Read Online Fishing for Tigers by Emily Maguire - Free Book Online

looked up, blinking, as I pushed my way through to him.
    â€˜Cal! Come with me. Now, please.’
    â€˜Hey, ah, can you tell him – tell him to – he hit—’
    â€˜,’ I said to the man, making a prayer steeple with my hands. ‘.’
    The man nodded, his eyes murderous. The girl beside him continued to stare out at the lake. Around us the crowd murmured and heaved.
    I nodded at the man, reached out and took Cal’s arm. ‘We need to go, okay?’
    â€˜But, the—’
    â€˜No.’ I stepped toward the lake and to my relief he followed. I didn’t look back and hoped to hell he wouldn’t either. I walked on, keeping hold of his forearm, until we’d rounded the corner and were heading west along the south end of the lake.
    â€˜Ouch.’ He rubbed his arm, like a toddler.
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜That’s what you said to him.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I don’t get it. Dude was an abusive fuck.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜That’s okay with you?’
    â€˜What I think of it is irrelevant.’
    He let out a mocking snort. The sound and the fluttering fear in my throat reminded me of Glen and I walked faster as though I could sweat the memory out.
    â€˜You late for something?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Can you slow down then? I feel kind of sick.’
    I slowed and risked a glance at him. He was breathing hard and his fringe stuck wetly to his forehead. ‘Let’s sit.’ I led him to a nearby stone bench shaded by a weeping willow. ‘Breathe,’ I said.
    As soon as we sat down a postcard boy approached. He looked to be eleven or twelve but might have been as old as Cal. He sat beside me, grinning. ‘Hello, hello. Where you from?’
    â€˜America,’ I told him. ‘But I live here now. Where are you from?’
    â€˜You live in Hanoi! So cool. Me, I’m from Haiphong. My family very poor. I come here and sell postcard. See?’ He thrust the open shoebox towards me.
    â€˜Yes. But I don’t need any postcards, sorry.’
    â€˜What about your friend? He from here?’
    â€˜No,’ Cal said. ‘I’m from Australia. Do you know Australia?’
    â€˜Sure, sure. G’day mate. Kangaroo. Yes?’
    Cal smiled. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜You buy postcard, please.’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘We don’t want any.’
    â€˜I do.’ Cal stood and pulled out his wallet. ‘How much?’
    The boy jumped up and began to lay cards out on the bench. ‘Very cheap.’ He laid out Ha Long Bay and the Temple of Literature, girls in áo dài riding bikes, old ladies in nón lás squatting over baskets of vegetables, a motorbike carrying a buffalo. ‘I give you all these for five dollars US.’
    I tutted. ‘He’s Australian, not stupid. Cal, they’re worth about 5000 dong each. A dollar for the lot is too much.’
    â€˜Oh, you tough lady!’ The boy shook his head, grinning. ‘Okay, so, more cheap. Four dollar only.’
    â€˜Okay,’ Cal said, pulling notes from his wallet.
    â€˜That’s ridiculous.’
    The boy smiled at me and danced on his toes. ‘No. Very good.’ He scooped up the postcards and handed them to Cal, taking the five-dollar bill Cal offered. ‘Ah, I get you change or you like more postcard?’
    â€˜Keep the change.’ Cal shoved the postcards into the pocket of his baggy cargo pants.
    â€˜Thank you, kangaroo. Here, free for tough lady. Make you nicer.’ He handed me a picture of a bicycle laden with baskets of flowers, nodded smilingly at Cal and ran toward a grey-haired couple bent over a tourist map.
    â€˜You were ripped off.’
    â€˜No. I chose to overpay.’
    â€˜Out of charity or because I said not to?’
    He smiled a little then and plucked the postcard from my hand. ‘This is a good one.’
    â€˜Keep it. Are you feeling better?’
    Cal