The Frangipani Hotel: Fiction (5 page)

“I’m very thirsty.”

Over the next hour and a half, the American and I don’t have to speak much. We are too busy drinking our way through almost three pitchers and polishing off a large platter of fried octopus, which I ordered to test his dedication to the “Real Vietnamese Experience.” Even I don’t like the stuff. But
he gamely gulps down his serving of tentacles, clumsily wielding his chopsticks and taking slurps of beer in between bites.

“Maybe it’s just the alcohol,” I say in Vietnamese, “but I think the American is growing on me.”

Mr. Henry just grunts.

I look over at him; his eyes are unfocused and his face is red. Bright red. Communist-flag-red. “How much have you had, Uncle?” I should have been watching him.

Mr. Henry grunts again, drains his glass, and brings it down to the table with a terrific bang that makes the rest of the patrons of the bia hoi jump.

“Look at me,” he slurs in Vietnamese. “Old. Done. What a wasted life I’ve led! You and the foreign one …” Mr. Henry points a little to the left of the American, blinks, then corrects himself. “You don’t understand because you’re both still young. But just you wait!”

I’ve seen Mr. Henry smashed enough times to know that he has reached the monologue stage of drunkenness, which precedes his passing out. The American, who doesn’t understand a word, smiles pleasantly and nods his head. Everyone in the joint hushes their conversation to listen in on our table.

“Uncle,” I say as I carefully slide the pitcher of beer away from him, “maybe it’s time to go home now—”

“Don’t interrupt your elders, boy! What was I saying? No one ever appreciates me: I wake up every morning with pains in my back, but I’m the only one keeping the goddamn hotel running! My own mother’s a cockroach, eating me out of house and home and too old and mean to die. My sons have
one working brain between them. You’re a little wise-ass who smokes too much. But it’s the women who’re the worst—Linh, Mai, and your mother—there’s never any rest from it, the nagging, nagging, nagging. Ask him if he’s married,” he says to me, indicating the American.

I do, and the American holds up his left hand in response. A gold ring on his thick fourth finger glints underneath the bia hoi lights. “To the most wonderful woman in the whole wide world,” he says. Gag. I translate for Mr. Henry and he laughs.

“Let me tell you something about women. Translate for me, Phi. Did you know that in Hanoi, they say the most beautiful girls live in Saigon? In Saigon, they say the most beautiful girls live in Hue. In stuck-up Hue, they say that Saigon is right. But everyone is wrong: There are no beautiful girls left. Pretty faces, sure. But then they ring their eyes with all that dark makeup. They wear see-through blouses and run around in packs, shrieking and squealing and always fiddling with their cellphones and their dyed hair.” His voice breaks off, and when he speaks again there is a note in it that I’ve never heard before. “Whatever happened to the simple girls, the sweet girls, the girls that you could sing about? All my life, I’ve only ever known one girl like that.”

I don’t translate the last bit. “Who, Auntie Linh?”

He snorts. “Of course not. It was a girl who stayed in the hotel once, a long time ago, passing through, from—oh, I can’t remember anymore. But she stole all our hearts in the week she was here. I was a bit younger than you then, weedy and small, and she only had eyes for Hai and your father. This was
before your mother was in the picture, by the way,” he adds, because he can tell that I am trying to calculate the dates in my head. “And before your father started to go …” He makes a waggly finger gesture by his temple. “Well, you know. I think they both believed that they could get her to stay somehow, and marry one of them. That’s how besotted they were—we were—with her.”

The American has been quietly drinking his beer this whole time. Though he can’t understand, his smile has faded slightly and his eyes flicker back and forth between the two of us over his glass. But I can’t worry about him right now; Mr. Henry has been gradually tilting forward over the course of his little speech, and by now he is slumped over the table, barely holding himself up on his elbows.
Don’t pass out yet, Mr. Henry
, I think to myself.
Hold out just a little bit longer
. I am acutely aware of my own heartbeat. “What happened?” I ask softly.

He gives a hollow little laugh. “What happened? You already know what happened. Of my brothers, I was the luckiest,” he says, and then his face hits the table.

For a moment everything is frozen. Then Mr. Henry snores loudly. The world clicks back into place and I remember where I am, and that the American is still sitting across the table from me.

An awkward silence, punctuated by Mr. Henry’s periodic snoring, ensues. I register the American picking up the pitcher and reaching over the mass of Mr. Henry to refill my glass. More silence. Then he clears his throat and says, out of nowhere, “Your English is really good, did you know that?”

I snap my eyes up from staring at my unconscious uncle.
Of course I know how good my own English is
, I think, my lip automatically lifting to sneer. Then I realize what I’m doing and want to laugh. I don’t know why, but Mr. Henry’s story has me rattled, and now I’m grateful to the American for saying something irrelevant, something innocuous. For breaking the spell. My cheeks are warm, so I know that I am approaching drunk, but I’ve still retained my pandering ability and reply, “Do you really think so? I’m flattered. In school it was the only class I liked. But I get so embarrassed about my accent.”

The American gives me what he probably thinks is a gentle, friendly punch in the shoulder with his gigantic fist. “Aww, Phi, don’t even—your accent is great. Your English is great, really great. In fact …” He breaks off to drain the rest of his glass, wipes his mouth on the back of a huge pink hand, and leans toward me over the table. The alcohol on his breath is overpowering. “In fact, I want to make you a proposition, Phi. I know this is a bit sudden, but don’t think I’m just saying this because I’m drunk—and I
am
drunk—but that, that’s beside the point, and the point is that I could use a guy like you. I know I’m rushing this—I fly home to the States on Saturday morning—but I’m coming back to Hanoi in six weeks, and then things will start moving fast. We need people like you: sharp, hardworking. People with your language skills. People who know the way this city works. To be advisers and go-betweens, to do PR. I know it’s kind of unusual, to be doing things this way, but I think it’s a sign that I met you by chance. You’re young, you’re clever, you can do whatever you want to!”

I don’t have the energy to be surprised by anything anymore. Even the American’s spontaneous job offering. “That’s very nice of you,” I say flatly.

“I’m not saying it to be nice, I’m saying it because it’s true. Do you want to end up like him?” He inclines his head toward Mr. Henry, who has a dribble of spit hanging from the corner of his mouth. That’s when I start to have dangerous thoughts.
I could do it
, I think.
I could leave. What’s keeping me here?

Slowly, I hold out my hand to him across the table. He reaches out his own and shakes mine, and when I pull away there is a business card pressed against my palm.

“You hold on to that. Phi, you’ve got my word, I’ll be back in six weeks’ time, and then we’re gonna be running half of this city.”

He pours us both refills and we clink our glasses and drink. He looks thoughtful for a moment, then strangely shy. Then he says, “There’s one thing in the meantime that I could use your help with.” Ah. I’ve been waiting for the catch. “The thing that he—is he your dad?”

I shake my head. “No. Uncle.”

“The thing that your uncle was talking about before—the beautiful girls of your country. I thought it would be a shame to pass up the chance, since I’m here, in”—he pauses and runs his fingers through his hair—“in Asia. Just for one night. I’ve been on the road so much lately, and it can get lonely—”

“I think I know what you mean,” I break in, so I don’t have to hear any more. “I can give you the name of a place in Ba Đình—”

“Wait, hear me out. I don’t mean … I don’t want a whore. I’m not looking to sleep with anybody …” The American is offended now. “I just want to take a young, beautiful girl out to dinner, out dancing. I want to put my hand around her waist, to talk to her, to laugh with her. Nothing more. Is that so wrong of me?”

I shrug.

“Look,” he says, smiling again, “to show you that my intentions are nothing less than honorable, I’m gonna take you with me.” He laughs. “You can be my chaperone. How about tomorrow night? You arrange everything with the girl, and let her know I mean well, that I’m not a creep or anything. We’ll all go to dinner at eight. Sound good?”

I’ve already made too many strange deals today, and I hesitate before this one.

“Okay,” I say eventually.

“Great!” He stands up and points at Mr. Henry. “Now let’s get this big boy home.”

I stand, too, and am alarmed by the way the world wobbles when I do. The American drops an enormous pile of bills on the table without counting them, and we hoist my uncle between us and stagger off down the alleyway. It’s mostly the American who’s supporting Mr. Henry’s weight—I’m struggling enough trying to keep myself upright. Thankfully, the streets are practically deserted by now, and the only person who witnesses our walk home is an old man burning a paper spirit-offering in the gutter.

T
HE
A
MERICAN AND
I deposit Mr. Henry in the first-floor bedroom. On our way up the stairs I turn to him and say, “It feels funny, working together like this, but I guess I should start getting used to it, huh?”

“What?” he says. I realize that I have been speaking in Vietnamese.

I tell him good night in English and leave him at the second-floor landing, saying that I have something to take care of. Without knocking, I throw open the door to room 205. The girl hasn’t moved from the bed, but the flower vase is now lying empty on its side. I’m a little disappointed—I had been hoping to burst in on her doing something, I don’t know what. Maybe hanging upside down from the ceiling. She wrinkles her nose at me.

“You’ve been drinking, Phi.”

“It was the American’s fault! He’s going to be my new boss. And he wants me to get him a call girl, to not-sleep with her tomorrow night.”

“You’re drunk, Phi.”

“Probably—I’m seeing two of you right now.”

She laughs. “Oh, there’s only one me; you should be thankful for that.”

“Your vase is dry. Let me fill it.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m not thirsty anymore. A little hungry, but not thirsty.”

“I’ll get you something to eat then.”

“That won’t be necessary. Not yet, anyway. Now it’s time for you to rest. I’ll be fine for the time being. Sleep well, Phi.”

Feeling rejected, I fumble out the door and feel my way down the hall and up the stairs, pausing by various rooms. I know that 312 has nightmares, I know about the stains that were on 404’s sheets this morning. I know things about them that would make them blush, but most of them probably don’t know my name. I fall into bed without taking my shoes off. Everything is tilting in a way it shouldn’t. It feels a little bit like I’m underwater.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Mr. Henry is too hungover to care about the broken plants anymore. He stumbles into the lobby complaining about his aching head, and if he remembers the things he said last night, he does not acknowledge it. My own head, however, feels surprisingly clear. I sit behind my desk and wait for the American to come down the stairs, steeling myself for the inevitable moment to come when he will apologize and tell me that he didn’t know what he was doing last night and didn’t mean any of it.

A little after nine, the black car pulls up outside, and the American, his hair slicked back and his face pinkish, emerges. As he passes me on the way out, he says, “Hey there, partner. Eight still all right?” with a wink.

I nod, my pulse racing like a flustered schoolgirl’s. After he drives away, I pick up the phone and make a call to the massage
parlor next door. Thang comes swaggering down the stairs just as I am hanging up the receiver.

“Who was that?” he asks, squeezing in next to me on the chair. He kicks his feet up on top of the desk and steals my mug of coffee from me.

“Just business. I need you to cover reception for me tonight.”

“Can’t. Got a date. Make Loi do it.” He takes a sip of coffee. “This is too sweet.”

“I put condensed milk in mine. If you don’t like it, get your own.”

“It’s fine.”

We sit together in the chair without speaking. He drinks my coffee and I stare out across the lobby at the wall where the photograph of our fathers hangs. I want to tell him I’m leaving, but when I open my mouth I say, “Who do you think was holding the camera?”

B
Y
7:45
P.M.
I am waiting nervously in the lobby. Loi, the little shit, agreed to take over reception tonight, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Neither is Châu—or “Candy,” as she’s professionally known—from next door, who told me that she specializes in showing Western men a good time while getting them to empty their wallets. I pace around the still-dry fountain; I haven’t gotten around to calling the plumber yet. Why does my head hurt now when it felt fine this morning?