahead, unseeing. I put my hand on his shoulder, feeling the rock-hard bone, the strength of young muscle. He wasn’t big, but he was built like a bricklayer.

  ‘I know it must be very sad for you not to have known him,’ I said, trying to find the right words. ‘But he was a fine man. At least you know that now.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him,’ Eric said. ‘I don’t even have a photo of him. I think my mother had some, but they were lost on the boat.’ He was silent for a moment, coping with his emotions.

  ‘I don’t know much about his family. I think they came from South Australia, and he was an only son. But I might be able to find out more if you want.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From the Department. The Department of Foreign Affairs, that we worked for. They should still have some record of him, perhaps even a photo.’

  I was thinking of course of my old employer. My friend Roger Bentinck might help. ‘It would mean going to Canberra. Would you like me to do that?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Good. It may take some time, but I’ll be happy to. In return I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Learn to trust me. I’m not trying to harm you. Very much the opposite.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  We had arrived. The ferry rocked in the swell as we passed near the Heads, then slid into smoother waters before docking at Manly wharf. We disembarked and I took them first to the Ocean Aquarium, where we gaped at the sharks and the giant stingrays, then along the Corso, the pedestrian mall, to the ocean-side and the beach. The streets were packed, the shops were doing a roaring trade. We bought seafood and pizzas and ate lunch at a table near the seawall, facing the beach. The sun was hot, the surf looked fresh and inviting, but none of the others wanted to swim and instead we walked along the esplanade to the southern end of the beach, then followed a winding road that skirted the headland. Hong dragged Eric away to look for seashells and Hao and I went on ahead.