Monsoon (35 page)

Reluctantly Carlo followed Anna, who remembered the way to the little studio and factory.

Mr Thinh was delighted to see Anna again and with his limited grasp of English welcomed her and Carlo. He was clearly impressed with the interest both his visitors showed in his work and displayed with pride examples of the classic platters, bowls and dishes for which the area was famous.

‘It's nice enough,' said Carlo. ‘But it's niche market stuff. I'm after high-turnover goods.'

‘You want niche, look at that beautiful platter. That's a rare one. Sixteenth century. There are a few around. I've seen two others like that,' said Anna.

‘Since when have you been into stuff like that? How much is it worth?'

‘What a collector wants to pay, I guess.' She pantomimed money and asked Mr Thinh how much.

He indicated it was not for sale, but then wrote a figure on a piece of paper and showed them.

‘You're joking,' said Carlo.

‘If someone wanted it, like a museum, I suppose that's what they'd have to pay.'

‘So where did you and Sandy see the others like this?' demanded Carlo.

‘In a ritzy antique shop in a hotel owned by a rich woman called Madame Nguyen. And . . . on an altar in a little pagoda where we met a nearly blind nun. We might go there.'

He grinned. ‘Would she notice if it went missing?'

‘Carlo!' exclaimed Anna.

It wasn't until Captain Chinh and his nephew Hung had them settled on the
Harvest Moon
that Carlo finally looked impressed. It was a sunny day, a cool breeze pushed the junk across the bay and as they came close to the limestone karsts jutting from the seabed, Carlo admitted, ‘Bloody amazing. How'd you be, abseiling down one of those monsters?'

There was one other couple on the junk, from Sweden, on their honeymoon, who smiled and made it clear they too wished they were alone on this trip. They sat on the other side of the deck where Hung served them drinks and snacks. Anna remembered how she and Sandy had shared such a good time with Tom. Was it because they were all Australian? She half wished the old journo was with them now. He was good company and they'd had some great discussions. Carlo was happy just to drink, take in the scenery and try to send text messages on his mobile.

‘There's no reception out here. Try when we stop for the night,' said Anna. ‘Who are you trying to reach, anyway?'

‘Business, baby.'

After Captain Chinh and Hung had anchored the junk close to some of the stark peaks punctuating the sea, they all ate dinner together on the deck under the stars, and the Swedish couple retired early. Anna, too, was tired and after telling Hung about the joys and challenges of running Barney's she decided to go to bed and read. She said good evening to Captain Chinh and Hung, and kissed Carlo.

‘I won't mind if you wake me up when you come to bed,' she whispered.

‘I might stay and drink up here for a bit. Very pleasant.' He raised his glass and Hung sprang forward.

‘Don't drink too much: you might get seasick down below,' advised Anna.

As Carlo fell into bed she knew it was late and he'd had too much to drink.

‘What kept you?' she asked.

‘You were right – there was good mobile reception. But here I am, babe.'

He made eager love to her. Afterwards Anna turned on her side and slept soundly, lulled by the motion of the wooden boat and the gentle creaking of the hull.

Anna was up early and left Carlo snoring lightly. Only Hung was about. She greeted him warmly.

‘So, how has business been for you and your uncle?'

‘The tourist season here has been good. We lost some days with a typhoon,' answered Hung.

Anna sipped her coffee and, as no one else had appeared on deck, asked Hung, ‘Do you go to Hoi An?'

‘It's a pretty place. Untouched from war. Very lovely. You went there?'

‘It was the first place my friend Sandy took me, after here.' Anna hesitated. ‘I asked because I thought I saw you there. On a boat coming up the river.'

‘I have been there for business. So, how are you enjoying Vietnam? You have been many places?'

Anna sensed he had shifted the conversation and seemed less friendly than when they'd been on the
Harvest Moon
before. ‘A few. There's a lot still to see. I might have to come back next holidays. I want to show my friend Carlo where we went before. Can we do that? To the grotto and up to the pagoda, to see the blind nun?'

Hung shrugged. ‘Last time, there were no other tourists . . . now the Swedish pair, I don't think they will want to climb up.'

‘So we'll let them stay on board. Be alone,' Anna said. ‘They're on their honeymoon.'

They exchanged smiles. ‘Of course. Going into the grotto, that is not something we do every time,' said Hung uneasily. ‘But if your friend wishes to climb, the nun will be pleased to receive visitors.'

Now that she was so close, in this mystical bay with its strange formations, Anna felt an overwhelming desire to meet again the serene and wise old nun on the peak.

11

S
ANDY SAT AT BARNEY'S
small desk and logged on to his computer to check her emails. She was pleased to see there was one from her mother. It had been a week or more since she'd heard from home. She skimmed through details of the weather, health and family until she reached the gist of it.

It was a lovely surprise to have a visit from your acquaintance Tom Ahearn and hear news of you first hand. He had a good chat with your dad and I was surprised – and a little nervous – at him talking about the war and this reunion, anniversary or whatever it is at Long Tan. You know how sensitive he is about the war. Tom is writing a story; in fact, did you know when Tom was a correspondent over there he thinks he actually interviewed Dad when he was in the hospital! Anyway, Dad listened but I don't think he's keen on the idea of having anything to do with it. I confess though, later I called one of the organisers – Tassie Watts – he was in Dad's unit. Your father got a letter from him about the reunion. I know he'd do nothing, so I did. Hope it's not interfering but from what I've heard it seems it would be good for him to get back in touch with his old mates. Share things, you know?

Wow, Mum, way to go, thought Sandy. Patricia was not usually the type to ‘interfere'.

Then a few days later a lovely fellow called Father Max turns up. And would you believe it, Dad was thrilled to see him! Turns out he was the chaplain over there and helpful to Dad when he was in the hospital. So they talked and then Fr Maxie – as they call him – took him off to lunch at the pub. Apparently Maxie had planned it and there was Tassie and two other chaps from Vietnam, not sure if they were in Dad's group too, but anyway when Fr Maxie brought him home, they'd obviously had a good time! Dad hasn't talked about it to me much, of course, but said it was ‘all right'. I went down to the shops and called Tassie the next day on his mobile and he said it had gone well and they were working on him. I hope that means getting Dad to go over there. I really think it would be so wonderful for him to go with his mates. So what do you make of all this, then?

What indeed, thought Sandy as she skimmed through the last bit of the email dealing with domestic trivia. What a train of events Tom had started. She didn't believe her father would make a trip to Vietnam, but at least it seemed he was talking about the war. She'd never known him to go out for a beer with his mates from those days. Anzac Day was just a public holiday, a day to stay at home or work in the car yard. Sandy sent a quick email to her mother saying she thought it all sounded great and to keep her in the loop.

It was a torpid, still mid morning. The street was quiet. Ho had gone to the markets for some last-minute fresh items for the lunch menu. There was only an elderly man with coffee and cake reading his newspaper in the cafe.

Sandy took a coffee outside to sit in the sun and think about all this news. The idea of her father coming to Vietnam, with his hatred of the war, was hard to adjust to. And the thought that she might have to accompany him to the reunion made her uncomfortable. And she thought he'd feel the same.

But then she started thinking about her dad visiting Saigon. She began to think of nice places in the city to take him. She didn't know if he'd ever been there. If he was at Long Tan he must have known Vung Tau. Did he have any pleasant memories of Vietnam at all? She suspected he wouldn't want to come to Hanoi, which was a shame as she loved this city. But the north had been identified as enemy territory so it might be hard for him to cope with that. God, the idea of taking her father around today's sophisticated Saigon would be an eye-opener for him.

She felt a stir of pleasure – this could be a chance for her to get close to him, share things, talk about, well, whatever. She had no illusions of him talking about his war experiences or the two of them madly bonding like they'd been to some therapy group. But it would certainly be a change. And this Tassie Watts sounded like he knew what he was doing. Sending the chaplain to see Dad. Good one.

A car pulled up outside and the occupants emerged, walking purposefully into the cafe. The two men wore outfits of deep olive green and dark glasses. Sandy assumed their outfits were uniforms, but none that she recognised. They had sophisticated communication gear hanging off leather belts and wore solid boots. There was some sort of logo on their shirt pockets. The cloth badge had a rearing tiger and some initials around it that meant nothing to her, and their peaked hats looked a cross between those of the police and the military. They took the table nearest the kitchen door.

Sandy approached them, smiled and asked in English if they wanted to see the menu.

‘Coffee.' They sat on the edge of their chairs, not taking off their sunglasses or hats.

Sandy asked if they wanted local or American and then went in the kitchen where the waitress was working. She put the small cups with condensed milk in the bottom ready for the thick local coffee in its small drip percolator and wondered who the two men were.

One of them was now standing at the doorway looking into the street. The other glared at the elderly customer, who got up and left. Sandy asked the man at the table if they wanted something to eat.

He shrugged. ‘We no come for food. We come for payment.'

Sandy looked at him blankly. ‘Payment? What for?'

‘Security. Monthly security. Mr Barney pay every month.'

‘Oh. Of course.' The protection pay-off or whatever Barney paid these goons for. ‘I thought Barney said he'd paid. He's away, you know.' She continued to speak in English as she tried to remember what Barney had told her. The seated man called to his partner in Vietnamese, ‘The owner is away. We can double the price for this girl.'

The other man strolled back and sat at the table, giving Sandy a demanding look. ‘You bring money. Then coffee.'

Sandy went to Barney's small alcove office where he'd put the money for these payments. A pile of dong secured by a rubber band was in a plain envelope. She went back to the table, annoyed that her knees were starting to shake and wishing Ho was back. She put the envelope in the middle of the table.

‘I'll get the coffee.' She returned and put the two coffees on the table.

The envelope had gone. The first man spoke with some anger. ‘That not correct money.'

‘That's what Mr Barney paid,' she said firmly.

He shook his head. ‘Price go up. Security more expensive now.'

Sandy heard the scrape of a chair as someone sat at an outside table. ‘I'm sorry. I don't have any more money. This is not my business. I have given you everything Mr Barney said to hand over.'

One of the men lifted the coffee drip off his cup and began stirring the thick coffee. ‘Some American dollars then.'

‘No. I don't have American dollars.' She heard someone come into the cafe behind her. Another customer, thought Sandy with relief.

The top man leaned forward and snarled in a low voice, ‘You get American dollars. We come back.'

Sandy knew they were taking advantage of her and if she didn't make a stand they would keep harassing her. Moreover, she didn't want to set a precedent that would mean Barney had to keep paying. More boldly than she felt, she said, ‘Can I see your identification? What is your company?'

One of the men rose out of his chair. ‘You no ask questions.' He glanced behind Sandy and sat back down.

Sandy turned around to deal with the customer.

Jean-Claude was holding a menu. ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle. I would like something to eat.' He raised a questioning eyebrow.

Sandy smiled, guiding him to a table by the entrance. ‘Of course, let me tell you what we have on special today.'

‘Is everything all right?' whispered Jean-Claude. ‘What do those men want?'

‘Money. They're standover merchants. Let me deal with it.' She raised her voice and rattled through any dishes she could think of.