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  that stay open late.

  Further to the west side, estates line the lake.

  Large foreign hotels rise above the shore.

  Trúc Bạch Lake, people race around

  peddling artificial swans.

  I sit at my particleboard desk, beating my palms against my forehead. The oppressive humidity, bulging out the veins in my temples. You’re a shit writer, no better than the veneer finish peeling off this desk.

  I rip out the page from my notebook and crush it into the trashcan. The self-critic, asshole satisfied no one will ever read such shitty poetry.

  Thu Duong’s brown eyes beam at me off the cream-colored wall. It will take years for that photo of her to fade. I begin to write.

  She held her cheeks in her palms, while her lithe fingers framed her tan forehead. The wide smile on her face, excited at the sight of a cocker spaniel puppy. My trusty old Nikormat’s shutter catching the moment.

  We had been riding around West Lake on her Honda Cub 90cc motorbike, stopping along its shore to take photos of the magnolias in bloom. The white blossoms swayed in the afternoon breeze.

  I picked a flower from a branch and put it in the lapel of Thu Duong’s jacket. She laughed and grabbed another blossom, gently pulling the petals apart and tossing them into the air.

  The pen stops. Glimpses of sunlight come through the shutter. Daylight, an unwelcomed guest. I take a sip of vodka and draw the crimson drape.

  I am back on Hàng Gà Street, two years ago, freshly arrived in Hanoi, 2,500 dollars to my name, spying through the window of the antique shop next to my hotel an attractive girl with long wavy hair, who was reading a book.

  Hand-carved wooden hill tribe statues line the exposed brick wall. New Headways in her hand, she looks up and smiles. Feigning an interest in the wooden bric-a-brac, I walk into the shop and say, “Hi, I’m Michael.”

  Her eyes catching mine, she laughs. “My name is Thu Duong.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply as she grabs a chair for me, to sit down next to her.

  “I’m studying English. I want to speak good English.”

  Just the gateway I need. “Maybe I can help you. I just arrived in Hanoi and I want to learn Vietnamese.”

  “You help me, and I’ll help you.” She shows me the page she’s studying. Gerunds and infinitives, two interchangeable functions.

  I grab a pen and diagram the grammar. She practices and we do the book exercises together.

  After a few minutes, we switch roles, and she teaches me, Tên tôi là Michael. Tôi là một nhà thơ, không phải là một khách du lịch. Tôi sống ở Hà Nội.

  My name is Michael. I’m a poet, not a tourist. I live in Hanoi. It’s always good to know the essentials.

  6

  Another successful day of work is complete helping further the education of Vietnam. The foreign English teachers of Hanoi and Vietnam vow to spread English to the rich and those who want to be exploited by a foreign company.

  I take a sip of beer and look at Mair, the crazy Canadian Jew who drove all the way from France, through the Middle East, to Hanoi.

  “You guys are nuts. I wouldn’t date a Vietnamese woman,” he says looking over the balcony. “They’re psychopaths. You’d be better off meeting a nice French woman like I did.”

  Little Tom and I hold our beer and stare below, watching a group of Vietnamese women talk on the street. Their white áo dàis reflect the moonlight, as the candlelight flickers across the ceiling.

  It’s payday and we have a wad of đồng to spend. Little Tom, no doubt, has his mind on some whore, whereas Mair and I are content to save a bit of money.

  Life as an English teacher in Hanoi brings all kinds. Take Little Tom, he was teaching in Bangkok before he came to Hanoi. He claims he was in Bangkok for seven years, swatting away pussy.

  “At AUA, all the girls came on to all of the teachers. I had to beat the ugly ones away,” Little Tom smirks, licking his lips. “It was fun, too much fun. I had to get away.”

  His all-American tanned skin glowing red, he takes a sip of beer. “But Hanoi looks no different. There’s pussy everywhere.”

  “That’s your problem. It’s not the quantity of them. It’s the quality of the women that matters,” Mair says. “These women are heartless. They want a ring on their finger.”

  I take a sip of beer and watch the smoke from a citronella coil drift into the evening breeze. It’s easy for Mair to say these things. He drove a Range Rover with his French girlfriend, Marie, all the way from France to Hanoi.

  “At least Vietnam is better than Syria. The cops here only shadow you. In Syria we were detained for a bit and had to contact our consulates.”

  “That girl, Lieu, in my VTV class wants it,” Little Tom blurts. “I could easily stay in Hanoi, but my grandparents back in Florida haven’t seen me in ten years.”

  I try to not roll my eyes. Little Tom thinks every girl wants his perfectly coifed gelled hair. His grandparents are supposedly loaded, and he sees that as a way to get to grad school, to do a master’s degree in TESOL. He is in Hanoi because he is broke. He couldn’t even buy a ticket home.

  Teachers in Vietnam make the most money in all of Southeast Asia, and Little Tom is here to make some money, so he can go back home and beg his grandparents for more money. It takes all kinds to be here in Hanoi. I’m here because of the allure of the áo dài. No traditional dress, with maybe the exception of a kimono, has the same sensuality.

  Seeing a sliver of porcelain tan skin through an áo dài is enough to send a man to the nearest toilet, to jerk one out. It’s that bad. And forget about it when they open their mouth. The words sing out of their mouth, sending you to rapture.

  It’s why I’m here. I saw it first back in 1998 during the Asian economic crisis, when I bailed on my job in Korea for a month. After that, I took care of my grandfather while he was dying from emphysema and got myself a teaching certificate, so I could come to teach in Hanoi. My Jungian therapist said I read too much Vietnamese history and internalized it, making myself a Viet Minh warrior.

  7

  I hop off the back of the motorcycle taxi outside New Star, pay the driver his dollar and walk into the terra-cotta courtyard. A tall lanky guy in his mid-fifties with black hair parted on the side that sticks to his head like a short mop, stands next to the fishpond.

  “It must be Big Tom,” I chuckle to myself. Word has it that he’s out of the hospital from his motorbike accident. The way I see it is he’s lucky to have escaped with a dislocated shoulder and a couple of broken ribs.

  The story goes that he got drunk with Mark at some karaoke place and crashed his motorbike in a ditch on the way home. His wife back in Korea sent money to cover the hospital bill — a great way for a doctorate in theology to live — shagging whores, overseeing the language school in which he invested his wife’s money.

  God hath no fury like a “pious” Christian in a karaoke touch joint. Tom introduces himself and we shake hands and without warning or contextual clue, he launches into his “CIA” days.

  “I was dropped off at night along the Red River and I had to swim to West Lake. I was a frogman in the Navy, so I could do it,” he says in his Southern drawl, leaning against the raised blue and white tiled fishpond.

  I stand dumbfounded, rooted to the terra-cotta courtyard. My voice escapes me as I sense more bullshit coming.

  “I made it to Hanoi in a day and a half and lived off snails and fish I caught from West Lake. The company wanted me to take reconnaissance photos of key installations.”

  I look at a few goldfish scurrying for food, trying to picture a big dumb white guy with pasty skin and gold-rimmed glasses, striving to make himself look inconspicuos in 1980’s Hanoi.

  “This was when we had to worry about the communist threat. I took the photos and sent the photo canisters up the Red River to a pick-up point.”

  At this point, I go with the flow. There is always a pathological liar everywhere I go. Back in
Korea, it was Tony with his constant revision of his life story. Here in Hanoi, I have Big Tom living off the profits of his wife’s pharmaceutical company. Life is grand, as a short stocky man walks out of the school into the terracotta-tiled courtyard, extending his blocky hand.

  “You must be Michael,” he says, shaking my hand. “I’m Mark Doyle.”

  “Nice to finally meet you. How was Brisbane?” I ask, letting go of his vice-like grip.

  “Not bad, mate. I got to see the little lady and the family. A welcomed relief.”

  “It must be difficult living away from them,” I say, looking around taking stock.

  His light blue shirt tucked into his pleated dark gray trousers with brown penny loafers scream day laborer turned businessman. His cube-like face is framed by closely cropped salt and pepper hair. A former rugby player for sure, his cheap cologne, no doubt picked up at duty free, radiates throughout the whole courtyard.

  “It never gets easier. Luckily, the school keeps me busy,” he replies adding unnecessary diphthongs to his words. “I see you met Tom. He’s going to help me run the school. Business is expanding and we’re going to need all the help we can get. You’ve come on board at a good time. There’ll be a lot of work for you.”

  “Good.” I keep my best straight face. “I’m looking forward to helping the school grow.” Standard stock for situations like this. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

  “I’m glad to have a man like you. Rick tells me you had a run-in with Atlas, too.”

  “Yeah. They offered me no support in getting my work visa after my tourist visa expired,” I reply, reliving the hour-and-a-half shaky bus ride, past all the farms and rice paddies, out to the airport. “I had to go to Noi Bai immigration to try to find the correct copy of my arrival card. Noi Bai gave me some Swiss guy’s card and I couldn’t change visa status without my proper card. Needless to say, I spent a day at the Noi Bai immigration office with no results.”

  “That sounds about right. You won’t have to worry about that here. We have better connections with immigration.”

  “Glad to hear that. In the end, I had to leave the country to get a new arrival card to start the process over again. Atlas refused to compensate me for my troubles and I quit.”

  “What a mess, mate. Now that I’m back, we’ll have to have a work party.”

  And with that, Mark and Big Tom strap on their helmets and take off on their motorbikes.

  “Must be nice to live off your Korean wife’s money.” Drew laughs from the opposite side of the courtyard. “You can end up being a CIA frogman in karaoke touch places.”

  “Too right. Looks like Mark has a pal to sanctimoniously worship the Good Lord with.” I shake my head. “I guess there is nothing better than running around with young girls fresh off the farm, painted in make-up and fake eyelashes.”

  Hanoi has more facets than a diamond. Scratch below the surface and you’ll find an existential maze.

  English teachers come and go within three months. Either hiding from something back home, damaged or stuck here after their money ran out, they play the game, earn money and move on, and those of us who fail to fit into those categories stay for a while and try to grow roots, learning the language and culture.

  It’s neither easy nor difficult. A personal Vietnamese teacher to teach intonation and an English/Vietnamese dictionary gets you places fast, and a nest egg of cash gives you freedom to not work for months at a time. It is neither here, nor there — it is all at once in your face — in bars at night avoiding the nightly 11 p.m. curfew when windows get shut, curtains get drawn and stereos get turned off. Then we all become quiet for the longest fifteen minutes of the day.

  The cops know everyone is hiding in the bar, holding their drinks, and the bar staff knows a few dollars will keep the cops away.

  It is the charade we go through every night. Some people think they are here to help develop Vietnam, getting chauffeured across the country in Mercedes sedans and Land Rovers. Others think they are here to keep up diplomatic relations with Vietnam, and the rest of us teach English with no hope or goal other than to move on someday.

  Sprinkle in some backpackers and a few other people who own businesses, and you get the picture. A small confined world of con artists in a bigger world of suspicion, bribery and corruption. No different than anywhere else — you can go around the whole world and find nothing except yourself in the end.

  The constant is you and your perceptions. Nothing will change that. All the NGO workers will go to bed knowing they are a fraud. All the English teachers will go to bed and know they are a fraud, while all the backpackers will go to bed, knowing they are a privileged fraud.

  8

  “Do you know if ten CDs for a dollar is a good price? I think she’s trying to rip me off,” a grungy blonde-haired backpacker says, looking towards me as I drink my morning coffee at a café in the Old Quarter.

  I shrug my shoulders in indifference. The truth is I hope he gets ripped off. He's here on a holiday from some Western country, and this poor Vietnamese woman is trying to put food on her table, selling pirated pop CDs to dumbass tourists.

  The voices swirl in my head as I sip my coffee. Vietnam and North Korea vow to increase bilateral ties. “Do you know how to get to One Pillar Pagoda?” The workers committee of Haiphong have vowed to increase production of canned fish.

  It never changes — a new group of dreadlocked backpackers have hit town, asking asinine questions, and the Vietnam News is not worth the paper it is printed on.

  Every city has a soundtrack if you listen closely enough. Past the roar of the motorbikes, life moves as it has for millennia. Wiry women in conical hats balance baskets — a long piece of wood stretches across their shoulders tethering rope — selling fruit, vegetables and nuts, while other women perch on street corners with cauldrons of steam, serving phở.

  A cacophony of bells and voices. Sinewy men pedal cyclos, delivering people and building supplies. Baguettes are sold off the backs of bikes for one thousand đồng each. The city thrives with every passing basket or bicycle.

  Shoeshine boys carry their small wood boxes into Bia hơis and restaurants. Dressed in dark gray slacks and striped button-down shirts, shuffling around in tan plastic shower sandals, they look for tourists and freshly arrived expats. One shoeshine for a dollar will pay for their food for the day.

  It all works somehow. Teenage boys and girls are lured from the countryside and taken advantage of. Carrying baskets, pushing bikes and shining shoes from dawn to sunset, they become hardened and grizzled, flopping at night against buildings or in crowded rooms. And against the odds, one or two break free, usually at the benefit of a Westerner.

  Mao has been in charge of office resources at New Star for a year. Handing out pens and photocopying for the school, he usually sits at the reception desk below the giant Star of Bethlehem logo next to Thu Nguyen, the pretty wide-eyed receptionist who entices prospective students.

  Mao used to hustle shoeshines all through the Old Quarter, sleeping in doorways at night. Now, he sharks pool and hustles some guy named Joe — a burly American guy who fancies young Vietnamese lads.

  Rumor has it, Joe helped Mark get out of a jam with a karaoke girl, while Mark’s wife and nine kids were still in Hanoi. Joe helped Mark get rid of the girl, and Mark agreed to take Mao on at New Star.

  As for Mark’s family, they’re back in Brisbane. His wife took exception to Mark shagging Chau and took the kids back to Australia. Somehow, they’re still married.

  The things you learn drinking beer in Hanoi. You could fill a book with them and get yourself out of any jam. The problem is, everybody has dirt on everybody.

  Take me for instance. I’ve become numb — I go to fictitious barbershops, where girls wear áo dàis, for rub-n-tugs and ten-dollar blowjobs.

  It’s a maddening beauty. All the tree-lined boulevards, yellow ochre and French villas bring you here. Then after a while, you become insular, trusting no one and every
one, hoping for something to keep you in Hanoi. No matter how long you’ve been here, you’ll never get the local price in any market. You get the expat price, which is still cheaper than the tourist price. A three-tiered system that always works in their favor.

  They hold the cards and we grasp at bottles of beer to numb our senses. Graft and bribery will get you everywhere, as long as you know someone in the party. The yellow star always burns brightest when there is money involved. Five dollars could get you access to a building, to place recording bugs.

  As long as they got a dossier on you, that’s all that matters. Until recently the locals couldn’t move to a new place without a relocation permit. Now, they get to vote for party candidate A or party candidate B in elections that are more than likely rigged.

  Scarlet and gold banners hang all around the city. Their message no different than the red, white and blue — have children, raise a family, buy a bunch of products you don’t need and let “us” do all the thinking for you.

  9

  Another day at New Star begins, trying to play the part of a teacher who cares. I hear a rumble coming from the edge of the school compound and see Mair in his olive-green Range Rover.

  He parked it there at the edge of the compound over a year ago when Mark hired him.

  The muffler is gone and thick gray exhaust bellows around the terra-cotta courtyard.

  Rumor has it there is a repair shop that has a muffler, but Mair is saving his money to buy a house in Vientiane. Laos is his end game. Hanoi is just a stop on his and Marie’s sojourn.

  I sit with envy next to the fishpond, watching the exhaust plumes. Other than saving some cash and travelling Cambodia and Laos, I have no plan at the moment.

  I fantasize about going to France. My ex-fiancée was there twice and was afraid of me going there. She said the French ladies would latch on to me. I don’t know; I’m not that attractive. A full beard, balding hair and a thin body, I’m not exactly a catch. The women here like me all right, but it’s difficult to tell if they are attracted to me or their fantasies of all the money I’m supposed to have.