The Red Lotus

by Chris Bohjalian

  She thought of his black marble tombstone in the cemetery in New Jersey, and tried to imagine it among the cities of the dead they had ridden past this week in Vietnam. Some families here still exhumed their dead relatives after three years in a temporary plot, sometimes a rice paddy or field, lovingly cleaned the bones, and then reinterred the remains in the great, sprawling necropolises that appeared out of nowhere in the countryside. Occasionally, they used loose stones instead of a concrete lid on the crypt so that the soul might more easily soar. According to Giang, on the chosen day they would retrieve the bones, they went well before sunrise, so the deceased would feel no pain from the sun after three years underground in the dark.

  And then there were the magnificent family temples that the wealthy built for their ancestors, rich with golden pagodas, flying dragons, and rainbows of glazed tiles.

  Ancestor worship. That was the term Giang had used.

  She opened her eyes and wrote Austin another text:

  I don’t know where you are and if you’ll ever see this. I don’t even know if you’re alive. But please come back. Please. Come. Back.

  After she had pressed Send, she rolled onto her side. She had never told Austin that she loved him because he’d never said those three words to her. But she thought she did—no, she knew she did, she knew this now that he was gone—and so reached for her phone and texted him:

  I love you.

  Then she tossed her phone onto the mattress behind her, within reach if his parents should call back, and brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms as tightly as she could around her shins. He had never slept in these sheets because they’d been changed in the morning, and so there was no trace of him in the bedding. She could breathe in the aroma of the sheets and the pillowcases, but she’d never find him. She opened one eye and gazed at his black roller suitcase on the rack beside the closet door. It looked like it belonged in a Marriott or a Hilton, not this elegant bedroom in what had once upon a time been a French colonial mansion. Still, it only made her long for him even more.

  What was that Vietnamese word for when you miss someone? When you long for them?

  Nhớ.

  It had come up while they were walking along the Perfume River in Hue. Their guide had said the water most likely had gotten its name from the fragrance of the orchid and frangipani flowers that fell into the river as it flowed past the citadel that once housed the Nguyen dynasty. But, he’d added—and here was where Alexis heard the word—the water was also where the concubines bathed and where in myth one young woman had taken her life because she would yearn so desperately for her king when he was away or with another of the courtesans.

  Alexis loved the phonetics of the word. N-yo. To her, it sounded almost, but not quite, like a single syllable.

  She recalled how in the summer Austin had toyed with the idea of getting a pet turtle. He’d researched painted turtles and red-eared sliders, and he’d talked about it all with ever greater earnestness until, suddenly, it dawned on him: the animal would outlive him. They lived forty or fifty years. If he cared for it properly, and he insisted he would, it would be a pet for life. Forever. And clearly that sort of commitment terrified him. One Saturday he had insisted they visit a pet store that sold turtles, and the two of them had watched the animals for an hour. He pointed at one and observed, “God, see him? The two of us would grow old together. We’d be like those retired old guys at the diners who have breakfast together every Tuesday or Wednesday, and they have all these memories that no one else has, because they’re the only two who are left.”

  He’d never see her text, she decided. She knew it. And suddenly her eyes were starting to well up, and she thought of the cutting kit that she had created when she’d started work at the hospital in New York and refreshed periodically, but had never—not even once—used. At least not yet. Still, she was relieved it was so very many time zones away. No, if she wanted to cut, she could. She would. She’d take a needle from the sewing kit in the hotel room bathroom. She’d go downstairs to the hotel kitchen and swipe a paring knife.

  But she wouldn’t. At least not now. At least not tonight.

  Instead she did what she did when she was younger and, with the help of the therapist her mother had found for her, had first started to fight hard against the urge to cut: she stripped off her nightshirt and went into the shower. There she turned on the hot water—hotter than she would normally tolerate—and instead of standing beneath it, curled up in that same little ball on the tile, and she sobbed and sobbed so that her body shook and her tears ran down the drain, lost in the torrents of water.

  5

  Two of the men walked him from the van along a slate walkway, while Douglas trailed behind: Austin was aware of the crack of the cleats on the bottom of his bike shoes against the slabs. Then he could hear the van being driven a short distance—no more than fifty yards, he guessed—and being parked there.

  “There are three steps, then a front entryway, and then you’ll be inside,” the other American told him.

  He nodded beneath his hood and carefully lifted each foot to climb the stairs. He wanted to be obedient, though he knew he was deluding himself if he thought good behavior or submission would in any way affect their decision whether to kill him. If they spared him, it would be for no other reason than because they believed he could still help them. But the urge to live? It was unrelenting and it was ferocious. He knew that most people would say almost anything or do almost anything if they thought it could buy them a little more time. He was no exception.

  He guessed they’d only been driving an hour, but he had to admit that it was hard to gauge time when you had a canvas sack over your head. Douglas hadn’t said a word to him once they had started off. No one had spoken.

  The front door sounded heavy when they closed it, and inside he smelled bleach. A lab, he wondered? But then he heard the sound of oil spitting in a wok and smelled scallions and lemon basil as well.

  “We’re here,” Douglas said. Then, to someone else, he added, “You can take off his hood now.”

  When the Vietnamese kid removed the canvas sack, it took a moment for his eyes to readjust to the sunlight. He saw they had brought him to a modern house, single story, with one great room with a kitchen separated from couches and a coffee table by a bar with a black marble countertop. A girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen was at the stove cooking lunch, and she was dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeve floral tunic. She may have nodded at the group when they arrived and Austin was still wearing that hood, but now she was focused entirely on the vegetables on the cutting board and the wok on the range. He saw there were three place settings at a dining room table.

  “You must be hungry,” Douglas told him.

  “A little.”

  “Don’t worry: Phuong isn’t going to serve anyone rats.” Douglas stood for a moment before one of the couches, coughed into his elbow, and waited. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  So Austin went to the leather chair opposite the couch, and as soon as Douglas sat, he did, too. He saw an elegant go table and, on a wooden pedestal, an antique opium pipe that looked like a dragon and he thought had probably been carved from an elephant tusk. There were two copper basins sitting in stands with round holes on the tops to cradle them: handwashing stations from an earlier era, he guessed.

  “You must be thirsty after all that biking. How far had you ridden this morning?” He crossed his legs at his knees and brushed a bit of dirt off his slacks.

  Austin looked behind him and saw the young man who’d pulled off his hood was standing by the door with an assault rifle, watching them. “Not very far. I’d only been riding about ninety minutes,” he answered.

  “That’s not very long, is it?”

  “Not really.”

  “You didn’t seem tired. You didn’t seem in particular
need of a lift,” Douglas said.

  “No.”

  “Good for you.”

  “But you did give me a lift.”

  “True enough.”

  He smelled fish sauce now and reflexively looked back at the kitchen.

  “You are hungry,” Douglas said.

  “I guess.”

  “You started a little south of Hoi An, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have the cao lau last night? Local specialty. Noodles and caramelized pork.”

  “We went shopping.”

  “Ah, the tailors. No doubt you bought yourself some very fine clothes and paid practically nothing.”

  “I got a suit and—”

  “Of course you did,” Douglas said, cutting him off. Then he brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, gathering himself. It was as if he regretted snapping at him just now, and Austin found himself incapable of interpreting the other man’s signals. If Douglas was allowing him to see the inside of the house and feed him, was that an additional sign that they weren’t going to execute him? They’d put a bag over his head, but now they were chatting about local cuisine and what he’d bought yesterday in Hoi An. When he said nothing, one of the other Vietnamese men who’d led him inside told Douglas, “I’m having a glass of wine.” He was standing beside Phuong, the young woman who was cooking. “We have a nice Bordeaux. But, Austin, the bar is fully stocked. Is there something stronger you’d prefer? Or, perhaps, less strong since it’s only lunchtime?”

  Austin turned around to look at him: he’d seemed so much more menacing when he’d appeared out of nowhere on the road, supervising that kid with the gun.

  “Water, please,” he replied simply.

  “Only water? We also have fresh watermelon juice.”

  “Water’s fine.”

  Douglas smiled at him, then looked over toward the other fellow. “Since you’re pouring, Bao, I’ll have a glass of the red, too.”

  “I think you’ll like it.”

  Bao brought Austin his water and Douglas his wine. Then he went back to the kitchen and said something to the young woman at the range.

  “Cheers,” Douglas said, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” Austin agreed halfheartedly. He recalled that some people thought it was bad luck to toast with water, and right now he needed all the luck in the world. And so, as if it might actually make a difference, he brought his glass back into his lap without taking a sip, resting it on his cycling shorts.

  “Tell me, Austin: why are you here?”

  “I’m guessing you won’t believe me if I tell you it really is just a bike tour. That’s all.”

  Douglas sipped his wine and pursed his lips. He shook his head. “No, you’re right. I won’t believe that. Not for a second. I see you were in Hanoi for a day, when you first arrived. I checked the schedule. Take a cyclo tour?”

  “I did.”

  “Visit the mausoleum? Ho Chi Minh’s?”

  “Yes. And the Hanoi Hilton.”

  “And now you’re enjoying your time on a bike?”

  “I am. We were rained out yesterday, which was a shame because it was the day I was going to see where my uncle died and where my father was wounded. And so I was trying again today. It’s why I wasn’t with the rest of the group.”

  “Did you get there?”

  “No. I need to go up and over the mountain.”

  Douglas seemed to think about this. “Your itinerary brought you nowhere near Ho Chi Minh City this time.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you didn’t visit the National University?”

  “I did not.”

  “Well, even if you had, they’re dead, you know. The scientists.”

  Austin knew this. He waited. Remained silent.

  “No, we didn’t kill them. Natural causes. Their…research.”

  In his mind, he saw the swelling and the bleeding and the sores, the respiratory failure, but still he said nothing. He didn’t dare.

  Douglas smiled, and Austin could feel the humid draft of condescension when he continued, “You said you were a miserable biologist in college. I checked. You really were. Have you understood a damn thing you’ve seen in either place? Ho Chi Minh City? New York?”

  “I’ve understood enough. I mean, you knew what you were getting with me. I’ve never pretended I’m something I’m not. And I’m not a scientist.”

  Bao sat on the couch beside Douglas. “Maybe he’s gotten better.”

  “Maybe he has,” Douglas agreed, the two of them speaking of Austin in the third person as if he weren’t there. “But he only survived his science requirements in college because he cheated on midterms and he cheated on finals. Isn’t that right, Austin?”

  He nodded. He didn’t know how they’d found out. He’d thought that scandal would be hidden forever, just like the time he’d violated the academic honor code at boarding school. His grandfather had made sizable gifts to the school and then to the university.

  “I think he’s here in the capacity of a salesperson,” Douglas told Bao.

  “He does work in development now,” Bao observed.

  “Ostensibly,” said Douglas.

  “Yes. Ostensibly.”

  “But I’ve no idea if he’s any good at that—any good at all. Development is in the same wing as the university’s research labs, which is the only reason he’s ever had value.” Douglas pulled Austin’s phone from his pocket and handed it to Bao.

  “Password, please?” Bao asked, and Austin gave it to him. He watched Bao open his phone and start moving amidst the apps. He assumed the fellow was reading his emails, and so he was surprised when Bao observed, “This new girlfriend of yours: the blonde. She’s very pretty. How is it having a girlfriend where you work?”

  “It’s a big hospital, as you know,” he said, unsure whether they were about to threaten Alexis.

  “Still, Austin,” Douglas said, “you don’t shit where you eat. No good comes from that.”

  “We hardly see each other there.”

  “Fair enough,” Douglas murmured, as Bao continued to scroll through the photos.

  “And I’m guessing this older couple with you at Fenway Park is your parents. True?” Bao asked.

  “Yes. You’re a baseball fan?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. But I enjoyed the vibe at Fenway the time I was brought there by friends. I discovered I actually liked Neil Diamond when the crowd started singing ‘Sweet Caroline.’ ” Then he hummed a few bars, smiled, and put the phone down on the couch beside him.

  “So, Austin,” Douglas continued. “The labs. Development—or advancement, as some of you fund-raisers like to call it. Let’s talk about all of that, shall we?”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Austin told him, feeling the need both to defend himself and remind them of his value. “The university labs and hospital development are pretty separate. A Berlin Wall. Yes, it’s a university hospital, but a guy like me doesn’t just go in and out of the labs. They’re not even on the same floor. You have no idea how hard it is, what I do. The protocols, the clandestine meetings. It’s why you need me. You know that. Wilbur’s work is so damn secret.”

  Douglas lifted his wineglass from the coaster on the coffee table and then turned toward Bao. The coaster really wasn’t necessary, because while the table’s base was black wood, the top was striated white marble; the surface reminded Austin of stracciatella gelato. “Wilbur? Should be Dr. Sinclair to you.”

  “Fine. Dr. Sinclair.”

  “I don’t know if I told you this, Bao, but Austin only changed his major from premed to business because he couldn’t hack organic chemistry two. Once he’d been caught cheating, his only out was a massive gift to the university from his family and a new major.”

 
“I made it through orgo one,” Austin volunteered. After he spoke, he hoped he sounded more sheepish than scared. He hoped he hadn’t sounded antagonistic.

  “A low bar,” Douglas replied simply. “And you cheated.”

  “Besides,” said Bao, “it’s the biology that really matters in this case.”

  Douglas sipped his wine and returned it to the table. He folded his arms across his chest and sat back. “What the hell are your strengths, Austin? You suck at chemistry. You suck at biology. You suck at darts, for God’s sake. What, really, are you good for?”

  The short answer, alas, was sales, but he couldn’t say that after Douglas’s accusation that he was in Vietnam as a salesperson. He considered answering negotiating, but he feared the response would only anger Douglas further and serve as a straight line. Negotiating? Okay, smart boy, negotiate your way out of this. And so he replied with what he hoped was an inoffensive joke, “Biking. Maybe.”

  “You a blood doper, Austin?” Bao asked.

  “God, no. I’m not that good.”

  Bao laughed. “Ah, but if you were that good, you would be?”

  “Oh, he would, Bao,” Douglas assured the other man. “Austin would. There is no shortcut he won’t take. If there’s a way to cheat, he’ll find it.”

  “I’m honestly not sure why you’d say that,” he told them. “I’m really—”

  “You don’t have an honest bone in your body, Austin!” Douglas snapped, cutting him off. “You don’t have an honest cell, you don’t have a single honest nucleus. You don’t have a single honest strand of DNA. You’re a liar and you’re lying to me right now.” He took a deep breath. He was utterly disgusted.

  “I’m here on a bike tour, Douglas. That’s all this is,” Austin said.

  Bao looked at Douglas. “What would be a good word to search in his emails? I was thinking plague.”

  “I’m going to wager that’s too obvious,” Douglas said.

  “Rat?”

  “Sure. Maybe you’ll find it used autobiographically, as in, ‘I’m a duplicitous rat.’ ”