Homecoming

by Adib Khan

  He forced himself to direct his attention away from the party. He was tempted to walk down the street and play the pokies. The thrill of his last win had uplifted him and given him a sense of achievement. It took an effort not to reach for his wallet to check how much money he could spare. But the chances of another win were remote.

  AT LAST A COUPLE of Frank’s friends arrived, and then Maria’s parents. She livened up at once, talking with her mother. Others drifted in, casually dressed couples in their late twenties and early thirties. There were hellos and familiar greetings. Martin exchanged pleasantries with most of them. Maria’s mother Luu was soon among a group of women, explaining how to prepare Tom Vo Vien; she had made two trays of the popular shrimp cakes.

  Martin saw Nguyen standing by himself in a corner, looking thoughtful and drinking beer. He was a short man with silky black hair threaded with grey. As with most Vietnamese, Martin found it impossible to judge his age by appearance alone. Nguyen’s face was wrinkle-free and he was lean and wiry. Martin poured himself some mineral water, topped it up with a slice of lemon, and went over to Nguyen. They spoke haltingly, though they shared an anxiety about Frank and Maria leaving Melbourne.

  ‘You were in Vietnam.’ There were faint traces of an American accent in the way Nguyen spoke.

  ‘You too, I gather.’ They smiled.

  ‘We both fought on the same side,’ Nguyen mused. ‘Lucky to survive. But you returned to your country…I had to leave mine.’ There was no envy in Nguyen’s voice, only curiosity.

  Martin nodded sympathetically. He admired Nguyen’s courage. But he felt tension in his stomach muscles. A familiar coldness washing over him. He did not wish to be rude, though, and leave Nguyen abruptly to join a safer conversation.

  ‘But it lives inside, yes?’ Nguyen said then, sadly.

  ‘Pardon?’ Martin pretended not to understand.

  ‘The war. It’s more than a memory—don’t you think?’

  Martin resisted the pull of a direct reply. ‘People get over it. There’s not much point in revisiting what happened…But perhaps it’s different for you.’

  Behind them they heard an ecstatic female voice expounding the virtues of Venice. ‘I spent an entire day at Santi Giovanni e Paolo, just imagining how it must have been in the fourteenth century.’

  ‘We don’t have to go that far back for the past to have meaning,’ Nguyen said dryly ‘Don’t mind my asking, but why did you go to Vietnam?’

  ‘Wanted to romance war, I suppose,’ Martin replied. He tried irony. ‘Dance with it cheek to cheek, with music and cheering in the background. Feel the sanctity of its cause.’

  Nguyen scowled, clearly not knowing what to make of Martin’s words. But politeness constrained him. ‘Have you ever gone back to Vietnam?’

  ‘No.’ I’ve never left the place, Martin refrained from adding. He had no desire to risk uttering anything that might entail explanation. ‘Have you?’

  Nguyen shook his head. Gently he tapped the left side of his chest. ‘But in my heart I still live there. It will always be home to me. A sacred place. I could remove the mask of a refugee there. We almost went back, last year. Maria wanted to. I booked the plane tickets and then cancelled them. I had a brother and two sisters when we left, but I haven’t been able to contact them since. From this distance I can still hope that they are alive. Going back may change that. But some day, when I have gathered enough courage…’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Your son is very keen. He wants us all to go.’

  ‘The enthusiasm of the innocent,’ Martin observed. ‘I envy the clarity of their vision. The past learned from books and the past learned from experiences are very different.’ He saw at once that his elusiveness was unfair, that it only intrigued Nguyen.

  ‘I won’t ask you about the war. You won’t tell me as it happened.’ Nguyen laughed, self-conscious. ‘I also tell it differently. Depends who I talk to. Have you ever written about it? Yes? Sometimes I used to write for newspapers. That was one of the reasons I had to leave. But here it’s different.’

  ‘I’m not good at writing.’ This was how Martin had explained it to himself. ‘Besides, others have written enough about it. In fact, a friend of mine has written a book about his time in Vietnam. No publisher wants it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there are too many villains and no heroes in it. Nothing about love, acts of courage or mateship. It’s too personal and honest. Very bitter. What my friend has written would upset people, damage their beliefs.’ Martin thought of Colin, almost cheerful, as if he derived satisfaction from knowing that his book wouldn’t be published.

  ‘At least a few people have read the damn thing and been made uncomfortable,’ Colin had chuckled. ‘Let’s see—I have only two, no three, publishers left to send it to. Then I’ll have the pleasure of knowing that the manuscript has done the rounds. One insignificant soldier’s view of human slaughter.’ Nothing redemptive about it, he’d said. A bilious outpouring that would have sent conservative historians scrambling to write righteous attacks—‘and destroy any credibility I ever had!’ Colin’s smile had faded and he became thoughtful. ‘You know, Martin, most historical writing is about defending or attacking a cultural perspective, about finding reasons to justify what may have happened. We’ve both seen it: the most moralistic historians are the ones who have never gone to war. No, the publishers are quite right in refusing the manuscript. It’s too bleak. There’s no glory in self-flagellation.’ But Nguyen was unconvinced. ‘Why should people be upset?’ he asked. ‘Can you explain that, please?’

  Martin looked around the room. There was little chance of being rescued. ‘Well…they don’t want the additional burden of a grim history. We have no desire to dent our self-esteem, Nguyen.’ He stopped, embarrassed. His own voice rang in his ears, sounding flat and ponderous. ‘Does that make any sense?’ he asked timidly.

  Nguyen ignored the question. ‘Why is the ego so important?’

  The question took Martin by surprise. He couldn’t think of a cogent reply. ‘But…it is. Don’t you think it’s important?’

  ‘I cannot tell. But then I am a practising Buddhist.’ Nguyen smiled impishly. ‘I think there is a reason Buddhism is becoming popular in this country.’

  It was Martin’s turn to be perplexed. He was mildly curious to glimpse Nguyen’s dry sense of humour.

  GLENDA’S VOICE NEXT door. Infinitely patient. She is trying to calm the dog.

  Martin rolls over in bed, quiet and still relaxed. Then he remembers that Glenda asked him weeks ago to fix the dog’s kennel.

  Over the years Glenda has worn down Martin’s obsession with privacy, to the extent that he no longer resents the pair of binoculars that she regularly focuses on him through her kitchen window. Long ago, too, she developed the habit of dropping in for cups of tea, bringing jars of homemade jam, chutney and relishes, accompanied by handwritten recipes that Martin is unlikely to use.

  After Nora moved to the hostel, Glenda lost all discretion about when she could call in. Finally Martin resigned himself to the inevitability of her unscheduled visits, her quick look around for signs of female visitors, and the ensuing monologues on whatever she feels will improve his life. He figures that it is best to appear interested, but remain silent when she is in full flow, because even a polite question is likely to refuel her and prolong the stay. Over tea and biscuits Glenda has plenty of advice, ranging from the best ways of cleaning kitchen utensils to effective herbal treatment for indigestion. And God and church are never too far from her plans for Martin.

  Glenda often talks about her near-perfect relationship with her husband, who died in World War II, then lectures him on the supreme virtues of a spouse. She deliberately refrains from using the word ‘partner’, having frostily told Martin that relationships are not intended to be business ventures. Nowadays Martin sits patiently through these gilded recollections. Only once has he asked how she copes with being alone.

  Glenda had not avoided Martin’s
question, as he would have done. Instead she spoke sadly about her awareness of spatial silence. ‘I try to fill the emptiness with whatever I can. Give meaning to the smallest task that needs to be done. I keep busy, Martin, with friends and church, and I never allow any self-pity. Even as I go to bed at night, you know, I keep my thoughts on what must be done the next day. Yes, you have to constantly set yourself targets. And learn not to drift through life with regret.’

  He could not decide whether her last remark was directed specifically at him. But by then she had looked confused and her eyes had lost their sparkle.

  At that moment he felt for her loneliness and admired her fortitude.

  Martin repeatedly tightens his calf muscles for brief periods of about ten seconds and then relaxes them. He follows the routine for different parts of his body inhaling deeply holding his breath and then exhaling slowly. His head is clear and he feels rested and fresh. Today Frank and Maria are moving house.

  On his feet, he does hip rotations, side bends and slow stretches. Last night he and Frank and Maria talked a lot about Daylesford. Now he is eager to be on the road. On the spur of the moment, they agreed to meet for breakfast in one of the eateries there. Mentally he ticks off the list of tools he is taking with him. It all seems to have come around so quickly.

  The Battle of Hastings was packed several days ago. It took him the better part of an afternoon to wrap the individual pieces in tissues. The bare board had looked desolate once all the pieces were removed. A battlefield after the mayhem. The dead had been buried and the wounded taken away. The trees were destroyed and the bird life had fled. There was only the imagined sound of a wailing wind and the distant howl of foxes.

  He stands for some time in front of the board before carrying it to the ute. Now that it’s going, he feels loss. The game was his last vestige of an uncomplicated youth.

  Martin showers and changes. Flannel shirt, jumper and overalls. Woollen socks and boots. Near the door, a small suitcase is crammed with clothes, a pair of street shoes, medicine and toiletry items. He switches off the power points, checks and tightens the water taps. In the spare room there are two parallel streaks of dust on the table where the Battle had stood. He grabs a rag but then changes his mind about wiping them off.

  It’s cold but the sky is cloudless. A frost covers the ground like tangled masses of spider webs. Martin puts the suitcase on the passenger seat and switches on the ignition, allowing the engine to run and warm up. The ute has been fixed and he marvels at Pete’s skills.

  Glenda appears at her kitchen window. The binoculars sweep across an empty house. She’s heard the ute, Martin thinks, having already forgotten that he will be away for several days. Perhaps she intended to bake a cherry and almond cake and bring half of it in to him later this afternoon.

  TWELVE

  Martin replaces the hinges on a gate and straightens the frame. He scrapes surface dirt from the track and sweeps away leaves and stones. The gate swings open smoothly in an arc, without the bottom striking the ground. Nearby Frank digs the last of the holes for the treated pine posts that will be part of the repaired fence. They have driven around the property, stopping to clear areas where the grass was thick and long. The barbed-wire fence around the land is in good condition, needing only slight tightening where it sags.

  On his way to Daylesford, Martin had listened to the weather forecast: rain predicted later in the day. This influences their decision to work outside until the weather closes in. Maria is staying in the house to do whatever she can without aggravating the backache that has been bothering her.

  They work for nearly two hours without speaking. The silence becomes a shared space for their perturbations to unfold. The uncertainties of a territorial shift are no longer a prospect that belongs to a future. At different times, both Martin and Frank pause to look around them as though they need to be reminded of a new reality in their lives. There is a confronting starkness about the open countryside. Under the dome of blue, the tracts of land on every side are sparsely dotted with trees and sheep. No streets or traffic in sight. This calmness appeals, but Martin wonders if Frank will miss the cosmopolitan diversity of Melbourne. He feels the ache of ordinariness for his son’s new life. But he knows that the sheer routine of professional life has contributed to Frank’s discontent.

  With a grunt of accomplishment Frank finishes digging the last hole. Thoughtfully he looks up at his father. Martin smiles. There will be no more spontaneous meetings at the pub. The comfort of knowing that they’re both in the same city is gone. But Martin was moved when Frank turned to him, this morning, and said with quiet urgency, ‘It’s just over an hour’s drive, Dad—no more time than it takes to get to Melbourne from the outer suburbs.’

  But Martin wonders about the emotional distance. Attitudes and priorities and the rhythm of living…

  Over breakfast in the cafe on Vincent Street Martin had been enthusiastic about the tranquillity of the landscape coming into Daylesford. As he drove, the early sun had filtered soft light into the morning mist curled around the houses like neatly tied ribbons. Smoke slid from the chimneys. Martin could imagine the unhurried pace of breakfasts. It would be a contrast to the time-saving grab for cereal and toast he experienced on a working day. He could almost smell the smoky aroma of bacon sizzling in cast-iron frying pans in those country kitchens. Fresh eggs and grilled tomatoes. Thick slices of white bread spread with generous portions of butter. No doctor-induced caution and pangs of guilt. Homemade jam and marmalade. Pots of tea. Delightful, careless, easy-paced living.

  Martin straightens his back.

  ‘Coffee?’ Frank senses that his father is tiring. He drops the shovel between two holes and takes out a thermos flask from his backpack. They sit on a large log by the side of the gate, pleased with what they have achieved so far.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘Pretty part of the country,’ Martin says laconically.

  ‘What about the property?’

  ‘Good buy I reckon.’ Martin surveys the landscape with admiration. ‘And the house doesn’t need as much work as you made out!’

  ‘There’s quite a few houses for sale around Daylesford.’ Frank looks meaningfully at his father and offers him a biscuit. ‘You know, I can respond to life here instead of reacting to it.’

  ‘How do you achieve that?’

  ‘By giving up any idea of the perfect life. I mean, look at this place. Okay, we want to live here. But we won’t have everything our way. There are problems with the house. The money we’ll have will restrict what we can do. But it can only work if there is an acceptance of limitations.’

  Martin smiles. If nothing else, Frank is clear about his intentions.

  Frank moves past Martin’s silence. ‘Did you know there’s an ashram near here, in a place called Rocklyn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maria and I are driving over there this afternoon. Want to come?’

  ‘Oh…No, I’ll begin painting the rooms.’

  Frank isn’t surprised. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Does it bother you that Maria is Vietnamese?’

  ‘I thought she was born on the boat in Australian territory.’

  Frank looks sharply at his father to see if he is joking. ‘You know what I mean. The way she looks, the colour of her skin—’

  ‘No,’ Martin interrupts firmly. He feels compelled not to be limited to a monosyllabic reply. ‘It might have once.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there was a time when I couldn’t look at life with, ah, soft eyes.’

  ‘You sound like a Buddhist.’

  ‘I can assure you I am not.’

  ‘Soft eyes?’

  ‘“Seeing the world in all its breadth and letting it go on its own way without interfering or being judgemental,” Andrew Gribble said to me once.’

  ‘Can you be sure it’s not indifference?’

  ‘Acce
ptance, I hope.’

  Frank offers his father more coffee. At no stage in Martin’s marriage to Moira had they walked away from each other in hostility. There were only prolonged periods of silence. In their domestic life they had operated with a mechanical efficiency always, even in their worst uneasiness about each other. In the end Moira had left, taking Frank and a couple of suitcases. After a fortnight Martin received a letter from Brisbane. Moira was living with her sister, Pam, and her husband. They had employed her in their hardware business. Later she sought a divorce. Martin was scrupulously fair about the settlement and he did not fight for custody. But he’d needed Andrew to help with the depth of his feelings in being separated from Frank’s development. Yet here his son is, looking affectionately at a balding grey-haired man whose commitment to anything is always in battle with a reluctance to involve himself with people.

  ‘Do you know what Mum said to me once when I asked why the two of you broke up?’

  Martin stares into the distance beyond the house. The openness is strangely attractive. Here he could easily lead a frugal life in his own company.

  ‘She said that you were like a locked room. She couldn’t tell how much or what was stored inside.’