Homecoming (11 page)

A wayward afternoon has slipped away. The scrawny flyridden dog irritates Martin. It stands growling next to the mound of rubbish, too weak to move. Nearby a food vendor looks forlorn as he stir-fries rice noodles with mushrooms and bhok choy. Nervous pedestrians look around and scurry along the dirt track. There are ragged children splashing in the shallow puddles of rainwater, squealing with delight.

He notices the white woman in a blue dress standing under the shade of a matching umbrella on the opposite side of the path. There is an imperial aloofness about her, as if the locals are unworthy of her attention. Her presence is an imposition on the landscape. She waves to Martin and calls his name.

Nora? He tenses. She is out of place, a lost time-traveller from the future. He is partly awakened by her presence, but the images do not disappear. ‘You do not belong here,’ he hears himself saying. The moment explodes in a confetti of shrapnel and bursts of gunfire. She falls to the ground, an arm
stretched in his direction. He crouches behind a massive chunk of concrete, paralysed with fear. Nora is beyond help, he convinces himself. Above the noise of confusion there is the shrill sound of an alarm. The vendor has disappeared but the dog does not move. It begins to bark, almost in recognition of the return to normalcy. Violence. He peers over the block of concrete. Nora lies among the Vietnamese, equal in the silence of death.

Martin twitches and slides to one side of the bed. The back of his hand hits the side-table. Drowsily he gropes for the clock, relieved to find himself in the cold bedroom. Images stop swirling around him. He clutches the doona and digs his fingers into its feathery softness, then flicks the switch of the electric blanket. In about twenty minutes the stiffness of his limbs should begin to ease.

He relishes the thought of a break from his everyday routine. ‘We could use your help with the house, Dad,’ Frank had said to him. It was so rare for Frank to speak to him this way that, instead of a quick visit, Martin now plans to stay in Daylesford for a few days.

He listens. It is the neighbour’s dog barking in the backyard. That fits into the pattern of the dream. But Nora? An inexplicable intrusion. Undoubtedly Andrew could find a reason for her presence. ‘We have no direct control over the composition of our dreams,’ Andrew once said. ‘Perhaps that is why there is so much truth in them.’

‘And the truth?’ Martin mutters, curling his toes and rotating his ankles. ‘What the hell is that?’ He is disturbed. ‘It was only a dream,’ he murmurs. ‘In real life I would have run to her assistance.’

He lies on his back, regulating his breathing and cajoling his body to relax. The melancholy greyness of dawn begins to filter through the window. He feels rested and pleased with his restraint the previous evening at Frank’s. He had only drunk orange juice and mineral water.

HE HAD FINISHED
work by half-past four. But then Frank’s greeting was edged with irritation that his father had turned up early. He lingered in front of Martin before stepping aside to let him enter the flat.

‘Thought I’d give you a hand,’ Martin said lamely, embarrassed by what he now saw as an error of judgement. Inside, he deduced that there must have just been a serious disagreement between Frank and Maria. She was red-eyed and Frank was sullen. In the small kitchen they negotiated their way around each other frostily. Trays of finger food were being prepared with grim efficiency. Martin stood against the kitchen’s sliding door, uncomfortable and sadly unable to think of anything clever or funny to say. They’d been looking forward to this party.

He readily volunteered to go to the service station for the bags of ice that Maria had forgotten to pick up on her way back from the delicatessen. ‘I won’t be long.’ Without stopping to determine how many bags were required, he left.

He drove slowly past the service station until he located a vacant parking spot. He crossed the road to a milkbar for a takeaway coffee. Inside the ute the windows had fogged up, blotting out the traffic and pedestrians. There was nothing that could be done about the noise in the street. He was
content with his own company Martin held the rim of the polystyrene cup with both hands. The trembling stopped. A minuscule world, without any discordance, was his to control again. He could allow himself half an hour. There was the possibility that someone else might arrive early for the party. Maria’s parents, most likely. Martin was edgy about meeting them. He was not one of those resilient people who could immediately strike up a conversation with strangers. There was also the awkwardness of contending with their Vietnamese background. He was more concerned about what he should not say to Maria’s parents rather than the ways in which he might get to know them. It occurred to Martin that since he had returned home after the war, he had not been in contact with any Vietnamese, barring chance encounters with the odd greengrocer and, in one instance, a baker.

He forced himself to direct his attention away from the party. He was tempted to walk down the street and play the pokies. The thrill of his last win had uplifted him and given him a sense of achievement. It took an effort not to reach for his wallet to check how much money he could spare. But the chances of another win were remote.

AT LAST A COUPLE
of Frank’s friends arrived, and then Maria’s parents. She livened up at once, talking with her mother. Others drifted in, casually dressed couples in their late twenties and early thirties. There were hellos and familiar greetings. Martin exchanged pleasantries with most of them. Maria’s mother Luu was soon among a group of women,
explaining how to prepare Tom Vo Vien; she had made two trays of the popular shrimp cakes.

Martin saw Nguyen standing by himself in a corner, looking thoughtful and drinking beer. He was a short man with silky black hair threaded with grey. As with most Vietnamese, Martin found it impossible to judge his age by appearance alone. Nguyen’s face was wrinkle-free and he was lean and wiry. Martin poured himself some mineral water, topped it up with a slice of lemon, and went over to Nguyen. They spoke haltingly, though they shared an anxiety about Frank and Maria leaving Melbourne.

‘You were in Vietnam.’ There were faint traces of an American accent in the way Nguyen spoke.

‘You too, I gather.’ They smiled.

‘We both fought on the same side,’ Nguyen mused. ‘Lucky to survive. But you returned to your country…I had to leave mine.’ There was no envy in Nguyen’s voice, only curiosity.

Martin nodded sympathetically. He admired Nguyen’s courage. But he felt tension in his stomach muscles. A familiar coldness washing over him. He did not wish to be rude, though, and leave Nguyen abruptly to join a safer conversation.

‘But it lives inside, yes?’ Nguyen said then, sadly.

‘Pardon?’ Martin pretended not to understand.

‘The war. It’s more than a memory—don’t you think?’

Martin resisted the pull of a direct reply. ‘People get over it. There’s not much point in revisiting what happened…But perhaps it’s different for you.’

Behind them they heard an ecstatic female voice expounding the virtues of Venice. ‘I spent an entire day at
Santi Giovanni e Paolo, just imagining how it must have been in the fourteenth century.’

‘We don’t have to go that far back for the past to have meaning,’ Nguyen said dryly ‘Don’t mind my asking, but why did you go to Vietnam?’

‘Wanted to romance war, I suppose,’ Martin replied. He tried irony. ‘Dance with it cheek to cheek, with music and cheering in the background. Feel the sanctity of its cause.’

Nguyen scowled, clearly not knowing what to make of Martin’s words. But politeness constrained him. ‘Have you ever gone back to Vietnam?’

‘No.’ I’ve never left the place, Martin refrained from adding. He had no desire to risk uttering anything that might entail explanation. ‘Have you?’

Nguyen shook his head. Gently he tapped the left side of his chest. ‘But in my heart I still live there. It will always be home to me. A sacred place. I could remove the mask of a refugee there. We almost went back, last year. Maria wanted to. I booked the plane tickets and then cancelled them. I had a brother and two sisters when we left, but I haven’t been able to contact them since. From this distance I can still hope that they are alive. Going back may change that. But some day, when I have gathered enough courage…’ He smiled dreamily. ‘Your son is very keen. He wants us all to go.’

‘The enthusiasm of the innocent,’ Martin observed. ‘I envy the clarity of their vision. The past learned from books and the past learned from experiences are very different.’ He saw at once that his elusiveness was unfair, that it only intrigued Nguyen.

‘I won’t ask you about the war. You won’t tell me as it
happened.’ Nguyen laughed, self-conscious. ‘I also tell it differently. Depends who I talk to. Have you ever written about it? Yes? Sometimes I used to write for newspapers. That was one of the reasons I had to leave. But here it’s different.’

‘I’m not good at writing.’ This was how Martin had explained it to himself. ‘Besides, others have written enough about it. In fact, a friend of mine has written a book about his time in Vietnam. No publisher wants it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there are too many villains and no heroes in it. Nothing about love, acts of courage or mateship. It’s too personal and honest. Very bitter. What my friend has written would upset people, damage their beliefs.’ Martin thought of Colin, almost cheerful, as if he derived satisfaction from knowing that his book wouldn’t be published.

‘At least a few people have read the damn thing and been made uncomfortable,’ Colin had chuckled. ‘Let’s see—I have only two, no three, publishers left to send it to. Then I’ll have the pleasure of knowing that the manuscript has done the rounds. One insignificant soldier’s view of human slaughter.’ Nothing redemptive about it, he’d said. A bilious outpouring that would have sent conservative historians scrambling to write righteous attacks—‘and destroy any credibility I ever had!’ Colin’s smile had faded and he became thoughtful. ‘You know, Martin, most historical writing is about defending or attacking a cultural perspective, about finding reasons to justify what may have happened. We’ve both
seen
it: the most moralistic historians are the ones who have never gone to war. No, the publishers are quite right in refusing the manuscript. It’s too bleak. There’s no glory in self-flagellation.’
But Nguyen was unconvinced. ‘Why should people be upset?’ he asked. ‘Can you explain that, please?’

Martin looked around the room. There was little chance of being rescued. ‘Well…they don’t want the additional burden of a grim history. We have no desire to dent our self-esteem, Nguyen.’ He stopped, embarrassed. His own voice rang in his ears, sounding flat and ponderous. ‘Does that make any sense?’ he asked timidly.

Nguyen ignored the question. ‘Why is the ego so important?’

The question took Martin by surprise. He couldn’t think of a cogent reply. ‘But…it is. Don’t you think it’s important?’

‘I cannot tell. But then I am a practising Buddhist.’ Nguyen smiled impishly. ‘I think there is a reason Buddhism is becoming popular in this country.’

It was Martin’s turn to be perplexed. He was mildly curious to glimpse Nguyen’s dry sense of humour.

GLENDA’S VOICE NEXT
door. Infinitely patient. She is trying to calm the dog.

Martin rolls over in bed, quiet and still relaxed. Then he remembers that Glenda asked him weeks ago to fix the dog’s kennel.

Over the years Glenda has worn down Martin’s obsession with privacy, to the extent that he no longer resents the pair of binoculars that she regularly focuses on him through her kitchen window. Long ago, too, she developed the habit of dropping in for cups of tea, bringing jars of homemade jam,
chutney and relishes, accompanied by handwritten recipes that Martin is unlikely to use.

After Nora moved to the hostel, Glenda lost all discretion about when she could call in. Finally Martin resigned himself to the inevitability of her unscheduled visits, her quick look around for signs of female visitors, and the ensuing monologues on whatever she feels will improve his life. He figures that it is best to appear interested, but remain silent when she is in full flow, because even a polite question is likely to refuel her and prolong the stay. Over tea and biscuits Glenda has plenty of advice, ranging from the best ways of cleaning kitchen utensils to effective herbal treatment for indigestion. And God and church are never too far from her plans for Martin.

Glenda often talks about her near-perfect relationship with her husband, who died in World War II, then lectures him on the supreme virtues of a spouse. She deliberately refrains from using the word ‘partner’, having frostily told Martin that relationships are not intended to be business ventures. Nowadays Martin sits patiently through these gilded recollections. Only once has he asked how she copes with being alone.

Glenda had not avoided Martin’s question, as he would have done. Instead she spoke sadly about her awareness of spatial silence. ‘I try to fill the emptiness with whatever I can. Give meaning to the smallest task that needs to be done. I keep busy, Martin, with friends and church, and I
never
allow
any
self-pity. Even as I go to bed at night, you know, I keep my thoughts on what must be done the next day. Yes, you have to constantly set yourself targets. And learn not to drift through life with regret.’

He could not decide whether her last remark was directed specifically at him. But by then she had looked confused and her eyes had lost their sparkle.

At that moment he felt for her loneliness and admired her fortitude.

Martin repeatedly tightens his calf muscles for brief periods of about ten seconds and then relaxes them. He follows the routine for different parts of his body inhaling deeply holding his breath and then exhaling slowly. His head is clear and he feels rested and fresh. Today Frank and Maria are moving house.

On his feet, he does hip rotations, side bends and slow stretches. Last night he and Frank and Maria talked a lot about Daylesford. Now he is eager to be on the road. On the spur of the moment, they agreed to meet for breakfast in one of the eateries there. Mentally he ticks off the list of tools he is taking with him. It all seems to have come around so quickly.