Chasing Chris Campbell

by Genevieve Gannon

  ‘I’ll check what time the buses run,’ Chris said. ‘Jez, can you book some rooms in Nha Trang?’

  Everybody was assigned a task for the day. Lorrie stood and gathered her bags. The waiter put a plate of mushrooms in front of me. Lorrie sat again. I could tell they were all poised to go.

  ‘Don’t wait for me,’ I said brightly. ‘You’re all done.’

  ‘Are you sure? Only if you’re sure,’ said Jeremy as he slid his wallet out of his pocket to pay.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I smiled.

  ‘Sweet. We’ll let you know the plan when we’re sorted.’ Chris leapt up and gave me a hasty kiss on the forehead.

  One by one they stood up and left. Sarah was the only one who stayed. I dug my fork into the pile of watery fungi. She took a tin from her pocket and placed some tobacco onto a cigarette paper.

  ‘So how’s your mission going?’ she said, placing the rollie between her lips.

  ‘My mission?’

  ‘You know.’ She furrowed her brow and lit the cigarette. ‘Chasing Chris Campbell.’

  My hand stopped halfway between my plate and my mouth.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sarah didn’t say anything. She just raised her eyebrows and blew a gust of blue smoke in my direction.

  My shoulders dropped. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  She grimaced sympathetically. ‘Oh honey. Yes. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t think he has a clue,’ she said. ‘But then I’m not sure Chris has a clue about much.’

  ‘Chris is really smart you know,’ I said, defensive.

  ‘Chris has an aptitude for maths and music, there’s a difference.’

  ‘We get along really well.’

  ‘I know you do, I’ve seen you. Good mates. Everyone’s good mates with Chris Campbell.’

  ‘You don’t think Chris and I would work?’

  She took another slow, contemplative drag of her cigarette.

  ‘There’s someone out there who would be thrilled to be with you,’ she said gently. ‘Chris is a nice guy. But he’s wandering. He’s a bit lost.’ She shrugged and blew another gust of smoke across the table. ‘Maybe one day. Right now doesn’t seem the time. But hey, what would I know? I thought I had it figured out when I got married. Now he’s got a new wife half his age and they’re using my wedding china to feed their two year old.’

  ‘You were married?’

  She nodded. ‘When I was twenty-four. Far too young. But then again my parents were nineteen when they married. They were together until the day my father died in the bed they shared for sixty-two years. So who knows? Maybe you should tell him.’

  ‘Tell him?’

  Sarah finished her tea and looked at her watch. ‘Tell Chris how you feel.’

  ‘No,’ I was aghast. ‘I could never.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve got to check in with work. Are you okay here?’

  I nodded. She touched my shoulder.

  ‘You’ll never know unless you say something.’

  I was left at the large empty table crowded with dirty plates. I ate the rest of my mushrooms alone. For once I was grateful for the solitude. I had a lot to think about.

  After spending the day investigating the Chinese-style temples of Cholon, we checked out of our rooms then I used the battered PC in the lobby to send an email to Mum.

  Hong Kong is so hot!

  There were two emails from Michael. I opened the one he’d sent first.

  I’m so glad you’re getting out and exploring.

  He added that he didn’t realise it was something I’d wanted to do. He filled three more lines updating me on the house. He was headed to Lydia and Kyle’s engagement party that night. I felt little envious at the thought of him surrounded by our friends and families.

  I sent Lydia an email to say congratulations, then moved onto the second email Michael had sent. He had written it nine hours after the previous one, probably around the time he had come home from the engagement party.

  Give us another go. Come home. We can talk about this. It can’t have been all bad, right? I love you, Vy, I’ve always loved you. Say you loved me once too.

  I looked away from the screen and imaged how the party would have gone. They had held it at Hellenic Republic, which was a favourite restaurant of ours. I would have gone on Michael’s arm, wearing my black dress and the ruby earrings he had bought me for our three year anniversary. They had also had to double as a Christmas present because of how much they cost. There would have been no need for me to buy anything special to wear. I could be myself and he’d love me just as much.

  I started typing a reply to Michael. Of course I had loved him, and part of me always would. Being separated from him had made me realise just how intertwined we were. Once I’d gotten over the novelty of doing whatever I wanted, I had caught myself missing him. But I couldn’t leave him wondering. Sparing him that torture was one small kindness I could do.

  Chris stuck his head in. ‘Vy, you ready?’

  I nodded, sending my hastily written response.

  I’m sorry Michael. I just don’t think it would work. We discussed this. I know it’s hard. We did love each other – do love each other – but that doesn’t mean we should be together. We’ll speak when I get home. x

  As I did so I turned my back to Chris so he wouldn’t see me wiping away my tears.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  By the time we boarded the overnight bus to Nha Trang I had made up my mind. I was going to say something. I was going to tell Chris how I felt about him. I just had to find the right time.

  The flat land rolled by. Outside there were endless variations of green on display – jungle, fields and rice paddies. Rocky mountains rose up unexpectedly. Trucks and bikes flew noisily past. But it wasn’t the bumpy road that was making my stomach feel like a bagpipe full of fizzy drink. I was imagining what I was going to say to Chris. He was lying back in his seat, the setting sun’s rays licking his cheeks. The sight of him made my pulse run. I leaned forward and put my head between my knees.

  What would I even say? ‘Hi Chris, are you free on Sunday for some marriage?’ As the words formed in my mind, my stomach squeezed and twisted. In what universe would that end with him saying, ‘Sure thing, Violet. I’ve always been in love with you but was waiting for you to make the first move.’

  I alternated between balling my fists and gnawing my nails. It seemed like such a big risk. At least this way I had his friendship. Sarah tapped my shoulder.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ she whispered.

  I shrugged. ‘Trouble focusing, pulse racing, hot flashes. Could be malaria. Or, love sickness.’

  ‘Ha!’ Sarah leaned back in her seat. ‘I know which of those is deadlier. But I also know the cure.’ She paused for effect then leaned forward and mouthed, ‘Tell him’.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I said, like a patient whose doctor is imploring her to eat more greens. ‘Your cure is like open-heart surgery,’ I said. ‘I know it has to be done, but I’m terrified of dying on the table.’

  A pothole jolted me awake. My watch said 5 am. I swore quietly. I had hoped to wake refreshed and ready for the perfect moment with Chris. I dug into my bag to assess what was left of my travel snacks.

  There were things in Vietnam that made me think of India, but topographically, the two were very different. Vietnam was greener and flatter. Its mountains appeared suddenly, all the more impressive because they rose out of such flat land. As if a baby giant had left his toy mountains lying around on his mother’s freshly-swept country, annoying her.

  ‘Phouc! Pick up your toys, I just mopped Vietnam.’

  Nha Trang sat on the coast and was a magnet for young travellers. It was known as a beach party town, packed with resorts and bars.

  The last couple of hundred kilometres of road were signposted with little shacks that sold surfboards and wax. Nha Trang was the Los Angeles of Vietnam. Sure it had topiaries instead of palm trees, and xe om drivers instead of limos.
But its coastline was a beach boulevard. The impression was completed by the Hollywood-style Nha Trang sign that sat imposingly on Hon Tre Island, just off the coast, looking out over the city.

  I decided the beach would be a good place to declare my love to Chris. Or perhaps one of the sea-side cafes, providing they were nice and clean.

  Here, instead of shapeless cotton shifts and breezy pant-shirt sets, the women wore basketball caps and triangle bikinis. The men had Vietnamese noses and eyes, but bleached blond hair curled by the sea salt. The sand was dotted with sun-beds, and on each street corner, drivers hassled tourists with offers of a ride.

  Jeremy approached one and had a conversation. I knew he’d be trying to score pot, or perhaps something stronger. I’d heard the drivers here could get you almost anything you wanted. Nha Trang was a twenty-something’s paradise. And it was very cheap. You could stand in any pub in Melbourne and shout out ‘A round of hotel rooms in Na Trang for everyone’ and come out better than if you’d bought a round of drinks.

  The bus dropped us at an intersection where a road of hotels T-boned the beach strip.

  ‘We’re just up here,’ Jeremy said, leading us to a worn-looking guesthouse. It had the preserved air of a beach house decorated in the 1970s and not changed since.

  ‘Check-in at noon,’ the clerk informed us from behind a bamboo desk.

  ‘Beach?’ Noah asked to enthusiastic nods.

  We pulled our towels and bathers from our packs and left them at reception. I rummaged in my bag in search of sunscreen and a hat.

  ‘Come on, Vy,’ called Jeremy.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ I said. The best I could find was moisturiser that had a sun protection factor of fifteen. My bikini top still had underwear tied to it. When I pulled it out a pair of cottontails hung from it like bunting.

  ‘Cute knickers,’ said Chris.

  Sarah raised her eyebrows at me.

  ‘Let’s go,’ called Jeremy. He was enjoying being leader for the Nha Trang leg.

  We ran over the piping hot concrete, across the four-lane freeway to the beach, screaming and laughing all the way. The boys stripped off their shirts as they charged at the water and crashed into the waves in their pants. The girls and I stopped on the sand, dropped our things and erected shape-shifting changing rooms using our towels. I wriggled out of last night’s clothes and pulled on my bikini bottoms. Belinda was also doing the awkward towel dance. But Sarah and Lorrie stripped bare – exposing pink-tipped breasts and dark Vs of curly hair – then pulled on their bathers. They ran towards the water.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I called, squeezing a long, thin dribble of SPF moisturiser along my arm.

  ‘Don’t worry about it!’ said Sarah. ‘It’s only 8 am.’

  ‘I burn really easily,’ I called back. My arms and legs were still coloured by the faint orange spray of freckles that had popped up in Goa.

  ‘Come on, Vy,’ Chris yelled.

  The boys had found a tennis ball and were chucking it over the girls’ heads. I still had to put cream on my legs.

  ‘Vy!’ Chris hollered.

  I dropped the moisturiser and barrelled towards the water. I leapt in and immersed myself, copping a mouthful of salt as I dunked my head underwater. The cold rushed through my ears and waves raked my hair back. They were small but we tried to catch them anyway, paddling as far as we could before being slammed in the foamy crush. We raced to a buoy then floated on our backs and lazily tossed the ball as we played Truth or Dare.

  The game grew smutty and soon Giorgio and Belinda announced they were tired and left. Then Jez and Lorrie.

  ‘I’m starting to prune,’ said Sarah. ‘And I’m starving.’

  I was hungry too. But I didn’t want to leave yet. I wanted more of the feeling of floating in the cold water. The saltiness was cleansing.

  ‘Want to get some breakfast, Sarah?’ Noah asked.

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ she said.

  ‘Guys?’ They looked at me and Chris.

  ‘I think I’m going to stay in the water,’ I said.

  Chris hooked his arm around the buoy and pulled his top half out of the water. Rivulets trickled between his muscles. His body was hairless and smooth. ‘Me too.’

  Beach front cafeterias were opening pastel-coloured umbrellas over tables and chairs that lined the boulevard, signalling they were ready for customers.

  Chris swam over to me. ‘Are you happy you came?’

  I was treading water. ‘Very,’ I said. For one crystal clear moment, I realised it was true.

  ‘Me too.’ Chris’s breath was short as he paddled.

  Do it. Do it now.

  The words were forming in my throat.

  ‘You’re a little red,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re not burning.’

  I touched my cheek. ‘Hope not,’ I said. I could feel the burn was coming from the inside. I gulped and I duck dived under the waves. Chris grabbed my ankle and pulled me to him.

  ‘Race you to the next buoy?’ He pointed about three hundred metres down the shore.

  ‘Seems a bit unfair. Weren’t you captain of the swimming team?’

  ‘Vice captain.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Ten second head start?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘A-and go!’

  I splashed towards the bobbing buoy but Chris soon overtook me. I reached it, panting, and clung to the side, to catch my breath.

  ‘Beat ya.’ He smiled as he sculled in the water. His white angles broke the surface, his feet jutting out like ducks.

  Do it! My mind was urging me. Do it! My heart beat in support.

  ‘Chris –’

  A squeal pierced the air. A teenage girl had been dunked under the frothy surface by her boyfriend. Swimmers and surfers had slowly filled the water. Children and teens were bashing about in the blue.

  ‘I’ll get you,’ a large boy shouted as he splashed towards a girl in an inflatable ring.

  Chris watched the chaos, grinning. ‘It’s getting crowded.’

  I’d missed my moment.

  ‘What else is there to see in Nha Trang?’ I asked.

  We dried off and ate lunch with our bathers leaking sea water onto the cafe floor. Over a bowl of pho we decided to walk to the Po Nagar Cham towers. The complex of seventh century yellow stone buildings was at the top of a small hill. It was a six kilometre walk followed by a climb. The towers could be reached by walking along the coastal highway, but we chose to pick our way through the city centre.

  ‘Look at that,’ I pointed. We passed a row of pet shops that seemed to mostly sell budgerigars. The footpath was crowded with cages of brilliantly coloured birds, packed forty or fifty to a cage, barely able to open their wings. They were pink, blue and purple, so intensely hued they looked almost artificial. Women – the shop owners, perhaps – sat on stools by the cages, gossiping and laughing. Chris stopped and poked a finger into one of the cages. A curious purple bird hopped over to him and sunk his beak into Chris’s fingertip.

  ‘Ow.’ Chris pulled his hand away.

  ‘Watch out, watch out!’ The ladies laughed.

  We wended our way slowly towards the temples, walking along the beach for short bursts before veering into the town to see how the locals lived. The sun cooked the concrete and the ocean air funnelled away much of the moisture in the air.

  We passed two giant Buddhas. One reclining, one sitting in a disciplined pose. They were at least fifty feet tall. I thought perhaps they were the ones who had strewn mountains around the otherwise flat land. Children tried to sell us postcards and sticks of incense. We bought a pack of cards each and sat on the steps to write messages to people back home. I scribbled a note to Cass, Mum and Zach.

  Chris was barely half a foot away from me. I watched him write. There was energy humming between us.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked, stuffing the postcards into his back pocket.

  We climbed the last little bit to the crest of the hill. The temples sat atop the rise
, overlooking the city. Children ran, shouting. Leaves erupted into flapping as birds that had been content and concealed fled the noise.

  ‘You know what I keep thinking about,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that, professor serious?’ He gave me a push.

  ‘Those coloured birds.’

  ‘Yeah. They looked psychedelic.’

  ‘They looked so cramped. I wonder how long they live like that.’

  ‘We should buy some and free them,’ Chris said.

  I looked at him. ‘Do you think they’d survive?’

  ‘Of course. I mean, I guess. They’d be better off than in those cramped cages.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ Excited, I grabbed his arm.

  ‘Let’s.’

  We climbed down and hurried back through the streets, past the sidewalks crammed with racks of cheap clothes, the dripping pipes and grimy signs, looking for the captive birds. The shop was at the start of a bridge. The woman was still on her chair by her cages of budgerigars. Her face broke into a smile when she saw us.

  ‘Back again,’ she called, wagging a finger at Chris. Her feathered wares burst into a profusion of tweets. They were lined up like coloured milk bottles tweeting and chirping to themselves and shuffling sideways, back and forth, on their perches. Others clung to the wire cage with grey claws.

  ‘How much?’ Chris asked the shop owner. She was wearing aviator glasses and a bucket hat over a greying perm, Bermuda shirt and a white jacket. Her outfit, combined with the colourful, screeching birds gave the impression you were conversing with a diminutive, Asian Hunter S Thompson.

  ‘Birds ten dong each,’ she said.

  Chris opened his wallet and thumbed through a wad of notes.

  ‘One hundred and sixty dong, how many birds?’ he asked.

  ‘One hundred sixty dong – twenty birds.’

  A cage of blue birds contained at least twenty. I pulled out my wallet. I had one hundred and eighty dong.

  ‘We could buy two whole cages of birds and open them on the beach,’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ Chris nodded. ‘Three hundred and forty dong for two cages.’