Fishing for Tigers (10 page)

‘You know
, so you know
sáu
!' She turned her flushed face to me. ‘Because
sáu
mean six. So he said Vietnamese for five which means he knows six things. But now he know
sáu
so he know
bày
– actually seven. You understand?'

‘Yes. Very funny.'

‘Hey, what's your name?' Cal asked.

‘I am
Nhu
.'

‘It's nice to meet you, Nhu. My friend and I would like to have, um . . .' He screwed up his face as though concentrating hard. ‘
Hai bia
.'

‘Two beer, yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘Okay. Ah, what is your name, please?'

‘I'm Cal.'

‘Nice to meet you, Cal. Now I bring for you
hai bia
two beer.' She ducked behind the grimy plastic curtain dividing the customers from the kitchen.

‘Sweet girl,' I said.

Cal rolled his eyes.

‘What?'

‘I look Vietnamese except handsome. What the hell?'

‘Her English wasn't great. I'm sure she meant—'

‘Nah, I get it, she was being nice. It's just . . . I'm getting sick of the whole “where you from” thing. It's the same as at home. They don't want to know where was I born and raised, they want to know where am I
from
. What kind of nip am I? But then, I'm the same. I always wonder with other Asians, always have to stop myself asking. It's even weird when I meet other Vietnamese Aussies. If they're my age or younger than me, we do it to each other. We each know that the other is probably Aussie through and through. We know how frustrating it is to always be explaining a lack of accent or language, but there's still this – this assumption we make about each other, about why we're here.' He flicked the air. ‘Not here. Australia.'

Cal shook his head, the angst replaced by a calm smile as the girl returned with a tray carrying two beers and two shot glasses filled with cloudy, pale liquid.

‘For you, because you are Viet, you have special
.' She placed all four drinks in front of him. ‘Your friend can have too,' she added without taking her eyes off Cal.

‘
, Nhu,' he said and she gave a little curtsy.

‘Welcome please,' she said. No doubt her interrogation would have restarted then, but five rough-faced men had taken the front two tables and were shouting their orders. ‘Excuse,' she said, and began shouting back in Vietnamese.

I started to warn Cal about the brain-melting strength of northern Vietnamese rice-spirits, but he tossed his down before I could finish. He coughed twice, rubbed his eyes and then pushed the second shot glass towards me. I threw it back. Not bad as far as
went. The acid burning was almost undetectable beneath the pleasurable whoosh of my blood.

‘You know what's the worst?' Cal leant across the table causing it to wobble beneath him. I grabbed our glasses; he went on, oblivious. ‘The worst are the Vietnam vets. It's got so I want to lie whenever a bloke over fifty asks me where I'm from. I have lied, Mish. I've said China, I have, because I don't want to deal with it, you know?'

‘With what?'

He threw his hands up, his body back. His jerking knees causing the glasses to dance again. ‘The confessions. The bloody guilt. One time I was in a food court, eating my burger, minding my business, and this bloke – after the “where are you from” thing had played out – starts telling me about his tour. Starts crying. Talking about dead Vietnamese kids. Body parts kept as souvenirs. I listened for a bit, but what am I meant to say? “It's okay, you're forgiven”? I mean, I wasn't there. Haven't ever been there.' He rubbed his eyes. ‘Hadn't been here. You know? It's got nothing to do with me.'

I had become aware of the silence of the men at the next table. They were my age, maybe older. With their rubber sandals and sweat-stained, collared shirts they might have been moto drivers, which meant they might know some English. Perhaps Cal's increasing volume had alerted them. Either way, we had become the focus of their attention. I was acutely conscious of my bare calves and arms, of my red hair, my audacity in drinking beer here with a boy who could have been one of their sons.

‘It's like—' Cal started, but I put my finger to my lips and he stopped, blinked at me. ‘What?' he mouthed.

I counted out enough
dong
to cover the drinks and added an extra couple of thousand. ‘
,' I called toward the curtain, as I stood. Cal followed me into the street.

When I no longer felt the men's silence around my throat, I told Cal he needed to be careful what he said and how he said it. ‘You don't know who's listening, how they'll take it.'

‘Sorry. I forgot where I was.' He watched his feet as he walked. ‘Talking to you, I forgot I was here.'

At the third
bia ho'i
of the night – it was on the next street and Cal was sitting down and ordering beer and
before I could object – Cal asked me if I had a boyfriend. ‘No,' I told him, in a tone I hoped would end the discussion.

‘What about Dad? Does he have a girlfriend?'

‘Ask him yourself.'

‘I'm asking you.'

‘I'm telling you to ask your father.'

‘Does this topic make you uncomfortable, Mischa?'

‘Why would talking to you about your father's sex life make me uncomfortable?'

‘So he does have a sex life?'

‘Stop it, Cal.'

‘Shit. Is it with you? Are you two fuck buddies or something?'

‘No.' I took a too-large gulp of beer. My eyes began to water.

‘Do you have a fuck buddy, Mischa?'

‘I'm not sure I even know what one of those is, exactly. Sounds nasty.'

‘Nah. It can be nice. If you like someone, get on well with them and that. Why not get off with them sometimes, too? It's just fucking. Doesn't have to be a huge deal every time.' His eyes were trying to focus on mine.

‘I think it's time we called it a night. Do you know how to get home from here?'

‘Come on, Mish. I can't go home like this.'

‘Like what?'

He knocked his knee against mine. ‘Rotten drunk.'

‘If you're rotten drunk I better call a cab and take you back to your dad's.'