Up Country

by Nelson DeMille

  I thought, Probably in jail. I said, “I’m not sure about my itinerary.”

  “Of course.” She thought a moment, then said, “You must have been here for a Tet holiday if you were here twice.”

  “I was here for Tet ’72 and ’68.”

  She nodded. “I know about Tet ’68. I’m historically challenged, but that I know about. Where were you?”

  “Outside Quang Tri City.”

  She said, “I understand it was very bad in Quang Tri and Hue. Maybe you can be in Hue for Tet. That’s a very big celebration.”

  I replied, “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”

  “Do you at least know what you’re doing tomorrow?”

  “I’m sightseeing tomorrow.”

  “Good. You need a guide and I’m available.”

  “Bill might be annoyed.”

  “He’ll get over it.” She laughed again and lit another cigarette. “Look, if you’re going up country, you need some tips. I’ll give you some good advice.”

  “You’ve been helpful enough.” I asked her, “Do you use that expression? Up country?”

  “I guess so. I heard it here. Why?”

  “I thought it was only a military expression.”

  “The Westerners use it here. Up country. Means someplace out of Saigon or any major city—usually someplace that you’d rather not be—like in the wilds. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, if you’d like, I’ll show you the real Saigon tomorrow.”

  “That’s above and beyond the call of duty.”

  She looked at me through her cigarette smoke, then said, “Look, Paul, I’m not . . . I mean, I’m not coming on to you.”

  “That never crossed my mind.”

  “Right. Are you married? Am I allowed to ask that?”

  “I’m not married, but I’m in a . . . what’s it called these days?”

  “A committed relationship.”

  “That’s it. I’m in one of those.”

  “Good. Me, too. The man’s an idiot, but that’s another story. Princeton. Need I say more?”

  “I guess that says it all.”

  “I hope you’re not Princeton.”

  “God forbid. I’m army college extension program, cum laude.”

  “Oh . . . anyway, here’s where I’m coming from. I’m not—”

  The fruit and coffee came.

  The band was playing some Sixties stuff now and swung into “For Once in My Life,” Stevie Wonder, 1968.

  She picked at some fruit, then patted her lips with her napkin. I thought she was getting ready to leave, but she asked me, “Would you like to dance?”

  This took me by surprise, but I replied, “Sure.”

  We both stood and moved to the small dance floor, which was crowded. I took her in my arms and there was a lot of woman there. We danced. I was a little uncertain about where this was going, but maybe I was reading this wrong. She was bored with Bill and wanted a little kick by having dinner with Super Spy.

  The band was playing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.” Her body was warm, she danced well, and her breasts were firm against my chest. She had her chin on my shoulder, but our cheeks were not touching. She said, “This is nice.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  We danced on the roof of the Rex Hotel, with the lighted rotating crown above us, the stars overhead, a warm tropical breeze blowing, and the band playing slow dance music. I thought of Cynthia, though I was holding Susan. I thought of our few, short times together, and the fact that we’d never shared a moment like this. I found myself looking forward to Hawaii.

  After a few minutes of silent dancing, Susan asked me, “So, do you want company tomorrow?”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “Here’s where I’m coming from. I’m not political, I’m strictly business. But I’m not real thrilled with these idiots who run this place. They’re bullies, anti-business, and anti-fun. The people are nice. I like the people. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve never in my life done anything for my country, so if this is for my country—”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Okay, but I’d like to do something for you because I have a feeling you might need more tips about this place than anyone has given you. And I’d like you to succeed at whatever you’re doing here. And I don’t want you to get in trouble when you leave Saigon. The rest of this place is not Saigon. It can get a little rough out there. I know you’re a tough guy, and you can handle this place—you did it twice. But I’d feel better if I gave you a day of my time and gave you the benefit of my extensive knowledge of Vietnam. How’s that?”

  “Good pitch. Are you doing this for me, or because you like to live dangerously, or because you like to do things that the government here doesn’t like you to do?”

  “All of the above. Plus, for my country, no matter what you say.”

  I mulled this over as we continued to dance. There was no good reason why I shouldn’t spend the day with this woman, but something told me this was trouble. I said to her, “I expect to be called to some government office to answer some questions. You don’t want to be around for that.”

  “They don’t frighten me. I can trade insults with the best of them. In fact, if we’re together, you won’t look so suspicious.”

  “I don’t look suspicious.”

  “You do. You need a companion for the day. Let me do this.”

  “Okay. As long as you understand why you’re doing it, and that I’m just a tourist, but a tourist who’s come to the attention of the authorities for some reason.”

  “I understand.” The band took a break, and she took my hand and led me back to the table.

  She found a pen in her attaché case and wrote on a cocktail napkin. “This is my home number if you need it. I’ll meet you tomorrow in the lobby at 8 A.M.”

  “That’s a little early.”

  “Not for an 8:30 mass at the cathedral.”

  “I don’t go to church.”

  “I go every Sunday, and I’m not even Catholic. It’s part of the expat thing.” She stood and said, “If you’re not in the lobby, I’ll try the breakfast room. If you’re not there, I’ll ring your room. And if you’re not there, I know who to contact.”

  I stood. “Thanks.” I added, “I had a really nice evening.”

  “Me, too.” She picked up her attaché case. “Thanks for dinner. You’ll let me buy you dinner tomorrow.”

  “Sure.”

  She hesitated, then looked me in the eye and said, “I know a few men your age who work here, and a few men who I’ve met here who have returned to find something, or maybe lose something. So, I know it’s tough, and I can understand. But for people my age, Vietnam is a country, not a war.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Good night, Paul.”

  “Good night, Susan.”

  I watched her disappear into the enclosed restaurant.

  I looked at the cocktail napkin, memorized her home phone number, and crumpled the napkin into my coffee cup.

  It was, as I say, a beautiful evening with a warm breeze rustling the plants. The band was playing “MacArthur Park.” I closed my eyes.

  A long time ago, when Vietnam was a war and not a country, I could recall nights like this out under the stars, the tropical breeze moving through the vegetation. And there were other nights without a breeze, when the vegetation moved, and you could hear the tapping of the bamboo sticks that they used to signal one another. The tree frogs stopped croaking and even the insects became still and the night birds flew off. And you waited in the deathly silence, and even your breathing stopped, but your heart thumped so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it. And the sound of the tapping bamboo came closer, and the vegetation swayed in the breezeless night.

  I opened my eyes and sat there awhile. Susan had left a half bottle of beer, and I drank from the bottle to moisten my dry mouth.

  I took a deep breath, and the war went away. I found myself looking fo
rward to tomorrow.

  I went to my room carrying the newspaper. There was no message light on, no message envelopes anywhere, and the snow globe had been moved by the maid who turned down the bed. It was now on the desk.

  I sat at the desk and opened my International Herald Tribune to the crossword puzzle, which was the New York Times puzzle and was half finished. I studied the puzzle a moment, then I noticed that next to number 32 down was a tick mark.

  I opened my Lonely Planet Guide to the section on Hue. There was a map of the city and a numbered key that showed points of interest. Number 32 was the Halls of the Mandarins, located, I saw, in the Imperial Enclosure, which was a walled section within the Citadel walls of the Old City.

  This was where I was supposed to meet my contact on the appointed day at noon. He—or she—was a Vietnamese, and that’s all I knew.

  If I somehow missed the hour, or if no one was there to meet me, I was to go to the alternate rendezvous at 2 P.M. The alternate was identified by the reverse of the digits 32, according to Mr. Conway. I looked at the map of Hue and saw that number 23 was the Royal Library, which was located in the inner sanctum of the Imperial Enclosure, called the Forbidden Purple City.

  The third alternate at 4 P.M. was the sum of 3 and 2, which on the map was an historic temple called Chua Ba, outside the Citadel walls of the city.

  If my contact didn’t show up at any of these rendezvous, then I was to go back to the hotel and wait for a message. I was supposed to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.

  I thought this was all a little melodramatic, but probably necessary. Also, I didn’t like the idea of having to trust a Viet, but I had to assume the people in Washington knew what they were doing. I mean, they’d been so successful here before.

  I put a few more tick marks against the numbers in the crossword puzzle and did more of the puzzle, noticing that Ms. Weber got some really difficult clues right. Obviously a bright lady, and obviously, too, she had her own agenda—or someone else’s agenda.

  Tomorrow should be interesting.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I got off the elevator and walked into the hotel lobby at ten after eight. Sitting in a chair under a palm tree was Susan Weber, reading a magazine. Her legs were crossed, and she was wearing black slacks and walking shoes. As I got closer, I could see that the magazine was in English and was called the Vietnam Economic Times.

  She put down the magazine and stood. I could see now she was also wearing a tightly tailored red silk shirt with half sleeves and a high mandarin collar. She had sunglasses on a cord around her neck, and one of those nylon fanny packs around her waist. She said, “Good morning. I was just about to start calling around for you.”

  “I’m alive and well.”

  She said, “I may have had a little too much to drink last night. If so, I apologize.”

  “I certainly wasn’t in a position to judge. I hope I was a good dinner companion.”

  She replied, “I enjoy talking to people from home.”

  Ms. Weber was a little cooler this morning than she’d been last night, which was understandable. Remove the alcohol, the music, the candlelight, and the starry night, and people get a little more reserved around last night’s date, even if they’ve wound up in the same bed.

  I was wearing my standard khaki slacks, and instead of a golf shirt, I wore a short-sleeve dress shirt. I replied, “Am I dressed all right for church?”

  “You’re fine. Ready?”

  “Let me get rid of my room key.” I went to the front desk and gave the clerk my key. “Any messages?”

  He checked my box and said, “No, sir.”

  I walked toward the front doors where Susan was standing. This was really annoying about the passport. Mang knew I was leaving tomorrow, and I needed my passport to travel.

  I joined Susan, who said, “I see you didn’t get your passport back. But I’m sure they’ll return it today if they know you’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “I think I’ll be picking it up at Gestapo Headquarters.”

  “They usually just return it to the hotel. Or they’ll tell you to pick it up at the airport. But that usually means you’re going home sooner than you thought.”

  Fine with me, though I didn’t say that.

  She asked, “Do you have your visa?”

  “The hotel has my visa.”

  She thought a moment and said, “You should always have photocopies of your passport and visa with you.”

  “I did. The police stole them from my overnight bag at the airport.”

  “Oh . . .” She said, “I’ll get a copy of your visa made.” She walked to the front desk and spoke to the clerk, who checked a file box. He pulled out a piece of paper, read it, and said something to Susan. Susan came back to me and said, “The police have taken your visa.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She said, “Well, don’t worry about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one’s going to stop us. Ready?”

  We walked outside, and it was hotter than the day before. Motor traffic on Le Loi was a little lighter on a Sunday, but there were as many bicycles and cyclos as on Saturday.

  Susan gave the doorman a dollar, and we walked toward a red motor scooter parked on the sidewalk. She stopped beside the motor scooter, took a pack of cigarettes from her fanny pack, and lit one. “I need a cigarette before we go.” She smiled. “You might need one after we get on the road.”

  “Can we take a taxi?”

  “Boring.” She patted the motor scooter. “This is a Minsk, 175cc’s. Russian made. A good machine for around town. I also own a motorcycle, a 750cc Ural, a real beast. Great for the open road, and a very good crossover bike in the mud.” She took a drag on her cigarette and said, “The Russians make decent bikes, and for some reason, there are always parts available.”

  “Are there helmets available?”

  “You don’t need helmets in Vietnam. Do you ride?”

  “When I was your age.”

  “There were no helmet laws in the States when you were my age. Did you wear a helmet?”

  “I suppose not.”

  She drew on her cigarette and asked me, “Did you get your number?”

  “Couldn’t find it.”

  “Couldn’t find it? I ticked off number 32 on the crossword puzzle. Didn’t you notice that?”

  “I’m not that bright. Took a few spills when I had my motorcycle.”

  She laughed and said, “Thirty-two. I’ll remember it for you.” She asked me, “What’s it mean?”

  “Thirty-two down? I think the word was rotisserie.”

  She didn’t think that was funny, but left it alone.

  I looked at her as she finished her cigarette. She passed the direct sunlight test—in fact, she looked better than last night, with a nice tan, and bigger and brighter eyes than I’d noticed in the candlelight. Also, the shirt and slacks fit well.

  She took a final drag on her cigarette and said, “Okay. I have to stop smoking.” She threw the cigarette in the gutter and said, “I went to my office this morning and sent that fax.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It was about 7 P.M., Saturday, their time, but someone replied. They work long hours there, wherever and whoever they are.”

  “What was the reply?”

  “Just acknowledged receipt, said to keep them informed. They wanted me to give them a time when you and I could be near the fax for a confidential response later. I said I’d come back to the office at 8 P.M. my time for the fax. Is that okay?”

  “Well . . . considering that you’re not being paid to go in on a Sunday, that’s fine.”

  She replied, “Whatever they have to say can wait twelve hours.” She added, “You might have your passport by then, or your exit visa. Ready to roll?”

  She put on her sunglasses, jumped on the motor scooter, started the engine, and revved it a few times. “Hop on.” She took an elastic band out of her pocket and tied her long, flowing hair back
so it wouldn’t blow in my face.

  I got on the saddle seat, which was a little small, and held on to the C-strap. Susan pushed off the center stand and drove down the sidewalk, then cut onto Le Loi Street. I put my feet on the footpegs just as we made a sharp U-turn.

  Within five terrifying minutes, we were at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, an out-of-place Gothic structure with twin spires, but made of brick instead of stone. There was a small grassy square out front where we dismounted. Susan chained the motor scooter to a bike rack. I remembered this square from 1972, and nothing much had changed. Even the big statue of the Virgin Mary had survived the war and the Communist takeover. On that subject, I asked Susan, “How are the Commies with religion?”

  “Depends on the program of the moment. They seem okay with the Buddhists, but not thrilled with the Catholics, who they view as subversive.”

  We walked toward the cathedral, and I said, “And therefore, you go to church.”

  She didn’t reply, but continued, “They give the Protestants a really hard time. They harass the missionaries, kick them out, and close their mission schools and churches. There are no Protestant churches in Saigon, only some private services in homes.” We got to the steps of the cathedral, and she asked me, “Did you ever come here during the war?”

  “Actually, I did, twice, when I got into Saigon on a Sunday.”

  “So, you were a good Catholic then.”

  “There are no bad Catholics in a foxhole.”

  We climbed the steps of the cathedral, and Susan said hello to a few Americans, and people who sounded like Australians. I noticed there weren’t many Vietnamese, and I commented on that.

  She replied, “Father Tuan says this mass in English—the next is in French, then the rest are in Vietnamese.”

  “Are we staying for all of them?”

  She ignored me, and we went into the narthex, and here, too, Susan chatted with some people and introduced me to a few of them. One woman looked at me, then asked Susan how Bill was. There’s always one.