Tempus Genesis

by Michael McCourt

  It was late afternoon and the tour boat cruised down the narrower waterway Co Chien River. They had confirmation that Robert Dyer lived in the area and they had his address. Van was singing and dancing.

  “Money talks, mmm-hmm-hmm, money talks

  Dirty cash I want you, dirty cash I need you, woh-oh

  Money talks, money talks

  Dirty cash I want you, dirty cash I need you, woh-oh”

  Van was thoroughly enjoying his murderous rendition of Dirty Cash by Stevie V, even giving a solo on sax for the instrumental section. Thumb in mouth and his other hand splayed out, the international gesture for saxophone playing, he was in full swing. Young girls on the bank laughed as they watched him jigging down the aisle of the boat.

  “Enough Van, you win,” Oliver said, raising both his hands in surrender, “I bow to your superior local knowledge.”

  Jamie laughed, “I’m sorry Oliver but you really did make an arse of yourself, I thought we would get our backsides kicked, well done Van the man,” Jamie high fived Van.

  Van smiled and ruffled Oliver’s hair. Earlier he had saved Oliver from a compromising incident amongst garden ceramics and hot working kilns. Oliver was insistent on fronting up the search for Dyer at Mr Hoangs ceramics and brick factory. Oliver had approached Mr Hoang who would never deny a tourist a conversation and tried to spin the tale of Dyer as a family friend. Mr Hoang had sternly said he knew of no such man in the area, even saying no Europeans lived on the delta. Oliver could be over bearing in his determination to progress, this was his mission and the solution for Jenny was his responsibility. His manner was softened by the warmth behind his intentions and this made his doggedness acceptable to his close friends. But not to Mr Hoang.

  Oliver kept up his badgering of Hoang but had not seen the slow approach of four or five muscled brick workers. Jamie had pulled Oliver out and let Van in. Van took a hundred dollars from Jamie and asked them all to wait outside. Jenny worried about Oliver and how his judgment was becoming more fragile within his quest to help her.

  Seven minutes later Van returned without the hundred dollars and with Dyers address and location.

  “Money does talk in Vietnam,” Van explained to the three on the boat, “if you were better tourists you would have had my tourist speech, the country suffers with endemic corruption and bribes are everyday occurrences. Blah Blah. But you are too lazy to get the full Van effect,” Van hummed to himself more ‘money talks’ and walked off to the back of the boat again.

  Van exchanged comments in Vietnamese with the non-English speaking pilot of the boat. The boat operator was a friend of Vans Fathers, ex V.C. He made just one comment to Van, he thought the family friend story was bullshit and he told Van he should be careful.

  This river brought tourists more up close and personal with the more rural outreaches of the Mekong Delta. The affinity of locals with the water was plain for Oliver and friends to see. Young boys swam and played in front of their houses, women washed clothes and men cooled off from their work in the chocolate brown waters. A teenage girl brushed her teeth in the river, she was dressed fashionably, western style, yet her actions were third world. This captured Vietnams contrasting fortunes, from Ho Chi Mins cosmopolitan tale of success and excess, to the poor in the rural and farming communities. Each house was different, the best were simple concrete structures but most were a combination of wood, corrugated iron and canvas or tarpaulin for shelter. Many houses were built on wooden frames and stilts sited in the waterside that extended out over the river. The delta’s economy, despite its vast harvest of rice three times a year was highly dependant on its tourist trade.

  The dense foliage that enveloped the houses and land of the region was striking. Green thick bushes with palm trees stretched out from the ground to great heights. The deep green forest was interspersed with fruit orchards providing bursts of colour, from papaya, banana and mango trees. It was tropical but not jungle, the greenery was relatively young having grown out of the ground devastated by napalm and Agent Orange five decades earlier.

  The Sampan docked at a wooden jetty that jutted out into the river. It came to a halt bumping gently against a moored small motorized canoe. The jetty led to a grander house that would be the homestay where Van had booked his tourists in for three nights. It sat proud at the junction of the Co Chien River and one of the numerous canal waterways that branched off the main waters of the Mekong Delta.

  As the boats pilot moored the tour boat Van pointed down the canal, which meandered into the distance. It was criss crossed with bamboo built monkey bridges.

  “Down there is the French Colonial house where Hoang says Dyer lives. Beautiful place. I have passed that house a few times before on tours. I thought it was owned and run as a homestay.”

  The heat and humidity were almost unbearable. Jamie wanted to take the wet sticky shirt from his back and shower. Jenny wiped her face with her t-shirt and Oliver removed his soft walking shoes. They walked up to the house together with Van leading the way. Four wooden gondoliers, small water taxis, had arrived at the jetty hoping for business from tourists. The women who steered the boats in were surprised to see only three tourists. They were dressed in traditional clothes and wore ‘non la’ conical hats. The ex-V.C. pilot strolled over to the women and began conversing with them, within a moment they were laughing at some flirtatious comment he must have made.

  “Van, visitors, welcome to my home, call me Jimmy.” Nyueng Cong Chien introduced himself. He was small, even for a Vietnamese man, dark skinned with cragged features. Van shook his hand and they embraced.

  “Jimmy?” asked Jamie.

  “It is easier to say and remember than my Vietnamese name, I have spent too much time repeating my name to so many tourists I decided on Jimmy. It makes life easier, believe me,” Jimmy gestured for them to follow him.

  “You must be hot, even for me today is a hot day,” they didn’t enter the main house as Jimmy led them down the side of the house, “we will have very torrential rain tonight for sure, I have fresh juice for you and showers, later I could take you for bicycle ride into the forest, fruit orchards, watch the sunset over the delta. Then my wife and daughter will make you a beautiful dinner.”

  “That sound’s lovely Jimmy, thank you.” Jenny said.

  “No problem,” Jimmy said as they walked around to the rear of the house they entered a large garden which had mature palms and areas of dense foliage. Between the botanical gardens plants and trees were bamboo constructed cabins. Five simple square huts with bamboo dining furniture in front of each. In the middle a painted white concrete toilet shower block.

  “I can normally accommodate up to twenty five tourists, but you will have the place to yourselves,” Jimmy looked to Van, “you usually have bigger groups Van.”

  “Business is slow, global recession isn’t it Jimmy? I managed to rustle these three up at the last minute. They are poor tourists,” Van smiled at his travelling companions, “I’m kidding you’re nice people, they are trying to find an old family friend, his name is Dyer.”

  “Robert Dyer, I know him, he lives in the French house two miles down the canal, how do you know him?”

  Oliver coughed, he hadn’t rehearsed any more than a headline, “He is my fathers friend, from twenty years ago, they lectured together, medicine, in London.”

  Jimmy raised his eyes and nodded, “I would be very surprised if he agreed to see you, he is a very private man, a good man but he keeps himself to himself. We all respect that.”

  “I thought I would try this evening,” Oliver said drawing looks from both Jenny and Jamie, “we’re only here for a short time,” Oliver offered back in defence.

  Jimmy turned and walked them into the centre of the garden and showed them to their accommodation.

  Jamie had one large cabin to himself and Oliver and Jenny shared another. They were basic but comfortable, each hut had several beds and could sleep up to five. Lilac coloured mosquito nets were draped over ea
ch bed.

  Jenny was first to enter the shower block, there were four toilet cubicles and five shower cubicles. Each provided only minimal privacy. Jenny had clean clothes which she placed on a chair, she slipped in behind a thin curtain, undressed and stepped into the shower. The water was cold, which was heavenly. Jenny took soap from her travel bag and felt instant relief as she washed.

  Jamie joined her in the next cubicle and also commenced showering. He felt awkward knowing his best friends’ girlfriend was naked a few inches away.

  “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears,” Jamie said to break the uncomfortable silence.

  Jenny laughed, “Don’t be doing anything disgusting through there,” She commented back.

  “I’m not Minnie thank you very much, if he was here you’d just get grunts and groans, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

  “Nice,” Jenny said then paused while she thought, “I can’t believe Oliver’s going to try to see Dyer today. I thought we would all go in the morning.”

  “Did you suggest that to him?” Jamie asked.

  “Yes, but he is adamant he wants to go tonight and on his own,” Jenny replied.

  “Well that tactic worked in the Brick factory,” said Jamie, “he becomes very single minded and blinkered when he fixes on something.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Jenny said.

  “He genuinely thinks he can get help from Dyer then?” Jamie wanted to understand a little more behind the reason he found himself in basic accommodation in the rice bowl of Vietnam.

  “I know Mary, Minnie, you, doubt me Jamie, but I do have some kind of gift I’m not some con artist. Sometimes it expresses itself as an illness. I don’t claim to understand it but it is a physical condition. I’m hoping the Professor has carried out the research we think he did, he may be able to help,” Jenny said opening up to Jamie in a way she had not before.

  “Ok, but its not like you’re going to die from it sometime soon,” Jamie flipped back at her. Jenny’s silence said more than she could in any spoken answer.

  “The others you know,” Jamie tried to pick up the discussion from the awkward atmosphere he had just created, “these regression therapists and their, er, patients, don’t they have problems like yours?”

  “No, I’ve never met one who can actually regress,” she answered.

  “And their patients?” Jamie probed further.

  “Never known it, look for them it is an alternative therapy business, their patients find it relaxing, healing. I connect with them as it is my business too, how I make a living, along with the other kooky things in my life. But my regression, it is a physical connection with the past, I travel, actually travel back.”

  This time Jamie was silent for a moment, “Sounds fucking freaky to me,” he said breaking the silence.

  Jenny laughed, “I’ll have to give you a demonstration, and then you’d believe me.”

  Jamie smiled, maybe he would he thought.

  Oliver left his new girlfriend (closest approximation to describe their relationship) and old friend to enjoy Jimmy’s bicycle tour of the fruit orchards. Van had negotiated a wooden gondolier taxi and identified the location of the French colonial house with the young woman. She knew it well but no one ever visited she said. Oliver sat in the taxi in the heat of the late afternoon. The woman punted the boat along the canal, standing at the stern to steer the boat along the canal. They crossed and were passed by many similar boats, some tourist but mostly working boats with fruit and goods. The young woman greeted each boat as it passed. Parallel with the canal ran a make shift road, many cycles and some motorbikes zipped about the local area. The journey to Dyers home would take about thirty minutes Van had advised him.

  Oliver leaned back in the boat and drank bottled water provided for him by Jimmy. He was tired and felt he should have rested, but he didn’t want to lose one single chance to meet Professor Dyer. He closed his eyes and drifted to a half sleep, encouraged by the gentle rocking of the gondolier and the almost silence that surrounded him, save for the lapping of water as his taxi glided down the canal.

  Oliver woke to the sound of the young woman’s voice.

  “Mister, sir, mister, we have arrived at the house,” she said gently.

  Oliver opened his eyes slowly, then wider as the boat bumped against the steps that joined the canal where the gondolier was.

  “Thank you,” Oliver said blinking his eyes, “that was very relaxing, thank you.”

  “French house,” replied the young woman, easing her hat back and pointing to the colonial residence, “old English guy live here, no one really know him much.”

  Oliver stepped off of the boat gingerly, with a slight jump, and stood at the bottom of the steps. The young woman moved into the boat and sat down to wait.

  Oliver climbed the wooden steps. As he reached the top he was taken aback at the sight of the house. Van had explained the history of French rule up until 1948 and the one hundred and fifty year history that preceded it. This house, Jimmy had told Oliver, was one hundred years old and built by the French at the time. It was the grandest house in the area and, Oliver thought, twenty years ago was probably bought by Dyer for a song. It was built in mahogany and was ornately carved and decorated. Almost pagoda like the house had intricate Vietnamese writing and etchings of rural scenes. Oliver wondered what history lied within its design and what stories the house could tell over its lifetime. Others like it had been destroyed in the various wars Vietnam had been in for over a hundred years until the late eighties.

  The house was almost black, with striking reliefs of gold, red and silver. Its windows were shuttered and they were closed. The door had a large glass pane with stained and leaded patterns. A dim light glowed from within. It was the end of the day and the light was beginning to fade, Oliver walked along the stone path that crossed a highly manicured lawn. The house was beautifully kept and whilst Dyer was a recluse, he clearly maintained the splendor of this property with exacting precision.

  Oliver looked back, he could no longer see his taxi driver from this raised position. He drew in a deep breath and walked towards the large grand door of the property. This was it, a grandiose gamble lived or died in then next few moments and the next few days. What if Dyer would impart no knowledge? Oliver had no stock whatsoever with this man, though he could trade on a likely shared hatred of Blooms he thought. He was here though, he had found the residence of Professor Robert John Dyer, which was an achievement in itself.

  A large iron door knocker hung on the middle wooden panel of the door that rested below the huge glass pane. Oliver lifted the iron piece and paused, he then struck it hard twice against its fitting. Against a silent backdrop of forest and isolation the knocker made a resounding noise. Oliver took three steps back and waited.

  Two minutes passed with no response. He knocked again.

  No response.

  Oliver swallowed, “Professor Dyer,” he almost whispered and knocked again, “Robert John Dyer, please sir I would like to speak with you,” Oliver raised his voice more towards the end of his sentence.

  Nothing.

  Oliver struck the door hard, “Please Professor, I know you live here, I think we might share a similar interest, I know I am being presumptuous arriving here uninvited but I’ve traveled from Britain to try to speak to you.”

  Oliver dropped his head, feeling like a prize arse. What single reason would someone who had chosen to live such a reclusive life have to speak with him? Oliver stepped back from the door.

  “Professor, Mister Dyer, I am going to sit down, over here,” Oliver pointed to the first step down to the canal, “please think about opening the door and speaking to me, I think we have much in common.”

  Oliver walked backwards.

  As he approached the top step he saw a feint shadow pass behind the glass panel of the front door.

  “Professor,” Oliver yelled. Nothing. Oliver knew Dyer, or somebody, was in there but they were not prepared to engage
him.

  Oliver sat down on the top step, dropped his head into his hands and let out a long frustrated sigh. The young woman in the gondolier looked up and smiled at him. He returned a half smile and then closed his eyes and drifted away, so exhausted he was.

  “It is a long time since someone visited this house,” said the elderly Vietnamese woman, as she strolled towards Oliver across the lush green lawn.

  Oliver opened his eyes, he turned his head to see the elegant lady approach him. As she neared he stood.

  “Are you a journalist?” she asked. She was probably over seventy but looked remarkably fit and well.

  “No, I am not. My father is a family friend,” Oliver offered in explanation of his presence.

  “Bullshit,” the woman said clearly and pointedly, “that is the line every journalist has spun for the last twenty years. His history is no longer a story. The gentleman of the house said ‘fuck off’.”

  With that said she turned and walked away.

  “No, sorry, look, I’m not a journalist, honest,” Oliver stood up and pursued her, “I have made that up, the family friend stuff, but I’m desperate. Please, I’m a doctor and a student.” He caught up with the elderly woman and very gently took her shoulder to slow her departure.

  “Well?” she said, “What’s you’re story?”

  “I am,” Oliver felt very exposed all of a sudden, “a student, well a doctor who is studying neuroscience, brain studies,” Oliver tapped his head.

  “I know what neuroscience is you dip shit,” she said back sharply, “I lived in America for twenty years.”

  “Sorry,” Oliver held up his hands, this wasn’t going well, “sorry, look please tell Professor Dyer I would really appreciate even a brief conversation, I am no journalist.”

  The older woman looked coldly at Oliver.

  “How do you know the Professor?” he asked curiously, “are you his wife?”

  The woman let out a loud laugh, “Shit no, I am far too old for him, I am his housekeeper. Look, where are you staying?”

  Oliver didn’t in fact know where he was staying, “About a mile or two towards the Co Chien River on the edge, um, Jimmy is the host,” Oliver shrugged.

  “Okay, you go back to Jimmy’s, I know Jimmy, good guy, nice place. If and this is a big if, if the Professor will see you I will come and get you. Otherwise enjoy your stay and then go home.”

  There was no other avenue for negotiation, the older woman turned and walked away.

  Oliver watched her walk away and around the side of the house. He dropped his head in despair and walked back to the wooden stairs. He took one last look at the house and then descended to the waiting water taxi. The servile young woman gave him a beaming smile, he smiled back and stepped down each stair and into the wooden gondolier.

  21.