The March of the Dragons

by Andrew McAuley

  Dac sat on the floor, fidgeting with the front of his grimy white t-shirt. His bare feet were black with dirt. His hands as filthy as Lâm's. He had dark smudges on his face, yet his hair had been cropped short. He was probably wearing his only set of clothes.

  'Does anyone look after you?' Lâm asked pointedly through a cloud of smoke.

  'Sometimes, different people.' The boy shrugged, twitching his nose.

  'Where do you sleep?'

  'Different places,' the boy sniffed and fidgeted. He seemed incapable of sitting still- looking ever ready to break into a run. His wandering eyes constantly searching.

  'Did you ever work?' Lâm asked.

  The boy shrugged again.

  'Okay,' Lâm dropped the remaining half of his cigarette to the floor, crushing it into the concrete with the bottom of his sandal. Lumbering to the rear of the workshop he searched, moving cans and containers. Returning moments later offering a small cake. Dac snatched the small red and white wrapped treat from Lâm's hand. He tore it open and took a large bite from the Choco pie.

  ‘You can help me with some small tasks. You got small useful hands. I got big hands,' Lâm looked down at his palms, 'I can teach you to repair things.'

  The boy munched on the chocolate marshmallow treat, staring at Lâm with wide eyes as if regarding a madman. Lâm waited for a reply but the boy finished the treat in silence.

  'Well, what do you think?' Lâm said.

  The boy shrugged. Lâm winced. He brushed his dark fringe from his eyebrows. How to get through to the boy?

  The young urchin discarded the Choco pie wrapper and sprang to his feet. He scuttled out of the workshop with a sideways glance at Lâm.

  Dũng laughed a throaty cackle which developed into wheezing and coughing. He wiped spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. 'You're a bigger idiot than people credit you for. Apprentice that boy? He's stupid and lazy. That's why he's a thief and an orphan.'

  Lâm sat back into his green chair. He picked out another cigarette.

  'I bet he isn't even an orphan,' Dũng scoffed, 'probably his mother thought he's too much trouble and threw him to the street.'

  Lâm let out a long breath of smoke. 'If that happened he's still an orphan'

  'What?' Dũng's voice raised in a hoarse rasp.

  'If his mother cast him out, he's an orphan.'

  'No, you fool. He's an orphan if both parents are dead.' The vendor's let out a phlegmy chortle.

  'No,' Lâm countered, 'he can be an orphan if his parents are alive but don't take responsibility for him.'

  'Nonsense. I'll ask Ngoc, she'll agree with me. Hey! Ngoc!' Dũng called to a middle aged woman who sold street food six metres further along the street.

  'What?' she cawed.

  'Can an orphan have parents?'

  'No of course not. That's a stupid question. Stop wasting my time with nonsense!' The woman returned to preparing her pungent crab soup.

  'See!' Dũng's smile was wide and mocking.

  'You didn't say it the way I said it,' Lâm grunted, curling his lip with a sideways glance at the vendor.

  Further discourse was interrupted by a motorbike swinging from the road into the workshop entrance. It was Tuấn- the university student whose expression was always serious, bordering stern. He always dressed smartly: today he was sporting a brown blazer and black trousers. The bespectacled student nodded a greeting to the tinker.

  'Hey, Tuấn,' Lâm smiled.

  The student retrieved some bank notes from his trouser pocket. He offered the small folded bundle. 'I came to pay you for the work you did on my motorbike last week.'

  Lâm stood and accepted the money. He pressed it into his pocket without counting it. 'Still going ok?'

  'Yes, like new.'

  'Hey, you there!' Dũng interjected, 'do you think an orphan can have parents who are living? or do they have to be dead?'

  'What?' Tuấn wrinkled his nose.

  'He thinks an orphan can have living parents, but not in same house as the kid.' With a sneer, the portly vendor jerked his thumb at Lâm.

  Tuấn shook his head and shrugged. 'If the child is abandoned then he or she is an orphan.'

  The vendor's grin vanished. He threw up his arm, dismissing the youth. 'What do you know? You're just a kid.'

  'Yes, sir. Hey Lâm, did you hear that yesterday in District 4, ruffians beat some vendors?'

  Lâm's face contorted in confusion. 'What's that got to do with me? Is there a gang who're after vendors?'

  Tuấn blinked. 'No. Just Chinese vendors because their government put oil rigs and warships in our territorial water again. Everyone's after oil now that there's little coming out of the middle east.'

  'Oh, wow.' Lâm’s expression remained vacant. The two looked at each other in silence. Lâm tried to think of something to say. He didn't keep up with current events. Nothing outside his street affected him.

  'Ok... well, thanks again for the repair, Anh.' The student rolled his bike backwards out of the workshop.

  'Always welcome.' Lâm lowered himself back into the chair.

  As the student was turning into the road, Lâm was again greeted by the patter of bear feet. The orphan rushed into the workshop clutching something to his chest.

  'What’s this?' Lâm said.

  The boy offered it to Lâm with both hands; a transparent plastic pouch containing a set of screwdrivers of different sizes, each with a different coloured handle.

  Dac stood with one foot awkwardly atop the other. He twitched his nose and chewed a fingertip. 'You can use the tools?'

  'Yes,' Lâm grinned broadly, 'thanks.' He ruffled the youth's hair. 'Maybe these can be your apprenticing tools.'

  The boy flashed a cheeky smile.

  'Didn't steal them, did you?'

  'No,' The boy answered quickly. 'I bought it with money I stole yesterday.'

  Timothy

  3rd March, 12:00

  'What you like?' Nancy said with a playful smile.

  Timothy scanned the menu. There were a lot of seafood dishes. Each item accompanied by a photograph of the food. Most main courses cost under £4 in British money.

  'Beef soup sounds alright.'

  Nancy nodded her approval and beckoned a teenage waiter who rushed to the table. Nancy dictated the order in Vietnamese.

  'Sir,' the young waiter pointed at the drinks section of the menu, 'would you like Pepsi? Fanta? Maybe one beer?'

  'You already brought iced tea.'

  'Tra da,' Nancy said.

  Tim raised an inquiring eyebrow. Nancy giggled, swiping an errant lock of hair from her prominent cheekbone. 'Tra da is iced tea. Restaurant always give you this to drink.'

  'You're a regular here?'

  Nancy grinned as she often did when he asked a question. At first he'd found it irritating. If he asked what was funny, she'd laugh as if it were some private joke he wouldn't understand. He quickly learned that grinning or laughing was her response when she didn’t understand him.

  'Anyway, I wanted to ask you about the recent problems,' Tim said, taking care with his pronunciation. 'China... the ramming of the Vietnamese fishing vessel- the third in the last year. Airspace incursions… now they're sending a small fleet and threatening to shoot at any Vietnamese ship near the disputed islands. Similar incidents in 2012 and 2016 provoked a lot of anger in Vietnam. Is it the same now?'

  Nancy pursed her lips and cast her eyes upward as she considered the question. 'I think maybe Chinese people are nice but their government is bad. Vietnamese are very proud. So of course we are angry.'

  Turning in his chair, Tim glanced at the other diners.

  'What you doing?' Nancy followed his gaze around the room- trying to pinpoint the source of his curiosity.

  'Oh... I presumed your diplomatic response was because we're being spied on by undercover police. They must be very good. I couldn't figure out if they're the students or the old couple with the kid.'

  Rolling her eyes, Nancy swatted her
hand at him. 'We don't do that... I think. There are plainclothes police, but I think they don't follow foreigners. Just criminal.'

  Leaning his elbow on the table, Tim rested his cheek in his palm. 'So, what's the plan? I'm paying you a comparatively good wage to help me out. I need current stories related to the diplomatic crisis.'

  The waiter returned carrying a tray from which two bowls of steaming soup were hastily placed in front of the diners, followed by side dishes of various vegetation. The waiter backed away with a nod and a gesture for Tim to eat.

  Tim looked into the bowl. The steam warmed his face. The aroma of herbs, spices, boiled beef and egg noodles teased his palate. Nancy generously heaped various leaves from the side dishes onto his bowl until the soup was almost hidden. She unsheathed a pair of cheap plastic chopsticks and offered them to him.

  'Quick service here,' he said.

  'Mix vegetables into the soup.' She pointed her chopsticks at his bowl, making a swirling motion with them before piling the remaining leaves atop her own bowl. The food smelled good and looked healthy. Nancy watched him pick at the food. 'Good, you can use chopstick,' she said.

  'As a student in Sheffield, I lived near a particularly good Chinese restaurant,' he smirked, 'and I'm not completely uncultured.'

  'Some foreigner come here cannot use chopstick or eat Vietnamese food. Even if staying long time.'

  'This beef soup- great stuff.' He spoke through a mouthful of food.

  Nancy wiped a speck of soup from her chin with her fingertip, then narrowed her eyes, visibly trying to suppress a smile. 'Mr Campbell, did you hire me to discuss cuisine or you want me tell you where the story is?'

  Tim laughed, prompting looks from the waiting staff. 'Cheeky bitch... oh, sorry dear. It's probably not as socially acceptable to casually insult an acquaintance here as it is in Scotland.'

  Nancy arched an elegantly pencilled eyebrow. 'We must make allowances for our uncouth western visitors. For me is okay. I am accustomed to foreigner, but the Scottish accent is very hard.'

  Tim smiled as he sucked up a noodle strand, resulting in a small spillage down his chin. Nancy reached across the table with her paper napkin and gently pressed it on his chin.

  'we are not completely uncultured,' she said dryly.

  Tim shook his head. 'You're a piece of work.'

  Nancy leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. 'I bring you to this restaurant for a reason. This is Nguyen Hue street. This afternoon there is a rally against Chinese Imperialism. You can get some good photos.'

  Timothy lowered his chopsticks. He blinked, stunned. 'Wow...you really are devious. I had no idea there was method in your madness.' He tapped the camera case on his belt, 'that's why you reminded me to bring the camera.'

  Nancy winked. 'I think photographer always has camera. It is like his woman.' Her lips smacked in a mock kiss.

  Tim looked past Nancy. Outside someone held a placard bearing a slogan in Vietnamese. He'd already seen several people carrying furled up banners and placards, but hadn't considered their relevance or purpose. He cursed under his breath at his own inattentiveness. 'It's started already?'

  Nancy swallowed a mouthful of the Pho' soup before replying. 'We have time to eat.'

  Tim shovelled the rest of the food into his mouth. Watery soup splashed down his chin, flecking his shirt and the table top. Nancy's bowed her head over her bowl; sucking strands of noodle from her chopsticks. For an elegant woman she made a lot of noise eating. Despite his hurried effort, Nancy emptied her bowl first- and without spillage.

  'I'm surprised your government allows protests. A few years ago they shut down demonstrations against Chinese incursions.'

  'Now is changed. Peaceful protest is allowed.'

  'There've been protests in the UK since petrol prices hit £2 a litre. The global decline in oil reserves is making everyone twitchy.' He ignored Nancy's confused scowl. 'Can we pay and go?' He was already rising when she smiled her agreement.

  He wasn't sure if it was hotter at midday or just seemed so after leaving air conditioned premises. A red and white barrier closed off the near end of the pedestrianised street. Police officers in peaked caps and lime green uniforms, with black batons were intermingled with tan uniformed police officers in motorcycle helmets.

  The street was well decorated with sculptures, fountains and small patches of green and spanned at regular intervals by ornate leaf shaped archways emblazoned with 3D models of large pink flowers. The giant 'Tax centre' mall dominated the opposite side of the street; a glass fronted tower some forty stories tall. Various shops and restaurants lined the thoroughfare which was littered with menu boards. Dotted in between were the street vendors; their wares a display of tacky watches, sunglasses and zippos.

  The boulevard was becoming crowded. Some nonchalantly held placards and banners. A pair of youths drove a motorbike waving the national flag. Nobody seemed to take issue with them driving along the 'walking street'. Tim guessed five or six hundred protestors were already present.

  'Who's organising the protest?' Tim said. Looking down at his camera he pressed the 'on' button. The display screen come to life and the lens rotated outwards.

  'I don't know… people tired with China trying to take our oil.'

  'Most of them look young.' Tim snapped a picture of group of teenage girls, who noticing him posed making peace signs with their fingers.

  'Some student groups encourage attendance. '

  'Interesting.' Tim clicked another photograph. 'Usually teenagers are apathetic to such things.'

  'Not in Vietnam. We love our country.'

  'Why protest here among shops and restaurants? Why not outside the Chinese embassy?'

  'The government won't allow a protest to cause diplomatic problem. Especially after a crazy guy try to stab the visiting Chinese minister last month. You know that story of course.'

  Tim walked toward the police who were standing idly beyond the barrier across the streets' entrance. When he raised his camera to take a photograph Nancy pushed the lens down. With her lips pursed she made a tutting sound.

  'It can be trouble if you take photograph of police or government buildings.'

  Tim nodded. 'Why do some of them wear green? Military police?'

  'No,' Nancy insisted, her voice scolding, 'our police are not military. Green uniforms are tourist helpers. Cream are traffic police. Other policemen do not wear uniform.'

  Over the next half hour, the street became increasingly packed. Tim incessantly snapped pictures; close-ups of individuals and banners, wider shots of groups of protestors. More than once he was barged and bumped by those pushing through the growing crowd.

  Occasionally someone would shout a slogan through a loudspeaker while waving their fist in the air. Nancy translated some;

  'Away with Imperialist China!'

  'Chinese out of Vietnam!'

  Tim looked for a better vantage point. There were no places to gain an elevated position outside of shimmying up a lamp post. A banner stretching some eight feet was raised above the crowd. Underneath it a man dressed in a white shirt and tie was lifted on the shoulders of his associates. He shouted through a loudspeaker and punched his fist emphatically in the air. The crowd ceased their own chants. Tim zoomed his camera lens on this leader; a middle aged chap with weather worn features, his tie askew and his shirt looked like it might be a size or two too big for him.

  Nancy hugged his arm. He glanced sideways at her. She was getting a wee bit familiar. Rising onto her tiptoes she spoke into his ear.

  'He is saying all Chinese should be forced out of Vietnam. Also something about Chinese shooting down a Vietnamese plane. I never heard about this thing.' She frowned in concentration as she listened.

  'Shot down a plane? That didn't happen did it? We’d have heard.'

  'Check news,' she said. Opening her tiny red handbag, she retrieved her cell phone.

  Tim plucked his mobile phone from his trouser pocket and straight away saw the head
line on his news alerts; China shoots down Vietnamese jet over disputed waters. 'Bloody hell!' he gasped, 'bad timing.'

  The suited rabble rouser chanted. The protestors took up his mantra; punching the air with each cry. The crowd surged, people pushing and shoving. Policemen who had been standing idle pushed their way into the crowd using batons to force people aside.

  'What's going on?' Tim shouted, trying to keep his balance as he was swept along with the crowd. Already Nancy was separated by several metres. She extended her hand for him to take- to pluck him from the raging torrent. She called out to him, her words drowned by the mob.

  The horde pushed towards the Tax centre. He heard shattering glass. A primal roar rose from those nearest the tax centre; calls for blood he thought, as may have been heard in the coliseums of ancient Rome.

  He couldn't see Nancy- swallowed by the tide. She'd be safe, he was sure. If there was a story, it was at the tax centre. He allowed himself to be carried along by the current. When the flow met resistance he pushed with them. Squeezing through the scrum to the entrance to the tax centre.

  A large glass pane at the entrance had shattered. A handful of policemen tried to fend off intruders to little avail. Dozens were already inside running wildly, shouting and hurling anything that wasn't fixed. There weren't enough police to halt them. Following a pair of protestors, Tim stepped through the shattered pane. Glass shards cracked under his feet.

  A policeman sat on the floor near the escalator, holding his palm to a small wound on his forehead. He was attended by another Policeman and a female civilian who rubbed his arm sympathetically while casting fearful looks at the rioters. The raiders screamed. Arms waved frantically; pausing only to pick up such things that could be thrown or smashed.

  Three youths were pulling a suited man up the escalator steps; their victim doubled over. One of the ruffians held him by the waist. His grey suit jacket was pulled over his head. Another youth tugged at his arms while the third shouted encouragement. Tim rushed to the bottom of the escalator and snapped a succession of photographs.

  The suited victim was shoved down the metal steps. He ended sideways with his legs twisted against the perspex sides of the escalator until the moving steps unceremoniously ejected him at the bottom. His glasses skewed on his face and his hair ruffled. Tim captured his pleading expression in a black-and-white shot. The assailants rushed down the steps. The suited victim was dragged up the ascending escalator. His captors laughed heartily at their game; once reaching the top of the steps, they tumbled the dishevelled businessman back down the descending escalator.