We went inside and found space in a pew toward the rear. I said to Susan, “If this is a Buddhist holiday, why is there a Catholic mass?”
“I don’t know. You’re Catholic. E-mail the Pope.”
The mass began. The entire mass and the hymns were in Vietnamese, which was funny, like it was being dubbed. I skipped communion as I’d done in Notre Dame, Saigon, but most of the congregation, including Susan, went up to the altar. There wasn’t any of this sign of peace stuff that they do now in Catholic churches in the States, which was good because this crowd would probably bow instead of shaking hands, and everyone would bump heads.
I noticed that the citizens of Hue were better dressed than the Viets south of the Hai Van Pass, and I supposed that had to do with the cooler weather, and maybe the sophistication of this city.
My multicultural experience came to an end, and we followed the recessional out into the open plaza in front of the cathedral.
People stood around and chatted, and somehow, don’t ask how, Susan got into a conversation with a Viet family. They were very impressed with her fluent Vietnamese, and her rudimentary French, which they also spoke.
Long story short, we were on our way to dinner with the Pham family.
On the way there, walking with this entire clan, I said to Susan, “Didn’t you tell them I wasn’t of good character?”
“Fortunately, they didn’t ask about either of us.”
On the way, Susan gave me a quick course in Vietnamese table manners. She said, “Don’t leave your chopsticks sticking up in the rice bowl. That’s a sign of death, like the joss sticks in the bowls in cemeteries and family altars. Also, everything is passed on platters. You have to try everything that’s passed to you. If you empty a glass of wine or beer, they automatically refill it. Leave half a glass if you don’t want any more.”
“Sounds like South Boston.”
“Listen up. The Vietnamese don’t belch like the Chinese do to show they enjoyed the meal. They consider that crude, as we do.”
“I don’t consider belching crude. But then, I don’t belong to the Junior League.”
She made a sound of exasperation, then said, “Okay, when you’ve had enough to eat, you stick your chopsticks in your nostrils.”
“Are you sure?”
“Trust me.”
The Phams lived in a nice private house, not too far from the cathedral, and they obviously had a few dong.
I still had rice coming out of my ears from the meal at the hotel, but that was no excuse not to eat.
I found myself wedged in at a long table between a hundred-year-old grandma and some snotty kid. Across from me, however, was a number one co-dep, and she spoke a little English, but not enough for me to show her how charming I was. She may have belonged to someone, but she kept smiling and giggling, and passing me platters.
Everyone spoke ten words of English, and they weren’t the same ten words, so the conversation moved okay. Plus, most of them knew some French, and my limited French was coming back to me. The Vietnamese phrases that I knew well, as I said, were not appropriate for a family dinner. I did, however, consider asking co-dep to show me her ID card.
Susan was down at the other end of the table, and she was having a good time.
The Vietnamese seemed very pleasant in a family setting, but the public and commercial life of this whole country was a disaster.
A guy of about thirty sitting next to Susan said in passable English, “Mr. Paul, Miss Susan tell me you here in 1968.”
“Quang Tri.”
“Yes? You fight Communists.”
“That’s why I was here.”
“You kill?”
“Uh . . . I guess.”
“Good.” He stood and said something to the crowd, raised his glass to me, and said in English, “To this brave soldier who kill the . . .” He asked Susan something, then finished his sentence with, “kill the Antichrists.”
Everyone toasted, and I felt compelled to stand. I had the distinct feeling this was an anti-Communist crowd, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the door burst open and the Ministry of Public Security goons came in and arrested everyone. Karl would not approve of me being here. I raised my glass and said, “To the brave Catholics of Vietnam. The only good Red is a dead Red.”
My host seemed momentarily confused, but Susan translated, and everyone applauded.
I looked at Susan and saw she was rolling her eyes. I sat and waited for the door to burst open.
At about 2 A.M., I considered sticking my chopsticks up my nostrils, but we didn’t get out of there until about 3 A.M., and the streets were deserted. Also, I was a little inebriated.
Susan said, “Wasn’t that an experience?”
I burped. “It was.”
“I’m having such a good time with you.”
I burped again. “Good.”
“They were such nice people.”
“Right. A little bloodthirsty, but nice.”
“Mr. Uyen, the man sitting next to me, who toasted you, told me that many of his family were murdered by the Communists in 1968. That’s why they’re so . . . hateful of the regime.”
“You know, everyone here is full of suppressed hate and rage over what happened. Colonel Mang, Mr. Uyen, all of them. They’d love to get their hands around each other’s throats again.”
Susan didn’t reply.
I said, “Anyway, the Phams should be careful. The Ministry of Public Security does not play games.”
“I’m sure they’re careful.”
“They didn’t even know us.”
“We’re Americans, and Catholics. One of us is Catholic.”
“Right.” It was interesting that the Viets assumed all Americans were anti-Communist. I guess they hadn’t met any Ivy League professors. I said, “I don’t think we were followed from the cathedral, and no one is following us now. But you didn’t do the Pham family any favors by inviting yourself to dinner. Conversely, they’re probably on a few watch lists, so we didn’t do ourselves any favors by going there.”
She stayed silent awhile, then said, “Point made.” She added, “But I think even the cops are celebrating tonight.”
“I hope so.”
We walked through the quiet streets, then Susan said, “You seemed to be enjoying the company of that young lady across from you.”
“What young lady?”
“The one you were speaking to all night.”
“Oh, that one. She’s a nun.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Susan, I’m tired, I have a headache, and we’re lost.”
“We’re not lost. The hotel’s that way.”
We kept walking, and sure enough, we turned a corner and saw the hotel.
Susan suddenly stopped. “Paul.”
“What?”
“Weren’t you supposed to report to the Immigration Police today?”
“I was busy today. I’ll do it tomorrow.” We continued walking.
“You should have gone today. They know you’re here because the hotel reported your check-in.”
“Well, then, they know I’m here. Fuck ’em.” I added, “Colonel Mang has me on a long leash. He wants to see what I’m up to.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know.”
“So what happens tomorrow when you have to make a rendezvous? What if you’re being watched?”
“You always plan a secret rendezvous as if you’re being watched. That’s why they’re called secret.” I added, “I have to ask you to stay out of the Citadel tomorrow.”
“Oh . . . okay.”
“Unless you’re my contact.”
“That would be interesting.”
We got to the hotel, and I said, “Let’s go around back, and you can show me where it’s buried.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Now.”
“Okay . . .”
We walked on a path to the gardens at the rear of the hotel. The land sloped down
to the river, and the gardens were terraced and lit with small ground lights.
We walked down a path toward the river, and Susan nodded to her right. “See them? Orange birds-of-paradise.”
“Is that the flower that eats flies?”
“No, Paul. Do you see them or not?”
“I do. Someplace in there?”
“Yes. A foot to the right of the middle garden light. The soil is very loamy. I can dig it up with my hand.”
“Okay. I’ll get it before we leave.”
“I’ll get it.”
I didn’t reply. We stood in the garden and looked out at the river. At this hour, we were the only ones there; we turned and walked back to the front of the hotel.
We went into the lobby, and I checked for messages. There were two for me, and I signed for them.
Susan and I took the elevator up to my suite, where I collapsed in an armchair. “God, I’m getting old.”
“You’re in great shape. Open the envelopes.”
I opened the small one first and read aloud, “ ‘You to report to Immigration Police tomorrow in morning.’ ”
Susan said, “That leash is not that long.”
“Long enough. If they were really pissed, they’d be sitting here now.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve. What’s the other message?”
I opened the big envelope and took out a fax. It was from Karl, and I read it to myself: Dear Paul, Perhaps my last message was not clear—You really need to end that relationship. Please tell me you have. It was signed: Love, Kay.
The nice thing about not being in the army was that you don’t have to obey a direct order from someone who was.
I noticed a P.S. It said: C sends her love. Will see you in Honolulu.
That could be pure bullshit to keep me in line. In any case, the situation vis-à-vis Susan had become complicated, and I didn’t know how I felt about meeting Cynthia in Honolulu.
Susan was looking at me. She asked, “Who is the message from?”
“Kay.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look all right. Can I see the message?”
“No.”
She looked hurt, offended, and pissed.
I stood, went toward the terrace with the message, then turned around, and handed her the fax. I said, “It’s Ms. Kay now. Same guy.”
She took it and read it, then handed it back. She stood and said, “I think I’ll sleep in my room tonight.”
“Probably you should.”
She turned, walked to the door, and without hesitation opened it and left.
I went out on the terrace and looked at the city across the river. The holiday lights were still on, mostly red, as you’d expect in a Red country.
I thought of the Pham family. There was, I thought, a gray cloud over this country, formed from the smoke and fire of war, and it rained down hate, sorrow, and mistrust.
If that wasn’t bad enough, this cloud, or, as Karl called it, this shadow still covered my own country.
Truly, Vietnam was the worst thing that ever happened to America in this century, and perhaps the reverse was also true.
The phone rang, and I went back inside and answered it. “Hello.”
“I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“If something happened to you, and we parted—”
“Susan, the phones aren’t secure. I know what you’re saying, and I was about to call you.”
“Do you want me to come to your room?”
“No. We’re both tired, and we’ll have a fight.”
“Okay. Where and when can we meet tomorrow?”
“At six here in the lounge. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Okay . . . and if you’re very late?”
“Fax Ms. Kay directly. Do you have the number?”
“I remember it.”
“Give her all the details, and be sure you stand at the fax machine, or try the GPO.”
“I know.”
“I know you do. You’re a pro.”
“Paul . . . ?”
“Yes?
“I had no right to get upset about that P.S. I apologize.”
“Forget it.”
“This is what it is. This is here and now. I said that, and I meant it.”
I didn’t reply to that, and I said, “Hey, I had a good day. Happy New Year.”
“Me, too, and you, too.”
We both hung up.
So, I’m having lady problems in a hostile country halfway around the world, people are trying to arrest me or kill me, and it’s 4 A.M., and I need to see the cops in the morning, then make a possibly dangerous rendezvous at noon. And yet, for some reason, none of this bothered me. In fact, the entire Highway One ordeal, including killing the two cops, and the flashbacks, and all of the rest of it, didn’t bother me.
I recognized this feeling for what it was: survival mode. Life was no longer complicated. It all came down to getting home one last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It wasn’t the worst New Year’s Day hangover I’ve ever had, but it may have been the earliest I’d ever been awake to fully appreciate it.
I showered and dressed for success—blue blazer, white button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and docksiders with socks.
I took an orange juice from the mini-bar and swallowed two aspirin with my malaria pill. I was glad they hadn’t given me a suicide pill because I felt lousy enough to take it.
I went downstairs, skipped breakfast, and walked the few blocks to Ben Nghe Street, where the Immigration Police were located.
It was a cool, damp morning, high cloud cover, and the streets were nearly deserted, and strewn with trash from the night before.
I thought maybe I should have called Susan, but sometimes a little separation is good. I’d been separated from Cynthia more than we’d been together, and we got along great. Maybe not great, but okay.
I got to the police building, a structure of prefab concrete, and went inside.
In a small foyer sat a uniformed guy at a desk, and he said to me in English, “What you want?”
Rather than reply and confuse the idiot, I gave him a photocopy of Colonel Mang’s note, which he read. He stood and disappeared into a hallway behind him.
A minute later, he reappeared and said to me, “Room.” He held up two fingers.
I returned the peace sign and went to Room 2, a small office whose door was open. Behind a desk sat a man about my age in uniform, who looked more hungover than I did.
He didn’t invite me to sit, but just looked at me awhile. I looked at him. Something not pleasant passed between us.
On his desk lay his gun belt and holster, which held a Chicom 9mm. There wasn’t a police station in America where you’d get this close to a cop’s gun. Here, the cops were sloppy and arrogant. This offended me, and having to stand also pissed me off.
The cop looked at the note in his hand and said to me, “When you arrive Hue?”
I’d had enough of this crap, and I replied, “The Century Riverside Hotel told you when I arrived. You know that’s where I’m staying for three nights. Any other questions?”
He didn’t like my reply or my tone of voice. He raised his voice, which became sort of high pitched, and he almost shouted, “Why you not report here yesterday?”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
He did not like that. I mean, he’s working on New Year’s Day, he’s got little rice wine demons smashing gongs in his head, and he’s getting attitude from a round-eye.
So, we stared at each other, and as I said, something unhealthy was passing between us, and it wasn’t just irritation brought on by mutual hangovers. He said to me, “You soldier here?”
“That’s right. How about you?”
“Me, too.”
We kept staring at each other, and I now noticed a jagged scar running down from half an ear, zigzagging over the side of hi
s neck and disappearing beneath his open collar. Half his teeth were missing or broken, and the rest were brown.
He asked me, “When you here?”
“I was here in 1968, I was with the First Cavalry Division, I saw combat at Bong Son, An Khe, Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, the A Shau Valley, and all over Quang Tri Province. I fought the North Vietnamese army and the Viet Cong, you killed a lot of my friends, and we killed a lot of your friends. We all killed too many civilians, including the three thousand men and women you murdered here in Hue. Any other questions?”
He stood and stared at me, and I could see his eyes go nuts before his face even twitched.
Before he could say anything, I said, “Any more questions? If not, I’m leaving.”
He shouted at the top of his lungs, “You stay! You stay here!”
I pulled up a chair, sat, crossed my legs, and looked at my watch.
He seemed confused, but then realized he should sit, which he did.
He cleared his throat and pulled a piece of paper toward him. He clicked a ballpoint pen, got himself nearly under control, and asked me, “How you get to Hue?”
“Bus.”
He wrote that down and asked, “When you leave Nha Trang?”
“Friday afternoon.”
“Get to Hue what time?”
I took a guess and replied, “Ten or eleven o’clock Friday night.”
“Where you stay Friday night?”
“Mini-motel.”
“What is name of mini-motel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why you not know?”
When you need to explain missing time periods to the police, always come up with a sexual liaison, but do not use this excuse at home. I replied, “Meet lady on bus. She take me to mini-motel. Biet?”
He thought about that and asked again, “What is name of mini-motel?”
“The Ram-It Inn. Fucky-fucky Mini-Motel. How the hell do I know the name of the place?”
He stared at me a long time, then said, “Where you go from Hue?”
“I don’t know.”
“How you leave Hue?”
“I don’t know.”
He tapped his fingers on his desk near his holster, then said, “Passport and visa.”
I threw the photocopies on his desk.
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