‘I’m looking for Colonel Pham.’
‘He is expecting you, sir?’
‘Tell him Brandon Condley is waiting to see him.’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ the young man said, obviously surprised that the ill-dressed man before him was the same person he had been told to await. ‘You are Mr. Condley?’
‘I left my tuxedo in Honolulu,’ answered Condley, wearying of the false niceties. ‘It’s in the backseat of my Mercedes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the maître d’, hiding his irritation behind a frozen smile. ‘Please follow me.’
Colonel Pham was sitting near the back of the restaurant, at a table with three others, two of them Vietnamese women and one a well-dressed Caucasian man. From the cut of the man’s gray silk three-button suit and the shaggy length of his hair, Condley could tell he was not American. One of the Vietnamese women was older, presumably the colonel’s wife. The other woman’s back was to him, but from her slimness and the way her long hair flowed so freely down her back, Condley knew she was younger, and probably the girlfriend or wife of the Caucasian man.
The colonel gestured to Condley as he approached, standing up to greet him and calling to a waiter for another chair. ‘Mister Condley,’ he said in Vietnamese. ‘Please join us.’
The table was against the rear wall, underneath a spotlit reproduction of a Monet landscape of the Alps at Antibes. Condley approached it cautiously, studying the four people for clues so that he might understand the ambience that he was interrupting. For despite Colonel Pham’s tight smile, it seemed that his approach was bringing a tension to the table.
Colonel Pham’s formality was to be expected. Perhaps fifteen years older than Condley, the former Viet Cong soldier was rarely emotional in public and almost deceptively nondescript. Condley had learned that the colonel’s controlled emotions were a camouflage that hid the kind of man whom in Asia too many Americans overlooked at their peril, and usually to their later regret. The colonel’s teeth were stained from years of strong tobacco and poor dental hygiene. His glasses looked as if they had been bought forty years before. Several long strands of hair grew from a mole on his chin, just to the right of his mouth. His small, paw-like hands hung slightly in front of his thighs, as if he had spent so many years carrying weight on his back – pack and weapon and rice roll – that his shoulders and fingers were permanently curved. And he clearly did not belong in a suit. He wore it loosely and messily, the collar too big, the knot of the tie too fat, the shirtsleeves too long, making him appear ungainly and even more diminutive than he actually was.
But from the very first, Condley had picked up a sureness in the older man, a toughness that those who had not fought the war could never fully penetrate. Pham had made hard decisions, of the sort a mere businessman could never conceive. He had endured years in the jungle, conquering it and making it his friend. He had ordered soldiers to their deaths. He had killed people. And from the measuring look he and Condley had always exchanged behind their smiles, it was clear that Pham had killed Americans.
Condley knew that Pham had always read his own face just as quickly. Yes, their eyes said to each other every time they met, we both endured and we both killed. But that was then, and this is now. So where do we go from here? In a way this knowledge gladdened both of them, giving them an odd but unbreakable bond. He and Pham shared a secret kinship. They knew the truth of the battlefield, a conviction so real and permeable that neither of them would ever need to mention it to the other.
‘Chao Ong,’ said Condley, shaking the colonel’s hand and moving to the chair the waiter had placed at the head of the table. Taking his seat at the colonel’s elbow, for the first time he turned to the others.
‘You have never met my wife,’ said the colonel in Vietnamese, gesturing formally to the older woman at the table. His very comment was a half-embarrassed admission that their relationship over the past three years had been cordial but never fully personal. ‘Her name is Tho.’
‘I am very glad to meet you,’ said Condley, nodding to the older woman from across the table.
The waiter magically appeared with a can of Tiger beer, pouring it slowly into a tall glass as Condley and the woman smiled carefully at each other. It was hard to read Pham’s wife, who was gracious and at the same time very nervous, unsure of these elegant surroundings. She wore a simple black ao dai dress and kept her face neutral with a blank smile, but Condley could see that she was cataloging movements and looks just as thoroughly as he himself, all to be mulled over and analyzed later.
‘And this is Francois Petain,’ continued Colonel Pham, gesturing to the man sitting at his left. ‘He does not understand my Vietnamese, so let me switch to French.’ Fluently, the colonel made an introduction to Petain in French. When he concluded, the Frenchman waved his hand carelessly in the air, smiling sardonically to Condley.
‘So perhaps we should simply speak English, no? The colonel and his wife may have some problem, but Van and I speak it well.’
There was a casualness in the way that Petain referred to the young woman sitting just next to Condley that spoke of possessiveness, as though he were used to making decisions for her. Condley studied the Frenchman as he reached his hand across the table toward him. Petain was in his late thirties, although his face and frame had already softened considerably from lack of exercise. He wore an expensive maroon silk tie, the knot casually loose at his neck. A top-of-the-line Cartier wristwatch revealed itself as he reached an arm toward Condley, shaking hands. His handshake was soft, more from a dismissive air than a lack of strength.
They began an odd three-way conversation using a mix of English, French, and Vietnamese. ‘Mr. Petain is a businessman,’ said Colonel Pham in Vietnamese as the two men shook hands. ‘He lives most of the time in Tokyo but has been coming here very frequently of late.’ The way the colonel nodded and smiled as he mentioned Petain’s frequent trips to Sai Gon clearly had some reference to the young woman at his side.
‘What’s your business?’ asked Condley, retaking his seat.
‘Perfume. I am the Asian president for Lanvin.’
‘Perfume?’ Despite himself, Condley could not restrain a chuckle.
Petain’s eyebrows arched. ‘People spend lots of money on perfume. So what is your problem with that?’
‘They don’t smell bad, Francois. They’re hungry.’
His answer brought a scathing frown from Petain but an immediate laugh from the young woman on his right.
‘He’s right, Francois! But I do love your perfume!’
Petain waved his hand as if dismissing Condley, then spoke as his eyes wandered around the restaurant. ‘What do Americans know about Viet Nam? They came in and blew it up with millions of bombs and then left. We French have been here for – what shall I say? Two hundred years or more.’
Condley did not really care about the French one way or another, but at bottom he did not like this man. ‘As I recall, they kicked your asses out of here a couple wars ago.’
The young woman laughed again, clearly delighted with the debate that had erupted without warning or even provocation between the two men. ‘Francois, I think he is quicker than you.’
The colonel cleared his throat, as if half-embarrassed yet again. ‘My daughter,’ he said, still speaking Vietnamese. Then he caught himself, becoming almost apologetic. ‘Actually my youngest daughter, because I have others. And because she is my youngest she is also spoiled. This is Van.’
Daring finally to stare fully at Van, Condley saw that she had a raw and natural beauty. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her face glowed from a reflection of the spotlight on the painting above the table. Her hair was pulled straight back from her face and cascaded freely down to the small of her back. She sat still and erect in her chair, her chin high and her hands held together on her lap. She was wearing a blue ao dai dress with white silk slacks. The dress split from ankle to waist along the sides, and through the gauzy translucent fabric he coul
d see splendid firm long legs and hips outlined by the imprint of white bikini underwear. It caused him to marvel once again that a culture so subdued and modest could adopt such a subtly tantalizing traditional dress.
And she had an impish smile, a signal that beneath the demure exterior was a rebel. Her long face with its bright almond eyes and full smile caused her to radiate mischief.
Her English was accented but easily understood. ‘You’re very funny, Mr. Condley,’ she said.
‘Actually I was serious.’
‘One should never become too serious in Asia,’ tweaked Petain. ‘There is not enough room for it. It would eat away at your emotions.’
‘OK, so tell me a good joke and let’s all drink another bottle of pinot noir.’
‘Oh, you know how to pronounce French wine,’ goaded Petain. ‘Quite a surprise, since the waiter saw your costume and immediately brought you a cheap local beer.’
‘Yeah, he knew I wasn’t French the minute I had the courtesy to speak to him in Vietnamese.’ Even as he said it Condley was surprised at the depth of his reaction to this man he did not know. Van laughed again, and her throaty chuckle spurred him on. ‘Sell them perfume and let them eat cake, huh? Didn’t somebody French say that?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Petain dismissively. ‘You have become too aggressive, over nothing.’
‘Testosterone does that.’
‘He’s winning, Francois,’ teased Van delightedly.
‘It is not a contest.’ Petain was thoroughly piqued.
Colonel Pham cleared his throat, regaining control of the conversation. He absently twirled the long hairs that grew out of the mole on his cheek. Condley knew that such hairs were considered a sign of wisdom, and to twirl them was to invoke strange powers. ‘Mr. Petain has been very kind to invite us to dinner tonight,’ said the colonel, still speaking only Vietnamese. The comment was a request that Condley cease his sarcasm.
Van leaned forward, as if taking his instructions. ‘And we are happy that you might join us, Mister Condley. So let me propose a toast? To friends.’
They raised their glasses, clinking them together above the center of the table, a merriment that, if not false, was certainly forced and uncertain.
‘To friends!’ They took turns, saying it in three languages.
Condley studied the faces and the smiles as he touched each glass with his own. The colonel’s sudden cheerfulness seemed in part to be a demand that Condley enjoy himself at the risk of losing face. Francois’s cool eyes belied his smile, filled with denigration for the poorly dressed American. Mrs. Pham held her reserve, still studying everyone, and especially studying Condley. And Van was ravishing and aglow, clearly taken with Condley’s whole casual demeanor.
She touched glasses with him, smiling again. ‘My father has spoken about you before,’ she said in Vietnamese, as if wanting a private moment from Francois. ‘He says many good things about you. That you know Viet Nam. Some others only want to use Viet Nam.’
‘So why do you like him?’ Condley was surprised at his own bluntness, even though they were speaking a language that Petain could not understand. From the corner of his eye Condley could tell that Van’s mother had heard the question and was watching them.
‘The French are so elegant,’ Van said obliquely, mixing the French pronunciation of the word in with her Vietnamese. Petain smiled at her when she used the French word, certain that she was complimenting him. She smiled back at Petain for a quick moment and then spoke to Condley as if using code. ‘And he likes to buy me nice things. What’s the matter with that? Don’t you like nice things?’
‘He seems to be an ass,’ said Condley, realizing once he spoke that his comment reeked of unnecessary jealousy.
‘You’re very reckless with your feelings,’ Van answered coyly, still speaking in Vietnamese. ‘Or at least with your words, no?’ Then she looked over at the three waiters who were now descending on the table and switched to English. ‘Francois ordered the entire meal.’
‘So here it is,’ said Petain, as if he had created it himself.
The waiters quickly went about their work, laying out appetisers on each plate and six steaming, heaping dishes in the center of the table: seafood, crab, duck, beef, chicken, and pork, along with bowls of steamed rice, all prepared to perfection, to be shared family-style in the Vietnamese tradition. Another bottle of wine found its way to the iced canister next to Francois. He wrapped a towel around it and poured ceremoniously for the others and then for himself. At the same time he gestured toward the plates of food.
‘Everyone, please! Really, help yourselves!’
Colonel Pham needed no further encouragement. He jumped onto the food, followed by the others, and began eating greedily, devoid of the etiquette Francois was carefully following. As Condley filled his plate he studied Van’s mother. She caught his look and returned it with a courteous smile, then offered him the plate of beef. He took the plate, thanking her, and decided that he might perhaps draw her out and began speaking to her in Vietnamese.
‘You are also from central Viet Nam?’ he asked, knowing that the colonel himself had been born in Tam Ky, just south of Da Nang.
‘Yes,’ she answered almost shyly, taking rice into a small bowl.
‘You have other children?’
‘I have eight children,’ she answered, glancing over to Van, who was talking earnestly with Francois. ‘Van is my baby.’ She looked now at Colonel Pham, perhaps for support, then back to her rice, as if attempting to end the discussion.
Condley continued, not having picked up on her unease. ‘Do your other children live near you?’
‘Three are here,’ she said. ‘Two are in Da Nang.’ She blinked and Condley saw she was fighting with her emotions. ‘Three are dead.’
Condley then comprehended that he had gone too far. In this new Viet Nam, any conversation, even any gesture, could bring back some scar from the past. He had relaxed too quickly after his exchange with Van, and now he knew why Colonel Pham had never brought him into their home.
‘Two girls,’ she continued. ‘One boy.’ She had stopped all motion and was looking into her plate, hiding her tears in order to compose herself. Finally she looked back up at him, the tears gone and her face firm, and moved a hand through the air to simulate an airplane on an approach path, and finally threw the hand upward to indicate a bomb.
‘Linh My. Ac lam,’ she said, continuing to look him directly in the eyes.
American soldiers. Wicked. It was from a memory, said for perhaps the millionth time in order to push away her grief. But to say it here, now, and to him was pointed, painful, even holding him somehow responsible.
It didn’t make him feel that way. Instead, it brought back a swarm of similar memories to him as well. They spilled from the flash of anger in his eyes onto the table alongside hers, sightless, odorless, and yet palpable, even to her. Condley wanted to tell her that the bombings were probably careless but never intentional. He wanted her to hear of the cruelty and wickedness perpetrated by her husband’s cohorts. Of his friend Thanh, captured by the enemy who then left pieces of his body in a dozen nearby villages as reminders of his misplaced loyalty. Of the two dozen villagers he had buried after they were ambushed and slaughtered inside a home for no reason except that they had come to a meeting sponsored by the Provincial government.
Most of all he wanted to tell her what it was like to discover the beautiful, innocent Mai lying cold and twisted on the bathroom floor with her throat slashed and the blood draining forever from her, every ounce of his own hope and happiness gurgling into the gutter along with the loud incessant stream of water from the shower. And how it felt to know that she had died for the sin of loving him.
But he could not. One story would beget another, until soon the whole war would be piled onto the table. It was over and it made no sense to continue it by fighting over who had been cruder or who had suffered the greatest loss. Her loss was overwhelming, total, irre
placeable. That was enough for him. And it had been caused by an American aircraft.
‘Mrs. Pham, I am very sorry,’ he finally said. ‘If you will take me to temple, we will pray for your children together.’
Her look gradually changed, from an angry, accusing sadness to mild disbelief and then to genuine respect. She regained her smile and slowly took his hand.
‘My husband told me that you are a good man,’ she said.
‘I mean it. I’ll go if you will take me,’ said Condley, feeling cleansed by his own words.
‘I will take you,’ she agreed.
‘We will pray for all the dead.’
‘I will do that too,’ she said.
Condley glanced at the others. Colonel Pham nodded to him encouragingly, as if he had suddenly become family. Francois Petain was bored and distracted, his mind somewhere between Paris and Tokyo, fading fast from jet lag. The Frenchman looked down at his watch again, uncomfortable with this ugly business of war and loss and emotions.
But it was Van’s look that struck him. She had stopped in the middle of serving Petain a portion of food. Petain’s arm was touching her shoulder, as much an act of ownership as his earlier announcement that he and Van would both speak English. But her surprised, appreciative look told Condley that she fully understood his answer to her mother and the painful journey he had taken in his mind in order to reach it.
Lost Soldiers Page 6