Free Fishing for Tigers by Emily Maguire Page B

Vietnamese for five which means he knows six things. But now he know sáu so he know bày – actually seven. You understand?’
    â€˜Yes. Very funny.’
    â€˜Hey, what’s your name?’ Cal asked.
    â€˜I am Nhu .’
    â€˜It’s nice to meet you, Nhu. My friend and I would like to have, um . . .’ He screwed up his face as though concentrating hard. ‘ Hai bia .’
    â€˜Two beer, yes?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Okay. Ah, what is your name, please?’
    â€˜I’m Cal.’
    â€˜Nice to meet you, Cal. Now I bring for you hai bia two beer.’ She ducked behind the grimy plastic curtain dividing the customers from the kitchen.
    â€˜Sweet girl,’ I said.
    Cal rolled his eyes.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I look Vietnamese except handsome. What the hell?’
    â€˜Her English wasn’t great. I’m sure she meant—’
    â€˜Nah, I get it, she was being nice. It’s just . . . I’m getting sick of the whole “where you from” thing. It’s the same as at home. They don’t want to know where was I born and raised, they want to know where am I from . What kind of nip am I? But then, I’m the same. I always wonder with other Asians, always have to stop myself asking. It’s even weird when I meet other Vietnamese Aussies. If they’re my age or younger than me, we do it to each other. We each know that the other is probably Aussie through and through. We know how frustrating it is to always be explaining a lack of accent or language, but there’s still this – this assumption we make about each other, about why we’re here.’ He flicked the air. ‘Not here. Australia.’
    Cal shook his head, the angst replaced by a calm smile as the girl returned with a tray carrying two beers and two shot glasses filled with cloudy, pale liquid.
    â€˜For you, because you are Viet, you have special.’ She placed all four drinks in front of him. ‘Your friend can have too,’ she added without taking her eyes off Cal.
    â€˜, Nhu,’ he said and she gave a little curtsy.
    â€˜Welcome please,’ she said. No doubt her interrogation would have restarted then, but five rough-faced men had taken the front two tables and were shouting their orders. ‘Excuse,’ she said, and began shouting back in Vietnamese.
    I started to warn Cal about the brain-melting strength of northern Vietnamese rice-spirits, but he tossed his down before I could finish. He coughed twice, rubbed his eyes and then pushed the second shot glass towards me. I threw it back. Not bad as far aswent. The acid burning was almost undetectable beneath the pleasurable whoosh of my blood.
    â€˜You know what’s the worst?’ Cal leant across the table causing it to wobble beneath him. I grabbed our glasses; he went on, oblivious. ‘The worst are the Vietnam vets. It’s got so I want to lie whenever a bloke over fifty asks me where I’m from. I have lied, Mish. I’ve said China, I have, because I don’t want to deal with it, you know?’
    â€˜With what?’
    He threw his hands up, his body back. His jerking knees causing the glasses to dance again. ‘The confessions. The bloody guilt. One time I was in a food court, eating my burger, minding my business, and this bloke – after the “where are you from” thing had played out – starts telling me about his tour. Starts crying. Talking about dead Vietnamese kids. Body parts kept as souvenirs. I listened for a bit, but what am I meant to say? “It’s okay, you’re forgiven”? I mean, I wasn’t there. Haven’t ever been there.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Hadn’t been here. You know? It’s got nothing to do with me.’
    I had become aware of the silence of the men at the next table. They were my age, maybe older. With their rubber sandals and sweat-stained, collared shirts they might