Monsoon (36 page)

He ordered fried spring rolls and lotus tea and pretended to gaze into the street, ignoring the two men.

As Sandy passed their table to go into the kitchen, one of the men grasped her wrist. ‘You do as we say or we make trouble for this place.'

Sandy snatched back her arm and spoke loudly in Vietnamese. ‘No. There won't be trouble. If you are security, you are supposed to look after Mr Barney. He has been good to you and he has paid you.' She enunciated the last phrase emphatically and strode into the kitchen. Shaking, she grabbed her mobile and rang Jean-Claude. ‘What're they doing? Who should I call?'

He chuckled. ‘They're leaving. Didn't like the coffee, I guess.'

Sandy joined him as the car with the men sped away.

Jean-Claude kissed her on each cheek. ‘I'm impressed. Very bold of you to call their bluff. Did you give them any money?'

‘Just the regular payment that Barney told me to. They thought they could double the price and con US dollars out of me.' She sat down. ‘That was scary.'

‘You didn't look the least bit scared. Their faces were shocked when you rattled off all that Vietnamese. But still, you might want to keep an eye about in case they cause trouble.'

‘Oh, great. And just when Anna and Carlo are away too.' Ho poked his head out from the kitchen, letting her know he was back. ‘Did you really want spring rolls?'

‘No. But I will take the tea.'

‘What are you doing in Hanoi?' asked Sandy after she ordered tea and a strong coffee for herself. ‘How were Laos and Cambodia?'

‘Interesting. I've been investigating the status of the mangrove wetlands. During the 1990s, the investors from Thailand financed a black tiger shrimp aquaculture operation that devastated the mangroves. The giant ibis, among other wildlife, has almost disappeared. It's an example of poor farming practices we don't want to see repeated in Vietnam. So now I am moving to Hanoi for a while. I have a lot to do here in the north and I have to work with government officials – and that, as you know, takes time. But of course I will still have to travel down the coast. What are you up to? Where's Anna?'

‘She's gone to Halong Bay with her boyfriend. Of course, you don't know about Carlo! When we got back from Hue he was waiting for us in my flat. They've both been helping in the cafe. Anna loved Halong and thought Carlo might chill out and like it. But I'm doubtful.'

‘How could you not like such a magical place?' said Jean-Claude.

‘Carlo's more into business than sightseeing,' said Sandy.

They settled themselves at a table and Sandy filled Jean-Claude in on Carlo's surprise visit and his plans to export landscaping items to Sydney. The waitress put the tea and coffee down and gave Sandy a big smile. She had told Ho about Sandy and the standover men.

‘Jardinières. That could work, provided he has a good manager this end. What are Anna's plans?'

Sandy looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Go back to her public service job. I don't think marriage is an immediate option. I hope not.' She smiled. ‘You should have seen her the other night: she went to a function and wore an ao-dai. She looked stunning. Carlo was furious.'

‘That she looked beautiful? A jealous man is an insecure man.'

‘No, I think it was her flaunting her Vietnamese heritage. And he is probably insecure here,' said Sandy. ‘He just hates to lose control.'

‘Anna seems very compliant,' said Jean-Claude. From what Sandy had told him, Anna's boyfriend sounded a bit of an ass, but then, there was no accounting for the men some women chose to love. ‘Whereas you!' He grinned. ‘Chasing off the standover dogs. They went out of here with tails between their legs.'

‘Do you think so? I'm worried they'll be back with reinforcements or something.'

Jean-Claude touched her arm. ‘Don't be. They're young and full of bravado. They'll try it on other establishments on their beat. They're probably grateful there weren't other people in here to see them lose face. You aggressive western woman, you.'

They laughed, and Sandy relaxed and told Jean-Claude about the email from her mother.

‘It would be good if your father came here,' said Jean-Claude. ‘For you and for him.'

‘Don't think it's going to happen. Anyway, we'll see.'

‘I came over this morning to ask if you would come to dinner with me this evening. Or tomorrow, before I leave for the south.'

‘I'd love to,' said Sandy. ‘But I'll have to check with Ho. With Anna away I don't want to leave him understaffed.'

‘We could make it a late supper, after the kitchen has slowed down. Say around ten?'

‘How very European. Where did you have in mind? Not a lot of places stay open so late,' said Sandy.

‘I could cook for you. A cassoulet, some good bread, a nice wine.'

Sandy was curious about the place Jean-Claude had just rented. ‘Sounds wonderful. Give me the address and I'll come over.'

‘I also have tickets to a concert at the Opera House. But perhaps we can leave that for another time.'

‘That would be fantastic. You can't spend time in Hanoi and not go into that great building,' said Sandy.

Jean-Claude's apartment was in a complex that had been built in the style of the French-colonial era. A security gate in the wrought-iron fence opened onto a small tiled courtyard with topiary trees in brass pots on either side of the entrance. Sandy pushed the buzzer for apartment five and Jean-Claude's warm friendly voice gave her instructions about how to get into the lobby and then into a quaint iron-cage lift that swayed slowly upwards.

He opened the lift door and welcomed her with a kiss. ‘The elevator isn't speedy, but in keeping with the ambiance. This is rather a new building. It's heartening that there weren't too many hard feelings towards French architecture.'

‘It's just lovely,' said Sandy, taking in the understated but expensive elegance as she followed him down a carpeted hallway lit by two small, tasteful chandeliers.

As Jean-Claude flung open the door to number five, Sandy couldn't help stifle a gasp. ‘This is gorgeous. Are they all like this?' She glanced around at the all-white, airy living room, scattered with antique rugs, dark-blue sofas and a deep armchair covered in a rose chintz pattern. It was an open-plan apartment with the dining area to one side and a long granite bench top dividing off the modern kitchen. A hall led around a corner to the other rooms.

‘It's not huge by western standards but you know what apartment buildings are like in Hanoi: long and narrow. Interestingly, the builder–designer is from Hanoi and he lives in number three. Has the best view, of course. But I have a glimpse of the lake out there. Now, how about a glass of wine?'

‘The builder is Vietnamese? Who else lives in this building?' Sandy was staring at the walls, which were hung with an eclectic collection of paintings, and she noticed a lot of sculptures standing about on shelves and on the coffee table.

‘Mostly Vietnamese, but there is an attaché from the French embassy and an American couple. Some apartments are owned by companies. I assume most of my neighbours work for corporations or high-end companies. There's an intriguing woman downstairs, although she isn't here often. I think you've met her. Madame Nguyen, from Hoi An.'

‘She gets around! What do you think of her?'

They settled on the lounge in front of the bay window, which looked over the city.

‘She's smart, obviously, because she's rich and successful. She's into construction, got silk shops and dabbles in antiques. I saw a particular piece in a gallery and when I wanted to negotiate, she turned out to be the dealer.'

‘Did you get it?' Sandy glanced around at the many pieces of art.

‘Mais, non. She was too tough for me. But you, you're interested in ceramics? Why aren't you working in that field?' Jean-Claude asked bluntly.

Sandy settled into the scattered silk cushions, reached for her glass of wine and took a sip before answering. ‘I didn't want to be stuck indoors, cataloguing, doing dry stuff. At home the museum and gallery scene can be pretty suffocating. Petty and corrosive. Lots of infighting and having to suck up to potential donors and so on.' She shook her head. ‘Not for me. I wanted to travel.' She paused. ‘You're a bit of a collector,' she continued, waving an arm around the room.

‘Oh, I'm only an amateur. And not all of this is mine. Some of it comes with the apartment. But you can't live here and not be interested. There's so much visual culture in your face all the time.'

‘Do you know Rick Dale? He's a nice guy. Works as an art buyer for a New York gallery. He's the one who invited Anna to the Fine Arts Museum,' said Sandy.

‘In her ao-dai. I would have appreciated that,' said Jean-Claude. ‘I'd better see to the food. I hope you're hungry.'

‘I should be, it's late enough,' said Sandy cheerfully.

He laughed. ‘You Australians, you're so up front. In French society people play such games. In France you ask someone if they want something to eat or drink and they say no, thank you. So you ask again. No, no, I am fine, thank you. So you persist, please, do try, do have a little something. And they reluctantly say, well, if you insist, when they wanted it all along. Australians, when they ask if you want something and you say, no, thanks, that's it – they don't offer again.'

‘We don't play the game,' laughed Sandy.

‘At least you know where you stand. Come to the table. If you like, the guest bathroom is down there.'

Sandy washed her hands and peeped into the large bedroom, which looked rather masculine, and a small study that must have been the second bedroom. One wall was lined with crammed bookshelves. For a seafood man, Jean-Claude seemed very cultured.

They sat at the dining table and over dinner talked of many things. She learned about his family, what a matriarch his mother was and how she had taught Jean-Claude so much about the finer things in life.

‘My parents came from well-to-do families. My grandfather did well in Vietnam, although it was difficult for my mother when her parents lost everything and had to start over again back in France. She dislikes my being here trying to help farmers.'

‘We have that in common,' said Sandy. ‘My father hasn't ever said it directly to me, but he resents my being here too. Sees it as helping his old foe, I s'pose. I hope I don't ever get into such a closed mindset and refuse to be flexible and move on.'

‘That's something the Vietnamese have taught me,' said Jean-Claude softly. ‘Not to hold grudges. Let's have a nightcap.'

She helped him clear the table and they settled back on the sofa. He put some of his favourite CDs into the machine and they talked quietly, lapsing into companionable silences occasionally. Sandy told him about Carlo and Anna and her disquiet about Carlo being the right man for Anna. As he hadn't met him, Jean-Claude made no comment but listened carefully to all she had to say. Sandy felt at ease and comfortable with him. His arm was along the back of the sofa and she leaned against him. His soft voice with its seductive accent was like honey, soothing and mellow. She finally uncurled her legs.

‘I must go: it's late. I have to be at the cafe early in the morning.'

His arm dropped onto her shoulders and hugged her tighter. ‘If you must.' He nuzzled her ear. ‘It's been a delightful evening.'

‘It has been for me too,' said Sandy, turning to him as he lowered his head and kissed her gently. It was a tender kiss, not forceful, not demanding. They drew apart in the soft light from the corner lamp and she saw his slight smile and questioning eyes. She leaned forward and kissed him and this time his mouth was seeking and more urgent. She kissed him again and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him.

It felt natural and exciting. The thrill of passion shivered through her and she did not resist when he led her to the bedroom. She lost track of time as they explored each other, whispered, and surrendered to the sensations of abandonment in their love-making.

Afterwards he held her tightly and stroked her hair. ‘Spun gold, it's like sunshine on my pillow.'

Sandy glanced out at the lightening sky. ‘Daylight – I'd better leave.' She slipped out of bed.

‘Stay. I will take you back early. Sleep a little while; I'll wake you with coffee.'

Sandy pulled on her clothes. ‘No, no. Go to sleep. There's bound to be a fellow sleeping in his cyclo outside. I'll be fine.'

She couldn't explain it to him, but she did not want to stay. It felt too much of a commitment. She'd been down that track before. Giving herself over to falling in love. And the problem had always been that it was someone on the move, from another part of the world. A brief crossing of paths, different cultures, backgrounds and heritage. Both finding themselves for the moment in the same place, coming together, and deep down knowing it was just for now and not forever.

She wondered what it would be like to have a love affair based solely on sex, eating and existing from day to day – the basic things, finding food, shelter, warmth – without being able to communicate. That would simplify matters and strip things down to the essentials. And do away with the complications that arose from miscommunication, unfulfilled expectations, or the lack of commonality.

But then she thought back over the evening, how easy it had been talking with Jean-Claude, the comfortable, easy environment, the awareness that here was a man used to the better things in life and yet who was equally at home in the rougher, rural parts of the country.

Somehow she'd associated Jean-Claude's family connection with the seafood industry as being a bit coarse – rough fishermen, smelly boats and tough characters, not above acting dangerously or provocatively to achieve their ends. But he wasn't like that at all. He appreciated culture. He was a citizen of the world.