Lotusland

by David Joiner

  He knew that there'd be no way out if he didn't soon change his life. After seven years he hadn't pushed himself in any noticeable direction — and, until now, without a clear sense of time having passed. The fact was that, while he'd enjoyed himself in Saigon for more than half a decade, he hadn't particularly accomplished anything.

  "Do you want to be alone?" The voice was familiar, and he realized then that someone stood beside him.

  Nathan turned to find the pink-haired girl smiling down at him. At a loss for words, he gestured to the chair opposite him. Quickly composing himself, he called to the matron for another glass of tea.

  "Mind if I smoke?"

  "Go ahead," he said. "Smoke like you're on fire."

  She asked the matron to bring a cigarette.

  Her smoking surprised him. Normally, only prostitutes and foreign women smoked in Vietnam. The matron came over with tea and a pair of cigarettes on a plate. Once she'd set these down she fished in her pocket for a box of matches and handed it to Nathan. He put it on the plate and pushed it across the table. The girl lifted the plate toward him, offering him one, but he shook his head. She took a cigarette and turned it between her fingers.

  "Give me a light?"

  He picked up the matchbox, glancing at the picture on the cover: a white dove with a rose in its beak, flying through a cloudless sky. Stamped along the top were the words Reunification Matches. He fumbled with a match but eventually struck a flame. He held it out to her, cupped behind both hands.

  When she'd lit her cigarette she leaned back and pushed her hair away from her eyes. Not a trace of black was visible, not even when the breeze picked up and exposed the roots. Again he wondered if she wore a wig.

  "Why do you have pink hair?"

  Smiling, she tapped some ash onto the ground. "To be different," she said. "And because it makes me happy."

  She'd spoken enough English for him to determine she wasn't a prostitute. The cigarettes, he decided, were meant to impart sophistication.

  "Ask me something else."

  "Okay. Why didn't you come back last night after you said you would?"

  She brought her cigarette to her lips, which had formed a barely discernible smile at his question. "I wanted my companions to know I was okay. Then I must have fallen asleep. Were you waiting for me?"

  "You said you were coming back."

  "I didn't forget. I'm here, aren't I?"

  Sensing they were attracting the attention of fellow travelers, Nathan looked around. His eyes settled on the line of green, sun-beaten train cars. In half the windows, behind wire screens, Vietnamese faces casually observed them.

  "Who are you traveling with?"

  She pointed to the old couple eating custard apples in the shade of the station. "They say I remind them of their daughter. Only she died a long time ago."

  He wondered if this was why he found her sleeping at the end of the train last night. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

  "Not at all. And anyway, they treat me kindly. Where are your companions?"

  "I don't know."

  She lifted her glass and swirled the tea leaves that drifted from the bottom. Clearing her throat, she set the glass down, tapping it against the table. Nathan saw she had something on her mind, but rather than draw her out he was content watching her build up to it. Her large, petaline eyes sparkled and her lips moved slightly as if practicing what she wanted to say. When she saw his bemusement, her face reddened and she straightened in her chair.

  "When will you return to Saigon?" she said.

  "I'm in Hanoi for three days. I'll be back in Saigon after that."

  "When you return, can you teach me English?" she said. "When you're free, I mean. Just a few hours a week. Maybe we could meet at a café and talk."

  The question was unexpected. "I think you'd get more from a class than from me."

  "I don't have money for a class," she said. "Nor could I pay you."

  He smiled to himself, thinking it was always this way in Vietnam. He couldn't begin to count the number of times he'd been approached to teach English "as a favor." Now, unlike his first few years in Vietnam, he followed Anthony's practice of doing nothing for free. But before he could raise an objection she went on.

  "If it's money you want, I understand. But I'm open to other arrangements . . ."

  Her last sentence and how she delivered it — her voice trailing off, as if too embarrassed to admit she was poor; looking down at her hands; her shy coquetry — aroused his interest. "Such as?"

  "You could teach me English and help me apply for a visa to America."

  Given the assuredness with which she'd spoken of her plans, he was surprised she didn't already have a visa. Then again, he was used to meeting people who confused dreams with opportunity.

  "What's the rest of the arrangement? That's only half."

  When she lifted her eyes he met her gaze head-on. "Instead of paying you money . . ."

  She reached for the second cigarette and tapped it in her palm. Nathan struck another match and offered her its flame. As a cloud of smoke rose between them, she sat back, holding her cigarette to the side.

  "Maybe I could be your girlfriend."

  Nathan blinked at her, thinking he'd been too quick to dismiss the possibility that she was a prostitute. He knew that a proposal like this meant sex. After all, what else could she offer when she knew him so little? In Vietnam there were no such leaps of faith — it was a practical arrangement, starting with the dearest thing she could offer.

  "Only when you're free," she emphasized. "If you prefer money, I understand."

  "No, no," Nathan said, rubbing at his chest. "Money's not the issue. I'm just not sure it's a good idea."

  "Why not?"

  He supposed that what in his eyes appeared to be a thinly veiled form of prostitution was in hers merely an expedient. He struggled to find a way to express this. "Because what you suggest — being my girlfriend — has nothing to do with love."

  She looked at him strangely. "How can there be love? We only just met."

  "That's exactly my point." He saw she didn't understand. "You shouldn't give yourself away like that. Don't you think that love —"

  "But it's easier that way. Why should there be love if I'm only going to leave?"

  He frowned, unsure if it was his place to admonish. Whatever begins with love, anyway? he asked himself. Wasn't love cultivated over time? Didn't it require sacrifice, and involve some level of risk?

  The more he considered her offer, the more his sense of principle, and politics, gave way to a carnal appetite which Saigon, as seamy a city as any, had sown in him. Why not take what was offered and be thankful? Still, a quiet but penetrating voice inside him issued caution. A breath he hadn't known filled his chest suddenly escaped.

  "What kind of help do you need from me?"

  "I have to go through the U.S. embassy to get my visa. There's a lot to prepare."

  "I don't know how I can help. I'm not in a position to persuade anyone or influence the process."

  "I have a plan," she assured him. "You just have to do what I tell you. But if you don't want to I'll find someone else."

  "Let me think about it."

  She smiled faintly. He could sense she was disappointed. "If I could pay you I would. But I don't have money."

  "That makes two of us." Though said as a joke, he was the only one who laughed.

  The train whistle blew, and those passengers not in the middle of a purchase began dispersing from the platform. Together Nathan and the girl rose from their chairs and he paid the matron.

  "If you didn't already know Vietnamese I'd teach you. What else can I give you?"

  The ensuing silence unsettled him. "It's a long train ride. Let me give you my answer when we reach Hanoi."

  "Sure. Thanks for the te
a and cigarettes." She had her cell phone out and was tilting it in the sunlight to see its screen. "My phone's in range," she said, obviously surprised. "I need to make a call." She started to leave.

  "I'll walk back to the train with you."

  "No, that's okay. I'll call from the station."

  Her sudden coldness, he knew, came from his hesitation over her proposal. He called out: "I might be able to help you a little."

  "Forget it. I can find someone else. I should be more careful who I ask."

  Frustrated with himself, he let her disappear into the station. The matron cleared away the glasses and plate. Wiping the table with a damp rag, she asked where he was from. When he told her, she asked if he was married.

  "Yes," he said. And then, so she'd leave him alone: "To that pink-haired girl that just left."

  "She's very pretty. Is she a famous singer?"

  "That's right. But she's not famous like My Tam or Minh Tuyet."

  The names of these pop stars didn't register with her, though, and she walked away saying, "Maybe my daughter knows them. Myself, I don't have time for what's new." She turned back to him. "What's your wife's name?"

  Nathan faltered, realizing that once again he'd forgotten to get the girl's name. He uttered the name of his employer — the first name that came to mind.

  "Hang Ly? I'll ask my daughter tonight when I see her."

  Nathan looked back toward the station and promised himself he'd learn her name before the train arrived in Hanoi.

  A second blast came from the train. By this time only a dozen people remained outside. Vendors had abandoned their stands to make a final pitch of their goods beneath the train windows.

  Nathan found himself walking toward the station, uneasy over whatever was delaying the pink-haired girl. Certain the train wouldn't give more than three warnings, he picked up his pace.

  Near the doorway a uniformed attendant stopped him.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Just inside the station," he said, pointing behind the man. "Someone I know is still there."

  "No one's in there."

  "But I've been waiting for her to come out."

  Scowling, the attendant looked around the platform. "You better hurry," he muttered, perfunctorily waving him on.

  As Nathan jogged through the door he realized he might miss the train because of his growing obsession over this girl. What set her apart from all the other girls he'd met in Vietnam? Was it a reaction to her offer? Certainly it wasn't just a matter of engaging a pretty face, which was, quite naturally, his normal motivation for approaching a girl. He felt drawn to her for a familiarity, something about her he felt he already knew. And if he didn't know her, which was obviously the case, he felt he could, very easily, if given the chance. But maybe it was only the familiarity of a dream, of something long dreamed of . . .

  Inside the station two female guards were snacking on seeds by a window. They showed no concern when he stepped into the women's restroom, which, aside from a dead mouse in one corner, he found empty. After poking his head inside the men's restroom he asked the women if they'd seen a girl with pink hair.

  "She was here," said one, cracking open a baked watermelon seed with her teeth.

  "Did you see where she went?"

  The woman pointed to another door that led outside. "She went over there."

  He looked to a clearing that was shaded by rubber trees.

  "She made a phone call and then stood for a minute watching the cockfights."

  Squinting into the distance he could make out the blue-black, bell-shaped bodies of two birds posturing with their wings in the air and hopping about a patch of dirt as if slowly being fried on it. The gamblers around them sounded like a small plane behind the clouds. They were too far away to shout to, too far away to receive a discernible reply.

  "Where'd she go after that?" he asked.

  The women shrugged.

  "You're going to be left behind if you're not careful," the same woman said, nodding toward the tracks.

  As he headed back to the train the girl's disappearance made him consider staying behind. Unwilling yet to commit to such a course, his worry grew with each moment. He kept turning around as if she might suddenly appear behind him. When she didn't, he tried to locate her compartment window. It was unlikely she'd returned without his seeing her. Perhaps she'd come from the side, quickly, and then from the rear; but he hadn't felt she was trying to avoid him. Maybe he'd been so focused on seeing her appear in one spot that he failed to notice any deviation from what he expected.

  He turned around again once he got to the vestibule of his train car. By now the only ones left on the platform were those not traveling. Above the hissing of the train were the cries of vendors discounting their goods.

  Nathan waved over a woman selling baguettes from a straw basket. She hurried up to him. "How many?"

  "Two," he said, deciding this might help. After he paid and the vendor handed him his loaves, he asked if she'd seen the pink-haired girl.

  "Yes, I saw her."

  "Did you see where she went?"

  Just then the train began to move, and he shot out his hands to the narrow walls to keep from falling.

  The woman's finger seemed to indicate the sky.

  "Where? I don't understand."

  The woman, growing smaller as the train moved off, only stared at him.

  "I'm afraid she's being left behind," he called out.

  She tossed a square of old burlap over her bread and without answering watched the train pull away.

  Down the hallway the pink-haired girl's door had its curtains pulled closed. Through the thin, pale green material he could make out the bright square of the room's window. Elsewhere inside were only vague, unmoving shadows.

  The drawn curtains made him hesitate to knock. When finally he did and no one answered, he tried the handle but found it locked. He pressed his ear to the door. Suddenly he felt embarrassed that he'd gone to such lengths to locate the girl, especially if she'd been in her room from the time he set out to find her.

  Back in his compartment, his fellow travelers were reading or napping. Nathan crawled into his bunk and sat with his back against the wall.

  Outside, the small town had already disappeared. Tall, fern-like grasses grew wildly along the tracks. Beyond them stretched rice paddies that were pitted and filled with water. Several pits were 30 feet across — bomb craters from the war.

  Seeing them made him think how in Saigon it was easy to forget that a war there had ever happened. A few months after he'd arrived Anthony had shown him old bullet holes in the buildings they were passing. Since then all the buildings had been renovated and the bullet holes were gone. Aside from a few pathetic war museums hardly anyone ever visited, the most salient evidence of the war was to be found within the people. But as the war wasn't something people liked to talk about, and couldn't openly discuss if their views were critical of the outcome, that period in the country's history would slowly die with them. You can't renovate a life, he thought, but you could try to bury the past and repress whatever pain it caused.

  As he watched one bomb crater after another go by, he thought again of the girl.

  In the middle of a field he noticed a water buffalo half-immersed in a boggy crater. Its crescent horns glinted in the sun, and its grey-black muzzle was turned toward a boy throwing sticks at it, trying to chase it out.

  Shortly after the train rolled out of Phu Ly, passing a stone marker that showed only 50 kilometers until Hanoi, the passageway grew crowded.

  Nathan stood beside the window and let the cool evening breeze bat his face. There was a point during his journey when the year-round southern heat had given way to spring. The crisp chill in the air and the greenness of everything — the breeze-blown rice fields, the giant bamboo clumped around villages, the unfami
liar trees carpeting the low mountains — pushed Saigon to the back of his mind.

  Several passengers had wandered into the corridor and were staring at Nathan, not bothering to hide their curiosity. Just as he was about to return to his room, his cell phone rang. When he looked at the screen he saw it was Anthony.

  "The train passengers are boring holes in me with their eyes," Nathan said by way of a greeting.

  "Maybe that'll teach you to fly next time. The last time I traveled by train I bribed the conductor for his private room. The extra twenty bucks was worth it."

  "I could take this train a thousand times," Nathan said, "and it would never occur to me to bribe the train conductor."

  "I've always said you have a lot to learn from me." The comment, tinged with something like vexation, made the smile on Nathan's face fade. "I've got some bad news. Something came up at the Ministry of Property and Investment and I won't be able to meet with you today. And since you'll be busy all day tomorrow interviewing people, that only leaves us your final morning to get together."

  "I see. Today's an all-day thing?"

  "If it's not, I'll let you know. But I'm expecting it to take most of the day. And most of the evening, too, if I need to grease their wheels. And their wheels need constant greasing, let me tell you."

  "It's not a big deal," Nathan said, walking to the end of the train where it was quieter. Standing in the open doorway, he gazed at the stunted trees along the tracks and the confusion of weathered, quasi-modern dwellings visible through their branches. "Just make sure to save me the final morning I'm in town."

  "It is a big deal. I've wanted to see you for more than three years now."

  Nathan didn't say anything, and Anthony asked if he was still there. "I'm here," Nathan said. "I was just thinking. This sort of throws a wrench in things, because I wanted to ask you if I could interview at your company."

  "Interview at my company? You're kidding, right?"

  "I'm completely serious."