Only the Heart (17 page)

18

DO OR DIE …

LINH'S STORY

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks were still a bit flushed, but otherwise …

Slowly I ran my hands down over my breasts and across my body and felt a lingering echo of the feeling.

A slow smile grew on the face that looked back at me from behind the glass. It seemed oddly familiar, and for the first time in years I remembered my mother and the way my father had always made her smile. And I finally understood why the smiles had stopped when he died. The smiles — and the tears.

I shrugged and made my way back into Miro's bedroom.

“It's almost three,” I began. “If we're going to get some lunch before we pick Toan up —”

“Oh, so now we're hungry, are we?” He was lying on the bed. He'd managed to find a pair of Lakers shorts among the pile of clothes on the floor beside him, but he looked in no hurry to get dressed.

I sat down on the bed. “You could say that.” Then I leaned across and kissed him. I could feel him respond, and I teased his tongue just slightly before pulling away. Then I lay down on my side, supporting myself on one elbow, daring him to look away. And I undid the top button of my shirt again. “Of course, if you're up to round two, I might be persuaded …”

I could see him considering the offer, but then he smiled and shook his head. There's a first time for everything …

Lunch it was.

The Old Saigon
is a restaurant that lives up to its name. In a western, image sense, it's nothing to look at; and I mean nothing. Twenty metres off the main drag, down a street that's little more than an alley, its doorway is almost invisible from the shopping centre proper. And if you did accidentally look inside, all you'd see are a few old for-mica-topped tables, 1970s vintage or older, with matching chrome and vinyl kitchen-chairs, faded two-tone flowered wallpaper decorated with a couple of old Chinese calendars, and a yellowed ceiling supporting a few fluorescent lights — complete with semi-transparent plastic covers liberally sprinkled with a decade's worth of dead insect husks — and a couple of bent ceiling fans, which whine asthmatically on especially hot days and hang dead silent the rest of the time.

But the food …

Since 1977, Chien Ngoc and his wife, Kim, have worked eighteen-hour days without weekends, boiling, stirring, tossing and checking the five or six dishes that the restaurant is famous for among those who know.

It's not an extensive selection. In fact, there's no written menu at all, but it hardly matters. Neither of them speaks a word of English, and
The Old Saigon
is no tourist spot. Those who come in know what they want, without reading about it on fancy laminated cards.

And business has always been good. Right now, they're putting four girls through high school and their two sons are studying Engineering at the university — one in first year, one in second.

Understandably, Chien Ngoc is proud of them all.

At times, when the food appears through the bead-curtained doorway that separates the restaurant from the kitchen and living quarters, you might catch a glimpse of one of the girls cutting strips of meat or chopping the herbs or bunches of aromatic mint that are an essential accessory to the main meal of
bún tôm
or
phò
, but mostly, if you see them at all, they will be sitting at the small table beside the hot kitchen, a book propped up against the wall, working steadily through the afternoon's homework.

“Môt tô … phò ààc biêt
…” Miro was ordering the special beef noodles, stumbling over the pronunciation, and Kim waited patiently. I was letting him practise his Vietnamese on real people, and she must have guessed it, because she looked across at me and smiled with her eyes. Finally she disappeared, and we were left alone in the small restaurant.

While we were waiting for the meal to come, he sneaked a hand under the table and rubbed my leg, halfway up the thigh.

“This
phò
had better be good. Considering what I'm giving up for it.”

I smiled and reached across the table, taking hold of his free hand. “I seem to remember giving you the choice,” I teased. “But you weren't … up to it.”

He didn't reply Instead he leaned across the table and kissed me.

It was one of those instants in time you want to hold on to forever. Especially later, when you realise how rare and fragile they really are. But at that moment my mind was only half-absorbed with the kiss. I was thinking of the tofu soup, and how hungry I was feeling …

*

14 Apri1 1986
Cabramatta

TOAN

3.15 pm.
Across the three-point line, drive the lane. He feels the ball on his finger-tips, hears the thump of leather on wood, as he speeds up the dribble. Switch hands, a change of direction, under the ring and take off. The reverse finger-roll …

Toan turns in the air and releases the ball, only to see it swatted away as the new kid comes from nowhere to block the shot.

Hard contact, and he is falling. He twists to get his arms beneath him, to break his fall, but his knees take the force of the impact.

The new kid leans over him. Worried.

“Sorry, man. I didn't mean —”

“No sweat.” He smiles and accepts a hand up. “Where'd you learn to jump like that?”

But the boy just shrugs.

“I'll take the foul. I need all the shots I can get.”

He moves to retrieve the ball.

*

LINH'S STORY

At four o'clock, we made our way outside.

One of Kim's daughters was clearing the table and I turned to look at her from the doorway. She smiled and winked at me. I guess she was about thirteen, and I remember thinking how confident she looked. All the Ngoc kids spoke perfect English and they all did well at school, but work wasn't their whole life. You could tell.

Kim was clearing one of the tables at the back of the room brushing the sweat-soaked hair away from her tired face with the back of her hand. But her daughter smiled as she picked up our empty plates, and moved her head in time to the music that blared from the tiny earplugs of her Walkman.

I was smiling too as we moved out of the narrow street and into the main shopping centre.

Right into the path of someone I suddenly recognised — and soon wished I hadn't.

It had been maybe three weeks since our late-night run-in with the Triple Ks, but I hadn't forgotten that face. And he hadn't forgotten ours.

He wasn't alone, of course; there were the three of them. And Kieu.

But it wasn't Kieu I was looking at. It was her boyfriend. He stood there in the middle of the footpath, sizing us up.

“Slummin' again, white boy?” I remember thinking he must have been trying to sound like a home-boy. Even in his broken English, the accent was more American than anything else.

I squeezed Miro's hand. Hard. “Come on,” I whispered. “We're late. Toan will be waiting …”

But before I could finish, the three hoods stepped forward, blocking the footpath, and although he was the shortest it was obvious who was in charge, at least in this small group. Kieu stood back, looking scared, like she was trying to think of a way out of the mess that was developing, but could come up with nothing.

Which was about the way I was feeling.

I knew Miro didn't understand what he was facing. That night in the car, he'd shut out Toan's advice. Maybe he just thought it was “the kid” exaggerating. Whatever.

He just didn't know about individuals like this one. How could he? He'd lived all his life in a peaceful country where death was still pretty big news.

He didn't understand that when you kill a kid's whole family and take away everything else that has any meaning to him, the only things left are anger and pride. Death loses its meaning — except as a threat. And threats must be backed up.

He stepped forward and his companions moved in behind him.

He was short, but there was a feral confidence in his expression, and I felt a sick sensation in my stomach. I knew Miro well enough to know he wouldn't back down. And I knew where that could lead.

But then his eyes turned from Miro to me, and the look on his face made me feel suddenly cold.

When he spoke, it was in Vietnamese, and the tone was like poison.

“Your own kind not good enough for you, slut? You got a taste for white meat? Or maybe they pay better, eh?” He took out a ten-cent piece and tossed it on the pavement in front of me. “Pick it up. And while you're down there —”

He didn't get any further. I could feel my cheeks going red, and without thinking I stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face. It was a reflex and I froze in horror as soon as I realised what I'd done, but it was too late to take it back.

Miro took hold of my hand and stepped forward, but the three of them stood firm. The two henchmen looked towards their leader, waiting for the word, and I knew we had maybe half a second before he got over the surprise of a mere girl doing to him what I had just done.

As the guy reached into the pocket of his jacket, Miro pushed him hard away from us, and being a lot bigger than his opponent, the shove threw the guy off-balance. He spun around and caught his hip on one of the cars parked at the kerb. He fell to his knees and Miro grabbed my hand again.

But there was nowhere to run; our way was blocked by one of the other gang-members. There was no time for the subtle approach. I kicked down hard on his knee-cap, and he folded like a doll, holding his leg.

Then we were running. I risked a look behind me, but we had a break on them. Kieu had the third hood by the arm, holding him back, and the first one was screaming something at her that I couldn't make out.

Then he stood over her and slapped her so hard across the face that she fell to her knees. I felt sick for her, but she'd bought us enough time. We were almost at the car; they wouldn't catch us.

White boy
…

Watching him as he drove, I saw how pale he had suddenly become, now that the reaction was setting in.

“Miro …?” I started to speak, but realised that I had nothing to say. Anyway, he hadn't heard. His mind was somewhere else.

I recalled the acid of the creep's words, and my instinctive reaction.

Idiot! Stupid …

I cursed myself silently.

How could you fall for it? It was exactly what he wanted.

My actions had placed us both in danger, and it wasn't over. Members of the Triple K don't forget. How can they, when their whole existence depends on fear, on backing up threats with strength? With actions.

And Uncle Minh's store was in the main street.

We were travelling away from the centre of town. Away from where Toan would be waiting for us. But now that we were clear of danger, we could double back and pick him up. Ahead, the light turned red, and Miro slowed to a stop.

He checked the rear-vision, and his hands went tight on the wheel.

“Shit!”

I turned in my seat to catch a glimpse of what had drawn the reaction. Two cars back, the doors flew open and three familiar figures began rung towards us.

“Hang on!” Miro's voice was almost calm, but his knuckles were white.

The light was still red, but he planted his foot. The tyres screamed as the acceleration spun them against the hot road, then they gripped and the car leapt forward. There was a screech of brakes as a van on the cross-street slewed to a halt in the middle of the intersection, but Miro was already working the steering. The car fish-tailed and he fought to correct the movement, then we were screaming south towards Cabramatta Road.

I risked a look back at where we'd been. The lights hadn't changed, but suddenly a small red Mazda rounded the corner, riding over the kerb to avoid the car that was blocking its progress.

“They're after us!” I screamed the warning, but Miro was alreay watching in his mirrors. He shifted the transmission into second and accelerated towards the red light at the junction ahead. As I watched, a huge eighteen-wheeler crossed the intersection at speed, and ice began to form in my chest. “Miro, you can't …”

But he showed no sign of slowing his pace. Behind us, the Mazda was gaining. It was newer and more powerful than this father's Toyota. I held my breath. The lights ahead were still red, and they were getting closer.

Then, with only a few metres to go, they finally changed. Miro braked into the left-hand corner and accelerated out. The tyres screaming again and the car threatened to veer across the centre line and into the oncoming traffic, but he steered into the skid and regained control.

The Mazda wasn't so lucky. The back slid out, and for a moment the whole car was exposed, side-on to the approaching stream of cars, but the driver fought the vehicle back into the centre lane and the pursuit continued. Over the rail bridge, through another set of lights, and down the long, gentle curve towards the highway.

And all the time the sports car was closing the gap.

At the intersection with the highway the lights were green, and Miro gunned the car into the centre lane, checking the mirror, as the Mazda slid into view. The road was long and straight and three lanes wide, and the traffic was light. I could see the sweat on his forehead. He knew that he couldn't outrun them, and he was running out of ideas.

They tried to pull alongside, and he switched lanes to stay in front of them. I heard the squeal of rubber as the Mazda cut to the inside. Miro matched the manoeuvre, and the car rocked dangerously. I checked the speedo. A hundred and ten.

Another switch, another swerve, and we stayed in front. Just. The lights were green as we screamed through.

The traffic had built up behind the set of lights on the Drive, and as they changed, and the queue began to move slowly off, he accelerated up the left-turn lane, and cut in front of the slower cars before they could gather momentum. But the other car had sneaked through on the right, and as we emerged from the crush of traffic it cut across the lanes on a diagonal that intersected with our own path. Miro thumped his foot down hard on the brake, and steered in behind them, but the strategy brought my passenger door level with the driver's window of the Mazda …