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the
boat
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The
boat is smaller in the dark and smells of rice and tobacco.
It has a motor, not ribbed sails like the junks in the
harbour. There is no compass, no flashlight, no flares.
The crew are not real sailors but coastal boys with Western
haircuts. One of them asks us for a jacket. We wrap beach
towels around our bare legs and breathe into cupped hands.
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1 |
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Beside
me, on the open deck, Rani turns her head to watch the
limestone islets as they drag up against the sides. Tell
me a story, I say to her. From underneath my parka hood
her voice sounds like rising water.
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2 |
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The
mist thickens. We are slowly sinking.
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3 |
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I
pretend to fall asleep.
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4 |
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hanoi
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But
let me tell you about before the boat, about the city
loud with lies. In Hanoi, by Hoan Kiem Lake, I spend a
whole day with the shoe shine boys fabricating a life
for myself. They want to know if I am American. I become
a deep sea diver from Venezuela with a lover on every
continent. I have starred on national television. They
sit around me on their haunches, laughing and scraping
dirt from their knees.
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5 |
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This
is the week before the boat. The week we hardly eat.
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6 |
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The
streets smell of fried noodles, betel juice, pork, egg,
salted fish. We take to living indoors to ease the stirring
in our stomachs. We write in our journals. Rani reads
The Sorrow of War. During the blackouts I stand
under the washing line on the small verandah, watching
the candle-lit city as it bustles and strains against
the threads of night. Listening to a collage of voices
I cannot understand, I suspect I know nothing about this
wondrous place at all.
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7 |
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On
the final evening we flirt with the hotelier in the restaurant;
a patio of steel-rimmed card tables and plastic chairs.
He calls us 'darling' and during ad breaks in the soccer
asks to marry us both.
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8 |
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How
old are you? we demand.
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9 |
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Twenty-one
of course. His head is cocked to one side, cheeks dimpling
at the edges. When I come to visit you in Australia where
will I find you?
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10 |
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