There was staggering beauty in much of what I saw, yet there was also a degree of squalor and decay. The war may have been over for a few decades, yet the aftermath was still being dealt with. We sat on a bench overlooking the lake. I was very thoughtful, as many things were whirling through my confused brain.
“You seem sad,” he said.
“So much waste.”
“Waste?”
“Yes, my life, your life, and so many others are rushing about doing jobs that don’t help anyone. Oh, I know being a policeman is important, but what would you do if you had a completely free choice?”
“I had a free choice.”
“Did you?”
Smiling, he shook his head.
“Not really. I couldn’t afford university, so it was the army or the police.”
“See!”
“Okay, but I do an important job, keeping everyone safe.”
“Do you? Take this Englishman we talked about at the airport, how come a dead man is so important? What’s the matter with protecting the poor from being victimised by big business in sweat shops?”
He looked slightly confused.
“Look, this man stole some diamonds, right?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Yet, every day, thousands of crimes are reported amongst the poor, and thousands aren’t reported because they know they’d be wasting their time. Why does a police force spend so much time, effort and money trying to solve one theft when so many others go un-investigated? It’s down to politics, the Englishman stole from the rich, so that’s why his crime is important. If a woman came to you to tell you her ten year old son was suffering from injuries sustained in an illegal sweat shop, what would you do?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it, how?”
He stared at the ducks. An old woman was feeding them some crumbs, so they fought amongst themselves.
“The crime he committed meant that some of the wealth of our nation was eroded,” he said.
“The nation or a few important men?”
“Those men employ people. Their wealth makes our country competitive in the world.”
“I don’t think so. You’ll find that very little of this wealth reaches those in direst need.”
He shrugged. “Still, that’s life; we have to accept what we can’t change.”
“It can be changed, if enough people get together and move to change.”
“Are you asking me to change the system?”
“No, I’m just making the point that your life isn’t your own, and neither is mine. Your parents wanted change and were willing to fight for it. My grandparents helped fight the fascists in Europe, but what good was all that sacrifice when we let equally bad things happen without raising a hand to stop it?”
We sat in silence, with just the calls of the ducks filling the air.
“A doctor,” he said at last.
“What?”
“I’d like to have been a doctor, and return to my father’s village to help them.”
I smiled and he glanced at me. On seeing my smile, he grinned sheepishly.
“Come on, I’ll take you back to your hotel,” he said. Suddenly, I was in no rush to go.
“No, let’s just watch the ducks for a while.”
Once more, we sat in silence, as I tried to find some order in my confused brain.
“Julianna?”
I looked at him, as it was the first time he’d actually used my first name.
“What?”
“You are very beautiful. Are all Canadian women so beautiful?”
I flushed red to my roots, unable to answer him coherently.
“Will you come to dinner with me?” he asked.
“Where?”
“I’ll take you to the Emperor. It serves the finest Vietnamese dishes.”
I had no great desire to be at the opening of this damn fashion show, so agreed. What the hell was I doing?
The Emperor recently stormed into Hanoi to the delight of food lovers. Set back from the street, the classy restaurant fills an airy two-story space. On the ground floor, patrons lounging on comfortable sofas sipped cocktails. Upstairs, a sophisticated menu, the attentive service and the candle-lit, wood-carved tables beckoned serious eaters, business parties and romantic diners. The kitchen prepared refined Vietnamese food. Appetizers included Fresh Spring Rolls and a tangy green Papaya Salad.
There was a cross section of locals and visitors in the restaurant, which wasn’t cheap. I hoped that a police lieutenant’s pay was up to it. I adore seafood at the best of times, and these dishes were some of the best I’d ever tasted. The menu boasted many offerings from the sea, such as steamed, flaky White Fish in a banana leaf, oniony Soft-shelled Crab and Tender Grilled Squid.
I think I made a pig of myself, particularly as we had some wine as well. I can honestly say it was one of the finest meals I’d ever eaten, particularly in this neck of the woods. I discounted the steak sandwich from earlier.
We talked of schooling and family, most of my stories were simply transplanted from England to Canada, and with a change in gender for good measure. However, it was as we ate our desserts I received the biggest shock of my life.
I actually liked being a woman.
It wasn’t just I was enjoying pretending to be a woman; I actually started to believe I was a girl, and those thoughts and feelings gave me immeasurable, if somewhat confused pleasure.
The major shock was that I was disappointed that I wasn’t a real girl.
“Are you all right?” he asked, as tears of frustration swelled unbidden to my eyes.
“Yes, sorry, just a stray thought,” I said, fighting and regaining control.
When the bill came, he looked slightly crestfallen before regaining composure.
“Let me share the bill, please,” I said.
“No, this is on me.”
“Huynh, don’t be silly, I can claim this back, so let me go halves, please?”
Very reluctantly, but obviously slightly relieved, he let me split the bill with him. As we left, I noticed he glanced at me often and smiled for most of the time.
We walked back to my hotel.
The air was balmy, filled with the constant buzz and noise of traffic, which had admittedly subsided somewhat.
“May I see you again?” he asked.
“I’ll be busy at the show for the next few days.”
“Not all the time, surely?”
“Aren’t you working?” I asked.
He grinned. “Not all the time.”
“Call me, I’m in room 310.”
“I know,” he said, smiling again.
He didn’t enter the hotel with me, so I kissed his cheek and said goodnight outside. He lingered while I collected my key and waited for the elevator, finally waving at me as the elevator doors closed.
I received a shock when I got to my room, as the door was open. I had two choices. One, to run back downstairs and get Huynh, who, as a policeman, might help; or, two, go in and deal with the intruder(s).
Being a fool, I went in.
Two men were waiting for me, one seated on my sofa and the other staring out of the window at the lights of the city. I hoped that they hadn’t helped themselves to drinks from the extortionate mini-bar.
“Excusez-moi, may I help you, gentlemen?”
Both men started as if surprised, but recovered quickly.
“Ah, Miss Blanchard?” asked the older man. He was in his early forties, while the other appeared to be about ten years younger. Both were white, well dressed and smart.
“Who wants to know? How did you get into my room?”
The older one produced a black wallet and badge; in the clear window were an impressive crest and some writing. It told me he was John Robertson, an agent of the Australian Customs Service.