Fishing for Tigers by Emily Maguire Page B

meant that I only received a dozen or so pages a week. The massive file of untranslated text taunted me every time I opened my PC. Over the years I’d become used to the glacial pace of the Vietnamese business world, but this project pushed me to the limit of my patience. Not that I would have expressed my frustration to Mrs Lam or my colleagues. Vietnamese history is full of tales of fierce women, but for a foreign lady in modern Hanoi, tongue-biting was mandatory.
    Late-afternoon, one day in mid-September, having spent the day rewriting a magazine piece about two deaf-mute cousins who ran a bun cha restaurant in Ha Long City, I found a newly translated book chapter had landed in my work folder. I read it hungrily. The translated text was typically clunky, but the story itself was wonderful. In 1306, seventeen-year-old Princesswas given to the King of Champa in exchange for a couple of new territories for her brother to rule. She wasn’t particularly pleased about this, but she became downright furious when, soon after their marriage, her husband died and she discovered that she was expected to immolate herself on his funeral pyre. Luckily, the Princess’s brother sent a commando force to rescue her; even more luckily, the commando in charge was her former lover. What should have been a three-month return journey took a year and the still-teenaged widow Princessarrived home smiling.
    I had barely finished the first read-through when my screen went blank and the fan over my desk stopped whirring. A collective groan echoed through the office. Electricity cuts were not unusual, but it was the third of the day and the sixth or seventh this week.
    I stared at the blank screen. It could be minutes or hours before it came back on. It was just past four pm. ‘Fuck it,’ I said to Julian and Mario, the only other editors scheduled that afternoon. ‘Let’s call it a day.’
    â€˜Brilliant,’ Julian said, packing up his desk. ‘Shall we go for a beer?’
    â€˜Grog Hut?’ Mario suggested.
    I waved them off. ‘Not me. I’m taking the opportunity to make the bank before closing. I’ve needed a new cash card for months.’
    â€˜Righto. If you feel like it later on, we’ll be at the Hut until . . .’ Julian looked to Mario who shrugged charmingly. ‘All fucking night, probably. Unless we pick up.’
    â€˜At the Grog Hut? Yeah, good luck with that.’

    Walking up towards the Old Quarter I had the thrilling sensation of wagging school. The tiny bonfires lining the streets added to the festive feeling. I thought that I might just nip back and meet the boys for drinks after all, once I was done with the bank. Or maybe I’d detour along Silk Street and treat myself to a dress.
    As I rounded the southeast end of HoànLake, I saw ahead a crowd gathered in the centre of the road. Traffic was almost at a standstill; every few seconds a single bike mounted the footpath and bounced along until it hit the intersection, where normal madness resumed. I stayed lakeside, but the cluster on the road grew with every stopped bike and I soon found myself part of it.
    Over the tops of thirty or so heads, I spotted the heart of the matter. A young woman was bent, her ponytail caught in the fist of a man who was tugging her towards his moto. He released his grip; she stood straight but did not look up. He barked something, pointing toward the bike. She shook her head and took a step back. He raised his hand and slapped her cheek.
    Fast fingers of panic fluttered in my throat. I might have turned and run, if I hadn’t heard the words, more confident than they had any right to be, ‘Back off!’
    There was an angry wave of voices through the crowd, then he pushed forward, taller and broader than the men shouting around him, his eyes wide with outrage. The crowd moved back and fell silent, taking a collective breath. I took one too, then called his name.
    He