Lotusland

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Lotusland Page 33

by David Joiner


  Anthony waved away his words. "I'm not speaking in a strictly political sense. I'm talking about giving people freedom of choice. Not just to build up economically, but to build the Vietnamese up as individuals. This country's hurtling forward myopically. Sure, the cities are becoming wealthy, but there's no grand plan. And if there is a plan, it comes from faith in random occurrence and the idea that things will take care of themselves. It's irresponsible. And in the end it won't work."

  He'd extended this notion to himself and Nathan, suggesting that their life choices were limited here because of the kind of society Vietnam was building. "When I first got to Vietnam, people knew who they were and where they came from. They were good and Vietnam was good. Now the country's lost its identity in the stampede to make money."

  "It's the type of people you go with. The people I know aren't like that."

  "Maybe. But you can't tell me this place hasn't changed."

  "We've all changed. You have. I have. People we know in the U.S. have changed, too."

  "Maybe," Anthony said. "But Vietnam has changed beyond the bounds of what's normal."

  Thinking back on that time emboldened Nathan and he told Le he was going to visit Anthony.

  Driving down the road to Anthony's house, he was surprised to see so much construction. The skeleton of a new high rise towered 20 storeys already, clothed by porous green netting. All around the site, wildflowers sprang from the dirt. Being amid so much newness made him aware that spring was finally here. He couldn't help feel that he and Anthony would brush aside their differences today. He twisted his motorbike's throttle and drank in the cold air that whipped his hair and made his eyes water.

  The large villa looked freshly painted in the sunshine. Green buds lined the tree branches while butterflies flitted around the flowers in front of the house. He was struck by the lack of birdsong from the garden. His shock increased when he saw that Anthony's birdcages were empty. He couldn't imagine what had happened to the birds, which were a source of pride to Anthony and gave him more pleasure than Nathan thought possible.

  Just then Anh charged from the house and into the front yard. He ran with reckless abandon, a red cape fluttering behind him, and with every step Nathan thought he'd tumble and spill into the street below. His costume was a copy of a cartoon character Nathan vaguely knew. He clutched to his side a doll with Western features whose outstretched arms made it look like rigor mortis had set in. He squatted down to show his doll something on the ground.

  Nathan called his name.

  But Anh was holding a conversation with the figure and didn't hear him.

  "Anh," he said again. This time the boy looked up.

  "Have you seen my sister?" Anh said, glancing back at the house. "She promised to get me Coca-Cola."

  "Anh, where are your parents?"

  He shrugged, pushing the doll's head into the dirt. He was bigger than when Nathan had seen him four months before. His hair was darker; his belly was rounder and peeked out from beneath his shirt; except perhaps for his cheekbones, which were less angular than most Vietnamese, his face had lost some of its Western aspect.

  "What's that doll you're playing with?"

  "His name's Blue."

  "Blue's a good name. It matches his eyes." He paused, watching Anh play. "Can you tell me where your dad is? I haven't seen him in a long time."

  Anh pointed across the street. A gravel road stretched somewhere Nathan couldn't see for the pushed-together villas. "You can walk there. But you have to look both ways before crossing the street."

  "What are you pointing at, Anh?"

  Anh scrunched up his eyes like he was thinking. "I forget what it's called. But . . ."

  "But what?"

  He took a deep breath, letting it out as he finished speaking. "They put the dead people there."

  A bright white curtain drew across Nathan's vision. Afterward he found it difficult to keep his feet solidly beneath him.

  The Vietnamese word for cemetery crept onto his lips. "Nghĩa đĩa?"

  Anh nodded, looking back to the house. "Grandpa's watching."

  Nathan turned. Huong's father stood at the window. On the chest of his yellow shirt was an outline of Florida. He seemed to be speaking to someone inside, but the reflection of sunlight on the glass prevented Nathan from seeing who it was.

  "Where's your mom?"

  Anh pointed toward the cemetery again. Fear tempered Nathan's urge to run there. From the yard it was hard to distinguish between a patch of dead grass and a gravestone — he didn't know what he was looking at.

  The possibility of seeing Anthony's grave awakened something inside him, which itself seemed to have been buried all his life. He could barely stifle the desire to yell out Huong's name.

  How could she keep the news from him? He was sickened by the thought that maybe Anthony had wanted to see him, just once before dying, but Huong had refused to tell him.

  More questions popped into his head; questions he couldn't answer. But one kept returning — larger, louder, and more urgent than the others. Only Huong had the answer to it. Not having been there for Anthony, he either had to accept what she said or accept nothing at all. Either way, he'd never know what Anthony had said about him at the end, or what he might have needed.

  He ran across the street, leaving Anh to play with his doll and wonder what was keeping his sister.

  The cemetery was on a slight rise enclosed by fir trees. At the back, a wire fence overtaken by weeds leaned forward nearly 30 degrees, and behind that was land in the initial stages of being cleared.

  He walked up and set his hand on the cold pocked granite of a gravestone. Dust came off and he wiped his hand against his pants. He was the only one there. With pain flooding through him he forced himself to search for Anthony's grave.

  On the leftmost side of the cemetery he came upon a view of two narrow, parallel paths through the trees — flattened to the brown earth as if a skier had made them. West Lake was 100 meters away.

  An island of lotuses floated on the black water. There was nothing along the shore, not duckweed or even trash. Only the occasional motorbike passing by broke the quiet.

  For a long time he stared at the lake. Through his tears the lotuses blurred and became a long, billowing ribbon of pinkish white.

  Curious where the path led, he headed toward the shore.

  But after a few steps he froze. At the water's edge a woman stood behind a man in a wheelchair. The man had light brown hair and was obviously rather tall despite being seated. Nathan could only see the woman from the back. She was dressed in a nurse's white uniform and hat. The man was visible from his shoulders to his head. Although Nathan's vantage was limited, the sight was a revelation.

  "Nathan."

  He whipped around. Huong stood behind him, looking over his shoulder to make sure Anthony and the nurse hadn't heard her. She motioned Nathan to follow her back into the cemetery.

  "What are you doing here?" she said. In her eyes was a tiredness that might once have belonged to Anthony.

  "That's him, isn't it?" he said, pointing through the trees to the lake.

  She didn't answer, nor did she look toward the shore. Instead she waited, as if expecting an explanation for his presence.

  "I heard he's doing better," he said. "I wanted to see for myself."

  Finally she said: "We're leaving, you know."

  "Leaving?"

  "For California. As soon as he's cleared to go."

  Nathan couldn't help remark that they must have worked out their differences. She laughed weakly, and said that Anthony hadn't fully regained his speaking faculties. But he'd convinced her that he wanted a new chance. "His life won't be like before. He needs me. And I think that's good for us."

  She didn't ask Nathan how he was, and he didn't offer the information. He knew she didn't want to in
volve herself with him any more than she had to. It saddened him, but it was a necessary change.

  "You probably don't want me seeing him," he said.

  "I don't care anymore. As far as I'm concerned that's for him to decide. I'm not sure he has any faith left in you, either."

  Her words knocked off his face the smile that was trying to form. He didn't blame her for saying this. She knew as well as he that ulterior motives had driven Anthony for a long time.

  "I'm sure he doesn't," Nathan said. "But I'm willing to take my chances."

  He reached into his bag and pulled out an envelope. "I came to see you, too. Anthony loaned me this five years ago. I'm paying it back with interest."

  She stared at the envelope. "It's not mine to take back."

  He pushed it into her hand. "Anthony's too stubborn to take it, even though it's his." He wrapped his fingers around her hand until he felt her grip tighten. With his hand on hers he glanced into her eyes. The fire he was accustomed to seeing there was gone.

  "He likes coming here," she said. "He'd sit by the lake all day if you let him. Sometimes I ask what he's thinking about, but I can never get an answer."

  "Will he be upset if I say hello?"

  "There's nothing he can do if he is. I guess that gives you the advantage."

  He searched her face for encouragement but none was there. Without another word she turned and headed home.

  In the silence of the cemetery he heard the sound of the lake against the shore. He walked to the parallel tracks cutting through the wood. As he made his way through the trees, Anthony and his nurse returned to view.

  The island of lotuses floated on the water like a shimmering vision. They were close enough to shore that he might easily pull one out, but he didn't want to stir the mud where their roots ran deep. The water was clear, he could see small fish near the surface, and he didn't want to disturb this peace. In any case, now was not the time.

  He turned toward Anthony, who sat upright in his wheelchair, staring at something far away. West Lake spread behind him — vast.

  Acknowledgements

  Many people helped me over the seven years (if you count the long breaks) it took me to write Lotusland. My gratitude goes out to:

  The faculty and staff at the Vietnam University of Fine Arts for explaining to me the history and process of lacquer painting in Vietnam, and Saeko Ando for inviting me into her studio and letting me wander around like a bull in a china shop and ask excessive questions about lacquer painting in the Vietnamese tradition.

  The staff at Friendship Village and Tu Du Hospital — and especially the children at the latter — who helped me understand better the continuing effects of Agent Orange on people's lives in Vietnam.

  Alastair Ewing for explaining the intricacies of Vietnamese real estate.

  Ted and Linh for the use of their home in Mui Ne to write in (as well as their friendship . . . and the friendship of their dogs).

  Garry Powell, Jeff Gibbs, and Elka Ray for their close, careful readings of my novel and valuable feedback; for their encouragement; for their commiseration during the hard times of writing (and there were many); and most of all for their wonderful friendship.

  Lindsay Brown and Michael Mirolla for their excellent editing, and Michael Mirolla again for his belief in this book and his unstinting support and generosity.

  And others during this period, just because: Harue, Shinji and Hiroko, Masa and Takami, the Akita clan, the Fukui clan, my friends in Bien Hoa, Minh, Mai, Louis and Serena, Forrest, the Sternberg family, Martin, Roxane, Pete, Bill and Mei, and about one thousand Vietnamese cafes in which this novel came into being.

  Quote on page 317 from Henry David Thoreau's Walden, Chapter 18: Conclusion, paragraph five, p. 323-24 (Princeton University Press, 1971).

  About The Author

  David Joiner was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, and attended Earlham College, a liberal arts school founded by Quakers where he majored in Japanese Studies. He later earned an MFA degree from the University of Arizona, where he won awards in fiction and playwriting. He has been living in Vietnam off and on since 1994; his most recent move back was in the summer of 2013. He speaks varying levels of Vietnamese, Japanese, and Spanish. Over the last year and a half he has been writing full-time in Vietnam but plans to return to Japan soon to resume his work as a university writing instructor. He is currently at work on a second novel, which takes place in Vietnam and Cambodia in the early 1990s.

 

 

 


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