Otherwise I might be able to help her. She speaks Vietnamese of course.â
âWhat about Eric? Does he still speak it?â
âNot so much any more. He still understands quite a lot. English took over once he started going to school. He tells me heâs relearning it.â
âDidnât you speak Vietnamese at home? You and your husband?â
âWe did, some of the time. But you know what children are like, in a foreign country, they often feel embarrassed about their mother tongue, especially if they feel insecure. Besides, Khiem spoke such good English, and we wanted to make sure that Eric learnt it properly.â
âHow did they get on?â I asked. I wanted to know more about her husband, but didnât want to ask directly. âEricâs rather cut up about David, but in a sense Khiem was his real father, having brought him up.â
âThey were very close. Eric loved Khiem. They spent a lot of time together, before Khiem fell sick.â
âI suppose, not having any children of your ownââ
âI suppose so. But Khiem would have loved him in any case. He was a kind man.â
Kinder than Iâd been, I thought, remembering my own marriage, and the harsh words Iâd exchanged with Sandra, before we broke up.
âWas Khiem sick for long before he died?â I went on.
âNot very long. He had AML. Acute myeloid leukemia. Itâs usually very fast. He was in treatment for a few months, chemo-therapy, and that seemed to work, but then he had a relapse, and after that it was very quick.â
âItâs a cruel way to go.â
âHe was very brave about it. Even at the end, when he knew he was going to die. He never complained.â
âHard on you too. You must miss him still.â
She was silent for a moment.
âHe deserved better than to die like that.â
I sensed Iâd gone as far as I could. We stopped, and leaned against the parapet that separated the road from the rocks and the surging surf below, looking back over the long sweep of beach that curves north to the headland at Queenscliff, all overgrown with ugly forties-era apartment blocks like an outcrop of toadstools. Beyond them more headlands, dwindling away into the distance, each one marking off another golden beach. It was a beautiful view, and the ugly buildings were too far off to spoil it. I thought about her husband, and how hard it is to compete with the dead.
As if to prove it she took back her hand.
âWhat about you Paul? Do you miss your wife? You must have loved her once, even if you did end up in divorce.â
âI thought I did. But we started to grow apart fairly quickly. I donât think we were really suited to each other. She didnât like my job much, for one thing. Oh, she liked the glamour of it at first, the embassy life, but you soon get tired of that, and she didnât like all the sacrifices that went with it. She used to complain that I worked too hard.â
That was one thing I couldnât explain. The demands of embassy life were hard enough on spouses, but those of intelligence work were in another dimension. How could you expect your wife to share the thrills of a clandestine car pick-up with a secret source you met once a month at night, while she stayed home by herself until three in the morning, worried sick that youâd been picked up by local security and were being worked over with rubber hoses â or worse, having it off with one of the embassy girls? It was a wonder more marriages didnât end in divorce.
âWere you ever unfaithful to her?â
I looked at her, startled by the question, not sure at first if she was teasing. But then I saw she was serious. She shook her head with a rueful smile.
âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have asked. Besides, itâs different for men, isnât it?â
âIs it?â I laughed awkwardly. âIâm not so sure. No, I donât
âWhat about Eric? Does he still speak it?â
âNot so much any more. He still understands quite a lot. English took over once he started going to school. He tells me heâs relearning it.â
âDidnât you speak Vietnamese at home? You and your husband?â
âWe did, some of the time. But you know what children are like, in a foreign country, they often feel embarrassed about their mother tongue, especially if they feel insecure. Besides, Khiem spoke such good English, and we wanted to make sure that Eric learnt it properly.â
âHow did they get on?â I asked. I wanted to know more about her husband, but didnât want to ask directly. âEricâs rather cut up about David, but in a sense Khiem was his real father, having brought him up.â
âThey were very close. Eric loved Khiem. They spent a lot of time together, before Khiem fell sick.â
âI suppose, not having any children of your ownââ
âI suppose so. But Khiem would have loved him in any case. He was a kind man.â
Kinder than Iâd been, I thought, remembering my own marriage, and the harsh words Iâd exchanged with Sandra, before we broke up.
âWas Khiem sick for long before he died?â I went on.
âNot very long. He had AML. Acute myeloid leukemia. Itâs usually very fast. He was in treatment for a few months, chemo-therapy, and that seemed to work, but then he had a relapse, and after that it was very quick.â
âItâs a cruel way to go.â
âHe was very brave about it. Even at the end, when he knew he was going to die. He never complained.â
âHard on you too. You must miss him still.â
She was silent for a moment.
âHe deserved better than to die like that.â
I sensed Iâd gone as far as I could. We stopped, and leaned against the parapet that separated the road from the rocks and the surging surf below, looking back over the long sweep of beach that curves north to the headland at Queenscliff, all overgrown with ugly forties-era apartment blocks like an outcrop of toadstools. Beyond them more headlands, dwindling away into the distance, each one marking off another golden beach. It was a beautiful view, and the ugly buildings were too far off to spoil it. I thought about her husband, and how hard it is to compete with the dead.
As if to prove it she took back her hand.
âWhat about you Paul? Do you miss your wife? You must have loved her once, even if you did end up in divorce.â
âI thought I did. But we started to grow apart fairly quickly. I donât think we were really suited to each other. She didnât like my job much, for one thing. Oh, she liked the glamour of it at first, the embassy life, but you soon get tired of that, and she didnât like all the sacrifices that went with it. She used to complain that I worked too hard.â
That was one thing I couldnât explain. The demands of embassy life were hard enough on spouses, but those of intelligence work were in another dimension. How could you expect your wife to share the thrills of a clandestine car pick-up with a secret source you met once a month at night, while she stayed home by herself until three in the morning, worried sick that youâd been picked up by local security and were being worked over with rubber hoses â or worse, having it off with one of the embassy girls? It was a wonder more marriages didnât end in divorce.
âWere you ever unfaithful to her?â
I looked at her, startled by the question, not sure at first if she was teasing. But then I saw she was serious. She shook her head with a rueful smile.
âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have asked. Besides, itâs different for men, isnât it?â
âIs it?â I laughed awkwardly. âIâm not so sure. No, I donât
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