Lotusland

by David Joiner

  The woman lifted her finger to the screen and scanned a list of flights. "You're in luck. There's a flight leaving in three hours."

  As he resumed his drive home, the clouds opened up. By the time he arrived he was soaking wet, and his ticket had gotten damp where he'd stuffed it beneath his shirt.

  The rain had stopped when he went to flag down a taxi to the air­port. He hurried past children playing badminton in his alley and ignored a group of construction workers who shouted nonsense at him, wanting him to acknowledge them, seeking the same senseless thrill they might feel looking down into the pen of some animal at the zoo. As he passed by, he feared that these people, and this dank, dirty alley, were the only moorages to which he'd ever secure his life.

  He sensed an emptiness to his surroundings now, as if some element, or some color, or something else he always took for granted, had been bled away by the brief but powerful shower.

  This alley had seemed normal to him yesterday, even picturesque in its vivid, cramped way, but such perceptions were already a thing of the past.

  He found a taxi parked beside the curb. In the back seat he asked himself what it would mean to leave Saigon. But he knew the answer lay in action, not in wonder — it would take leaving to find out.

  Out his window the city went by in a blur.

  By the time he entered the airport a bad feeling had stolen over him. It was the kind of feeling one might have after organizing a practical joke at a funeral. What the hell was he doing here?

  The travelers around him, the airport staff, the x-ray machines — standing here in an actual airport — brought home the fact that he would never see Le again. Moving slowly, he came across a traveler's kiosk. Exchange rates and hotel discounts framed the service window. A woman inside saw him looking at the destinations they advertised and greeted him.

  "I want to change my flight," he said, showing her his ticket. "Can I fly tomorrow instead?"

  She turned to a computer on the counter and started typing. "Yes, sir. There are seats left on the seven a.m. flight. Shall I book it for you?"

  "Yes. And I want to buy another ticket for the same flight."

  From his wallet he pulled out a piece of paper with Le's name and address scribbled on it and gave it to the woman. "Her name's written there."

  She asked if he had a hotel. When he said he didn't, she reached beneath the counter and sorted through a stack of brochures, tossing out the ones for Phu Quoc.

  He made a quick determination based on the listed prices. "This one. Make it one room, and leave our departure open."

  He paid for Le's ticket and, feeling like he'd shucked off a heavy weight from his shoulders, went to find the taxi stand.

  He had the taxi drop him off at the head of Le's alley. The dimming light and clatter of kids playing outdoors were to his advantage, he thought, as he passed her door. But it was still too light out for him to tell if anyone was home.

  He spotted a noodle-stand in a small courtyard a few doors down and sat at a table facing the alley. No one bothered him or obstructed his view of her door as he whiled away the time over a bowl of bún thịt nướng and three bottles of Saigon Beer. In case he needed to leave right away, he paid whenever he ordered.

  As far as he could tell, Le had been gone since early morning. He supposed her roommates had contacted her after he'd left, telling her what he'd done. But she couldn't be angry with him. If anything, she'd be scared. Aware that he knew her address, perhaps she was avoiding coming back. Unless she'd persuaded her roommates to bring her belongings to her, though, she'd have to return sometime.

  He'd just paid for another beer when a motorbike pulled in front of her door. As it rolled to a stop the headlight dimmed and he saw her sitting behind a Vietnamese man — a xê ôm driver, apparently, given that she handed him money and waited for him to give her change. Had she already sold her Honda Future? Or was there some other reason for her to use a motorbike taxi?

  Now that she was here he realized he lacked a plan to get her attention. If he called out she might run away. And if he rushed into the alley, he'd have to deal with the man who'd dropped her off, not to mention any of the other people in the street who took it upon themselves to interfere.

  As soon as the man drove off, Nathan hurried into the alley.

  Le was already walking away. To his surprise, she didn't enter her apartment. He stopped and watched her disappear around the corner. He gave her a head start and then followed her.

  Behind the apartment was a small door he hadn't been aware of. It clicked shut — and locked — before he could reach it. With his ear against the door he could hear her ascending the stairs. When he couldn't hear her anymore he kicked the toe of his shoe into a wooden square at the bottom. The square fell in cleanly, and he got down on his hands and knees to look through it. Craning his neck he saw a stairwell rising into darkness. Uncertain what he was getting into, he crawled through the opening with barely any room to spare.

  Littered with trash, the stairs rose four floors. There were no doors at the landings, only steps continuing upward. At the very top was a panel of wood where a door should have been. He slipped past it onto the rooftop.

  In the surrounding buildings people were visible through barred windows and balconies filled with plants and hanging laundry, but the side facing the street was unobstructed. Like an actress on-stage, Le sat at a table in the middle of the rooftop, looking off in the direction of the airport.

  Each step toward her made him feel like the roof would collapse beneath his weight. Suddenly Le whipped around, gaping at him as he grinned at her. He'd hoped his presence would shock her.

  She pushed herself out of her chair. "Oh my god," she said, covering her mouth with both hands.

  Instinctively he continued toward her.

  Without looking away she positioned herself behind the table, nearly tripping over a second chair. He heard her mumble something, but the words, like a prayer, were indistinct.

  As she stared at him, the wind rippled her knee-length black dress. Her outfit was unfamiliar, and he assumed that she'd bought it for her life in California.

  He paused, trying to remember if he'd ever seen her so beautiful and, when he reached the table, he stopped. The distant sounds of children playing, families watching TV, and traffic swirled about them.

  "What are you doing here?"

  Near enough that he could grab her if he wanted, he finally saw her as she was at this moment: her eyes were red and swollen, and the bit of makeup she wore was streaked with dried tears. The tears surprised him; he hadn't taken her for the sentimental type.

  "You're scaring me," she said, backing away.

  "That's because you can't run away from me here."

  She dropped her face into her hands, but he didn't console her. Her crying angered him, and he resented this show of fragility. Was her emotion real? Or just a trick to elicit the sensitivity he'd always shown her?

  Five years before, when he returned to Vietnam, Huong's reaction had been similar. He'd found her alone at her apartment and surprised her. At least then he'd been able to blame himself for what happened during his absence: after his mother died, he'd given neither her nor Anthony any indication he was coming back — he'd simply shown up three months later, choosing to visit her first, and expecting to find that nothing had changed. Who could fault them for getting together when he'd left them in the dark? Back then Anthony had been crazy about her. He'd been crazy about her, in fact, before Nathan had.

  "Crying doesn't help," he said flatly.

  She spoke through her fingers and the pink hair that swept over them, but he couldn't understand her. He came up and pulled her hands apart.

  "Tell me why you've been avoiding me."

  She didn't answer.

  "Did I do something wrong?"

  She backed up a few more feet, until she wa
s an arm's length from the edge of the roof.

  "Be careful, Le. You don't know where you are."

  She turned around and gasped.

  He hurried over to her and looked down into the street, where shirtless children, miniaturized by distance, played soccer and ran about wildly, unconcerned by the traffic speeding past them. His anger, his confusion at what had happened the last few days, kept him from touching her again. She made no move toward him, either.

  "Come back to the table and let's talk. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  For a moment anger made everything around him burn white —the small table and chairs; the tangle of phone wires over the street; the high walls of neighboring apartments; the electricity-tinted sky. His anger was with himself, and he began to imagine she'd been cruel to him because he'd left her no alternative.

  "It would've been easier if you'd asked me to come over," he said. "I never wanted to stake you out."

  Her eyes seemed even larger than usual as she wiped her tears. "Please, Nathan, just go away."

  "Do you really expect me to leave now?"

  Sniffling, she shook her head.

  What was she crying for? Didn't she finally have everything she wanted?

  When he asked her what had happened, and why she hadn't told him that she'd been issued a visa, she said: "I was afraid, Nathan. I don't know why. It was easier not to deal with you. And besides," she added, crying again, "I don't have a visa any more."

  "What?"

  She managed to calm down long enough to explain. The embassy had called her that morning, half an hour after she'd sold her Future, and asked her to bring her visa with her. When she met with embassy officials, they asked to see her visa. She handed it over, and then it was given to an employee with the instructions to destroy it. "They said that I'd lied about my application and they had no choice but to do this. It didn't matter that I'd already bought my ticket to America."

  Andrew's words from the party shot into his mind. That he might have gone out of his way to get Le's visa revoked seemed unlikely. If he had followed through, he must have had good reason — what was there for him to gain from that but hours of extra work? Although Nathan was momentarily curious, he had no desire to learn what Andrew's role had been, if any, in revoking Le's visa. The only thing that interested him was that she could no longer leave for America.

  Between sobs Le claimed to have nothing left. She'd lost her gallery and couldn't bear to face all the people whom she'd told she was leaving. "It's not that I care what they think. It's that I don't want to be reminded every moment of what I've lost."

  Nathan couldn't bring himself to say he was sorry — he wouldn't say it, even though it pained him to see her so anguished.

  "But I need to know something, Le. When they gave you the visa, why didn't you tell me?"

  She took a moment to compose herself. "I said I'd be your girlfriend so you'd help me. From the beginning I was honest about that."

  "You never had feelings for me?"

  "I didn't know how else to get you to help me."

  "So sleeping with me was just part of the deal?"

  She paused before nodding.

  "I don't believe you."

  "You expected it. That's how life is, right?"

  He supposed that in Vietnam it was. "Love's not a transaction."

  "Love?" she said angrily.

  Her tone stung him. "Maybe not love. But something close."

  "No," she said. "You don't understand me."

  He had no idea how to argue against such a charge. "How am I supposed to understand you when you've been lying to me all along?"

  She didn't reply immediately. When she answered, her voice was gentler. "I only wanted your help to get a visa. I didn't have money to pay you."

  "I don't believe you. You were always affectionate with me."

  "What was I supposed to do? That was our agreement."

  It wasn't supposed to be this way, he told himself. He hadn't wanted to become involved with her in the first place. Yet against his every intention to fall for her, and every indication that a relationship must be short-lived, he'd poured every ounce of hope into being with her. He'd given himself to her, stripped of protection.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm leaving Saigon," she said. "I'm never coming back."

  "But where would you go? In Saigon you know people, you have friends, a place to live. You still have a good life here." He stopped, waiting for her reply, but also wondering if she really meant to follow through on leaving Saigon.

  She shook her head, saying nothing.

  "And what about us? In a few days, a week or two, maybe you'll feel differently."

  "It doesn't matter any more," she said, wincing. "Nothing I feel tomorrow or in a few weeks will compare with this. And anyway, you deserve better than me."

  "Why don't you let me decide that?"

  "You can decide whatever you want. But I have to make my own decisions now. My life, I have to start it over."

  The old question — why trade success for failure — crept onto his lips but he did not ask it. He knew that success and failure were different to her than to him.

  A circle of light, hardly bigger than a star, had emerged on the horizon, skimming the black night. The longer they watched it the bigger it grew. Soon the outline of an airplane was visible. Every few seconds a red light blinked from its tail.

  "Come to Phu Quoc with me," he said. "You said you wanted to go there before leaving."

  "Nathan," she said, taking his hand. "Please forget about me."

  "I already have the tickets." She gave him a surprised look. "I bought them this afternoon. I thought you and I . . ."

  She put her fingers on his lips and cut him off. "The truth is, Nathan, I don't ever want to see you again."

  As if the wind were pushing him he backed away from her, until he could see the entire length of the roof's edge, until the table and chairs came into view and then the bright apartments on either side, and until she was very small standing there with her face buried again in her hands, sobbing.

  He yanked the panel from the stairwell door and hurried down the stairs.

  The moon rose slowly, perfectly full. He wondered why it changed from gold to white, and why the higher it climbed the smaller it became. Was it hurtling into the far unknown? Or was it merely a trick of angles, an effect of the earth's rotation?

  Trying to understand how he'd misjudged Le so badly, he couldn't sleep. He threw on some clothes and went downstairs. The guard lay snoring on a table. Nathan tiptoed past him, inching the door open and slipping out onto the street.

  The city felt unfamiliar at three in the morning. For the first time he could remember there was no sound of human activity. It was cool and quiet, and he focused on the silence without moving. After a moment he realized the quiet wasn't total. He could hear the Saigon River.

  Turning right on Ton Duc Thang and following it past the Legends Hotel, he saw the river. Across the street was a small park where old French cannons pointed over a wall. The park was a gathering place for young lovers, and he was surprised to have it all to himself.

  He sat on the wall dangling his legs over the water. Every now and then a barge chugged past, and in the light cast by billboards on the opposite shore he could see the inky silhouettes of people on board.

  As he stared at the expanse of water, America rolled into his consciousness like waves of heat: images of people and places he knew there wavered on their edges, burning with promise. In dreams these old friends sometimes beckoned to him to return, his dead parents begging him, though for the last year or two those dreams had stopped. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he couldn't go back: he had no money to return and start over. Combined with what he owed Antho
ny, this chained him to where he was.

  He looked into his hand and saw he was holding his cell phone. Not caring what time it was, he dialed a number and put the receiver to his ear.

  "Hello?"

  Anthony sounded like he'd just uttered his final breath.

  "Sorry to call this late." In the background he heard Huong ask who it was.

  "Nathan?"

  "Yeah . . ."

  For several seconds Anthony said nothing. "Are you drunk?"

  "No."

  "Then why the hell are you calling?"

  The anger in Anthony's voice was unmistakable. Over two months had passed since Nathan last spoke with him — a marked lapse for their friendship, if he could still think of it as that.

  "I'm not sure."

  Anthony laughed witheringly. "It's three in the fucking morning. What do you want?"

  "I needed to call you."

  On the other end he thought he heard a door open. He could almost imagine the balcony, the rattan furniture, the moonlight reflecting off of West Lake. The thought of being in Hanoi made him regret chasing love over career opportunity.

  "I don't believe that for a second. If it's money you want, I'm not giving you any more."

  "It's not money."

  "Is it that girl?"

  Nathan looked behind him. A motorbike had stopped at the curb, and the man and woman on it were watching him. Apparently uncomfortable with Nathan's presence, they drove away.

  "I bought a ticket to Phu Quoc today. I was supposed to go this afternoon but I couldn't do it. I couldn't leave her." He didn't know how to explain. Where was he to begin? "I'm in a bad way right now."

  "Are you going to make me guess what happened or are you going to tell me?"

  "I don't know if I want to talk about it."

  "Fuck off, Nathan. You drop out of my life for almost three months, you break a promise to join my company and screw me in the process, and now you tell me you don't know if you want to talk? It's three in the goddamn morning. Whatever it is, spit it out."