The Postcard

by Zoë Folbigg

  Maya clapped and cooed from her top couchette. James smiled from his underneath.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a runner – we could have gone together on some of those runs I did up around the rice terraces. Would have been nice, Lenny.’

  ‘Ahh, he’s no runner!’ Dee guffawed.

  Lenny blushed. ‘I’ve not laced up my trainers since. Why should I? I won gold that day.’

  Maya told Dee and Lenny the story of how she and James got together, Irish eyes smiling in their bunks at every turn, every longing, every rejection, every disappointment… until the fateful night they were both thrown off a train in a snowy village outpost. When Maya got to the punchline, Lenny clutched his heart and said, ‘Good for you, Maya.’

  As the train started to weave through Vinh, past the corridor to Thailand, Myanmar and Laos, Lenny made everyone laugh with stories about his life as a travel agent. Of the scouting trips he’d been invited on to check out new resorts around the world; of the eccentric customers he books holidays for; of the high roller who always travels first class while his wife and kids go economy; of how he directs honeymooners to Mauritius and the Maldives because he can’t pronounce the word ‘Seychelles’. (‘Ahh, you don’t wanna go there, the Maldives are much better…’ he mimicked – Lenny is very good at doing an impression of himself.) At 2 a.m., Dee said, ‘Shut up now, Len,’ from her top bunk, and he obediently went to sleep, enabling the rest of them to as well. They woke to sunrise over the green rice terraces and temples approaching Hue, before arriving at Danang and taking a taxi to Hoi An.

  It was a long night. It’s a relief to arrive; they don’t even mind the hotel’s padded red velveteen décor of the interior walls and the welcome desk.

  The four friends slide their backpacks down their bodies and drop them to the floor, Maya still less gung-ho than James, despite her backpack starting to look rather well-travelled.

  A small woman with an eager smile asks for the travellers’ passports.

  James and Dee unzip pockets, wallets and document holders and lean against the soft desk, while Maya and Lenny stand near the luggage, watching the bicycles and the slow hum of people going about their business on the street outside. Maya yawns. She is both annoyed at Lenny for keeping her awake for most of the night and fond of him for being so bloody entertaining. She doesn’t know whether to hug him or punch him on the arm.

  Then Lenny has an epiphany. ‘So I shared a dorm with the famous “Train Man” – on an actual train. I can’t believe it, Maya. That’s a cool story.’

  Maya smiles proudly as she looks over at James checking in. His black T-shirt has faded to grey and his blue jeans are sagging a little around his bottom. Maya’s heart pounds.

  So handsome.

  ‘I know. Cool, heh? There’s definitely a story you could sell there, Lenny.’

  ‘What, “TRAIN MAN TALKS ABOUT PHO IN HIS SLEEP!”’ says Lenny, waving his arm across an imaginary headline. ‘Or, “TRAIN MAN SNORES LOUDLY ON THE HANOI EXPRESS!”’

  ‘How about “MY NIGHT OF PASSION ON THE LOVE TRAIN WITH TRAIN MAN!”’ adds Maya with her own arching arm and sweeping hand.

  Lenny’s eyebrows knit together. ‘Ick, Maya, you took it too far.’

  Maya winces an apology and looks over to James and Dee. James and Dee are both the fixer halves of each couple. The sorters. The checker-inners. Maya doesn’t relish being bundled with Lenny as the least competent of a pair, not when she’s so resourceful, when she’s Excellent at Remembering, but actually she’s so tired this morning, she’s happy for James to be giving passport details and credit card deposits.

  And Lenny is good company.

  ‘So, what are you going to have made?’ Maya asks, changing the subject, atoning for a joke that didn’t go down well.

  ‘Ah well, our Aidan’s getting married at the weekend, it’s why we’re going back home now.’

  ‘Oh wow. Baby Aidan’s getting married?’

  ‘Yep, wee Aidan. Although he’s six-foot-five,’ Lenny says with a proud twinkle, as he puts his hand across his brow and pretends to look up, as if he’s Jack about to scale a beanstalk. Lenny’s hardly small himself.

  ‘Oh I have one of those, Florian. Only we’re four siblings and not fourteen. But Florian is a baby giant too.’

  On the night train from Hanoi, Lenny also kept Maya and James awake with tales about the many Mullens, his thirteen brothers and sisters, and in which order they fall. Maya’s Special Memory skill means that if she concentrates really hard, she can remember them all.

  Martin, Anne, Brenda, Gavin, Deidre, Lisa, Orla, Michael, Niamh, Marian, Leonard, Eve, Ciara, Aidan.

  She silently congratulates herself.

  ‘Ah well, my baby giant is getting married – can you believe it – before me?’ Lenny gives Maya a wink. ‘Anyways, I need a suit for the big day – a good one too, I’m his best man.’

  ‘Ahhh, how lovely, Lenny! Have you got your speech sorted?’

  ‘Nope. You know me, Maya, I won’t be short of a word or two.’

  ‘Hahaha, no, that’s true. Any idea what kind of suit you’ll have made, you know, to look the part?’

  Maya tries to imagine what Lenny would look like in a suit – she’s only ever seen him in grubby T-shirts, three-quarter-length cargo pants or biker overtrousers.

  ‘I’m thinking of going out there. Having something a bit fancy. Light blue maybe. Show off me tan. Or teal. Dee says I look nice in teal.’ Lenny puffs up his chest like a proud peacock. If Dee were standing next to him, he would have looked to her for affirmation. ‘Not that any bugger will be looking at me. Plus our Aidan got all the looks.’

  Maya laughs. ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fourteenth-time lucky?’

  ‘Yep. A lot of Irish hearts will be breaking this time next week, that’s for sure. Tall. Handsome. Clever. He got all the bloody brains too.’

  ‘He sounds lovely!’

  Lenny rolls his eyes. ‘Anyway, what about you, Maya? What will you have the tailor stitch ya?’

  Maya thinks back to her FASH days. Working for an online clothing giant meant she crammed her wardrobe full of mass-produced voluminous skirts and cotton summer dresses, all at forty per cent off. Since she was fired over a year ago, she has only bought one pair of shoes, travelling kit aside – a pair of grey patent brogues for starting her patisserie course in style – fast fashion all seemed so wasteful and throwaway having worked inside it. Faced with the famous tailors of Hoi An, Maya wondered if it’s better to not have anything made. Make do and mend. Then she thinks of the Miu Miu dress she tore out of an issue of Paris Vogue, left in a cafe in Hanoi. The lilac velvet bodice with small buttons down to the waist. The fifties skirt in navy net. Perhaps she could be persuaded by a nice trip to the tailor shops, ship it home in case there are any fancy events to go to next year. Seemingly there are always weddings.

  ‘Hmmm, maybe a dress,’ Maya says, coming round to the idea. ‘I do miss my dresses.’

  She thinks of the wardrobe at the top of her Victorian maisonette and how it used to look before they packed up their clothes and Timo moved in. Ninety per cent of the wardrobe was crammed with Maya’s dresses, ten per cent James’ jeans and shirts.

  ‘I did see this nice dress in Vogue. Strapless. Kind of in at the waist and out again…’

  Maya notices Lenny zoning out as he looks into space beyond Maya’s shoulder, out of the door into the late-morning sunshine. She can tell he’s not interested.

  ‘I dunno, we’ll see,’ shrugs Maya. ‘I wonder what Dee will have made, she’d look stunning in anything.’

  Maya’s attempts to reel Lenny back into the conversation fail as she realises he’s gone. His attention is fully on the street outside the Hoi An Happy Homestead. She’s tempted to turn around.

  Lenny’s friendly eyes narrow. His shoulders rise.

  ‘Lenny? You OK?’

  Maya turns around and sees people cycling past; families breaking for lunch
; a child with a Paw Patrol schoolbag on her back, almost as long as her; a trader wearing a conical hat carrying a stick across his shoulders, selling something from the baskets dangling low at either end as if he’s a human set of scales.

  Maya turns back to Lenny, now craning his head as if to catch a better look of the street.

  ‘Lenny? Are you all right?’

  ‘Sorry, Maya. I’m not being funny, but there was a fella in the doorway, checking you out a bit too long for my liking. Thought I’d give him the Mullen mad-eye,’ he says, with a wink.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’m just kidding witcha. I’m a peaceful man. But there was a fella there checking you out through the door. I wouldn’t be happy if a man was looking at my Dee like that.’

  Maya turns around again. A woman cycles by with a toddler in the basket of her bike. Whoever it was isn’t there any more.

  ‘Maybe the guy was checking you out, Lenny,’ Maya winks back.

  Lenny rolls his eyes as if to say, That would be just my luck.

  ‘Right,’ says Dee, heaving her backpack up off the ground. ‘Come on, Len. Room 410. Fourth floor. They’re 510 above us. No funny business, you kids,’ Dee says matter-of-factly as she marches off up a flight of stairs with red velveteen carpet.

  James looks at Maya’s puzzled face and kisses her on the forehead in offer of a remedy.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah sure…’ she says, looking back behind her, thinking it’s probably not even worth mentioning to James.

  ‘Room 510. Up the stairs.’

  Maya strains to lift her backpack as the others go off ahead to find the rooms, but she can’t shake the ill feeling as she glances out to the street one last time.

  41

  ‘Which way you dress, sir?’ A small man in a brown satin short-sleeved shirt presses a tape measure to Lenny’s groin. Blushing and uncomfortable, the big teddy bear sweats a bit more in his three-quarter-length trousers.

  ‘Emmm…’ Lenny is rarely lost for words but calls across the crowded tailor’s in a loud whisper. ‘Psst! Dee! Which way do I…?’ He looks down and gestures his hands towards his legs, giving a little nod towards his crotch.

  ‘Left, Len!’ Dee shouts across the shop, where she is standing with her arms out so a woman with a tape can measure her ribcage. ‘You hang to the left, babe! Most men do,’ she adds with authority.

  Lenny rises on his toes a few centimetres, looking like he’s just passed an exam.

  ‘The left,’ he says proudly.

  The expressionless tailor continues measuring Lenny for his pale blue suit while Maya and James exchange a look across a table full of cloth and magazines and suppress a smile. The shop is drowning in rolls of beautiful fabrics: cotton, silk, shantung, organza, corduroy and tulle… in every colour of the rainbow and everything in between. There are patterns too: paisley, polka dots, even a fabric with toucans all over it. James did try to convince Lenny to go for a leopard-print suit, but Dee shot that idea down when she could see Lenny might actually be getting on board with it.

  Maya’s measurements have been taken for her Miu Miu-inspired dress, and it’s James’ turn. He wasn’t going to have anything made, but the tailor’s dog-eared copy of GQ had a Tom Ford advert in it, in which there was a model wearing a tuxedo James loved – not that he has any reason to wear such a suit. He showed it to Maya while she was having her waist measured. She glanced at the advert. A rakish model pouting in a midnight-blue tux with black silk lapels and slim-fit trousers. The thick silk bow tie harked back to old-Hollywood glamour. Maya knew he would look stunning in it. Perfect next to her fake Miu Miu dress.

  ‘You’d rock it,’ she said with a smile.

  Not that we have anywhere to wear it.

  Now James is being asked which way he hangs and Maya is feeling tired from the sleep deficit. She looks hazily, at James, Lenny and Dee, stiff like scarecrows guarding the shop: their arms out to the sides, their lips pursed while they diligently do what the tailors tell them to do, as they imagine what their fanciful new threads will look like.

  Maya looks to the door and rubs her eyes. Bicycles. There are always bicycles pootling past in this languid, sleepy town. Merchants in conical hats. Off-duty models ‘doing Asia’ in shorts and ribbed vests. Children with little pigtails. Babies wrapped around their mothers’ backs. Men dreaming in doorways.

  And then Maya sees her. A woman whose face she has seen on the television for months. On CNN and Star News and BBC World; in hostels from Bundi to Bangkok, Haad Rin to Hanoi. She is wearing a white vest and blue chambray shorts. Her soft brown hair is bobbed and wavy. The woman walks on.

  Maya gasps and turns to James. Standing like a statue. Crippled by Tom Ford.

  Too slow.

  ‘I just saw…’ Maya pauses. ‘James!’ she calls across the shop, before thinking twice. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Adrenaline awakens her. Alert and alive, she rushes out into the street and turns left into the sunshine, scanning the scene for the woman whose face she feels she knows.

  It can’t be.

  She sees a glimpse up ahead. A silver ankle chain catches the sunlight.

  Is she alone?

  Maya hastens her pace, past a little girl licking a milk-coloured ice cream. The girl looks up at Maya and gives a quizzical smile.

  She was spotted with a man in Hanoi.

  Maya weaves, rushing a bit faster, but the woman’s pace must have quickened because the gap between them isn’t narrowing.

  Was it Hanoi? I can’t see anyone with her.

  Her frame is about right. Petite and pale and so very… French. Maya doesn’t want to draw attention to herself, so she uses her spy learnings from Miss Congeniality to keep a low profile while absorbing as much information as she can.

  Her hair is longer than it looks in the photographs.

  Her clothes don’t look very dirty; the Dutch backpackers said her clothes looked dirty.

  An old man with a curved spine blocks Maya’s path as he walks slowly in front of her, his hat obscuring her view. She cranes her neck and attempts to weave around him, but an oncoming bicycle makes her pull in.

  Maybe it isn’t…

  At the junction where four streets meet, Maya finally darts around the ancient man.

  But what if it is?

  She scans all three options: up ahead, to her left, to her right.

  I can’t see her!

  The off-duty model cycles back along the street facing Maya and catches her eye as she passes.

  Did she see her? Is she wondering if it’s Manon Junot too?

  Maya looks over her shoulder, at the tourist on the bicycle with the long lean legs, going the other way. Unperturbed or ignorant, she’s not sure which, and looks back ahead, scanning three horizons for the pale European woman in the short blue shorts.

  I’ve lost her. I’ve lost Manon Junot.

  A tuk-tuk whizzes across the road in front of her, heading left towards the glassy Thu Bon River.

  Did she go along there? To the river?

  Maya scans the street. Her gut tells her to turn left, down the smaller side street that curves around the water’s edge. The woman had been walking on the left of the street, it’s more likely she zipped off down there, given Maya can’t see her up ahead, or on the road out of town to the right.

  A moped pulls up on the pavement in front of her, rolls of fabric stacked horizontally, like colourful logs ready to topple off the back. Trunks of orange, pink and red, creating a barrier to the street that was her best shot.

  Shit.

  Maya is irked. Irritated she might have lost the girl from the news, worried that she might have worried James by disappearing. She huffs in irritation, cursing under her breath. The man on the moped kicks out his stand and shrugs an apology, as Maya does a limbo under shantung and cotton. She regains her poise, tucks her hair behind one ear, and continues along the graceful winding street towards the river.

  She must have come t
his way. If she didn’t then I’ve lost her.

  Maya walks past tightly packed wooden buildings that were once tea emporiums and Japanese merchant houses but are now boutique hotels, bars and tailor shops. She looks back behind her, questioning her choice, and bumps into an old woman selling buns shaped like pillows, hanging from baskets balanced on a stick across the back of her shoulders.

  Maya nearly knocks the woman over.

  ‘I’m sorry, so sorry,’ she says, as she props the merchant up and bows subserviently.

  ‘Banh dau phung?’ says the woman with a hopeful smile, as she offers Maya a puff of thick pastry with a look that says It’s the least you can do.

  Maya puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out a 50,000 dong note. She stuffs it in the old woman’s hand with a smile.

  ‘Dung lai!’ shouts the woman, tugging on Maya’s arm and halting her in her tracks.

  Maya turns around, cursing herself through a forced smile, and takes the proffered bun, stuffing it in her mouth for lack of anywhere else to put it. Her cheeks inflate, her mouth fills and the comforting sweetness of coconut and peanut oozing from deep-fried batter powers her on. She ups her pace again.

  It was Manon Junot. I swear.

  In this dreamy outpost, Maya is hopeful she couldn’t have got far.

  Hurrying further, throwing her all into her hunch, Maya stops to look left down a road that’s more like an alleyway, between two thin buildings. She narrows her eyes and sees that the alley opens out into a bright courtyard that has been taken over and turned into a cafe; young couples take tea and buns at small, circular wrought-iron tables dotted in the sunshine.

  Maya looks back to the road that leads to the river, but stops and glances back down the alleyway. For some reason, she’s drawn to the courtyard at the end of it; her hunch reeling her in. She walks towards the bright beam of sunshine, the light that highlights the cool darkness of the alley, in more of a saunter now than a frantic rush. She’s committed to it. If Manon didn’t turn down here, then it’s too late, she’s lost her. If she did and it’s a dead end as it looks, she’s not going anywhere.