Robert Butler - A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain - Stories

“You come often and see me dance and buy me drinks, okay?”

“You look different,” he says.

“Miss Noi is a Vietnam girl. You never see that before.”

“I seen it,” this man says. “I was in Vietnam.”

I have many men say they were in my country and they always sound a little funny, like they have a nasty secret or a sickness that you should be careful not to catch. And sometimes they just call it “Nam,” saying that word with broken glass in their voice or saying it through their noses and their noses wrinkle up like the word smells when it comes out. But this man says the name of my country quiet and I don’t always understand what American voices do, but he sounds sad to me. I say to him, “You didn’t like being there? It makes you sad?”

He lifts his face and looks at me and he says, “I was very happy there. Weren’t you?”

Well, this is something for me to think about. I could just answer this man, who is only one more man who saw me dance naked. I could just say yes or no and I could talk about reasons why. I am good at bargirl bullshit when I want to talk like that. But this man’s eyes look at mine and I look away and sip my drink.

What do I know about men, after all? I can’t tell anything anymore. I take men to my bed and I save my money and there have been very many men, I guess. It’s like eating too many apples. You take a bite now and you can make yourself remember that apples are sweet, but it is like the apple in your mouth is not even there. You eat too many apples and all you can do is remember them. So this man who comes with his strange face and sounds sad when he talks about Vietnam because he was so happy there — I don’t know what to make of him and so I take him to my room and he is very happy about that.

He tells me his name is Fontenot. He lives far away from New Orleans. He owns a little boat and he works fixing car engines. He was in Saigon one year working on car engines and he loved that city very much. I ask him why but he can’t really explain. This is all of our talk, every bit of it, except before he makes love to me he says he is sorry he can never get his hands clean. He shows me how the grease from the car engines gets around his fingernails and he can’t get them clean. I tell him not to worry and he makes love to me, and when he gets off me and lies down, he turns his head and I think that is because he does not want me to see that he is crying. I want to ask if he is very sad again, but I don’t say anything. His face is away from me and he wants it like that and so I say nothing. Those are all the words of that night. In the morning I go into the bathroom and he is in the tub and I kneel beside him and take his hands and I have a cuticle file and I clean the grease away. He kisses my hands when he leaves.

What do I know about men anymore? That is not much to say about Mr. Fontenot. He came to see Miss Noi on a Saturday night and left on Sunday morning. Then the next Saturday night I was naked on the stage and I saw his face at the foot of the runway, looking up with his long nose pointed at my special part, and I felt a strange thing. My face got warm and I turned my back to him and danced away. After I finished my dance, I got dressed and came out to the bar, but he was not there. I asked the guy behind the bar, “Did you see that tall man with the thin neck and the long nose that I had a drink with last week?”

This guy says, “The one who looks like a goddamn goose?”

I don’t like this guy behind the bar. I never even learn his name. So I say, “Go to hell, you,” and I go outside and there is Mr. Fontenot waiting on the sidewalk. I go to him and I take his arm and we go around the comer and down the block and he says, “I couldn’t hang around in there, Miss Noi. It makes me uncomfortable to talk to you in there.”

I say, “I know, honey. I know.” I see all types of men, though I realize I don’t understand any of them deep down. But I know some men feel nervous in a bar. They come there to meet me but then they tell themselves that I really don’t belong there, it’s not worthy of me. And if I take this type of man to my room, they give me money quiet, folding the bills and putting them under a vase or somewhere, like it’s not really happening. I know that kind of man. They can be very sweet sometimes.

We go up to my apartment again. It is a small place, like Saigon. I am comfortable there. Outside my window is a phony balcony. It looks like a balcony but it is only a foot wide, just a grill on the window. But it is nice. It looks like lace, though it is made of iron. I close the shade and turn to Mr. Fontenot and he is sitting on my bed. I go and sit next to him.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says.

“You drive all the way back to New Orleans just to see Miss Noi again?”

“Of course,” he says. His voice is gentle, but there’s also something in it that says I should know this already. This is plenty strange to me, because I know nothing about Mr. Fontenot, really. A few words. He’s a quiet man. I know nothing more about him than any man.

Then he says, “Look,” and he shows me his hands. I don’t understand. “I got one of those things you used on me last week.” I look closer and I see that his hands are clean.

This makes me feel one more strange thing, a little sinking inside me. I say, “See? You have no need for Miss Noi anymore.”

He takes me serious. He puts his arm around my shoulders and he is right to do this. “Don’t say that, Miss Noi.”

So then we make love. When we are finished, he turns his face away from me again and I reach over and turn it back. There are no tears, but he is looking very serious. I say, “Tell me one thing you like in Saigon.”

Mr. Fontenot wiggles his shoulders and looks away. “Everything,” he says.

“Why should I not think you are a crazy man? Everybody knows Americans go to Vietnam and they want to go home quick and forget everything. When they think they like Vietnam while they are there, they come home and they know it was all just a dream.”

Mr. Fontenot looks at me one more time. “I’m not crazy. I liked everything there.”

“ ‘Everything’ means same as ‘nothing.’ I do not understand that. One thing. Just think about you on a street in Saigon and you tell me one thing.”

“Okay,” he says and then he says it again louder, “Okay,” like I just push him some more, though I say nothing. It is louder but not angry. He sounds like a little boy. He wrinkles his brow and his little black eyes close. He stays like this for too long.

I ask, “So?”

“I can’t think.”

“You are on a street. Just one moment for me.”

“Okay,” he says. “A street. It’s hot in Saigon, like Louisiana. I like it hot. I walk around. There’s lots of people rushing around, all of them pretty as nutria.”

“Pretty as what?”

“It’s a little animal that has a pretty coat. It’s good.”

“Tell me more.”

“Okay,” he says. “Here’s something. It’s hot and I’m sweating and I’m walking through your markets in the open air and when I get back to my quarters, my sweat smells like the fruit and the vegetables in your markets.”

I look at Mr. Fontenot and his eyes are on me and he’s very serious. I do not understand a word he’s saying now, but I know he’s not saying any bullshit, that’s for sure. He sweats and smells like fruit in Saigon. I want to talk to him now, but what am I to say to this? So I just start in about fruit. I tell him the markets have many good fruits, which I like very much. Mangoes, mangosteens, jackfruit, durians, papaya. I ask him and he says he has not eaten any of these. I still want to say words, to keep this going, so I tell him, “One fruit we do not have in South Vietnam is apples. I loved apples in Saigon when GI bring me apples from their mess hall. I never have apples till the GIs give them to me.”