New Star Page 3

  Take Mair, he left Canada when he was a teenager and moved to France and worked a slew of jobs before he settled into teaching. Ten years older than me, tan skinned with short brown hair, he practices karate and takes care of himself, something I should learn how to do.

  Other than the booze and drugs, I have nothing going for myself. But, does anyone ever really have anything going for themselves? We spend our whole lives chasing the illusion we keep of ourselves, the ideal person and the ideal situation. Then we die, and it doesn’t matter at all.

  What matters is what is here and now.

  “I ain’t going to Goa.” Alabama 3 swirls around in my earphones. “Ain’t to Goa now.”

  If there is one thing I know, I don’t want to be smoking hash and dancing to techno on some third-world beach. No full moon party, no techno raves for me. I’ve embraced my misanthropic journey.

  Go ahead and laugh. People are just illusions chasing the accepted illusions of religion, love, war and politics. Consciousness expansion requires inward retrospection. No amount of peace and love will solve the world’s problems until you have embraced yourself.

  10

  Hung a tall intelligent guy with pockmarked cheeks and wire-rimmed glasses, stands in front of the classroom surveying the emotionless faces of his classmates.

  “The Degar people deserve their own country. They’re not Vietnamese. They’re their own people,” he says and glances at his notes. “They’re ethnically different. The Central Highlands is not Vietnam’s land.”

  He pauses and gazes at the map of the Central Highlands he drew on the whiteboard.

  “If the Degar people separate from Vietnam it will be good for democracy. The rest of us in Vietnam will start to question the government.”

  Silent, I monitor the class, glancing at the students’ faces, looking for signs of disapproval. None to be found, I place my index finger vertically over my lips, then point my finger up to the ceiling and to the corners of the classroom. There could be bugs here. Government officials regularly come to the school to “inspect” its credentials and our credentials as teachers.

  I put nothing past them, and I worry about Hung speaking his mind. Students, in general, are more outgoing and more daring to speak about controversial subjects in a second language.

  “The Montagnards are the original people of Vietnam. They are not Mọi. Our government has no right to view them as savages. They had all the coastal land centuries ago, before the Cham took over their land and forced them into the highlands. The class continues to look surprised. It is not every day your EFL classroom turns into a history lesson.

  Hung takes a breath, seeing all eyes on him. The eight other students motion for him to continue.

  “Even the French saw Degar as its own country. They made borders in 1946 and called the area Pays Montagnards du Sud Indochinois. There were over three million Degar people then. Now, there are only a few hundred thousand.”

  Still examining the classroom for bugs, I sit in my chair at the head of the class and watch Hung.

  “Our government, since they won the war in 1975, has been committing genocide on the Degar, killing them and torturing them. We’re no better than the Americans, Khmer or Australians, who killed their native peoples.”

  There you have it, folks. Genocide can take place without the public being aware. A holocaust can be whitewashed and thrown under a rug, all in the name of socialization or reeducation.

  “The FULRO fighters were correct to fight our government. They deserve their own country, and we deserve our own country with the freedom of speech.”

  Hung stops and wipes the sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief from his pocket. What was said in the classroom could get us into trouble. But it needs to be said. People should not live aloof, in fear of who hears what they say.

  The secret police come to my neighborhood once a month when I’m at work. They talk to my neighbors, asking about my behavior and what I have done.

  My neighbors, all stand-up people, have to say something. They can’t say Michael is a good guy, we don’t see anything bad. So, they lie and tell small tales.

  I know this from my neighbor, Cong, a middle-aged guy who works at a marketing firm. He took me out one night to the local Bia hơi. And over a few beers, steamed peanuts and quail, he told me about the police coming to the neighborhood to get information about me.

  “We can’t just say anything. We have to say something they want to hear,” he said, with an anxious look. “That’s why we have problems talking to you at the end of the month.”

  My neighbors, for three weeks, are the nicest people, inviting me into their homes for dinner. And for one week, they act like I am invisible. I understand. I told Cong that, and he was relieved.

  It is the way of life. It is no different because I am a foreigner. The communist government has based their “society” on snitches.

  Chu Nguyen spent twelve years in a reeducation camp all because someone snitched on him teaching classical economics. Everyone has a dossier on them. Mine probably says, “He likes to drink, pick up whores and write bad poetry. In addition, he enjoys talking to shady characters who linger outside the expatriate bars.”

  It is the way it goes. When the secret police are not trying to get a snitch, they are following you. Or, so Steve says, as he claims to have been followed around Hanoi multiple times.

  I fear nothing, yet I fear everything. All it takes is someone seeing me hand a wad of đồng to a shady character in a dark alley, in exchange for a small package of opium or weed, wrapped neatly in newspaper. The Vietnam News would finally have a headline not related to Vietnam securing bilateral ties with some other dubious nation.

  English teacher from the United States arrested for buying drugs off the street. Corrupt trial to follow soon.

  A life sentence in jail is something I would rather not experience. At least I can get paracetamol/codeine effervescent tablets at the pharmacy. A codeine-laced vodka and juice is always handy when you become paranoid, feeling you are being followed.

  It happens more times than not and when it happens you avoid shady characters for a few days. I don’t know. Drugs seem essential here. Without them, my head would be on a swivel, full of paranoia, looking for snitches and people following me.

  11

  It is Sunday in Hanoi. Every available open space has a badminton net strung across it. People, rackets in hand, chase shuttlecocks and send them back and forth across the net. Shouts of joy and laughter fill the air. Countless winners and losers shake hands throughout the day as I stroll along the chaotic streets full of motorbikes.

  It is the only day off work for many of us. English teachers, mostly work six days a week during the evenings. An easy life for sure, we’re lucky to be making a good living.

  The average Vietnamese worker pulls in about three hundred dollars a month, while an English teacher working eighteen hours a week brings home easily over a thousand dollars a month. We can easily save money without trying all because we happen to be from countries where the first language is English.

  People all across the city work their asses off all day long, while I pretend to work for a few hours a day, feigning interest in improving Vietnam’s English ability.

  Ripped sinewy construction workers haul large bags of cement over their shoulders into three-story concrete skeletons and spend their evenings at construction sites, cooking over open fires.

  The smell of burning wood billows as they prepare their sleeping quarters in the musty, damp unfinished first floor. The divide is unfathomable, all because I carry an American passport.

  Though sometimes I buy a bottle of cheap vodka and give it to the construction workers in my neighborhood. It is usually accepted with smiles and a series of thank-you’s. A couple dollars out of my pocket is nothing. I’d give them opium if I could, as all pain should be numbed.

  On the corner of Tran Quang Khai and Trang Tien, two dodgy-looking guys wearing baseball
hats smoke cigarettes and squat, watching two black fighting cocks flap up and down, trying to peck at each other. The one with a majestic plume of golden feathers around its neck takes to the air, digging its claws into the scarred torso of the other cock. A few shouts and some money is thrown down by a couple of onlookers, as the beaten-up cock gathers itself and entangles its green feathered neck around those majestic golden feathers of the other cock.

  They then proceed to jab each other with their beaks, dancing around in a circle. The onlookers gather up the pile of money and distribute it accordingly, while the two dodgy guys separate the cocks.

  I keep on walking towards the Opera House. Girls wearing áo dàis zoom by, sitting side-saddle on the back of their boyfriends’ motorbikes, while other girls wearing Western clothes, sit normally on the back of motorbikes, locking their arms around their boyfriends’ chests.

  The yellow ochre French architecture and large green leaves swaying in the breeze sends a smile across my face. Two years in Hanoi with no aim or ambition except to stay out of the United States — I lessen my stride and gaze up at the big cumulous clouds. Mike Bishop, lover of man and beast alike, Arturo Bandini would be proud.

  The pit bull extracted from my chest; Hanoi, you city of dust and beauty, I ask for nothing. Everything is both here and now.

  Life is here, in the marrow that goes through my bones. In every man or beast alike, it will never go away as long as you plant your feet on the ground and accept the black asphalt and the large fronds that fall to the ground.

  12

  Little Tom has convinced me to go out for a night of fun. I’m on the back of his motorbike, scurrying through traffic on Au Co Boulevard. Constantly on and off the throttle, he keeps to the right, looking for some place he frequents often.

  “It’s up here,” he says leaning his chin over his right shoulder.

  I could care less where it is. I only wish he would watch where he is going. People and other vehicles have a habit of appearing out of nowhere, and I don’t want to become road kill.

  You’ll never catch me driving in this town, where the only rule that seems to apply is the biggest vehicle always wins. Call me a pussy — I’d rather let other people play chicken on the roads.

  The bike slows down as Little Tom downshifts into a parking area in front of a large two-story building. Horns flare, motorbikes and large trucks zoom by.

  Little Tom stops the bike and I climb off, finding myself surrounded by girls wearing áo dàis. A whorehouse. Fuck!

  “It should be a fun night. Which one you going for?” Little Tom dismounts from the bike, placing his helmet on his handlebars.

  “Seriously?” I ask. “A true man whores alone. Only college boys go whoring together.”

  Little Tom looks at me stunned. “Come on. It’ll be fun.” His face gaining blood and excitement as he tries to slap the bum of a whore.

  I flag down a Xe Om. Little Tom becomes a blurry dot, as the motorbike taxi maneuverers into the traffic. A mixture of soot and exhaust chokes up my lungs, as Little Tom completely disappears.

  If you are going to go whoring, you should do it alone and treat the girls better than you would any other woman. They have a shitty job, and the last thing they need is a bunch of knuckleheads partying.

  Off the motorbike walking through the Old Quarter, the reverb of an electric guitar echoes. A straggly middle-aged man walking with a guitar strums the chords of “Rider in the Sky,” followed by a boy holding his portable amplifier and a money basket. A few crumpled-up bills lie in the basket, as I toss in 15,000 đồng. A dollar isn’t much, but it will at least get them a meal.

  I continue down the narrow street along the open sewer. Green water carries broken leaves and bits of paper to the drain. Gray clouds obscure the crescent moon, as streetlights begin to turn on one by one.

  Shopkeepers roll down stainless steel doors and the dusk crawls onward like a wounded animal. A staccato of horns blare, while red brake lights dot the incoming darkness.

  Free of Little Tom’s attempt at bonding, I walk into the Labyrinth and order a beer. Clinton’s “People Power in the Disco Hour” plays on the stereo. I tap Drew’s shoulder.

  “I see your fun with Little Tom is over,” he laughs.

  “It was over before it began. He tried taking me to a whorehouse.”

  “It’s hard to teach a dog new tricks. I’m sure he’s missing whoring around with his pals in Bangkok.”

  I take a sip of beer. The carbonation causes me to belch — one bad taste is traded for another.

  13

  Back home at my desk, vodka and codeine cocktail in hand, I swish a few ice cubes around my glass staring at the cream-tiled floor. The smoke from my last hit of weed lingers in the moist air spiraling upwards through the lemon hue of the incandescent light, towards a murky darkness.

  My mind ceases to function in the present moment, and I see myself standing back on Hàng Gà Street.

  Winter’s mist hangs above the city, not wanting to leave. I meet Thu Duoung outside the antique store. Her smile brings light to a dreary day.

  “Let’s go to Trúc Bạch Lake. I made nem cua bể for lunch.”

  I hop on the back of her motorbike, jokingly sitting sidesaddle.

  “You’re not a woman,” she laughs.

  I straighten my legs and rest my feet at the sides of the motorbike as Thu Duong takes off into the hustle and bustle. Other motorbikes and the occasional car zoom by. Horns tweet and honk.

  The gray light makes the pastel colors of all the architecture vibrant. The sudden thought of forgetting my camera envelops my mind, but it is soon replaced by the splendor of Thu Duong’s hair whipping behind her. Its fragrant smell...straight to my loins.

  Months have gone by like this. Not a kiss or a hug. The company is always welcomed and mutual. She doesn’t want to think or talk about Phu, her boyfriend, who she reluctantly stays with.

  An IT worker for the government, he electronically spies on her. I got her in trouble once for sending her an email when I was on holiday. Phu monitors all her online activities, as I’m sure he monitors a bevy of other people’s activities.

  Nothing can change that and nothing will until I put a ring on her finger. It is the game we play. I hope she changes her mind and she hopes I see all her indirect requests.

  To say Hanoi is conservative would be an understatement. Weeks of pent-up sexual frustration are taken care of in the dark night with uneducated girls from the countryside in fictitious barbershops.

  I laugh to myself, holding on to the motorbike. How life could be different if I had chosen to live in Saigon, that bastard child the commies can’t control. Day and night the saga goes.

  Up ahead, Trúc Bạch Lake comes into view, and Thu Duong maneuvers her motorbike into the parking area. We dismount from the bike and Thu Duong lifts the seat, grabbing a small basket wrapped in red and white plaid cloth.

  The weathered pinkish gray tile of the lakeside dissolves back to the cream tile of my room. A few loud honks of a motorbike echo up the narrow street. A burst of orange sunlight slips through the crack in my drapes. The morning has already started. I take a hit of weed and see the evenly spaced tiles of my room dissolve into the din of a slow locomotive.

  Rice paddies follow industrial buildings and industrial buildings follow rice paddies, never quite catching up to the narrow gauged French railroad tracks. Dressed in my cheap Armani knockoff suit I had tailored in Bangkok, I look out the window and at Thu Duong.

  Her light green dress hugs the slight curves of her body. A band of white lace highlights her pert breasts, as the hiss of the brakes jostles the car. Vendors in conical hats hawk their goods along the gray slate platforms of Haiphong Station.

  The yellow-ochre colonial building, a beehive of activity, gives way to a small asphalt square. We hop in a taxi, weaving through swarms of motorbikes that dart and swerve to avoid people crossing the busy streets. Signs and awnings jut off boxlike buildings that hastily lin
e the pavement.

  The clamor of horns creates an avant-garde symphony of dissonance. No matter how large or small the city, a raucous chaos of commerce ensues.

  Getting out of the taxi, the thick humid air sticks to my skin. Gaudy white archways give contrast to the ochre walls of the wedding hall. An older man greets us and leads us into an atrium with a terribly designed neoclassical chandelier. Hundreds of electric candles hang above twirling diamond-cut crystals. The yellow light accentuates the high white ceiling full of rectangular inlays.

  We sign the guestbook and take a seat in the rococo-styled ballroom. Tiny gold fleur de lis stand out on the cobalt-blue carpet. I try not to look down and instead look at Thu Duong, all dolled up for her friend’s wedding.

  The token Caucasian, I’m here to give the newlyweds some cachet. Thu Duong holds my hand; she’s tired of Phu, fond of the attention of being with me.

  The bewilderment of repressed sexuality and locked-up conservatism hits me in the face. I gaze at my empty glass and continue to see myself months ago in Haiphong, shaking hands, greeting all Thu Duong’s friends in stilted English and Vietnamese. The days go by without rhyme or reason. We’re all fools on a grand stage with no director in sight.

  The poems I write attempt to keep me from this thought. Armed with a disjointed series of memories, we stumble through life thinking we know best, basing decisions off past actions and past inactions. More orbits around the sun, more lost hair, more lost cells, our self now is better than our self of years ago. That’s what we are led to believe; however, if you cut yourself open you won’t find any memories — just flesh, bone and marrow.