The Son (4 page)

‘Yes, he's usually there from twelve to three. It's the Dai Nam, just off John Street.'

She handed me a photo, of a youth, in jeans and a check shirt too big for him, clowning with a friend in a backyard. Two wings of thick dark hair framing a high forehead, a boyish grin, a strong jaw, the eyes staring at the camera as if issuing a challenge. A handsome face, not yet a man's, but with toughness in it. Intelligence too.

‘He doesn't look very Asian,' I said. ‘In fact he doesn't even look Eurasian, except for the eyes.'

‘People sometimes think he's Italian. Apart from his hair he takes more after David.'

I pushed my last memory of David away.

‘How did your husband die, Mrs Tran?'

‘He had leukemia.'

‘And your sister? I know this is painful, but I need to know that, before I see Eric.'

‘I understand. I told you, we – we ran into a storm. She was swept overboard. Eric was down with me in the hold. She was seasick, she'd gone up on deck …' She looked at me, her eyes pleading. ‘Please, Mr Quinn, don't mention that when you see him. He had nightmares for a long time afterwards.'

‘I won't.'

We finished our tea and stood up. I switched off the lights, locked up and walked with her to the lifts.

‘Are you going back to Marrickville? I can drive you if you like.'

‘Thank you, but I can take the train. I've kept you long enough from your family.'

‘I live alone. It's no problem.'

Her eyes were luminous in the half-light, that scent of jasmine giving warmth to the sterile corridor. I smiled at her.

‘You don't mind if I pretend that we knew each other in Saigon, when I talk to Eric?'

‘Of course not.'

She looked at me.

‘My sister was right, Mr Quinn. You are a kind man.'

‘Your sister didn't know me very well, Mrs Tran. May I call you Hao?'

‘Of course. I meant to ask–'

‘And I'm Paul.'

Downstairs on the footpath I renewed my offer, but again she declined, and I didn't insist. We shook hands again. This time she didn't withdraw her hand so quickly.

‘I'll call you when I've seen Eric.'

I watched as she walked off towards the station, looking lonely and beautiful, and very courageous.

The Dai Nam in Cabramatta was a large barn of a place, all tiled floor and formica-topped tables, but you don't judge an Asian restaurant by its décor. It was after two, but most of the tables were still taken up with locals, which suggested the food must be good.

Two waiters were at work, a girl and Eric. By chance it was Eric who came to my table near the door. He was shorter than I expected, but well built, with broad shoulders and a slim waist, and just as handsome with that high round forehead, a slightly uptilted nose and a strong jawline. He wore his hair long, as Hao had said, tied at the back in a small ponytail, and a ring in his ear, but he was neatly dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He walked with a purposeful air and seemed to know what he was doing.

‘What would you like?' he asked briskly, but politely. There was a dark quality to his eye, an inner wariness, like a colt.

‘What would you recommend?' I said. ‘I only want something light.'

‘You could try the
chả giò
, they're very popular, or
chạo tôm
, they're made with grilled prawn paste wrapped round sugar cane sticks, they're also very good.' He had a deep melodious voice, with a touch of Yorkshire perhaps, in which a few Australian vowels were beginning to creep.

I chose the
chả giò
, the small crisp spring rolls which you eat, hot from the deep fry, wrapped in a lettuce leaf with a sprig of Vietnamese mint and dipped in
nứớc mắm
, the Vietnamese fish sauce.

‘Better make that a double order, with a pot of green tea.'

Eric had pronounced the Vietnamese words correctly, in the southern accent, and I took care to do the same. He shot me a quick glance and went back to the kitchen, still with his serious expression. Only when he passed the girl did he smile briefly, and I looked at her. She was Eurasian too, though in her case the Vietnamese was more marked, and pretty in a waif-like way, with large dark eyes in a pale sallow face, and she smiled back at him. In the background an older Vietnamese man came out from time to time to stand at the counter, short and stocky, with the kind of dissipated, pouchy face I'd seen in the past in Asia, on some brutal police officers.

Eric brought the tea, and soon after came back with my order. He set it out neatly on the table, the lettuce and Vietnamese mint on a separate plate, the fish sauce in a small bowl.

‘You're Eric,' I said as he was about to go. He looked at me in surprise.

‘How do you know my name?'

‘My name's Paul Quinn. I'm a friend of your mother.'

He stared at me briefly.

‘My mother's dead.'

‘I meant your adoptive mother. Your aunt. Mrs Tran.'

He stood uncertainly for a second, then pulled a cloth from his belt and began to wipe a nearby table

‘I didn't know she had any friends in Australia.'

‘I knew her a long time ago in Saigon. We've only just caught up.'

He continued nervously wiping, giving me sideways glances.

‘I suppose she told you that I'm up to no good.'

‘Not at all. Why would she do that? She mentioned that you'd had a spot of trouble, but she said it wasn't your fault.'

‘Are you a cop?'

‘Certainly not. But I would like to have a word with you. Any chance of seeing you when you get off? Your aunt said you're here until three.'

He stood straight, and looked at me.

‘Did she send you here?'

‘No. But she told me about you, and I thought I'd come and see you. I knew your father in Saigon.'

For a moment that shook him. Conflicting emotions crossed his face, hope, wariness, a touching vulnerability. Over his shoulder I could see the older man looking in our direction. Then he collected himself.

‘Alright. Meet me here at three then. I'll get your bill.'

The spring rolls were excellent. I left a generous tip, then went out to explore. Cabramatta when I'd first gone there in the early eighties had looked almost derelict, one of those down-at-heel outer suburbs you bypass on your way somewhere else. But the waves of Indochinese refugees who had settled there since had transformed the place. The main street, John Street, which had been in a terminal state, was now a thriving shopping strip, filled with people, lined with modern shops of every description. Most of the people were Asian, Vietnamese, Chinese, Cambodian or Laotian, like the shop signs, where English was in a clear minority. That didn't worry me, I'd always felt at home in Asian crowds. I wandered through crowded arcades, stuck my nose into grocery stores, smelling the familiar smells, listening to the jabber of voices, and tried to work out how to handle Eric. I could see it wasn't going to be easy.

Eric was cleaning up when I got back to the restaurant. He went into the back room and came out again in a denim jacket several sizes too large. He said a few words to the girl, the older man looked at me again, and then he came out on the pavement.

‘Where would you like to go?' I asked. ‘Anywhere we can sit and talk, where you don't have to do the waiting?'

He smiled briefly, and it was like a ray of sunlight passing over a darkened landscape. I began to understand what his aunt saw in him.

‘I don't have much time,' he said. ‘I have to be at a friend's place at four, and I have to go home first and pick up a few things.'

‘Let me drive you. We can talk in the car.'

He gave me another wary look, but let himself be steered towards the large car park at the back of the shops, where I had with difficulty found a spot for my ageing Peugeot 405. He gave it an appraising glance.

‘Nice car,' he said. ‘Is that the GTi model?'

‘No, the standard. But it goes fast enough.'

‘How high have you had it?'

‘Hundred and seventy. Kilometres of course, not miles. And only a couple of times, out in the country. The cops are pretty savage here, I wouldn't want to lose my licence.'

The car was hot from the sun and we stood outside while I switched on the engine and the air-conditioning. A stream of people moved in and out of the car park, with that air of life and bustling, natural energy you find with Asians. At the back of the car park stood a large multi-level building with shops at its base and advertising banners on its walls. I pointed to it.

‘That's what I like about these people. Fifteen years ago they came here destitute, and now they own half the place.' I read out one of the signs, in large white letters on a red background.

‘Công Ty Nhặp Cảng Bạch Hổ
– Bach Ho Import Export Company. Bach Ho means White Tiger, doesn't it?'

‘Do you speak Vietnamese?'

‘I used to.'

Eric looked at the building for a moment.

‘I know that man,' he said. ‘Mr Bach. The man who owns that company. Mr Ho Xuan Bach. He's the one who got me the job in the restaurant. He's a friend of the owner.'

‘Is that the man I saw inside?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's his name?' He shot me another look.

‘He's Mr Khanh. Mr Vo Khanh. Why do you want to know?'

‘His face is familiar,' I said, making it up as I went. ‘Was he ever in the army, in Vietnam?'

‘The Marines,' Eric answered reluctantly. ‘The South Vietnamese Marines.'

‘Maybe that's it. I met some of them.'

He was getting edgy, and I changed the subject. We got inside the car, and made our way in fits and starts towards the exit. I searched for ways to open him up. He was cagey as a young animal, not sure how far to trust me, more than twice his age. He began to give me directions.

‘What were you doing in Saigon?' he asked suddenly.

‘I worked in the embassy there for a while. Towards the end. I was there when your father died.'

‘He was killed by the communists.'

‘I know.'

‘My mother worked in the embassy.'

‘I met her a few times.'

He was silent for a moment, apart from his directions.

‘She was killed by the communists too.'

‘Your aunt told me she was dead. I was very sad to hear that.'

We turned into another street, lined with fibro houses in threadbare gardens, some unpainted, with rickety front fences and cracked concrete paths. This was the other face of Cabramatta, the behind-the-scenes reality, where unemployment was two or three times the national average. I pulled up outside one of them.

‘What was he like?' he asked.

I paused, thinking out my next move.

‘I liked him,' I said. ‘But I'll tell you about him another time. Is this where you live?'

‘Yes.'

‘You said you have to go somewhere by four.'

‘That's right.' He stirred himself. ‘I'd better go and change. Thanks for the lift.'

‘I'll wait for you.'

‘There's no need–'

‘It's alright, Eric. I've got plenty of time. That's what I came for. To see you.'

‘Alright … you'd better come in then.'

He got out and led the way up the path, into a hallway and a front sitting-room. Two young Vietnamese men sat on a sofa watching a kung fu video on a large television set, the most expensive item in the room. Eric spoke to them, they said hello and nodded at me. I nodded back and sat in an armchair to one side. Eric went inside and they went on watching the video.

I discreetly examined the two men. One was short, dressed in baggy trousers and what looked like several oversized shirts, and had long hair which he kept smoothing out with both hands like a girl. The other had a crew cut and wore a tight grey sweatshirt and commando-style army pants, and flexed his biceps from time to time, showing off several tattoos. On the walls were tourist posters of the old Vietnam, scenes of the Central Highlands, and a South Vietnamese flag, the three red bars on a yellow background, carefully pinned to the wall above a small altar. Underneath were a couple of captions printed in Vietnamese:
Đả Đảo Cộng Sản, Mặt Trận Phục Hồi Việt Nam Cộng Hòa
– Overthrow the communists, Front for the Recovery of the Republic of Vietnam.

‘Nice day,' I said to the young men, and they looked at me briefly and nodded.

‘Want a beer?' said the taller one.

‘No thanks. I'm just waiting for Eric.'

‘You friend of Eric?'

He spoke with a strong Vietnamese accent, the final consonants half-swallowed.

‘Friend of his aunt.' I looked around the room. ‘You guys live here too?'

‘Yes. This our home. You like?'

‘Not bad. Many of you live here?'

He smiled but didn't answer. I wondered if he understood much English. Like Hao I didn't see much harm in them. They looked friendly enough, but wary, and without social manners – Vietnamese or Australian. The detribalised youngsters that one heard about in the Vietnamese community, the
bụi đời
Hao had mentioned. I felt sorry for them. I couldn't see much future for them, other than as factory-fodder. A fractured grasp of the language, no sense of belonging, dreaming of a past they hardly remembered. Fertile ground there for trouble.

Eric returned, with wet hair and dressed in another assortment of T-shirt and jeans, and the denim jacket. He carried a zip-up nylon bag.

‘Are you guys going to Binh's?'

‘No, we go with Nam,' one of them said. ‘We see you there later.'

‘Alright.' Eric looked at me, uncertain how to introduce me. He decided it wasn't worth the effort. We went back to the car, where Eric began once more to give me directions.

‘Weekend in the country?' I asked, pointing to the bag.