The Rainy Season

by Myfanwy Jones

  The car pulls up and we climb out. Yesterday’s showers have left a sea of mud – the infamous red mud. I reach down and touch it, bring it up to my nose and smell its earthiness. I guess it is the same mud – the very same. I take an envelope out of my day pack, brought for the purpose, and scoop some in.

  And yet, almost everything else has gone. The eerie corridors of rubber trees that surrounded the base are now rows of saplings, new and fresh. Phuong points out blank spaces where there once were tents, and walks us over to see an old underground bunker and some artillery codes painted on a rock nearby. But that is it. There is nothing else, and I feel … nothing.

  ‘Could I just sit down for a little while?’ I ask. ‘Just for a bit?’

  Phuong nods briskly and wanders back to the car, where the driver is standing smoking. Suze sets off with her camera. But what is there to photograph?

  I squat down on the ground, facing away from them and into the plantation. So this is it, this silent, peaceful place full of baby rubber trees. This is where he slept – or didn’t sleep – washed, shat, drank his ration of beer, laughed with his mates, polished his SLR. This is where, at twenty, he struggled to hold on to his sanity, and tried to be the brave soldier he was expected to be. But he showed a poor response to combat conditions, the doctor said so.

  From out of nowhere a great sob rises up from my gut. I close my eyes and moan quietly. Suddenly this empty place echoes with loss.

  I try to picture the Grey Eight setting off from here in February 1970 on Operation Hammersley; entering, knowingly, the heavily mined and booby-trapped mountain terrain, weighed down by their steel-plate flak jackets and helmets, bearing loads of up to fifty kilograms apiece. They would have been hot and thirsty and shit-scared. The operation went on for a month; it would have felt never-ending. And then 28 February dawned, the day of the mine disaster. They say the mines were the most terrifying part of fighting in Vietnam, the knowledge that each step could be your last – worse even than a contact. I try to imagine the shock and disbelief when the mine went off, how the world would have stopped still. I picture my father picking up his broken friend in a bedlam of smoke and heat and deafening noise; mortal screams; the whirring of the chopper coming in for dust-off; confusion; hysteria; red dust and green jungle; the desertion of all meaning and purpose. The crazy country. Everything he knew had been turned upside down. They must have felt like two little boys. I try to imagine those last minutes, what they might have said to one another, the ruinous fear and rage and grief, before the life of his friend ebbed away. They say the smell of death is sickly sweet. They say you never, ever, forget the smell of burning flesh.

  I am frowning in concentration but then, unbidden, Charlie Sheen pops into my head: he is playing my father. I groan with frustration, wipe the tears from my cheeks. It doesn’t matter how many movies I have seen, how many books I have read, I will never know what it was like for my father. But I think I will always be trying.

  I open my eyes on the peaceful scene. I unzip my day pack and take out the cross-eyed cloth lion and put it down very gently on the red mud at the base of a baby tree. In another few years this plantation will be full grown.

  We get in the car and head back into Vung Tau, via the small hill of Nui Dat after which the barracks were named. A new rock quarry has been established and the hill is being dismantled piece by piece. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Phuong points out a flat patch of dirt that was once the helicopter landing pad – Kanga’s pad – and then we drive down Luscombe airstrip, now used by the locals as a road, bordered by a pig farm, banana trees, a shop, a few houses, with no evidence whatsoever that planes once flew in here with beer and took off with body bags. We see yet another blank slope where all the entertainment was had – Luscombe Bowl. Johnny O’Keefe came here in 1969 and sang ‘She’s My Baby’ to all the lonely men.

  We stop in Vung Tau for lunch and afterwards I ask Phuong about the Grand Hotel, where the diggers used to drink, and, yes, it is still here! We drive down the road to this majestic old white pub and order beers – Phuong has an orange juice – and together, with no sense of contradiction at all, we toast my father, Lance Corporal Peter Morton, and Phuong’s father, who died at fifty-five after decades of malnutrition while fighting for his country. We toast all those who lost their lives, whether they stopped breathing or not, and we toast Vietnam’s independence, and peace, for all.

  On Tuesday Mum rings with an address. I sit down with a teacup of vodka and a pack of cigarettes, because old habits die hard, and write a brief letter to my mystery grandparents: Tom and Eileen. I introduce myself politely and explain I would like to know my father. Do they know where I can contact him? That is all. I hope they don’t drop dead in Boronia when they open it.

  I have my first lesson with Hien’s kids, pedal to Saigon University to enquire about Vietnamese classes, and spend two nights working on a long and wandering grammar test for my students. When I bring it in on Friday they receive it with a bizarre enthusiasm. Minh puts his hand up a couple of times but otherwise they sit quietly for almost an hour before one by one carrying their tests up to my desk to hand them solemnly in. Next time I will bring chocolates to give them, little prizes.

  Afterwards I open the conversation up to the class. Ngu’s cousin has just had twins. We talk for a while about the genetics of identical and non-identical twins and how hard it is to carry two babies on a motorbike. It turns out, yes, Phuc is pregnant! We all congratulate her. We get on to the pain of birth, to Mr Trung’s dismay, and then hospitals, and then the general subject of health care in Vietnam. This brings us to the tiffin carriers and nutrition and the merits of fish in the diet. An hour flies by and the week is over. But while we are talking I have that sensation of slipping outside myself, looking down, and it seems astonishing that I’m having this conversation with these people; in this place, at this time. And, in that long, dissociated moment, I feel blessed and I regret nothing, and I wish, for the first time in a long time, that my father could see me now, see that everything is okay – the danger has passed, and I am okay too.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  On Saturday I arrange to meet Hugh for lunch at the crab restaurant. Naturally he is there when I arrive, always early. He stands up and we embrace. ‘Three days to go!’

  He laughs. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘A little nervous … mostly excited.’

  ‘When can I meet them? Maybe we could go out for a pizza?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  He smiles and I see again his new boyish air. He looks different from when we first met: his face used to seem so tight, his eyes so sad. He looks ten years younger. I hope he is not disappointed. I hope his children appreciate their twin beds and his boundless love.

  The soup arrives and the crab spring rolls. We drink warm beer on ice. The ice makes my tooth ache again. Soon I am going to have to deal with it.

  I bring Hugh up to date on news of all my students. Then I show him the little envelope of red mud I collected at Nui Dat. I expect him to laugh and I don’t mind but he looks at it very closely then sniffs it, just like I did, like the big brother I never had.

  ‘So, are you going to try to find him?’

  ‘I think so … yes. I think I’m ready.’

  He hands back the envelope. ‘That’s wonderful, Ella. It’s very brave.’

  ‘You’ve been an inspiration to me.’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know about that … but I was thinking about you and your father. He came here and was wounded but you came here to heal. Maybe one day you can share that with him. I would have loved to show my mother Vietnam at peace.’

  ‘At least you will show your children.’

  He nods dreamily. ‘Yes.’

  We eat our noodles and chat. According to the local news, the first tigers have been spotted in the Central Highlands since 1975. The massive task of Vietnam’s reforestation, in the vast areas where Agent Orange poisoned the land, ha
s brought back the trees, the wildlife, the birds; a sure sign of the country mending. We talk about Hugh’s work. He has reached the point where he needs to expand but he is unsure. We talk about the logistics of establishing a joint venture, what is entailed.

  Then he picks up his keys and jangles them. ‘I feel torn. I guess I always have.’ He smiles and there is the murmur of melancholy in it. ‘Where do I belong? I want to be part of this country rebuilding. It is my country too. To be honest, I don’t even like Sacramento. But also I think you are right, Ella: home is where my children are. I miss them too much. And what for? I grew up with only one parent. I don’t want that for my children. I have learned what I can about my mother. And I have made my point to Elizabeth and she still doesn’t want me back. I don’t know about the wisdom of digging myself further in here.’

  I nod, slowly. ‘Yes … maybe soon you will want to go home.’

  He nods slowly back.

  I exhale. ‘Far out, Hugh. I’ll miss you.’

  ‘And me you.’

  We smile apprehensively at one another. I don’t want to have to say goodbye.

  An old, blind busker with a missing leg shuffles past our table singing a Vietnamese lament. He is often here. He has a haunting, unsteady voice – a voice you don’t really want to hear. I put a handful of dong into his upturned pith helmet. He is, I think, a keeper of the past, and I am starting to understand what a thankless bloody task that can be.

  ‘Well, you’re not gone yet,’ I say. ‘When can we have pizza?’

  We make a date, pay the bill, and say goodbye, then I ride out to Phu Nhuan district, to the grid of magic alleys. I cycle slowly around, up and down the cobbled passageways. I stop and buy dragon fruit at the tiny market and sit on a foot-high stool to drink coffee. No one here speaks much English, though an old man addresses me in French. I reckon this is where I want to make my home. Maybe Hien will know someone with a room to rent. I think it is time to leave the transit lounge.

  When I get back to the city centre, on a whim, I ride to the post office and ask to put a call through to Australia. Reciting the number for the Willow Street unit brings a sudden wave of homesickness but when I am called to the phone and hear Tim’s voice on the answering machine it is not so bad. He sounds just like Tim, and I am no longer Snow White. I leave a message telling him I finally made it to Nui Dat – I saw the red mud. I say I hope he is well – has he finished his PhD? – and could he please give Book a special pat.

  Back at the Hotel Van Mai there is hand-washing to do; I finish marking the grammar tests. In the evening I eat in my room, a Vegemite roll and dragon fruit, with David Bowie playing on the stereo. I feel lonely, a little empty. It is an old feeling, familiar and weightless and non-specific. Maybe it is Hugh wanting to go home, the fear I will always be left behind. Maybe it was hearing Tim’s voice and being reminded again that you can never get back to where you were, that the past is past and the future unknown. Sometimes the impermanence of everything makes you small and tired, makes you feel exactly five years old.

  I brew a pot of lotus tea and then slowly, and with great ceremony, I pack my father’s things back into the drawstring bag: the broken watch; the bent wooden spoon he used to cook my porridge; three birthday cards and the photo of him when his hair was still long and his mind still clean; the powder blue toothbrush bearing the genuine marks of his teeth. I put in the dogtag and the envelope of red mud from Nui Dat. The drawstring bag and the blue folder go back into the pack on top of the wardrobe. But I leave the family portrait propped on the bedside table: me, my mum and my dad, together, as once we were.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Life in Saigon resumes its own irregular pulse. I swim with Suze and eat sunny-shine eggs at the Smiling Café. I have my second lesson with Hien’s kids and buy a new and unblemished English–Vietnamese dictionary from Pham. Easy Vietnamese goes up on the wardrobe with the other remains.

  On Thursday I hand my students back their grammar tests. The whole class did well – they all beam with pleasure and pride – so I warn them next time I will make it harder. We do some group exercises exploring situations of conflict and a small written comprehension task then, just as a joke, I finish up with an on-the-spot spelling test. Mr Trung hands his to me with a flourish, and Minh declares there are four things now that make him happy: money, ice-cream, love and tests.

  After class I go to the café down the road with Co Ngoc. We chat about her boys. There is a possibility of an apprenticeship for Chinh in a tourist café on De Tam, but they want him to work for nothing and Co Ngoc is trying to negotiate a small, token payment. She wants him to know he is worth something. Thanh is moving into an apartment with his older brother. He is very, very happy. I ask her if Pham could join us sometimes for our monthly soup and English lesson; she says that would be fine. She is still worried for Quy: she sees him less and less. Sometimes she fears he is dead and searches all over just to find him in the same drugged-out state of limbo, but she knows she can do no more for him until he decides to help himself.

  We finish our tea and go to look for him at Ben Thanh market, asking all the street-wise kids we see, but he is nowhere to be found.

  On Vietnamese National Day, 2 September, the anniversary of Ho Chi Minh’s declaration of independence from France in 1945, I wake to a very bad toothache and the old man on the street wailing for broken things in exchange for boiled sweets. It still sounds as if it’s his heart that is breaking.

  I get up and put on the Rolling Stones, take a shower and painkillers; get dressed, head downstairs. Hien is busy with guests so I wave and walk through the foyer and out onto the muggy street. The personal hygienist has strung his canvas awning up on the pavement next to the pho stall and is poking a long piece of wire down somebody’s ear.

  At the Smiling Café I order coffee and banh mi with jam. Two tables away, Allan is reading his paper. He doesn’t look up. I take out my paper too. Not far in is a piece on the MIAs.

  The top US officer in Vietnam last week rejected suggestions that efforts to account for US servicemen listed as missing in action (MIA) might take second place to growing economic and political ties with Hanoi.

  ‘Resolution of the unaccounted for – the MIA issue – is of the highest priority with the current administration,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Melvin Richmond said at Hanoi’s Noi Bai airport as the United States sent home four caskets of MIA remains.

  Economic ties have grown rapidly since President Bill Clinton lifted a 30-year economic embargo against Hanoi six months ago.

  And so the search continues for piles of old bones, even in peace – hoa binh; even as the United States and Vietnam discuss Normalisation and diplomatic offices, and write their memorandums of understanding. The ache goes on and on and on. Maybe, I think, it is a way of holding on to what is lost, of making a point of what must now seem so pointless.

  Chanh brings my breakfast. ‘Handsome, where can I find a dentist – nha si?’

  He looks blank – my tones must be off.

  ‘I’ve got a really bad tooth.’ I mime the pain.

  ‘Yes. No problem.’ I spread out my map and he gives detailed instructions.

  I finish my breakfast then go outside, get on my bike and ride to the address marked on the map. It is a tiny grey shopfront with the concertina security gate drawn across.

  I call through and a small man comes out and says something very fast in Vietnamese. I point to nha si in my dictionary and he ushers me into his surgery. He offers me a cigarette but somehow it doesn’t seem right. He lights one for himself.

  There is an upright chair beside a table with a round instrument tray, replete with digging tools and a small, long-handled mirror. A nurse comes in, in a white dress. They speak to one another but not to me; I follow very little of what they are saying. Neither of them speaks any English at all; tomorrow I will enrol at the university.

  I indicate the bad tooth. The dentist has a look and a poke then wheels out an enormous drill that l
ooks more like a spinning wheel. Fuck! He puts out his cigarette and starts to pump a foot pedal; the drill whirs into action. He doesn’t offer anaesthetic.

  I’m in a mild state of shock when I return to the Hotel Van Mai in the afternoon. Hien greets me with a huge grin. ‘What?’ I ask, frowning. My mouth tastes dusty and burnt, the new US$2 filling throbs.

  ‘Somebody bring message for Miss Ella.’

  And I know, straight away – it’s the triumphant look on Hien’s face.

  I sit down and she hands me a folded piece of blue paper; inside is Ariel’s loose scrawl beneath the Blue Dragon letterhead.

  Ella,

  I have received your Boy Boy Boys and rum – they made me smile.

  I have to say, it is not so easy anyway to forget you.

  Next Saturday I will attend the wedding of a friend, Hao.

  I think you have met with him. Will you join me? Consider it for the cake alone. I hear it has cost his family many months of salary.

  I am still at the bar most nights … I still look for you.

  Ariel