The March of the Dragons

by Andrew McAuley

  Nancy slapped her hand on top of his. Squeezing it to quiet him. 'Is ok, Mr Tim. Don't worry.'

  'It's just Tim.'

  'I say it wrong?' she pursed her lips, confused.

  'You don't need mister.'

  'Tim.' Nancy's grin reached her cheekbones, narrowing her eyes to slits.

  The taxi pulled away from the curb. The driver fiddled with the radio until he found a western song; a recent dance track which Tim didn't know the name of. The driver turned in his seat to gauge Tim's reaction to the tune while enthusiastically bobbing his grinning head to the beat. 'American music. Very cool!'

  Tim flashed a faint smile. Nancy laughed and said something in Vietnamese to the driver who turned the volume down and returned his attention to the road. The car stopped at a booth on the airport's exit. Wordlessly the driver handed the attendant a ticket with some brightly coloured banknotes, and then they were on their way into Ho Chi Minh City in the comfort of the air conditioned taxi.

  The cab was quickly surrounded by a throng of motorbikes and scooters weaving around each other with abandon along the four lane highway; sometimes three riders to single bike. Many of the huge roadside billboards advertising expensive brands were in English. Large red banners bearing gold star of Vietnam lined the neatly trimmed grass of the central reservation.

  Nancy pointed out various sights they passed. The CT plaza mall with a huge movie poster plastered on its side alongside adverts for pizza hut. Many coffee chains popped up along the route; Trung Nguyen, Highlands coffee, and others all looking very much like Starbucks. Statues at the centre of roundabouts depicted heroes from Vietnam’s past.

  'Who's that one?' Tim pointed at an ancient looking warrior statue.

  'Oh, some king who defeat the Chinese,' Nancy pointed past the statue, 'over there McDonalds.'

  They whizzed past colourful shop fronts- usually before Tim could ascertain what they were selling. Almost every building had at its ground floor a shop or business of some sort. He glimpsed numerous fashion shops, a row of shops selling washing machines, and a row of clock shops. They passed Mercedes and Porsche showrooms and plenty of grocery stores, which at a glance had identical layouts.

  Nearing the more densely populated central District 1 the footpaths became crowded with vendors selling street food; Vietnam's famous Pho, dried squid, spring rolls, bread and much more besides. The streets were as full with pedestrians as with motorbikes. No vehicle stopped even at marked pedestrian crossings; bikers easily navigated around crossing pedestrians without slowing. Tim did a double take when noticing a pair of motorbikes driving on the pavement; walkers stepped out of their path without a hint of irritation.

  'Bloody hell,' he mumbled.

  'This street one way,' Nancy said, 'easier drive on sidewalk than go longer way around.'

  Despite it all, Tim saw an apparent order to the chaos. Aside from the constant beeping of horns and a palpable impatience at traffic lights, everyone knew how to manoeuvre around everything and everyone. There was an almost frantic pace not unlike London or New York; chaotic only to the visiting observer.

  'We are near your hotel. This is the heart of Saigon. Look, here is Uncle Ho!'

  The statue of the wizened leader sat smiling down at sculptures of adoring children. It reminded Tim of a photo he'd seen showing a ring of stone children dancing around a fountain among the ruins of Stalingrad.

  Nancy pointed out the opera house; its grand pillars and Imperial design stood out majestically among French colonial buildings, modern malls and stylish brand shops such as Louis Vuitton, Versace and Dior- all of which Nancy proudly indicated with a tap of her index finger on the cab window.

  'There, next to the Opera House- the Continental hotel. That is where the Quiet American was written. Many foreigner journalists stay there during the American War.'

  'The American War?' Tim puzzled, 'ah, the Vietnam war.'

  Nancy nodded enthusiastically. 'For us, is the American war.'

  The Taxi passed the expensive looking Caravelle hotel, glimpsing the Sheraton Towers. Above numerous tall buildings, the massive Bitexco tower stood gleaming in the sunlight like a giant shard of glass pointing toward the heavens. The taxi pulled into a side road and stopped. The driver sprung from the cab, rushing to open the boot.

  There was Tim’s hotel; Hai Long 5. It didn't look particularly grand. Its huge sign tilted outwards either precariously or by design. The sign, windows, even the steps were bordered in a tacky gold colour. The hotel’s slim form was compressed between its neighbours; another equally garish hotel and a shop selling leather products; its sign in English declaring 'Alligator, python, Stingray'.

  A young bellboy- smart in his red tunic and matching cap, sprang from his seat outside the hotel to pull open the taxi door even as Tim had one foot outside the taxi. He wordlessly waved Tim toward the hotel entrance before hurrying to the driver to relieve him of the luggage. Nancy paid the driver while Tim ignored the bell boy's repeated gestures urging him inside.

  The scent of street food lingered. Boiled vegetables, strange sauces and various seafood mixed with the smoke of exhaust fumes from the heavy traffic. It was little wonder that many pedestrians and motorists alike covered their mouth and nose with a paper surgical mask. Nancy skipped to him. Winking, she took his arm and guided him up the hotel steps.

  The hotel foyer was as garish as the exterior; tacky but clean. A large fish tank sat beside the entrance adjacent to a sickly coloured sofa, which was of course gilded in gold trim. A wall-mounted widescreen TV showed Stephen Segall in a knife fight with Tommy Lee Jones. The receptionist smiled from behind a desk cluttered with leaflets for tours, boat trips and massages.

  'Welcome, sir. Do you have a reservation?'

  'Yes. It's Timothy Campbell.'

  Pushing in front of him, Nancy conversed with the check-in girl in what Tim thought to be authoritative, almost harsh tones. The corners of the receptionist's mouth curved down and she nodded politely. He listened to them chatter for a few moments before the receptionist asked for his passport; in return giving him a room swipe-key which she offered with both hands.

  'They will keep your passport tonight,' Nancy said, 'they copy it to the Police station. It is the law.'

  'Oh... guess I won't be getting away with any crazed murders if the Police know where to find me.'

  Nancy rolled her eyes. 'Oh, Mr Campbell you are funny,' she said without a hint of mirth. The bell boy directed them toward the lift with a tired gesture.

  'What was all that between you and the receptionist?' Tim said.

  'Ah, I got you a better price.' Nancy's cheeky chuckle belied her shy shrug. 'I told her price is too much for mini-hotel. They should make a bargain or we find cheaper hotel.'

  'Wow, thanks. I'd have liked the Continental or Sheraton, but a working man like myself has to make do. So, how much am I paying?'

  '$38 a night,' she beamed.

  'Oh. The original booking was $35.'

  'Yes, but now you have the best room. Discounted to half price!'

  The lift doors opened, Nancy walked ahead. Smirking, Tim shook his head. He was paying her to assist- she knew the City, so he'd give her some latitude.

  The room was spacious, with a large sized flat screen TV which the bellboy switched on. A writing desk, large double bed, and L-shaped sofa. A window spanning the width of the room provided a nice view of the street. The bathroom was pristine. Tim nodded in satisfaction; a bargain indeed.

  'Thank you, sir,' said the bellboy. Bowing as he backed out of the room then closed the door.

  Standing at the centre of the room, Nancy spread her arms magnanimously. 'You are happy for this room?'

  'Yes. It'll do nicely.'

  She stood watching him and smiling. He wondered if he should remind her he was spoken for, or was he getting the wrong signal? He feigned a yawn.

  'I leave you to freshen up,' Nancy chuckled, 'I come back after two hours then we go eat.'

  'Uhh, yeah
... that'll be fine.'

  She twirled toward the door. Waving her hand over her shoulder as she bounced away.

  'Oh, bugger!' he Winced.

  Nancy turned. Her head tilted questioningly and brow furrowed in concern.

  'Oh it’s just...' he shook his head, 'I didn't tip the bellboy.'

  'Is ok Mr Campbell. Not necessary. If you want, you can give him something later. There is ATM over the street in the Circle K. We visit there later.'

  'Thank you, Nancy.' he called as the door shut.

  He fell back onto the bed. Stretching out then kicking off his shoes. Motorbikes and beeping horns remained a muffled background noise. Outside the third-floor window clutters of electrical cable haphazardly criss-crossed the street. A billboard poster of a girl drinking a soda smiled at him.

  'Vietnam,' he mumbled to as he rubbed his eyes. 'This is going to be an interesting trip.'

  Lâm

  2nd March, 16:30

  Lâm swatted at a fly buzzing around his ear. He sat in his green plastic chair. The electric fan he was repairing resting across his knees. Returning to his work he unscrewed the casing. Poking around inside the fan with the tip of a screwdriver he located the problem; a pin between the power button and arm connecting to a cog had come loose. Turning the fan upside down, the wheel and the pin both fell into his lap.

  He picked up the pin between two oil stained fingers. It was broken. The missing part still attached to the cog wheel. Setting the fan down at his feet, he stood and walked to the near wall of his small workshop. Three dirty shelves showcased a variety of nick-knacks; engine pieces, rubber belts, little plastic trays filled with various screws and bolts and a scattering of stained and dusty jars.

  He shuffled through various objects until he found the yellowed head of an old fan. Returning to his chair he opened the old fan and removed its pin. He held it alongside the broken one; satisfied they matched he set about replacing the busted pin.

  Traffic passing the workshop was constant. Their fleeting shadows crossed the floor in by Lâm's feet. A small cardboard sign propped against the shop entrance declared in permanent marker; Repair, motorcycle, radio, gadget. The bottom left corner of the sign was darkened where it had soaked up moisture from a puddle.

  The workshop was a converted double garage with a roll up iron gate opening onto the street. A scattering of discarded objects which once worked some gadget cluttered much of the floor space. To the rear of the workshop an old grey portable television sat atop a small wooden chest of drawers. The screen directed toward a double mattress in the back corner of the workshop. A pot of congealed rice sat atop a portable gas stove in the middle of the room. A power socket hung loose from the wall showing the wiring, from it a power chord led to a four socket extension unit beside Lâm's chair.

  Having fixed the case back onto the fan, Lâm kicked the sandal off his right foot and picked up the fan's plug with his toes and stamped it into the extension socket. He nodded in silent satisfaction when the fan purred to life; the head whirring gently from left to right.

  Noticing a shadow hover at the entrance he looked up. It was an old woman, her crooked back bent in her paisley clothes. Her face cast in shadow under her conical bamboo hat. She clutched a small stack of lottery tickets. Her eyebrows raised from her sagging features. She couldn't quite force the salespersons welcoming smile.

  Lâm set the fan down and reached into the back pocket of his stained and frayed jeans. Producing a small wad of bank notes of small denominations.

  'One ticket please, Anh,' he said.

  The old woman's arthritic fingers trembled as she separated a ticket from the bunch and offered it in her claw-like hand. Lâm handed her a five-thousand Dong note. She silently mouthed her thanks, displaying a single browned tooth. She shuffled on her way along the uneven pavement. Her hat turning left to right in search of her next customer.

  'Why do you want to buy lottery tickets? I thought you're having trouble paying rent.' The grating, nasal whine came from Dũng; a street vendor who sat to the right of Lâm's workshop. A fat gossip of a man who sold canned sodas, dried squid, and cigarettes.

  'She needs the money more than I do.'

  Dũng snorted. 'She won't last the year. She's been coming by here for years. This year she's too frail.'

  'Just give me a packet of consulate.'

  The tubby vendor smiled at the younger man. His sweaty hair clung to his forehead. He sat behind his mobile stall upon a little plastic stool, the legs of which bulged under his weight. With a beefy hand he selected the red and white packet of cigarettes. He tossed it to Lâm who caught with both hands.

  'Thirty thousand.'

  'I know.' Lâm walked the few steps to the stall, handing the vendor two notes. The stool’s legs quavered as Dũng shifted his weight to stuff the notes into his pocket.

  'Thief!'

  The shout came from somewhere across the street.

  'Stop that kid!'

  Along the busy street heads turned and necks craned to see what the commotion was about. A barefoot young boy with a dirty face dashed into the road. Lâm recognised him as a local street urchin who he'd given money on occasion to buy food.

  Noticing Lâm the boy changed direction- cutting across the path of a scooter. The rider had to brake harshly. Shaking his fist, his cursing muffled by his surgical mask. The urchin kept going. Darting past Lâm he found refuge at the rear of the shop where he tucked himself between the old TV and the rear wall. His eyes peered over the top of the television set.

  'Oh, he's trouble. Get him out!' Dũng wailed.

  Lâm frowned at the boy. Before he could think what to do about him he was distracted by the fast approach of a second set of footfalls. He didn't know the new man; in his mid-forties with short cropped hair, a white shirt open at the collar, a cheap blue tie loose around his neck. Trousers neatly ironed but the legs didn't quite stretch to his ankles.

  'Where's the little bastard?' The man panted.

  Lâm placed his hands on his hips and shrugged one shoulder.

  'Is he your son? I saw him go inside. Is he stealing for you?' the man made to step into the workshop. Lâm stepped into his path. 'I can see him there hiding!' The man stabbed his finger at the boy.

  Lâm puffed out his chest. At 184cm he stood taller than most Vietnamese. He raised his chin, looking down his nose at the accuser, silently enduring the outburst.

  'Why are you protecting him? I’ll go to the police and tell them you're running a scam from this shop!'

  Lâm glanced back at boy still peering from his hiding place.

  'What did he steal?'

  'Little bastard has my cell phone!' the man sprayed spittle from his reddened face.

  Still thinking, Lâm slowly nodded.

  'You big ugly giant! Look at you! With your stupid big rubbery lips and narrow eyes! Even if you get children to steal for you- you still can't afford a proper haircut or clean clothes-'

  Lâm grabbed the accuser by the shoulders, shaking him to silence.

  'I'll get your phone back for you. You don't need to call me names, Anh. Not unless you want me to bloody your nose.' Lâm spoke slowly, in a heavy droning tone. He released the man who stepped back, brushing creases from his shirt.

  'Just get my phone.'

  The boy leapt from his hiding place- sprinting toward freedom. Lâm's long arm lunged at the boy, snatching him back, feet kicking. Lâm took a firm hold on his skinny arm. The boy's eyes darted, searching for an escape route.

  'Give me the phone,' Lâm said in a low voice, hoping to soothe the boy.

  'He's a liar!' The boy squirmed.

  Lâm shook his arm. 'Give me the phone.'

  A tear appeared at the corner of the boy's eye, yet he continued to try to wriggle free.

  'Tears don't fool me,' Lâm whispered, 'give me the phone, and I'll see you're taken care of.'

  The boy's bottom lip protruded. He bowed his head in submission. Reaching down the front of his shorts he produ
ced a small black mobile phone- a model several years old. He placed it in Lâm's waiting palm. Keeping a firm hold on the boy, Lâm offered the phone to its owner.

  'Thieving little bastard.' the man spat, and with a reproachful glare at Lâm he walked back the way he'd come. Street vendors and their customers who paused to witness the spectacle returned to their business.

  'Why'd you protect that scoundrel?' Dũng wailed.

  Lâm turned his attention back to the boy whose wide eyes regarded him with curiosity and apprehension. Lâm sighed and released the boy. Crouching, he rested his forearms on his knees. 'What’s your name?'

  'Dac.'

  Lâm smiled. The boy hid a smirk behind his small dirty hands. Kids often found amusement in the centimetre-wide gap between Lâm's front teeth.

  'You remember me, Dac?'

  Dac nodded.

  'You're an orphan?'

  He nodded again.

  'How old are you?'

  'Maybe ten,' he said with a shrug.

  Lâm grinned. The boy giggled. He seemed small for ten. Lâm sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. 'If you want, you can be my apprentice. I can't pay anything, but I'll make sure you're fed and if you don't have a place to sleep, you can sleep here.'

  'So, you like young boys now do you?' Dũng sneered, followed by a harsh, mocking laughter.

  Lâm ignored the remark, waiting for the young boy to consider his offer. Dũng persisted. 'Maybe it's because you're too ugly to find a new girl since that educated girl you dated did the smart thing and left you.'

  With a sigh, Lâm rose and strode to the vendor. 'If you say anything like that again, I will bloody your nose.'

  Their eyes met. The vendor snorted and turned his attention to shuffling around the order of soda cans on his little cart. As Lâm walked away, he heard the vendor mumble that he'd given the theft victim the same empty warning.

  Lâm tore open his packet of cigarettes and lit one with a cheap brass zippo; a copy of US war era lighters vendors sell to tourists. His bore the image of an eagle on a black shield and some writing in English which he couldn't understand. He took short, quick puffs on the cigarette, blowing smoke rings. He hoped it would amuse the boy.