Lotusland

  They took a tea break hovering over her work. Nathan blew the steam from his cup and drew a dark circle around what she'd just said.

  Although his understanding of Vietnamese lacquer painting would never be complete, she made a special effort to help him learn. After he wrote everything down she had him repeat it to her, making sure nothing was missing, nothing wrong, nothing overlooked.

  Perhaps she thought that as a writer he could introduce to the world something beautiful from her country. She knew that if foreign interest was strong enough it could help preserve a dying tradition that she, on her own, could never keep alive.

  He came every morning after that, even after he'd submitted the article to several newspapers, and even two weeks later when the Los Angeles Times had accepted it. It wasn't much later that she asked him to come over after work, too.

  Nineteen

  The lake was calm and black beneath the low-lying fog. Though it wasn't raining, the Land Rover's windshield accumulated so much moisture from the air that the driver had to use his wipers. It was midmorning, but it felt like dawn.

  "Will you roll up that window?" Mrs. Thompson said. "It's cold back here, and all that wind is blowing my hair."

  In the five minutes they'd been driving around West Lake Nathan hadn't noticed that his window was open. Now that she mentioned it, he was surprised he hadn't; the wind streaming through the small gap between the window and frame was loud. When he put his fingers to the space, they came away cool and damp.

  "Of course. Sorry." He reached for the handle but the window wouldn't roll up. The driver fiddled with the console but it couldn't close the window either. "That's as far as it goes, I'm afraid."

  "Well, for heaven's sake. I hope the house you're showing us has windows that close."

  "It's cold," complained the eldest of the Thompson's sons. "And why does the driver keep crossing the centre line?"

  "Because it's Vietnam," Mr. Thompson said gruffly. "That's why."

  "What's that have to do with anything?" the boy said.

  "Lots of people suffered head injuries in the war and as a result they can't drive in straight lines."

  "Don't tell them that," Mrs. Thompson said. "The reason is because traffic laws are new here and no one knows what they're doing."

  "It's that," Mr. Thompson said, "but also all the head injuries from the war."

  "Why was there a war?"

  Mr. Thompson pursed his lips and, after a few seconds, shook his head. "It's complicated. You'll learn about the war in school one day."

  "Many people died," Mrs. Thompson added sorrowfully. But the conversation had already ended.

  Nathan wondered if he should mention that the house was purported to be haunted. None of the agency's salespeople would have anything to do with it, which was why he had to show it. They'd been spooked by stories from the previous tenants, a married couple from Taiwan. Because Nathan had only heard a few of the stories himself, he could form but a limited picture of what had chased them away.

  The landlord's mother had died in the house two years ago, and now her ghost was said to wander about. The staff suggested that Nathan fabricate an excuse to keep the Thompsons from going inside an altar-room that contained photos of the old woman and her late husband. When he asked why, they explained that the expressions of the deceased often changed. If the photos showed them smiling, then their son had appeased them with prayers, burned incense, and offerings. If they were scowling, however, it meant he'd neglected his duties and whoever was living there would suffer.

  The four-storey villa was fully furnished, and, if the previous tenants were to be believed, the furniture sometimes shifted around by itself late at night. There were stories of glasses jumping off the table during a meal, and knickknacks flying off shelves when someone passed by. On separate occasions light bulbs throughout the house had shattered simultaneously. Once, the front door of their house creaked open; when they went to shut it they found a frog and bat on their front step, both flopping about in their death-throes. Two months before, their alarm clock went off early and when they checked it they saw time spinning backwards. As it turned out, that day was the death anniversary of the landlord's mother. She'd died very early one morning in July.

  The old woman's ghost was said to be angry because her son, who rented out the home for over two thousand dollars a month, had never removed the altar from a room on the top floor, and had never introduced his dead parents to the strangers in their house.

  Before the Taiwanese couple broke their lease, they came in to speak with Anthony about the situation, which they claimed had become unbearable. They said they'd consulted with a lawyer and would bring him in if the real estate agency and landlord wanted to litigate the matter. None of their bluster had been necessary. Anthony had emerged from his office looking like he just awoke from a 20-year sleep.

  "That's the biggest crock I've ever heard," he said, even before the couple finished their account.

  The husband's face reddened and he puffed out his chest. "You try sleeping there some time."

  "I'd love to," Anthony said. "But I'm committed elsewhere."

  The man tried to explain again what they'd lived through, but Anthony told him to shut up.

  "Have you removed all your shit?"

  There was a collective tittering among the staff.

  "Excuse me?" the man said.

  "I said, are your things still in the house or have you already moved out?"

  "We left last week," the woman said. "We couldn't stay another night, believe us."

  Anthony turned to the gathered staff. "Binh, Quang, take these two . . ." He hesitated, as if seeking a word to put them down, but then seemed to reconsider. "Take them to the house and make sure they haven't destroyed or stolen anything. If nothing's wrong, collect their keys and change the locks." He turned back to the couple. "Your lease is in all ways binding, but I don't care. As a businessman I believe in doing the right thing. We'll keep your deposit, of course, but we'll reimburse you for the advance rent you paid." He told the accountant to tally up what the couple was due. Waiting for the figure, he slumped into the receptionist's chair and swiveled back and forth. Everyone watched him, not daring to speak. When the accountant announced what was owed, Anthony said: "Go ahead, get it ready in cash." When she had, he handed the money to the couple. "I'm a fair man, see?" He slapped the man on his shoulder humorlessly. "Now get the fuck out of my office," he said, shoving the man toward the door.

  Nathan was surprised at how rarely Anthony's staff left the company for another. Loyalty wasn't the reason, he decided. Anthony paid them well enough, but sometimes Nathan overheard them grumbling. Still, for much of the staff, who were old enough to remember going hungry as children, the most important thing was "to have rice in the bowl." Stability was important to them — they needed to know their future would be better than their past.

  The only thing that kept Nathan there was the debt he owed Anthony. His sense of loyalty was strong, but he'd leave if the right opportunity came along. Such an opportunity was hard to imagine — it would have to bring him back, however circuitously, to writing.

  The Land Rover pulled up to the villa. Nathan felt a faint chill seeing a light on through the open attic windows. While the shutters creaked in the wind, the rest of the house was lifeless. He watched Mr. Thompson lead his family away to inspect the grounds.

  "Coming inside?" Nathan asked the driver.

  Leaning against his vehicle the man pulled out a cigarette. "I'm not particularly superstitious. Still, I'll stay out here."

  "You're not superstitious. But you're a little afraid of ghosts?"

  The man coughed as though embarrassed. "Why take a risk?"

  "And if it rains?"

  They looked at the sky: the low clouds had sunk lower, and a milky mist swirled atop the villa's sloped roof.

 
"Then I'll wait in the car."

  Nathan walked to the front door, opened it, and followed the Thompsons inside. Having decided not to accompany them through the house, he settled into a chair and removed from his briefcase the stack of mail he'd taken on his way out of the office. The first item he looked at was also the biggest: a thick manila envelope with Reuters News Agency printed across a large address sticker in a corner. "Priority Mail" was stamped on the front and back.

  Nathan's heart skipped a beat. He wasn't expecting a letter from Reuters. If anything, he would have expected something from the Los Angeles Times, with which he'd recently had a working relationship. The envelope's thickness increased his wonder. He couldn't imagine how they got his address, unless Kate Stein, a Reuters correspondent he vaguely knew, had given it to them. He'd bumped into her some time ago at the only English-language bookstore in Hanoi and given her his new business card.

  He tore the envelope open and shook out a letter and large folder. The letter was printed on Reuters' letterhead.

  Dear Mr. Monroe,

  I've read your travel pieces in the SF Chronicle and SJ Mercury News, as well as your latest article in the LA Times on Vietnamese lacquer painting. I've also received good word about you personally from Kate Stein, Reuters' Vietnam reporter until last month. It's hard to find good people who know Vietnam and have the ability to report a story. Not insignificantly, we're having difficulty securing work visas for our journalists, which is the main reason I'm contacting you: you're a good writer, and you're already there.

  I'd like to offer you the chance to report for Reuters, at least until we can sort out our visa problems with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Perhaps you're not interested, or maybe you're committed to other work. However, at this juncture we want you to consider working for Reuters on a freelance basis. I'll give you details if and when you indicate interest in such an arrangement.

  I took the liberty of enclosing a topic we want you to report on: Tu Du Hospital in Saigon and their efforts to help children allegedly born with Agent Orange-related diseases. Having lived in Vietnam as long as you have, I'm sure you're aware that Vietnamese citizens are suing the U.S. military for damaging the environment and poisoning human populations with toxic chemicals used during the war. They allege a high incidence of congenital birth defects, leukemia, and other untreatable conditions directly linked to Agent Orange. We need this piece by November 15th, before a U.S. Federal Appeals Court makes a ruling. Will you accept our offer?

  Regards,

  Dennis Jasper, Senior Editor

  Asia Bureau

  Reuters News Agency

  Nathan ran his finger over the majestic blue letterhead, savoring the rush of excitement. He stared at the letter in disbelief.

  The offer was in all respects a great opportunity; a step up from the mindless work he'd been doing at Anthony's firm. Although the money would surely be worse, and the work temporary, at least with writing he might do some good. He could live with that.

  He picked up the folder. It was thick, crammed with copied articles from Time, The Economist, The South China Sea Morning Post; various articles pulled off the Internet; and several pages of statistics. Also included were Xeroxed photographs: grotesque images of deformed children and livestock, and of a hospital with the words Bệnh Viện above the entranceway. He soon came across another — this of shirtless pilots mugging before a military tanker plane on which someone had scrawled: "Only we can prevent forests."

  He skimmed the material to get a sense of recent developments. Families and their livestock continued to suffer more than 30 years after the end of the war. In and of itself this was nothing new; rather than the physical devastation that resulted from fighting, there was emotional devastation wrought by exodus, separation, and loss. But the photos were different, for they gave suffering a face — if the reports he'd been given were accurate, the face of suffering belonged to millions.

  Groups had organized to lobby for attention. They'd filed a class action lawsuit against the U.S. government, which was blocking attempts to make it share what it knew about the effects of Agent Orange, the non-soluble defoliant that had laid waste to Vietnam's populous countryside. Nearly five percent of the entire country had been affected by Agent Orange's prolonged use, one article said. Another reported that almost 20 million gallons had been sprayed to destroy the vegetation that hid Viet Cong transportation routes. Vietnamese groups and individuals were taking up the cause hoping to pressure the U.S. to admit its culpability and compensate those who continued to suffer from the toxin's ravages.

  Agent Orange was increasingly in the news. Almost every day the media carried a story on it. Local fundraising like he'd never seen before was bringing attention to those said to be suffering from exposure to the chemical defoliant. Just the other day he came across an article reporting that those who'd fought for the resistance and had children born with defects caused by Agent Orange would receive more monetary support (up to $19 per month) for their medical needs. There was no avoiding the topic, so much publicity was it getting. Several foreign organizations had started fund-drives to help families struggling to bring up children with deformities they claimed were a result of exposure to Agent Orange. A recent photo exhibition on Agent Orange victims had also gotten a lot of press.

  Several months before, Nathan's secretary, Xuan, had asked him what the American news reported about Agent Orange. She'd been dismayed to hear that the American public was likely receiving no information. He reminded her that the U.S. was fighting a war in Iraq, mid-term elections were around the corner, and domestic terror alerts were constantly rising and falling. Somehow there was no room in the media spotlight for the case against America. Still she couldn't understand. When by government decree, he said, Iraqi casualty figures weren't allowed to be tallied and published, how could one expect anything more than the most peripheral attention to be given to alleged war atrocities committed 30 and 40 years ago in Vietnam? He offered the explanation to her gently, but no degree of gentleness could soften the impact. She hadn't heard of the government's decree and knew little about the war in Iraq other than what friends had told her. For several days afterward she was cold to him, as if she thought he'd lied to her, or as if he was somehow complicit in the suffering of Agent Orange victims.

  Though it frustrated him, he knew he was the closest thing to a culpable figure she could find. That determination was all his; she'd never deliver such a strong statement to him directly.

  Without hesitation he decided to accept the offer. Immediately he felt what could only be described as relief: there were still things that were important to him here, and his complacency wasn't a permanent condition.

  He wondered what Anthony would do if he were to quit. He felt no pleasure showing these people exorbitantly priced villas. It was true that he had a responsibility to pay off his debts, but an equally important concern loomed over him: how long would he last living for a salary rather than a dream?

  A door slammed upstairs. A moment later Mr. Thompson appeared on the stairs. Nathan invited him to sit down and didn't stop him from taking out a cigar and lighting it, though it was company policy not to let clients smoke inside the properties they were shown. Mr. Thompson lifted a vase from the coffee table and used its flat base as an ashtray. Noises of exploring continued above them. From beyond the near window, raindrops tapped on the eave.

  Mr. Thompson removed his cigar from his mouth and fastened a look of confused wonder on Nathan.

  "How the hell did you get involved in Vietnamese real estate?"

  "I'm friends with the company president. He's the brains and energy of the business. I've only been on board a few months."

  "I was 16 when the war here ended," he said. "I'd never have guessed that the price of land in this country could ever match what you'd pay in Tokyo or New York City. I suppose that makes it a good business for you to be in."

 
Nathan shrugged.

  "Something's not right, though. Obviously there's huge corruption behind the scenes. I mean, do you think it makes sense?"

  Nathan was going to explain that land was the only real investment option available to the Vietnamese, for gold didn't appreciate, the stock market was too new and limited, and the enforcement of property taxes was virtually nonexistent, but he didn't feel like getting into an involved conversation. "Not really," he said.

  "You probably don't care. Just as long as you get your commission."

  "I couldn't care less about a commission."

  Mr. Thompson laughed, apparently thinking this was a joke. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to make money, but it's important to do it the right way."

  "What do you do?" Nathan asked, the barb in his voice intended.

  "I help develop Vietnam's timber industry. There's a huge market for everything from teak to cajuput to balsa. They've got more trees than they know what to do with."

  "So there's a right way and a wrong way?"

  "Of course there is." He thoughtfully inspected his cigar. "Some people just call it growing pains. I guess we all have to take our licks and hope that in the end it doesn't kill us. My advice is to get out before the business changes you."

  "I've thought about it. I have a bit of journalism experience."

  Mr. Thompson fished in his pocket for something but came up empty. "That's nice," he muttered, chomping down once more on his cigar. "Reading the Sunday comics over a stack of pancakes is what I like."

  Mrs. Thompson descended the stairs halfway and stared at her husband.

  "What's the matter?" he said, fumbling to stub out his cigar. Then, defensively: "Hey, these things relax me."

  "Where are the children?"

  "They're probably just exploring upstairs." Mr. Thompson turned to Nathan. "What's up there, an attic?"

  "An altar room," Nathan said. "The owner keeps his family altar up there."