The Time in Between (2 page)

“Do you have a motorcycle?” he asked.

She said she didn’t.

He nodded. “Would you like one?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“And, excuse me, your name?”

“Ada.”

“That is your whole name?”

“Ada Boatman.”

He repeated after her, considered the vowels and the meaning, and then ducked his chin at the ferry they were riding on. “A boat. Like this one.”

“I guess,” she said.

“You are not sure?” He fished in his shorts pocket and pulled out a package of cigarettes, lit one and exhaled at the sky, then held the pack out to her.

She shook her head. She would normally have smoked but thought it wrong to accept a cigarette from a child.

“Do you like hashish?” he asked. “I can get you that or I can get you cannabis, or perhaps you like women?”

Ada said that she didn’t need anything. Yen lifted his dark eyes and said that she was being modest. “Is that right?” he asked. “Modest?”

Ada said that modesty had nothing to do with it. She did not want what he was offering.

He said that everybody wanted something that they couldn’t have. “Take me. I need money so that I can go to school and become a lawyer. Why are you here in Vietnam?”

Ada looked at him. His bare knees were dirty. He wore rubber flip-flops, one of which had been repaired with a red wire. She asked him if he was looking for money.

“No. I am not a beggar. I earn my money. As I said, I repair engines for my father and I procure things for tourists.” He said
procure
slowly, with a slight affect, as if it were a newly acquired word.

They passed a ferry going in the other direction and on the far shore Ada saw billboards advertising beer and televisions and beyond that there were the tin roofs of shanties and warehouses.

Ada turned to Yen and said that what she wanted he could not get. It wasn’t realistic.

Yen laughed. He thought that
realistic
was a good word. “I like that. I will use it. How do you say? I am realistic?”

“I meant possible,” Ada said. The ferry was docking and the people around them rose and pushed toward the gates.

Yen followed her along the gangplank, through the terminal, and up the narrow lane. He skipped beside her, dodging passersby. He said, “So you are a tourist.”

“Sure. Call me a tourist.”

“And you are in need of a guide?”

She said she wasn’t. Stopped and looked at the boy. “Listen,” she said, “I want to be alone. Could you leave me alone?”

He bowed slightly. He stepped backward, said, “See you again,” and disappeared into the crowd.

She continued up the lane and crossed over a main road. She walked another half hour, cursing her shoes. They were new and her heels were blistering. The sun was above her; she was sweating into the band of her hat. She was determined not to stop. If she did the people would gather round to watch her and she was tired of being watched. Just the day before she had stopped at a café near the Cham Museum and two teenage boys had sat down with her. They had wanted to be guides, or perhaps help her find something. They had practiced their English, which was minimal.

And so, now, she carried on, regretting her decision to walk instead of hire a taxi. When she finally reached the beach, she set up her mat on the sand halfway between the water and the verandahs of the restaurants. She removed her shirt and shorts, placed her shoes beside her bag, and took out her book and lay down on her stomach. Later, fatigue overcame her and she put her head into the crook of her elbow and slept.

When she woke, she was aware of a game taking place around her, of boys laughing, the spraying of sand, shouts. She sat up. A voice called out and Yen appeared. He moved about on the beach quickly, waving his arms, jabbering. The game halted and the group dispersed. Yen turned to Ada and said, “I am sorry. These boys are rude, as you can see. They have no respect for private space.”

Yen was standing several yards from her. At his feet was a beach umbrella. He pointed to it and said, “For you. Sunstroke can be dangerous.” Without waiting for permission he pushed the stem of the umbrella into the sand and opened it. Then he sat at the edge of the shade and waved a hand at the water. “Beautiful,” he said.

Ada took her water bottle from her bag and drank while Yen happily looked at her legs and stomach and breasts. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. This time she accepted.

“Good for you,” he said.

They smoked and looked out over the water. Yen motioned to her book. “I do not know that book,” he said. “
The Great Gatsby.
Is that how you say it?”

Ada nodded. She said that it was not an easy book. It looked easy, but it wasn’t.

“Are you a teacher?” he asked.

Ada shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“What then?”

“A chef,” she said, and then added, “Sort of.”

“What is that, sort of?”

“I was in school.”

Yen looked pleased. “Do you swim?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“The front crawl?”

“Yes.”

“And the butterfly?”

Ada shook her head.

“I have seen the Olympics. All the beautiful sports of the Olympics. Of course there are very few Vietnamese athletes at the Olympics. We have never won a medal. Why is that? Because we are poor. We do not have time to train for figure skating or jumping or throwing the spear. We maybe have a good athlete in shooting or Tae Kwon Do, but, no winners. Still, I love to watch the Olympics. Do you, Miss Ada?”

Ada was aware of Yen’s feet and his small ankles. His shins were bruised and pocked by what looked like old insect bites. He hugged his knees as he talked. His hair was cut short and this made his dark eyes larger, two pools that appeared to alternate between longing and impudence. But he seemed innocent enough. She asked him if he was thirsty or hungry.

He said he wasn’t.

She offered him the apple from her bag. He took it and wiped it against his shorts. Put it in his pocket.

She sat up and pulled her hair back into a ponytail and told Yen she was going for a swim. He said that he would watch her things, that anything of hers would be safe in his hands.

She walked down to the water and waded out up to her waist. She dove in and came up for air and dove under again. She swam out past the breakers, feeling the occasional tug of the undertow. She swam for a while, looking every now and then toward the shore, where she could see the small shape of Yen and the canopy of the umbrella. When she came out of the water, he stood and waited for her to lie down on her mat, and then he resumed his position at the edge of the shade.

He told her that everything was safe.

“Good,” she said. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”

“Oh, Miss Ada, you don’t understand. There are thieves everywhere. You can trust no one, especially here on the beach. Why are you here?”

She wrung out her hair. “What do you mean?”

“You and your brother walk around town talking to shopkeepers and taxi drivers. There is something you are looking for.”

She eyed him and asked if he went to school.

“Sometimes. When I am not busy with my customers.” He jabbed his cigarette into the sand. His smile was crooked, and this made him look older than he was.

Ada asked where he had learned his English.

“Why, is it bad?”

“No. It’s very good.”

He said that there were things he could improve on. “I know about contractions,” he said. “It is very difficult to remember to squeeze the words together. Isn’t it?” His tongue tripped slightly. “I am very lucky,” he said. “I have people like you to teach me.”

Ada was lying on her back. She said, “I don’t need a translator. I have one.”

“Oh, yes, I have seen the one you have hired. Dinh. He is very well educated but he doesn’t understand people.” Yen patted his stomach. “Here,” he said. “He doesn’t understand things right here.” He laced his fingers and announced that Dinh was well on his way to becoming a dentist and what did she need, someone to fix her teeth or someone to show her the path?

Ada ignored this and closed her eyes.

Yen said, “I can see that you are sleeping and so I will leave you. I will go up to the verandah behind us and I will watch over you. When you are ready to leave, just whistle.”

Ada opened her eyes. She said that she didn’t need his help. He might as well go away. And besides, she didn’t know how to whistle.

He stood. She saw his dark face above her.

“Good-bye, Miss Ada.”

She closed her eyes again and heard the call of a child down the beach and the movement of the water against the shore. When she sat up, the boy was gone. She swam once more, and when she was ready to leave, she packed her things and put on her shorts and top and walked up to the road behind the restaurants. She looked for a taxi or a cyclo but there was nothing, just the sun and the dirt road and a few houses lining the road. She asked at a restaurant about taxis, but the woman in charge shook her head and shrugged.

Ada looked around for Yen, but he had disappeared. His umbrella was still in the sand, where he had put it. She imagined he would be back and she thought she could wait and he would find her a taxi, but this would be hypocritical. So, she retraced the path that had taken her to the beach. It was easier going home. The sun was lower and the path descended slightly.

On the ferry, an old woman held out a plastic bowl and Ada gave her some change. Then she sat back and watched the harbor. She loved the light at this time of day, just before five, an hour till darkness. It carried her away from herself, from her reason for being here, and she welcomed the lightness of the moment, however brief. The sky was dusty and the ships in the distance were a soft gray.

WHEN ADA AND JON HAD FIRST ARRIVED IN DANANG BY TRAIN from Hanoi, they took a suite at the Binh Duong Hotel and then spent the next two weeks walking the streets, entering shops and handing out pictures of their father. Written on the backs of the pictures, in Vietnamese and English, was “This is Charles. Have you seen him?” They enlisted a university boy named Dinh, the son of the hotel owner, to translate for them.

Everyone had seen Charles. They had seen him walking, or riding a motorcycle. One woman, a young hairdresser wearing tight jeans, thought she had had him as a customer, though she couldn’t say for sure. Maybe not, she said. And she smiled. A hotel sentry had seen him with a prostitute. At first Dinh appeared to have trouble telling them this. He said that Charles was with a woman of ill repute. A woman of the night. He looked at the ground. Stared off into the distance and then sighed. “A prostitute,” he said.

“I doubt it,” Ada said. “He had his demons but that wasn’t one.”

“That is what the man saw,” Dinh said. “Though he can’t be sure.”

“Of course he can’t. Nobody is ever sure in this country,” Jon said.

Dinh nodded slowly. He said something to the sentry and the sentry gazed off into the distance, as if pondering a deep and impossible question, and then he spoke for a long time and when he was finished he looked at Ada and smiled.

Dinh said, “He thinks now that it probably wasn’t Charles. That it may have been someone who looked like Charles. He said there was a man here, a German, who had the same kind of eyes as Charles. It was probably the German man who spent three hours in the room with the girl of ill repute. That is what he believes.”

Ada pushed past the sentry and went into the restaurant and sat down and watched from the window. Jon was talking and Dinh was wiping sweat from his forehead with a blue handkerchief. Finally Jon walked away and joined Ada in the restaurant.

“It’s so calm in here,” Ada said. She motioned at the lobby and the marble columns and the beautifully dressed waitresses and she said, “I was imagining Dad coming in here and sitting down at a table with a woman he didn’t know. What would he talk about? What language would they speak?” Jon listened to her but did not say anything.

A few days later, near the harbor, a cyclo driver said he had taken Charles over the bridge and down along the sandy road to Maryann’s, a restaurant on China Beach. The driver said he had waited there and then driven him back. Charles hadn’t talked to anyone. He hadn’t been with anyone. Ask Maryann, the man said.

So Jon and Ada went to Maryann’s. They passed down through the furniture market, beyond a factory that produced mattresses, and over the bridge to the island, where a few empty hotels sat stranded and forlorn. They followed the beach road to the shantylike restaurants that served beer and
pho
to lovers who huddled out of the wind and watched the waves break against the shore.

It was a wet day. The rain drove against their foreheads and faces as they walked along the beach toward the entrance to Maryann’s. They sat inside, out of the rain, and ordered two beers. Ada used Jon’s jacket to wipe her hair and face. Her shirt, thin and white, clung to her body and her skin showed through. Jon wiped a few drops of water from her forearm. They shared a cigarette and then they pulled out their father’s photo and showed it to the young girl who was serving them. She turned the photo in her hands and studied it, made a face, and then looked at them and smiled. “Very handsome,” she said.

“Have you seen him?” Jon asked. “That is our father. His name is Charles and he was in Danang last month. A cyclo driver said he came here, to Maryann’s. To this restaurant. Do you remember him?”

The girl walked over to a stairway and yelled something, twice, and waited.

“Brilliant,” Jon said. “She understood every word.”

An older woman appeared, holding the railing of the stairs, stepping carefully down onto the cement floor. She took the photo from the girl and looked at it. The girl spoke quickly and quietly, and then the woman came over to Ada and Jon. She said, “I am Maryann.”

Ada introduced herself and Jon and then asked Maryann if she spoke English and when she nodded Ada said, “Did you ever see the man in the photo? He’s our father. We were told that he came here, maybe a month ago or so.”

“I saw him. He was here three or four times. He sat over there on the deck and drank and ate and then he went away.”