Lotusland

By David Joiner

Nathan Monroe is a 28-year-old American living in Saigon who falls in love with a poor but talented Vietnamese painter. When he fails to protect their love from her desperate chase for a better life in America, his safety net appears in the form of Anthony, an old domineering friend in Hanoi who hires Nathan at his real estate firm. Only much later does Nathan discover that Anthony has intended all along for him to take over his job and family so that he, too, can escape and start his life over in America. Lotuslanddramatizes the power imbalances between Westerners living abroad and between Westerners and Vietnamese -- in love and friendship, in the consequences of war, and in the pursuit of dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica
• Release date: May 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781550719314

Book preview

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

One

Nathan tossed and turned on the hard lower bunk of his sleeper-class room. He peered at his cell phone; it would take 30 more hours to reach Hanoi. He was struck by how things were always a long wait for him. Nothing was simple, and whatever seemed certain had a way of being turned on its head without warning.

The sound of the train was low and whooshing, like the winds of a relentless rainstorm. Whenever the train pulled into a station the lull of stillness became just as loud, howling inside him, heightening his restlessness.

Lying there, discomposed by his companions' snores, a premonition of endless night took hold of him. Unable to stand it, he left the room.

In the passageway a young man sat on a stool with his face buried in a copy of the Army Newspaper. There was nowhere else to sit, though Nathan did see, at the end of the last train car he was in, that the door was open and led to a small platform.

He stepped outside and sat down. The night was cool and full of starlight. With his legs dangling over the edge he watched a mosaic of moonlit fields emerge from a tangle of trees now receding on both sides of the track.

Nathan turned around at the sound of someone approaching the platform door. He was surprised to find a young woman with a train-issued blanket draped over her head. It was an odd way to wander through a train, and coming outside alone and as late as this piqued his interest. As she stood in the doorway considering the small space that Nathan occupied, or whatever was on her mind, he gestured for her to sit with him.

She tugged the blanket from her head and, when she slipped into a shaft of moonlight, her hair appeared as pink as a rose.

Her age was hard to guess, though she was young, between 20 and 25. The more he looked at her hair the more its shape came to resemble that of a rosebud: it enfolded her face so that the ends nearly met beneath her chin.

She wore loose-fitting pajamas and tatami sandals. She asked him for the time — Trới ơi, mệt quá . . . Bây giớ là mẫy giớ rồi? Her pronunciation — z's in place of y's and r's; ch's in place of tr's — was lilting and feminine, yet distinctly northern. There was something almost startling about the Vietnamese she automatically used, and it pleased him that she would.

He pulled out his cell phone and saw it was just after two. Hai giớ rỒi.

Hai giớ hἀ?

The northern accent was easier for him because it distinguished more between sounds. Yet there was something cold and hard about the northern way of speaking, a wintry almost martial quality. But maybe it was only Hanoi's chill weather and thick cloud cover that bled the color from the streets, buildings, even the clothing of the people, and made him feel this. For there was something warm and inviting about this pink-haired young woman.

What are you doing out here? he asked.

I came outside to get a phone call. She rubbed her eyes. Under the dark sky he couldn't tell if she was merely tired or had been crying. Why are you out here?

He didn't feel like explaining his insomnia. I can't sleep on trains.

They were silent a moment watching their knees sway back and forth. He pushed himself backwards until he leaned against the wall.

Going to Hanoi? she asked.

Yes.

Why didn't you take a plane?

I must have forgotten I can't sleep on trains. Where are you going?

Same as you.

Watching her yawn into her hand, he asked if she lived there.

She shook her head, finishing her yawn. I live in Saigon. But I'm moving to America.

Her plan to move to America stirred his curiosity. Why are you going to America?

To make a life for myself. She turned away as if his interest made her uncomfortable.

It occurred to him that she had notably large eyes — like an infant's, he thought. She was as disarming as anyone he'd ever met and he found her alluring.

Are you married? she said, turning back to him.

Nathan held up his ringless hands.

From out of nowhere the train came upon a crossing. Two streetlights stood opposite one another and bathed yellow a strip of stony dirt. An old man in a dark green uniform pulled a lever to lift the safety cross on each side of the railroad.

You should go back to your room, the girl said. If your girlfriend wakes up, she'll worry you're not there.

Her clumsy attempt to learn if he was alone amused him. Maybe her snoring keeps me awake.

She lifted her thin eyebrows and glanced down the corridor. It's late. I'd better go back myself.

What about your phone call? When she didn't answer he said: In that case, why not keep me company a little longer?

It's late, she said again. She bid him goodnight and disappeared through the doorway.

The blue night suddenly telescoped, reduced to a receding square: a window onto a dream fading rapidly into nowhere. He grew colder in the chill night. For a moment he felt like he was traveling away from life itself. But in the next moment the feeling passed. He saw that the train had only entered a tunnel.

A high metallic wailing began to echo off the tunnel walls; a moment later utter darkness curtained everything he'd just passed through.

I thought you couldn't sleep on trains.

Nathan awoke to find the pink-haired girl placing a bowl of instant noodles beside him, followed by two small bananas. She'd changed clothes and wore an old knee-length skirt and t-shirt with a faded Đông Hồ painting of carps across the chest. Gold Chinese lettering cascaded down the side and sparkled in the clear morning light.

It took him a moment to realize she'd spoken in English. Behind her, sunshine stabbed through mists that encircled the jagged mountains.

You brought me breakfast? he asked.

You missed the delivered meal. This is better, anyway. Go ahead and eat, I'll be right back.

Stretching to break up the stiffness he felt from sleeping all night with his back against the wall, he looked over the other side of the platform. Broken rocks lined the tracks, and between there and the near rice fields were ditches of stagnant water. It was a miracle he hadn't tumbled off in the middle of the night.

He pulled out his cell phone to see the time, and noticed that his old friend, Anthony, had sent him a pre-dawn message. Big week coming up. Not sure how much time I'll have for you in Hanoi.

The message was not what Nathan wanted to hear. While his trip north was the best chance they'd had in three years for a reunion, Nathan also wanted to ask him for a job. He'd been preparing for several weeks to approach him about this.

Over the last few months, the focus of their correspondence had been on the money he owed Anthony. In his last e-mail, however, Anthony mentioned that his wife, Huong, wanted him to forgive Nathan's debt. Of course, you and I both know her idea is ridiculous, Anthony had written. I guess that's just the not-yet-dead embers of a first love speaking.

The pink-haired girl returned with tea. Steam peeled off the cup and thinly veiled her face as she set it beside the bowl.

A Lipton bag bulged at the bottom of the cup. Swirls of orange rose from it like something being pumped. He was conscious of a pleasant tightness in his chest.

Thank you. He reached for his money but she stopped him.

It's my treat. When he hesitated, she told him to eat before his food got cold.

She sat next to him as he ate.

Your English is excellent. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised, considering you're going to America.

She only smiled and raised her head to watch the passing scenery.

The breeze buffeted her hair; it fluttered about her eyes until she tucked it behind her ears. He imagined it airy and soft in his fingers, like the fringe of a silk scarf. As he thrilled over the prospect of touching it — absurd though the fantasy was, he wondered why she colored it. The Vietnamese language had so many ways to describe the beauty of black hair, he couldn't imagine why she'd turn it pink. The more he thought about it, he wondered if perhaps it were a wig. And why a wig unless she was hiding something, like a hideous scar or disease? But it was too morbid a thought; and besides, pink hair fit her.

I like your hair, he said in Vietnamese. It's like candy.

She laughed. Don't make fun of me.

I'm not.

You speak Vietnamese like a Vietnamese, she remarked, turning his earlier compliment back to him. You must have a good teacher.

I've never had one. They cost too much.

She looked at him skeptically. "Then you must have a từ điển tóc dài: a long-haired dictionary. People say that's the best way to learn."

He shook his head again, not wanting her to get the wrong impression. Vietnamese girlfriends are even more expensive.

Again she laughed. But you're American. You never worry about money.

That's a common misconception.

What about your girlfriend?

He had to think back to last night's conversation. I said maybe I had a girlfriend.

Liar. She smacked his arm.

He peeled a banana. As he ate it, she peeled the other and set it before him in its own skin.

He followed her gaze to the passing countryside. The land here was divided into paddies: a deeper green than the rice fields in the south. Far from the tracks, farmers stood knee-deep in the muck, like thin stunted trees, fixtures in an unchanging landscape.

When he was done with the second banana he asked her name. But she either didn't hear him or didn't feel comfortable telling him. The train's movement gently rocked her as she continued to look into the distance.

Her abstractedness allowed him to study the sharpness of her jaw line and the high bridge of her nose. When his gaze fell to her lips, where a tremor passed as if trailing a thought, it stayed there.

You're from the north, he remarked, trying to draw her out. The term he used, quê hương, meant something like ‘home village.' Its connotations were stronger than the English word ‘hometown,' for Vietnamese roots ran much deeper than in America.

She turned enough that he could see her eyes. In them was a kind of wonder. How can you tell? From the way I speak?

I didn't guess it from your clothes and hair.

Last night when you first saw me, you must have thought I was strange.

Until suddenly you left, he wanted to say, I thought you were a gift. But he couldn't tell what she was after, so he tried to make a joke of it. I thought you were a . . . He stopped to recall the word ‘stowaway,' but all he could remember was that it involved a lot of words. . . . A deserter, he said instead, hoping to make her laugh. He carefully pronounced the words, as with these, too, he almost never had the chance to use them.

She smiled oddly and turned away again.

He thought he could smell the sea from here, an airborne brackishness so delicate that at first he mistook it for something sweet. Soon the near mountains fell away and his eyes took in a wide blue sea. They were approaching Hai Van Pass.

The sea heaved torpidly while gulls circled the shore like specks of torn-off cloud. Together they watched the swell of the sea roll toward them.

Have you had enough to eat?

Yes.

Good, she said getting up. I'll be back.

Once the clatter of her sandals in the passageway faded, a door slid open and shut, and then it was quiet.

He marveled at his interaction with her, whoever she was. The marvel came less from her having awakened him and brought him breakfast than from how comfortable she'd felt doing this, that it was all in the natural order of things. It gave him a sense that they'd long known each other and this was an established routine. The fact was, however, he knew nothing about her. He thought perhaps there was something the matter with him.

For the next hour he waited for her, but she never came back.

He felt the train slowing. Soon the view changed from nearly empty countryside to the cement homes and paved roads auguring a small town. The brakes squealed as the train pulled into a one-room station.

The station's yellow walls and orange roof-tiles glimmered in the crisp spring air. In the shadow of the sloping roof, several stands sold cigarettes, bottled water, and items wrapped in banana leaf.

At first the place seemed deserted, but then he spotted several vendors under a grove of pepper trees, dozing in hammocks. The bright noon sun seemed to have sapped their entrepreneurial spirit. As the train came to a halt, the vendors gathered up their goods and trudged across the platform.

The pink-haired girl stood in the vestibule waiting to alight. He watched her step down and glide across the platform. Propelled by his attraction to her, he followed her.

He headed for a drink-stand, keeping his eye on the vending area where the pink-haired girl was helping two elderly passengers sort through fruit. Her stillness in the presence of movement was a natural grace, he thought, like the sun shining through a midday downpour. The same could be said of her eyes, and the fresh, high color in her cheeks. It was something superior, an inborn quality he was certain she'd possess all her life.

The stand's matron came up to him. Not knowing English she smiled and pointed hopefully at a bottle of water.

I'll have tea, he said in Vietnamese. And a pack of chewing gum.

The matron quickly brought him a glass and a small pack of Doublemint, informing several passengers already seated there that he spoke Vietnamese. But Nathan only sipped his tea, ignoring what she said. He knew that if he responded she'd ask him questions and distract him from the pink-haired girl. The matron eventually wandered off.

The man and woman the girl was helping looked up and seemed to notice him, even seemed to start talking about him. Nathan glanced away, thinking it would do no good if they saw him staring at her. But such a beautiful girl, and with pink hair — surely it was normal for strangers to gaze at her from afar? Looking back, he saw a vendor take from the elderly couple a handful of custard apples and set them on a scale.

The pink-haired girl was now moving between tables of dragon-fruit only a shade or two darker than her hair. A moment later she disappeared into the crowd.

Left alone with his tea he began to think that, while there wasn't anything unusual in wanting to meet a girl, his determination to do so now was pointless. Nothing would transpire between them on a train, and he had little confidence that much would happen with both of them seeking to leave Saigon.

These days he found his confidence in short supply. In his own case, he'd spent months looking for ways to better his life. But it was more complicated than he'd imagined. It wasn't anything material he needed to jettison, but something else, something that oppressed him from within. There was no escaping the fact that his life had hit a dead end.

He knew that there'd be no way out if he didn't soon change his life. After seven years he hadn't pushed himself in any noticeable direction — and, until now, without a clear sense of time having passed. The fact was that, while he'd enjoyed himself in Saigon for more than half a decade, he hadn't particularly accomplished anything.

Do you want to be alone? The voice was familiar, and he realized then that someone stood beside him.

Nathan turned to find the pink-haired girl smiling down at him. At a loss for words, he gestured to the chair opposite him. Quickly composing himself, he called to the matron for another glass of tea.

Mind if I smoke?

Go ahead, he said. Smoke like you're on fire.

She asked the matron to bring a cigarette.

Her smoking surprised him. Normally, only prostitutes and foreign women smoked in Vietnam. The matron came over with tea and a pair of cigarettes on a plate. Once she'd set these down she fished in her pocket for a box of matches and handed it to Nathan. He put it on the plate and pushed it across the table. The girl lifted the plate toward him, offering him one, but he shook his head. She took a cigarette and turned it between her fingers.

Give me a light?

He picked up the matchbox, glancing at the picture on the cover: a white dove with a rose in its beak, flying through a cloudless sky. Stamped along the top were the words Reunification Matches. He fumbled with a match but eventually struck a flame. He held it out to her, cupped behind both hands.

When she'd lit her cigarette she leaned back and pushed her hair away from her eyes. Not a trace of black was visible, not even when the breeze picked up and exposed the roots. Again he wondered if she wore a wig.

Why do you have pink hair?

Smiling, she tapped some ash onto the ground. To be different, she said. And because it makes me happy.

She'd spoken enough English for him to determine she wasn't a prostitute. The cigarettes, he decided, were meant to impart sophistication.

Ask me something else.

Okay. Why didn't you come back last night after you said you would?

She brought her cigarette to her lips, which had formed a barely discernible smile at his question. I wanted my companions to know I was okay. Then I must have fallen asleep. Were you waiting for me?

You said you were coming back.

I didn't forget. I'm here, aren't I?

Sensing they were attracting the attention of fellow travelers, Nathan looked around. His eyes settled on the line of green, sun-beaten train cars. In half the windows, behind wire screens, Vietnamese faces casually observed them.

Who are you traveling with?

She pointed to the old couple eating custard apples in the shade of the station. They say I remind them of their daughter. Only she died a long time ago.

He wondered if this was why he found her sleeping at the end of the train last night. Does that make you uncomfortable?

Not at all. And anyway, they treat me kindly. Where are your companions?

I don't know.

She lifted her glass and swirled the tea leaves that drifted from the bottom. Clearing her throat, she set the glass down, tapping it against the table. Nathan saw she had something on her mind, but rather than draw her out he was content watching her build up to it. Her large, petaline eyes sparkled and her lips moved slightly as if practicing what she wanted to say. When she saw his bemusement, her face reddened and she straightened in her chair.

When will you return to Saigon? she said.

I'm in Hanoi for three days. I'll be back in Saigon after that.

When you return, can you teach me English? she said. When you're free, I mean. Just a few hours a week. Maybe we could meet at a café and talk.

The question was unexpected. I think you'd get more from a class than from me.

I don't have money for a class, she said. Nor could I pay you.

He smiled to himself, thinking it was always this way in Vietnam. He couldn't begin to count the number of times he'd been approached to teach English as a favor. Now, unlike his first few years in Vietnam, he followed Anthony's practice of doing nothing for free. But before he could raise an objection she went on.

If it's money you want, I understand. But I'm open to other arrangements . . .

Her last sentence and how she delivered it — her voice trailing off, as if too embarrassed to admit she was poor; looking down at her hands; her shy coquetry — aroused his interest. Such as?

You could teach me English and help me apply for a visa to America.

Given the assuredness with which she'd spoken of her plans, he was surprised she didn't already have a visa. Then again, he was used to meeting people who confused dreams with opportunity.

What's the rest of the arrangement? That's only half.

When she lifted her eyes he met her gaze head-on. Instead of paying you money . . .

She reached for the second cigarette and tapped it in her palm. Nathan struck another match and offered her its flame. As a cloud of smoke rose between them, she sat back, holding her cigarette to the side.

Maybe I could be your girlfriend.

Nathan blinked at her, thinking he'd been too quick to dismiss the possibility that she was a prostitute. He knew that a proposal like this meant sex. After all, what else could she offer when she knew him so little? In Vietnam there were no such leaps of faith — it was a practical arrangement, starting with the dearest thing she could offer.

Only when you're free, she emphasized. If you prefer money, I understand.

No, no, Nathan said, rubbing at his chest. Money's not the issue. I'm just not sure it's a good idea.

Why not?

He supposed that what in his eyes appeared to be a thinly veiled form of prostitution was in hers merely an expedient. He struggled to find a way to express this. Because what you suggest — being my girlfriend — has nothing to do with love.

She looked at him strangely. How can there be love? We only just met.

That's exactly my point. He saw she didn't understand. You shouldn't give yourself away like that. Don't you think that love —

But it's easier that way. Why should there be love if I'm only going to leave?

He frowned, unsure if it was his place to admonish. Whatever begins with love, anyway? he asked himself. Wasn't love cultivated over time? Didn't it require sacrifice, and involve some level of risk?

The more he considered her offer, the more his sense of principle, and politics, gave way to a carnal appetite which Saigon, as seamy a city as any, had sown in him. Why not take what was offered and be thankful? Still, a quiet but penetrating voice inside him issued caution. A breath he hadn't known filled his chest suddenly escaped.

What kind of help do you need from me?

I have to go through the U.S. embassy to get my visa. There's a lot to prepare.

I don't know how I can help. I'm not in a position to persuade anyone or influence the process.

I have a plan, she assured him. You just have to do what I tell you. But if you don't want to I'll find someone else.

Let me think about it.

She smiled faintly. He could sense she was disappointed. If I could pay you I would. But I don't have money.

That makes two of us. Though said as a joke, he was the only one who laughed.

The train whistle blew, and those passengers not in the middle of a purchase began dispersing from the platform. Together Nathan and the girl rose from their chairs and he paid the matron.

If you didn't already know Vietnamese I'd teach you. What else can I give you?

The ensuing silence unsettled him. It's a long train ride. Let me give you my answer when we reach Hanoi.

Sure. Thanks for the tea and cigarettes. She had her cell phone out and was tilting it in the sunlight to see its screen. My phone's in range, she said, obviously surprised. I need to make a call. She started to leave.

I'll walk back to the train with you.

No, that's okay. I'll call from the station.

Her sudden coldness, he knew, came from his hesitation over her proposal. He called out: I might be able to help you a little.

Forget it. I can find someone else. I should be more careful who I ask.

Frustrated with himself, he let her disappear into the station. The matron cleared away the glasses and plate. Wiping the table with a damp rag, she asked where he was from. When he told her, she asked if he was married.

Yes, he said. And then, so she'd leave him alone: To that pink-haired girl that just left.

She's very pretty. Is she a famous singer?

That's right. But she's not famous like My Tam or Minh Tuyet.

The names of these pop stars didn't register with her, though, and she walked away saying, Maybe my daughter knows them. Myself, I don't have time for what's new. She turned back to him. What's your wife's name?

Nathan faltered, realizing that once again he'd forgotten to get the girl's name. He uttered the name of his employer — the first name that came to mind.

Hang Ly? I'll ask my daughter tonight when I see her.

Nathan looked back toward the station and promised himself he'd learn her name before the train arrived in Hanoi.

A second blast came from the train. By this time only a dozen people remained outside. Vendors had abandoned their stands to make a final pitch of their goods beneath the train windows.

Nathan found himself walking toward the station, uneasy over whatever was delaying the pink-haired girl. Certain the train wouldn't give more than three warnings, he picked up his pace.

Near the doorway a uniformed attendant stopped him.

Where are you going?

Just inside the station, he said, pointing behind the man. Someone I know is still there.

No one's in there.

But I've been waiting for her to come out.

Scowling, the attendant looked around the platform. You better hurry, he muttered, perfunctorily waving him on.

As Nathan jogged through the door he realized he might miss the train because of his growing obsession over this girl. What set her apart from all the other girls he'd met in Vietnam? Was it a reaction to her offer? Certainly it wasn't just a matter of engaging a pretty face, which was, quite naturally, his normal motivation for approaching a girl. He felt drawn to her for a familiarity, something about her he felt he already knew. And if he didn't know her, which was obviously the case, he felt he could, very easily, if given the chance. But maybe it was only the familiarity of a dream, of something long dreamed of . . .

Inside the station two female guards were snacking on seeds by a window. They showed no concern when he stepped into the women's restroom, which, aside from a dead mouse in one corner, he found empty. After poking his head inside the men's restroom he asked the women if they'd seen a girl with pink hair.

She was here, said one, cracking open a baked watermelon seed with her teeth.

Did you see where she went?

The woman pointed to another door that led outside. She went over there.

He looked to a clearing that was shaded by rubber trees.

She made a phone call and then stood for a minute watching the cockfights.

Squinting into the distance he could make out the blue-black, bell-shaped bodies of two birds posturing with their wings in the air and hopping about a patch of dirt as if slowly being fried on it. The gamblers around them sounded like a small plane behind the clouds. They were too far away to shout to, too far away to receive a discernible reply.

Where'd she go after that? he asked.

The women shrugged.

You're going to be left behind if you're not careful, the same woman said, nodding toward the tracks.

As he headed back to the train the girl's disappearance made him consider staying behind. Unwilling yet to commit to such a course, his worry grew with each moment. He kept turning around as if she might suddenly appear behind him. When she didn't, he tried to locate her compartment window. It was unlikely she'd returned without his seeing her. Perhaps she'd come from the side, quickly, and then from the rear; but he hadn't felt she was trying to avoid him. Maybe he'd been so focused on seeing her appear in one spot that he failed to notice any deviation from what he expected.

He turned around again once he got to the vestibule of his train car. By now the only ones left on the platform were those not traveling. Above the hissing of the train were the cries of vendors discounting their goods.

Nathan waved over a woman selling baguettes from a straw basket. She hurried up to him. How many?

Two, he said, deciding this might help. After he paid and the vendor handed him his loaves, he asked if she'd seen the pink-haired girl.

Yes, I saw her.

Did you see where she went?

Just then the train began to move, and he shot out his hands to the narrow walls to keep from falling.

The woman's finger seemed to indicate the sky.

Where? I don't understand.

The woman, growing smaller as the train moved off, only stared at him.

I'm afraid she's being left behind, he called out.

She tossed a square of old burlap over her bread and without answering watched the train pull away.

Down the hallway the pink-haired girl's door had its curtains pulled closed. Through the thin, pale green material he could make out the bright square of the room's window. Elsewhere inside were only vague, unmoving shadows.

The drawn curtains made him hesitate to knock. When finally he did and no one answered, he tried the handle but found it locked. He pressed his ear to the door. Suddenly he felt embarrassed that he'd gone to such lengths to locate the girl, especially if she'd been in her room from the time he set out to find her.

Back in his compartment, his fellow travelers were reading or napping. Nathan crawled into his bunk and sat with

Reviews for Lotusland

[Chris Marshall · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A compelling story which kept me interested from beginning to end. Look forward to Mr. Joiner's next book.