Fishing for Tigers Read Free

again. Stay here a while then travel around a bit.’
    â€˜What are you going to study?’
    â€˜Journalism.’
    â€˜Like your dad.’
    â€˜I guess. But that’s not why I’m doing it. I just really like writing and I like talking to people and finding out how life works, so I figured . . . Mum’s not keen on it, though. She kind of hates journalists. Thinks they use people. Take their most intimate stories and painful moments and turn them into breakfast-cereal placemats.’
    â€˜Harsh.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Cal half-smiled. ‘You’re not a journo are you?’
    â€˜No. I work with lots of them, though. I edit a magazine. The kind that takes people’s stories and turns them into – well, not cereal placemats, probably more like bánh mì wrappers.’
    â€˜Sorry. Anyway, I don’t agree, obviously. Some are scum, I know, but not all of them.’
    â€˜Not your dad.’
    Cal shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know.’
    â€˜You haven’t read his work?’
    â€˜A little bit. His paper isn’t online and it’s not like his reports are syndicated or anything. You know, when I started planning for this trip, I decided I should study up, get some up-to-date info. I tried reading this book on modern-day Vietnam, but it was like a fucking economics textbook so I gave up. Then I set up a Google news alert, so I’d at least keep up with the big news stories out of here. But most days all the stories are about the US, not about Vietnam at all. “Iraq is not another Vietnam”, “Vietnam Vets protest pension cuts”. So I gave up on that, too. So here I am and I have no idea what’s going on.’
    â€˜Oh, no one has any idea what’s going on here. It’s one of the attractions of the place.’
    â€˜Oi!’ Kerry’s voice leapt out of the background hum of chatter and motorbikes and electricity. ‘Mischa! Come and back me up here. Henry’s talking absolute shit about visa extensions again.’
    â€˜Duty calls,’ I said and Cal hooked his arm into mine and led me back to the table like it was his own.

    Later, after I’d drunk far more than I’d intended, I found myself resting my head on Matthew’s shoulder as we shared the last cigarette in his pack. I was dizzy from the unfamiliar rush of nicotine, from the gin and beer, from Matthew’s unexpected fingertips on my lips as he held the cigarette there for me.
    Across from us, Cal put down the plastic umbrella he’d been twirling and waved a finger from his father to me. ‘What’s this about? Something you need to tell me, Dad?’
    â€˜What?’ Matthew smoothed my hair, bent and sloppily kissed my eyebrow. ‘Didn’t I mention that Mish is the love of my life?’
    I blew smoke in his face. ‘Cal, it’s really quite remarkable the effect you have on your father. He’s like a new man. A new, fun, likeable man. I may fall in love with him after all.’
    â€˜What do you mean may ? You’ve loved me since you set eyes on me. Cal, did I tell you, the first time Mischa saw me she literally swooned? You’ve never seen a woman so delirious with desire.’
    â€˜Oh!’ I sat up, knocking Matthew’s chin with the top of my head. ‘That’s right. The day we met . . .’ I slumped against him again. I had remembered something Matthew said on that day and I almost repeated it now, stopping myself when I saw that Cal was watching me.
    â€˜That was a crazy day,’ I said and Matthew laughed and kissed my forehead again. ‘God, you really are marvellous tonight, Papa Matty.’
    Cal made retching noises, then asked if he could order more food.

    On my first day in Hanoi six years ago, jet-lagged, hungry and numb with shock, I’d wandered away from my hotel and got mindlessly lost in the ancient, winding, cacophonous streets of the Old Quarter. In