Lost Soldiers

by Lost Soldiers (retail) (epub)

  ‘He is in Tokyo.’ She raised her chin, casually tossing her hair. ‘This is not about Francois. We are fighting, anyway.’

  ‘Now, there’s a line.’

  ‘What does that mean, “there’s a line”?’

  ‘Your dad told me you’re spoiled.’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She grew serious. ‘But this is – I don’t know how to say it. Watching you with my mother made me feel very –’ She searched for an English phrase and could not find it. ‘Cam dong,’ she said, using a peculiarly Vietnamese expression meaning that she was moved inside her heart.

  ‘Your mother is wonderful,’ he said, feeling awkward standing in the dusky temple yard.

  ‘She likes you very much. And my father respects you as a soldier. I find it very odd.’ She was peering quizzically up into his eyes. ‘But somehow it makes me happy.’

  ‘Somehow it makes me sad.’

  He felt exhausted, empty. He gave her a small wave and started to walk across the outer yard toward the break in the wall that they had driven through a half hour before. Behind him he heard her motorbike start, and then she was next to him, driving slowly, dragging her feet along to keep with his pace.

  ‘Get on my bike, Cong Ly! It’s OK!’

  He looked up. Her smile was natural, inviting. He decided that she really did like him.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He reached the wall and walked onto the sidewalk that bordered the busy street. She was still next to him. People were staring again but she did not seem to notice. She kept smiling, waiting, asking.

  ‘You’re afraid of the way I drive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re afraid of me?’

  He stopped walking and faced her. She was very near, standing as she straddled the idling motorbike. Her elbow-length gloves were on but she had not yet covered her face with the handkerchief. Compromising, he took the handkerchief from her and held it up to her face.

  ‘Yeah, I guess I am. You make me remember things.’

  ‘Another girl?’ She took back the handkerchief, smiling teasingly, not wanting her face covered yet.

  ‘A little bit. A long time ago. But she died. And her family was on the other side.’

  She shrugged, unconcerned. ‘You should forget the war.’

  ‘The communists killed her.’

  ‘I don’t want to know that.’

  ‘They killed her because of me.’

  ‘Too many stories.’ She touched him on the face with one long finger, as if she were going to scold him. ‘We just prayed, Cong Ly. You’re free. We’re all free.’ And then she patted the seat of her motorbike. ‘I’m a very good driver!’

  ‘You’re hurting someone’s business!’

  She gave him a sharp look, her mouth curled into an impish smile. ‘Give me one dollar. Come on, one dollar!’

  He hesitated for a moment, mildly confused, then gave her a dollar. She gunned her motorbike to the edge of the street, calling to the nearest lazing cyclo driver and giving him a series of instructions. Both of them laughed, staring back at Condley. Then she handed the old man a dollar, and he pedaled off into the dense traffic.

  ‘There!’ she said happily, returning to his side. ‘You have hired him for one hour! Now get on my bike!’

  He did not ask her to park the motorbike once they reached the hotel or to pay the doorman five thousand dong to take care of it. He did not invite her to dinner in the hotel’s small restaurant where they sat for hours, laughing and teasing each other as they shared a half dozen samples from the menu. But as he watched her talk and laugh and tease, a part of him that he had thought was dead slowly stirred from its slumber, daring itself to reawaken.

  ‘I have to tell you about her,’ he finally said, toying with a beer and carefully watching Van’s face.

  ‘No,’ she pouted. ‘The war is over, Cong Ly. I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Not about how she died. About why I loved her. And who she was. And what she wanted. It’s not right to forget that, in the same breath that we try to forget a war.’

  ‘I think you’ve turned her death into your prison,’ said Van, with a look that bordered on jealousy.

  ‘The first time I saw her, she was leaving the grounds of Sai Gon University, dressed in a white ao dai, riding a bicycle. They had a little club there, run by the Vietnamese-American Society. I was twenty-three. I had just come to Sai Gon from Da Nang. I had never seen anyone so beautiful. I said hello. She was surprised that I spoke Vietnamese. And it stunned me that she liked me. For almost a year, whenever I was in Sai Gon I would wait for her every afternoon in a small cafe just outside the university. We would drink coffee and she would practice her English. After a year she gained the courage to bring me home to meet her parents. Her father’s family had moved from Ha Noi in 1954 after the country was divided. Her mother’s family had moved from Hue. She was studying to be a lawyer. They had already decided that she would marry a doctor from another Ha Noi family. But she didn’t. She went with me. And for three more years she loved me. And who was I? I don’t know why she fell in love with me.’

  ‘Because you would take her to America,’ teased Van, trying to again lighten his mood.

  ‘That frightened her,’ shrugged Condley.

  ‘Her parents let you marry?’

  ‘No,’ said Condley. ‘They let her love me, as long as they didn’t have to recognise that we were in love. She finished school and they let her have an apartment. It was our apartment. I paid for it. When I was in Sai Gon we lived together. But when they spoke to their friends, it was only about her studies and her work, as if I were not a part of her life. They hoped that she would lose her fascination with the American. Or that the American would finally grow tired of Viet Nam and go home. And once either of those things happened they would have won, without losing face. Since they’d never recognised that we were together, they could reinvent those years in the eyes of the proper Vietnamese doctor or businessman who would be her husband. Save her face. Regrow her virginity. Allow her a proper life, with properly Vietnamese kids.’

  ‘Did they blame you when she was killed?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Condley. ‘Because if it was not for me, she never would have died. And you know something? If it wasn’t for her, I might not have stayed. So in a way, we did it to each other.’ He watched her face, wondering if he should say it. ‘I was a very good fighter, Van. The war is over but I have no qualms in telling you that. They couldn’t catch me, your father’s friends. They couldn’t kill me. And so they went after her. I lived, but in the end they killed my heart.’

  ‘That is sad. But I cannot believe your heart is dead. Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because I never stop thinking about it. She had the courage to love me, and yet in her own way she never betrayed her family either. She took care of us both. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the burden was always on her. And then she bore my burden as well. She wasn’t a soldier. They never should have killed her.’

  ‘Do you hate my father for that?’

  ‘No.’ Condley finished his beer. ‘I respect your father.’

  ‘You confuse me, Cong Ly.’

  ‘It’s very simple if you think about it.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m not like her.’ Van shrugged almost casually when she said it, as if she were tossing away the past with the quiet movement of her shoulders.

  ‘It’s not fair, I know,’ he said. ‘But some things that you do remind me of her. Your laugh. The way you dismiss problems by making fun of them. Or maybe it was just the peace I felt when we left the temple.’

  Her eyes caressed him. She smiled, making her offer seem as natural as the simple touching of a hand. ‘Would you like to make love to me?’

  ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘I think that would hurt.’

  ‘Because of Francois?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because you don’t like me?’

  ‘No.’ He watched her dancing eyes. ‘Bec
ause I’m afraid I do like you.’

  The restaurant had closed. Its weary owner watched them impatiently, wishing to clean their table and go home. Condley stood, walking her outside to her motorbike. As they reached the bike, she stopped for a moment, looking into his face as if he were a puzzle to be figured out.

  ‘It’s nice that you didn’t want to,’ she finally said.

  ‘I did want to.’

  ‘Then it’s nice that you didn’t. I would have felt bad afterward.’

  ‘I’ll see you again?’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘When?’

  She watched him for a long time, as if she were waiting for him to come to her and at least kiss her goodbye. Her eyes were laughing, though, and her smile was filled with satisfaction. ‘Don’t tell anyone we were together tonight,’ she finally said. ‘I’m still with Francois.’

  ‘He buys you nice things,’ he said.

  ‘Yes! He is so elegant! He’s a better man than you think, Francois. But when he doesn’t get his way he pouts like a little boy. I’m not sure I want to marry him.’

  ‘Does he want to marry you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She scanned the darkened streets, starting the engine on her motorbike. Impishly, she turned to him and gave him a wave. And then like a memory she was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  The jet lag finally claimed him. Condley crashed and burned once inside his room, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep. Just before dawn the traffic started on the street below his window, a steady stream of motorbikes that would not relent until well into the evening. The sounds of the whiny motors and the high-pitched little horns rarely stirred him, having become as normal as the surf near someone’s beach house. But in his exhaustion he had not dropped the blinds, and the gray light pouring through his windows awakened him.

  Sitting up and looking outside, he noticed that he had received a fax. It was from Hanson Muir, terse and coded as always.

  Am arriving Tan Son Nhat 0600 tomorrow morning. Meet me at the Rex Hotel for breakfast, 0800. Strange news. I think we might find some Pepper in the mountains?

  * * *

  Condley felt more comfortable in the cavernous rooftop restaurant of the Rex Hotel than anywhere else in Sai Gon. For several years he had taken most of his meals in the restaurant, which a generation before had been the dining hall for hundreds of American officers stationed in Sai Gon.

  The hotel’s elevator opened to an outdoor terrace. Just above his head, a familiar caged bird was cooing. The smiling, bowing young doorman recognised Condley instantly, greeting him in Vietnamese and ushering him into the dark old dining room. He stood for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the room’s dim light, searching past stands of ugly tropical plants and over the faces of perhaps thirty scattered guests, looking for Hanson Muir. Given its size, the place seemed almost empty. Finally the professor waved to him from a far corner.

  An aged, blue-suited waiter had already walked up to him, greeting him with the familiarity of a favorite uncle. Condley and the old man, whose name was Vo, had become friends years before. Vo had been a barber on an American military base during the war. He had also been a spy for the communists and had been given a lifetime-tenured job in the restaurant as a reward for his service. Vo was a sly old possum. His tragic look and emaciated frame belied his continuing ability to listen in and report on the conversations of important foreigners.

  All part of the game, chuckled Condley as he greeted Vo in Vietnamese. ‘Hello, Uncle Vo! I’m looking for my friend.’

  Vo showed Condley to Muir’s table, speaking with a humble voice that was as soft as a church usher’s. ‘Good morning, Cong Ly. We don’t see you very much anymore.’

  ‘You see me all the time, Vo. Everywhere I go.’

  ‘Ah, Cong Ly. You are such a funny man.’

  ‘That’s because Sai Gon makes me so happy! The government takes care of me. It makes sure that I am never really alone.’ The two men shared a secret, knowing smile as Condley reached Muir’s table.

  It was eight o’clock, straight up and down. Muir was sitting near a window, sipping on filtered coffee and eating an omelette. He was wearing tan Bermuda shorts, Nike running shoes with white calf-length socks, and another one of his ostentatious luau shirts. He checked his watch, nodding approvingly as if evaluating or perhaps merely establishing Condley’s promptness. ‘Very impressive, Brandon. You’re never on time in Hawaii.’

  ‘I’m never on time in Viet Nam either. But you’ve got me curious.’

  Muir chuckled, enjoying the mystery. ‘Well, I told you I deserved at least a day of R and R in Sai Gon.’

  ‘Did you have to bring that shirt? You look idiotic, Professor.’

  ‘And I suppose you think you’re a model for Calvin Klein?’

  Condley fingered his old T-shirt, looking down at his faded jeans. ‘I dress like this for a reason. Half the people on the street are going to laugh at you. And the other half are going to try and rob you.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Hanson sarcastically. ‘The mean streets of Sai Gon.’

  ‘You make the wrong people mad around here and your life’s worth maybe twenty bucks.’

  ‘They’d never touch an American, you know that. You’re always so melodramatic, Brandon.’

  ‘Have you heard of the Hai Phong gangs? Go ahead, piss somebody off, Professor, and try going for a walk by yourself at night.’

  Condley took a seat, quickly ordering an omelette, a sliced mango, and coffee from the waiting Vo. Watching the old waiter shuffle toward the kitchen, he nodded to Muir, casually stealing a piece of his French bread. ‘Don’t talk business in front of that guy. He’s a spy.’

  Muir chuckled indulgently, folding his arms across his vast chest so that they rested on his ample belly. He looked as if he felt sorry for Condley. ‘Murder on the street. Octogenarian spies in the restaurants. Oh, my, you live a fantastic life, don’t you?’

  ‘OK, don’t believe me. But why do you think they always try to put American government people in this hotel?’

  ‘We stay here because the Rex gives us a good rate. And there’s a certain nostalgia to the place, wouldn’t you say? Sometimes I feel ghosts from the war.’

  ‘Did you leave any papers laying out in your room? Half of the bellboys work for the Interior Ministry.’

  ‘Oh, Brandon, we’ve got to get you a vacation.’

  ‘One night a couple years ago I was talking on the phone to someone back in Hawaii and I couldn’t hear him. It was about two in the morning. The second time I told him I couldn’t hear him, somebody turned the phone up so loud that his voice came out of the speaker on the wall.’

  Muir shrugged condescendingly, enjoying his little provocation. ‘The operator was helping you out, Brandon. I know they’re clever but let’s face it. We’re hardly the CIA. We’re out here looking for dead people. We’re just not that interesting!’

  ‘Oh, we are interesting, at least to them. How do you think a voice on the phone came out of a speaker on the wall that’s supposed to be rigged for radio music? Trust me, Professor, I do know my former trade. And we’re not talking about finding bodies in the boonies anymore. We’re talking about Salt and Pepper. I can tell from talking to Colonel Pham that this one scares them. So be careful.’

  Muir finally laughed. ‘I’m smarter about these things than you give me credit for. Why do you think I flew here instead of talking to you about it on the phone?’

  ‘Because you wanted some R and R in Sai Gon.’ Condley took another piece of Muir’s bread. ‘Speaking of which, I almost got married last night.’

  Muir rubbed his beard, his thick hand masking a very jealous smile. ‘You get married a lot, Brandon.’

  ‘No, actually the marriage business has been kind of slow for quite a while. Or maybe I’ve slowed down. And the Interior Ministry does watch me, you know.’

  ‘I would think by now they have a complete folder, wouldn’t you? What difference
would a few more lovely ladies make?’

  ‘Well, I have to assume her dad reads the reports, given that he’s our government counterpart.’

  The burly scientist could not restrain his amusement. ‘Colonel Pham? Oh, no, Brandon. He has a daughter?’

  ‘He has a daughter like Ho Chi Minh has a mausoleum.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ laughed Muir. ‘You lost me on that analogy.’

  ‘Well, I never said I was a poet.’

  ‘Ho Chi Minh doesn’t have anything. He’s dead. I can confirm that. I’ve been to the mausoleum.’

  ‘Yeah, but have you done the DNA?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How do you know that’s really Uncle Ho? Did you match the dental file?’

  ‘Didn’t he have false teeth?’

  ‘Not so loud, you’re talking about somebody’s version of God.’ Condley laughed, sensing that Muir was fighting to focus after his long flight. ‘OK, forget the mausoleum. She’s beautiful, Professor. Oh, man, I really don’t know why, but I came very close to losing it.’

  ‘Of course you know why. You’re a pig.’

  Condley laughed again, this time at himself. ‘All right, I do know why. But I hope the colonel doesn’t feel like he lost face when he reads the morning reports and finds out I was hanging with his daughter.’

  ‘We need him,’ said Muir, becoming serious. ‘He’s been the easiest official to deal with, and I sense we might be getting some resistance if we proceed as I’m about to recommend.’

  ‘He’s doing some checking for me,’ said Condley. ‘I had a long talk with him yesterday.’

  ‘Just before you took advantage of his daughter?’

  ‘I said almost,’ joked Condley. Then he thought better of it. ‘Look, I’m sorry I told you that. But he kind of had a hand in it. At least he seemed to like the idea of us getting to know each other.’

  ‘In the Biblical sense?’

  ‘Buddhists don’t have Bibles. Anyway, she seems to be different. Very straight up. I could get in trouble if I let myself.’