Fishing for Tigers (12 page)

Kerry came over after church as usual. She didn't hug me or even say hello, just blinked tragically and slumped her way through to my kitchen.

I turned the gas on under the kettle. ‘What's happened?'

‘Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Three years I've been in this job, in this country and nothing has changed. No, that isn't true. Things have changed for the worse. Infection rates are up. Child rape is rampant. Sex slavery is on the rise. School enrolment is stagnant, so I'll take that as a win, I guess.'

‘Oh, Kez. What brought this on?'

‘Sermon.'

The bells rang out. I pulled the window shut. ‘It was in English today?'

‘No, but . . . Part-way through I was just overcome with a call to service. It was what I felt forever ago back at school when I felt called to be a nun, but I was such a tart and everybody knew it and so Sister Margaret Mary convinced me that the call was to serve in a different way and we prayed together and it turned out she was right, because I had a vision – oh, not a
vision
-vision, but an idea that came out of nowhere – that I would help girls like me who weren't lucky enough to live in a place with free clinics and condoms and stuff. Don't bother hiding your disdain, Mish, I know you don't believe it, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that in church this morning, I felt that same wave of love and certainty, but then straight away I realised I have failed. I might as well have been a nun for all the good I've done.'

‘You haven't failed,' I said, although I had no idea if that was true. I did find it difficult to imagine her as a serious and useful person, though I knew she must be to have an office of her own in the UN French-colonial mansion with its dusty yellow walls and barbed wire and Hollywood-movie guards in pale blue hats.

‘Just because the statistics look crap, that doesn't mean you're not doing good.'

‘The thing is,' she said, wiping sweat from her forehead with a tissue she pulled out of her bra, ‘that I forget who I am and what I'm for. Day-to-day life takes over with all its petty tasks and distractions and I forget my purpose.'

The kettle whistled and I went to the bench to prepare the coffee that Kerry would curse as petrol and drink in three gulps.

‘Kez, most people have no clue what their purpose is, or even that they're supposed to have one. I sure as hell don't know what mine is. You can't beat yourself up because you haven't single-handedly fixed a nation that's been broken for longer than you've been alive.'

‘But what am I here for then, Mish? I don't mean here on this planet, although there's that, too. I mean here in Hanoi. I'm lonely. I'm depressed. I'm borderline alcoholic because the noise of the traffic stops me sleeping unless I'm half-smashed. I've got a permanently upset stomach and heat rash for ten months of the year. What's the bloody point if I'm not making things better?'

I'm always shocked to find people don't feel the same way about Hanoi as I do. It's like overhearing nasty comments about a close friend. It's hard to accept that one's love is not universally felt.

‘So leave.' I plonked her coffee in front of her. ‘If you're not happy and you feel you're not getting anywhere, just hand in your resignation and go home.'

Kerry looked at me like I'd told her she had a month to live. ‘You don't understand, Mish! This is it for me. I'm thirty-five years old and I've worked for the same organisation since I graduated. I've uncomplainingly done my time in every shit-hole they've sent me to, three years here, five years there, moving up half a rung on the ladder each time. Hanoi is a dream posting. No militias or terrorists, rapidly developing economy, semi-decent plumbing. If I can't hack it here, that's it for me. Career over.' She gulped some coffee, grimaced. ‘And the worst bit is that I never even wanted some big life-dominating career, but since the husband and two kids have failed to materialise the bloody career is all I have, so if that's done with, well . . .'

‘Maybe the husband and two kids will come along after all,' I said. ‘Or maybe something even better. You need to hang in there. And stop going to bloody church if it gets you so riled up.'

‘If I stop going to church I'll really be done. There'll be nothing left of who I intended to be.'

‘Maybe that's not a bad thing.'

‘Maybe. Shit. We're going all
Eat, Pray, Love
. Enough.' Kerry balled up her tissue and lobbed it across the room into the bin, then held her hand up for me to slap. ‘Let's just call this a bad day, and move on.'

We were quiet for a few moments, then Kerry said, ‘I ran into Marcus Scott the other day.'

Marcus Scott, a Canadian nurse working at the French Hospital, was one of the two men I'd dated in Hanoi. Except for a long-distance sighting near the English bookshop I hadn't seen him since we broke up over a year ago.

‘How is he?'

‘Married.'

‘Gosh.'

‘She was with him. Very pretty. Not much English.' Kerry picked a bit of purple nail polish from her thumbnail. ‘Never go to that chintzy nail bar near the Metropole. I asked for cerise and I got this grapey muck.'

‘I'm not at all surprised.'

‘About the bad nail job or Marcus marrying a Viet?'

‘Both.'

‘Well, I was bloody surprised. Disappointed, too, to be honest. I didn't know he was one of
them
. After you broke up I thought about going after him myself until I remembered how fucking dull he was.'

I laughed. ‘He wasn't dull, just . . . Just very earnest. I knew he'd end up marrying a local, and not for any creepy orientalist reason, but because he was desperate to get married and start a family and he was also desperate to become Vietnamese. He used to get up at 5 am to study the language for an hour before going to the park to exercise with the local oldies. I'm glad he's found someone. He's a lovely bloke, but it was never going to work between us.'

‘No, you like to sleep late.'

‘And learn Vietnamese at the rate of one word a year.'

‘And you hate exercise.'

‘And marriage.'

‘And boring twats who talk about the geopolitical ramifications of some Asian diplomat's farts over dinner.'

‘Don't be mean. He's a sweetheart.'

Kerry flicked a shard of nail polish on to the table. ‘You won't think that when you hear what he said about you.'

‘God. What?'

‘Well, you have to imagine the scene. We're out the front of Hanoi Towers. I was about to go in and get a proper coffee at Highlands and he was – I don't know, probably giving an impromptu lecture on the ironic juxtaposition of
Lò Prison to the corporate office block – and so we sort of stopped in the middle of the path and there was a pineapple vendor up my arse and then Marcus's wife starts chatting to her, though I thought she was telling her off at first, but then the pineapple lady laughed and while those two are carrying on like sisters, he puts his hand on my arm, like this—' Kerry flattened her fingers across my wrist and furrowed her brow. ‘And he goes, “How is Mischa? I do worry about her, you know.” And of course, I said you were fine – no, great, I said you were great and I didn't know why he worried and you know what he said?' Kerry sat back and shook her head at me. ‘He said, “I always felt she'd given up on life. That she was finished. It was why things didn't work out between us. I need to be with someone excited to wake up in the morning. You know?” '

‘Wow. So it
was
because I hated getting up early.'

Kerry laughed. ‘I thought you'd be upset.'

‘So why did you tell me?'

‘So you'd be upset. With him. He deserves it. Smug git.'

I licked my fingertips and began to pick up the purple flecks all over my table. ‘If I thought it was true, I might be upset. But I don't, so I'm not.'

Kerry said, ‘Good for you,' but I knew she was dis­appointed. Truth was I thought Marcus was on to something and instead of being upset I was fascinated. I wanted Kerry gone so I could investigate this new and startling insight into myself.

When she left I climbed into bed and dozed on and off for the rest of the day. In my waking moments I poked at the sensation Marcus's observation had created in me. I was like a child pushing a loose tooth with her tongue; there was pain, but also a thrill at the idea of what might be beyond it.

The next morning I stepped out of my front door and tasted ash. I saw the piles of burning paper at intervals along my street and remembered the hot surprise of lips on my collarbone. My phone buzzed and in my hand was a message from Cal saying what I'd been thinking:
Has it been 2wks?
I knew there was no psychic link between us, that we were not soulmates or mates at all, that it was eight in the morning and every
tây
in the city had just stepped outside and inhaled the ash and remembered it had been fourteen days since the last inhalation. But Cal had inhaled and thought of me and that wasn't nothing.

I considered ignoring the text, but that would be an answer of sorts and one whose meaning he might mis­interpret. I spent the walk to work thinking about replies that would put him in his place.
2 weeks since what?
or
Huh?
or the classic burn,
Who is this?
At my desk I reread his message and then quickly typed,
Time flies, huh? Hope you're enjoying Hanoi
, hit send and stuck the phone in my pocket.

I turned on my PC. My pocket buzzed.
Wd enjoy it more w/ u. Drink this arvo?

I loaded up the first article of the day. A report on the comparatively low female birth rate in Vietnam. There was no mention of why this might be so, no quotes from obstetricians or ultrasound technicians. I gave it a light subbing – made sure the sentences were arranged in roughly logical order and that each sentence contained the required parts – then saved and filed the story.

I typed
Bia ho'i on Tran Hung Dao, across from friendship palace 4pm.

I'd barely put my phone down when it buzzed again.
CU there cant wait

Thuan was heading to her advanced English lesson down the street from the
bia ho'i
and we walked together. On the corner of
was a votive vendor and Thuan purchased a wad of printed paper bills and a tube of red incense sticks almost without stopping.