Given World

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Hawks

  2. Bluer and Bigger, with No Mountains

  3. Girl, Three Speeds, Pretty Good Brakes

  4. Slim

  5. Not-So-Secret Life

  6. Kid on a Mission

  7. Old Boots. Local Boys.

  8. The Last Thing You Need

  9. Take You Back Broken

  10. Nothing Like the Other Dogs

  11. Two Days, Then the Bus to Cambodia

  12. Somewhere in the Real World

  13. Scablands

  14. Gone So Gone

  15. All That Water. All Those Bridges.

  16. The Given World

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  For my mother, Dusty, without whose grace, generosity, and tenacity no one in this family would have gotten very far.

  In memory of my father, Joe, for first chances, and Mom’s Jack for second ones.

  For Carl. We are so grateful to you.

  And for my uncle, Jim, for going and for coming back.

  At Night

  it is best

  to focus your eyes

  a little off to one side;

  it is better to know things

  drained of their color, to fathom

  the black horses cropping

  at winter grass,

  their white jaws that move

  in steady rotation, a sweet sound.

  And when they file off to shelter

  under the trees

  you will find the pale circles of snow

  pushed aside, earth opening

  its single, steadfast gaze:

  towards stars ticking by, one by one, overhead,

  the given world flaming precisely out of its frame.

  —Jane Hirshfield

  PROLOGUE

  Jasper says this is the kind of heat that makes people in Australia shoot each other. Or stab. Strangle. Run over. Whatever. But we are not in Australia. We are in a once-infamous city whose inhabitants still call it Saigon. It has not rained in months, but tonight it will, and the rain will go more or less unmentioned but not unnoticed. It will still be hot, but the relief will be palpable. In Australia, they will stop killing each other, but only if they get some rain there too.

  We have been waiting—playing pool and drinking beer and sometimes, when we can’t take it anymore, finding air-conditioned places that will let us in. In those places, you pay the usual dollar for a 333 beer; two more dollars for the air. The Caravelle is one of those places, and the Rex, and now these fancy new restaurants appearing block by block, almost overnight. There is a swimming pool on the roof of the Rex, and it is often full of corpulent Russian tourists, suntanned like scraped cowhide. They are loud, and they never come to the Lotus. This is our bar. No air-con. Rats the size of puppies, but they stay in the dark corners, usually, until closing time.

  The government here is renting Jasper from Australia so he can teach young Vietnamese pilots how to fly passenger planes. He is part of a contingent of Qantas boys—another of whom has managed to woo me into bed, which really didn’t require all that much effort. This other one looks vaguely like Jim Morrison and has a room at the Rex, with air-con and a bathtub. We are not in love; not by a long shot. If he were one of the French boys, maybe I would be in love. The Aussie is mainly in love with himself, but the bathtub is nice. It slows down the process of going crazy.

  Back in February, during Tet, Jasper drank so much it almost killed him and they had to send him home. The day after the hospital set him loose, I waited on the steps of the Rex with him while they put his gear in a cab. He didn’t want to go. He’d found his place. He was almost in tears; big, broad-shouldered, rowdy Cairns bruiser, barely able to get the words out.

  “Nothing for me there,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “It was in the air,” I said. “Couldn’t be helped.” He patted my shoulder. The street was still littered with mounds of pink paper from the millions of firecrackers that had gone off nonstop for three days.

  They let him come back last week; he promised to behave. If he fucks up this time, he goes home for good. A little while ago he headed across the street to the Apocalypse Now, a serious bar where people go to get seriously drunk. He was shaky, even after three beers. I won’t see him come out. I won’t see him ever again.

  • • •

  It’s slow tonight, and since she is not needed to flirt and serve drinks, Phượng and I are hanging out at the front window. It is octagonal and quite large—maybe six or eight feet across—and contains not a bit of glass. The sill is fairly wide, meaning a person could sit on it if she were so inclined, and often I can be found perched there, gecko-like, trying to blend in. At last call, Tho, the bartender, will close the rusted aluminum accordion shutters and latch them with a heavy round padlock the diameter of a dessert plate. I wonder if the shutters are made, like so much is here, of metal salvaged from crashed American warplanes. I wonder about a lot of things at this window. Last call is still hours away.

  It is April. In a few short years, Bill Clinton will mark the middle of his first term by reestablishing diplomatic relations with Vietnam, and Americans will turn up in droves; some for the first time, some not. For now, we are few and far between, and except for one in particular, I have not yet missed us very much.

  This American (the one telling this story) is almost, but not quite, old enough to have been here the first time around. I don’t know where the years have gone. If I didn’t have to count the ones I don’t entirely remember, I would actually be a lot younger. This is not all that funny. I know. But it was not deliberate, either. Some things just happen. Shit happens. Everyone says so.

  “Gone to Củ Chi already?” Phượng asks. “Visit brother?” By which she means have I gone by now. She says this without looking directly at me, because she knows. I have not gone. One of these days, though, maybe I will surprise her.

  Mick has been away more than half my life, but this is the first time I have set out to look for him, as I have been very busy denying the undeniable. When I was a kid he would take me into the foothills of the Little Rockies on his motorcycle. He knew where to look for fossils; knew what they were when he found them. I can still see, set on the palm of his hand, a chunk of quartz etched with tiny filaments, like hairs. He tells me the etchings are the imprint of dinosaur feathers. We are in a cave, and I am holding the flashlight. I search his face to see if he is making it up, but think maybe this time he is telling the truth.

  Remember this, Riley, I tell myself. Hang on to this.

  To Phượng I say, “Not yet.”

  She looks at me and rolls her eyes. Just up, over to one side and back again, not all the way around. Her eyebrows are pencil-line thin and perfectly arched. I would look ridiculous in those eyebrows. I tell her she looks like Madame Nhu.

  “Điên cái đầu,” she says. Crazy in the head. I agree: I have seen photos of the madame soon after her husband and his brother, South Vietnam’s president, were assassinated in 1963. She is holding court in L.A., accusing Kennedy, not a hair out of place. The woman had some nerve; you have to give her that.

  It dawns on me that Phượng might not be talking about the Dragon Lady. If she isn’t, I can’t argue. Crazy is clearly my comfort zone, my DMZ. And as for visiting ghosts, the Vietnamese are used to that;
it is no cause for commotion.

  My brother, if I am being honest, is only one of the ghosts I have come here to visit. By which I mean the shadows in my head and not necessarily dead people, because I still don’t know. Show me a body; maybe I’ll believe.

  • • •

  The dive we are in, this flimsy but cozy excuse for a glitzy rock ’n’ roll nightclub, is fairly quiet at the moment—five or so regulars take turns playing pool, a few strangers and a small flock of taxi girls look on. On a suitcase-size and decoratively beat-up boom box he keeps behind the bar, Tho plays the homemade cassette tapes we give him. Tonight Prince rules the airwaves, along with The Pretenders and a little Culture Club. Some nights Tho’s box delivers the same stuff American soldiers would have listened to here: Country Joe, Sly, The Youngbloods, Three Dog Night, Aretha. Occasionally we get the soundtrack for Good Morning, Vietnam. We especially love the part where Robin Williams says, “It’s hot. It’s damn hot.” Because it is.

  When the conversation about my brother hits the wall that is my refusal to acknowledge any reasonable probability, Phượng and I talk about something easier: in this case, the rain. “Trời mưa,” she says, a simple statement even I can understand: it is raining.

  I nod. “Rất mưa.” A lot of rain. During our nightly conversations we roam haltingly into each other’s languages, my excursions considerably more hesitant than hers, but I am learning, and Phượng has had far more practice with English.

  “Wet rat,” she says, and giggles at the play on words. “Wet rat bastard.” She is not really giggling anymore, but she doesn’t sound pissed either, which makes it difficult to know for sure if she has really pegged anyone in particular for a rat bastard, or if she has been watching more old American movies on Star TV and this is just another practice persona. Probably a little of each, knowing Phượng. She sounds like Humphrey Bogart in Vietnamese drag. I do not ask, and imagine she is just messing around. I am too dreamy with beer and the heat to work it out anyway, watching my own movie, the scenes dim and sputtery as a hand-cranked newsreel.

  Outside, cyclo drivers on the watch for passengers pedal their three-wheelers through fitful patches of brightness. They drift strong and stork legged, all sinew and bone skinny. Dangling from their lips or fingers are cigarettes somehow still smoldering in the rain. The way they smoke, so casually oblivious, reminds me of my father—on the porch, maybe, or out in the yard at night, looking up at the sky, for weather, but it’s not as if he could miss the stars. I hear my name in his voice: “Riley . . .” Never loud or angry, just gentle reminders: try to grow up with some degree of intentionality and grace; try to believe the world is more benevolent than not. I wonder if he knows I did hear him. I’m sure I never said. Here I am, though, working on it. Working on something.

  Firelight emanates from small blazes kept alive with jet fuel and tended on the fractured sidewalks by itinerant bicycle mechanics; these men once repaired jeeps and tanks for the Americans and now keep their tools in battered, surplus, army-green ammo boxes. They have long ago forgiven us for leaving them behind. Buddhists, they say there is nothing to forgive.

  My fake-French bicycle is locked up out front where I can keep an eye on it. It is how I get around in this city of five million, to my various English-teaching jobs, to the street kids’ center where I try to offer something of relative value, and into which we try to coax them from the stoops, the rain, the robbers. But the kids are so wild—wilder than wild red pandas—and they find their protection in each other, mostly coming only to eat and then disappearing again into the night.

  I try to formulate in my pidgin Vietnamese an explanation for Phượng of how the cyclo guys look like those mythological birds to me, and how some kids in America are told that storks bring babies, tied up in bandanas dangling from their beaks. It sounds even more ridiculous in Vietnamese than it does in English, and it also occurs to me how many birds there are already in this story: Phượng, the phoenix, cyclo-storks, the girls at the bar, a scrawny pidgin that is my grasp of the language, a language I am learning to love, for translations like this one, for barbed wire: “steel string with thorns.”

  Phượng tells me the stork story is so much baloney; she actually says, “Stork babies baloney, Chi.” Chi is what they call me here. It means big sister. Hardly anyone calls me by my actual name, but I’m used to that; I’ll answer to just about anything.

  Phượng has recently been knocked up by one of our local British boys. She tells me this as we stand at the window. Ian, the father, is an old Saigon hand, having been here for three years already, captaining some kind of bamboo furniture enterprise. He is tall, blond, dubiously handsome, and wears his jaded weariness like a badge. I hear the first few years it was all he could do to stay in the country and out of prison, for uncommitted crimes.

  This town is full of romantically hazardous men: Brits, Aussies, Froggies. Especially, maybe, the Froggies, with their Ça vas, their Gitanes, their sleepy eyes and sexy accents that require of a girl perpetual vigilance. Luc could be a poster child for these Froggies. He looks like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless, and rumor has it that he is indeed here to make a movie, though I have never seen him with a camera or a lighting crew, and suspect he is really here (like me) on account of a movie he keeps in his head.

  Phượng tells me he has his eye on me. “Luc like you style, Chi. Think Chi beaucoup sweetie pie.”

  Luc has never said more than two words in a row to me. If he thinks I am beaucoup sweetie pie, he has a funny way of showing it. Phượng says this is because he is shy. Shy and adorable. A little young. A hazard, like I said. Besides, there is that Jim Morrison Aussie, the one I became entangled with almost as soon as I arrived, and who will very soon, and surgically, break my heart—able to do that because this is Saigon, not because the reasons I am sleeping with him have anything to do with love. Love would require a part of me that I have not been able to precisely locate or properly identify the remains of for a long time now.

  So that is the romantic inventory—the pertinent bits.

  At least I am not pregnant. This time. I look over at Phượng, who leans her elbows on the windowsill, her chin on her interlocked fingers. I say I am sorry for bringing up the storks.

  “No worries,” she says. Then, “Shit.” Softly, infinitely sweetly. She picked that up from me, I think—the word, not the delicate delivery of it. I never heard her say it before we started hanging out together at the window.

  “Don’t say ‘shit,’ ” I say. “It’s not ladylike.”

  “What is ladylike?”

  “Like a lady.”

  “Woman?” she asks. She looks puzzled, those fine eyebrows drawn together to meet above the bridge of her delicate nose. Her delicate nose that matches the rest of her delicate self. I feel like an Amazon next to her, all five and a half feet of me.

  “Different,” I say. “More feminine. Ladies don’t swear.”

  “Merde,” she says. She’s not buying it, in any language.

  I swear all the time, though my favorite swearword is not “shit,” it is “fuck.” Mick taught me how to cuss when I was nine or ten, but that is not one of the words he taught me. It is one I picked up out of necessity a few years later. I try not to say it around Phượng. I do have some manners.

  “What are you going to do, Phượng?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe will go away,” she says.

  “What? Where?” I am alarmed. For me. I don’t want her to go anywhere. She is the only truly sane person I know in this town—besides my students, for whom I must keep up some sense of decorum, meaning I cannot go out drinking with them, and Tho. But I have learned it is not healthy to become too attached to the bartender.

  “Not me, silly,” she says. “Nó.” Nó means It. I still don’t know what she’s saying. “Em bé,” she says, and smacks my forehead lightly with her fingertips for emphasis.

  “Oh.” The baby. I get it; that part I get. Maybe it’s the beer, but I d
on’t know what else to say; not sure if she means what I think she means. I realize I don’t have any idea what can happen here, what’s legal or accepted. I don’t know either if Phượng is Catholic or Buddhist, animist or Cao Đài; if she has family in the delta or the highlands; if her father fought with the ARVN or the Vietcong or the Montagnards. I am just an interloper, still uninitiated and incurably dopey, traits Phượng patiently abides.

  She straightens her back and casually taps her long, perfect, pink-shellacked fingernails on the sill like she’s playing a piano. “Maybe keep,” she says, as if it has just occurred to her, but I am not fooled.

  “Does Ian know?”

  She nods. “Knows. Not happy.” She hesitates, stops tapping. “Very,” she says.

  “Very not happy? Or not very happy?” I ask, even though I’m not sure the distinction will be clear to her. As usual, she’s tracking me just fine.

  “Not very happy,” she says. “But so-so happy.”

  “Really?” I am shocked. I would not have expected him to be any kind of happy; he has always seemed so content, so immutably rooted in bachelorhood.

  “Why surprise?”

  “I don’t know. I just—”

  “I know,” she says, and turns to me. “Người Mỹ.” American. She leans her forehead into mine, locks eyes, kisses my cheek and floats swan-like away in her silky white áo dài to go back to work.

  I get another semicold Tiger beer from Tho, watch the cyclos a bit longer as the rain lets up, and eventually return to the pool table, where I sometimes belong. It’s getting late, but I am not ready to go back to my place yet, out on Cách Mạng Tháng Tám, Boulevard of the August Revolution, needing something closer to pure exhaustion to sleep in this heat, and the noise that almost never stops. I could probably go to the Rex and sleep with the Aussie, listen to his cherished CD collection on his fancy stereo in his hermetically sealed room, but the beers are closer—and warmer by a long shot. Besides, I hate just showing up; I like at least to be invited.