by Ron Lealos
It was night. The backfires from the Renault echoed down the tight streets and lit the walls of the buildings with flames from the exhaust. I couldn’t help but chuckle, putting us inside some kind of Bollywood comedy featuring bumbling police and handsome leading men. I wasn’t the latter, but Morgan was. And Hatati was the beautiful female protagonist who was so stunning she seemed to be about to break out in a Miss World dance to the accompaniment of harps and violins at any moment.
On the sidewalks, it was that twilight time when citizens were deciding if they only wanted soup for dinner or would get drunk on some of the lousy sugary vodka made with distilled rice by the Binh Tay Alcohol Company, not worrying about tomorrow’s hangover from the cheap booze. Some couples even dared hold hands, a custom not yet truly accepted in Vietnam. A few of the girly boys strolled by, their skintight ao dis slit up to their buoi. Penis. Swinging hips always drew whistles and “mong an,” butt muncher, slurs. When I wasn’t inhaling the Renault’s fumes, I could smell the evening’s Sai Gon aromas of cooking meat of unknown origin, spices from the pho that was boiling behind most doorways, ripening fruit of a hundred varieties, and raw sewage. Phan eventually guided the heap to the side of the road in Binh Thanh, close to where he had dropped me to see Hacmon not that long ago.
“Stay here and try not to wear out your cu,” penis, I said, reminded for a nanosecond of the fact that “penis” had so many different ways to say the word in Vietnamese. There weren’t nearly that number for lon, pussy. As in most countries, we were truly male-dominated and fixated on our dicks. One of the words was “yinjing” in Chinese, and the relative numbers were the same, “xing xing tam” being one of the few words for pussy in that dialect. A myth that was chuckled at knowingly throughout Vietnam was that Chinese men didn’t have a cu, the legend being it was too small for anyone to have ever seen one. But there was a risk in having a cu. A few weeks ago, Peni Hoang had gone to the NoDam Spa in District One for a new treatment that included swimming in a small pool with young eels. The fish were supposed to dine on the dead skin we all carry on our bodies, supposedly a good thing, cleansing the body of useless crumbs. Unfortunately for Hoang, one of the eels decided to swim up his cu. While he tried desperately to pull it out, it was too slippery and he had to undergo a three-hour operation to remove the little fella. The images flashed across my eyelids and I nearly choked, hacking a wad of bitter phlegm on the side of the road. I really was becoming too Confucian, avoiding making a difficult decision to step into the labyrinth of Binh Thanh like any real squint would delay with empty brain chatter and internal spiritual argument.
Within a few paces, I was hidden from the view of the black Honda CR-V SUV that had parked across the street. As yet, no one had gotten out of the car and I began to walk briskly down the now muddy path, greasy from a morning squall. It took only seconds and a man in flip-flops, raggedy gray shorts, and Che Guevara T-shirt stepped out of a tin-walled hootch, beckoning me to follow. We hurried down the passageway. All the doors, or what passed for them, were closed in the huts, no one wanting to see anything and alerted by the psychic alarm that seemed to supernaturally transmit from one lean-to to the next. At least the afternoon’s rain torrent had been short, and we weren’t up to our ankles in slop.
For minutes, we paralleled the river, zigzagging between huts, eventually coming to a group of hootches that threatened to fall into the water with the slightest nudge. It looked as if it was the few straggly palm trees that kept them upright. No one was around. My guide disappeared around the corner of one of the sheds and someone grabbed my arm, pulling me through a curtain that passed for a door. It was Luong.
“We can’t stay here,” he said. “I need to know if you found out where Quang is hiding. For now, Nguyen isn’t as important. We want Quang.”
The tiny room was dark and sweltering. An entire life in Vietnam meant I usually didn’t perspire unless it was anxiety or the heat and humidity had reached the level where a breath threatened to boil the lungs. That only happened a few dozen times a year, in a city where the average temperature is 82° F and the humidity 75 percent. Inside this small space, it was closer to 110° F and 100 percent humidity. The sweat began to form under my armpits and seemed likely to cause a sour flood in my shirt. At least the gloom assured I couldn’t identify where the fetid smell that was making my eyes water came from. I moved closer to the curtain, hoping to get a mouthful of fresh air.
“I have an address for Quang’s house,” I said. “He’s probably not there, but his file also lists a few other possibilities. Probably the homes of his mistresses. What have you found out?”
From the depths of the blackness, Morgan stepped in front of me, the laugh lines no longer curling his face. I assumed that was because Hatati was somewhere else.
“We have an idea,” Morgan said.
“From your sources?” I asked. “Or Mr. Nutley?”
“Not relevant,” Morgan said. “We think he’s in An Pho. District Two. Somewhere just off Thao Dien Street, where the expats who can afford the air conditioning and high-class whores live. I’m sure Quang’s salary allows him to live in this level of luxury. Or even higher. There’s evidence the villa is home to mamasan number three. He’s a loyal communist, dedicated to the triumph of the working class and spreading the wealth as well as venereal diseases.”
“He must be protected,” I said. “There will be guards and the latest security technology. It won’t be easy.”
“That’s exactly why you’re coming along,” Morgan said. “There’s lots you can help with. If we’re wrong, you’ll help us get it right. Besides, if I can see you, I know you’re not betraying us.”
“Even you,” I said, shaking my head. “No yellow-belly slant can be trusted. Right? You’ve seen too many movies, Morgan. I’m willing to give my life for Luong. Even more, this is a chance to finally stick a sharpened dagger up their asses.”
Morgan glanced at Luong, checking for his agreement. He nodded.
“What about your driver?” Morgan asked.
“Phan?” I asked. “He’s too dense for them to bother with. What I’d worry about now is that they’ve doubtless sealed off the area.” I looked up. “And that helicopter isn’t for sightseeing. It’s for you.” The throp-throp sound got louder as the chopper neared.
Both Luong and Morgan glanced upward, surprisingly calm.
“Stay close,” Luong said, grabbing my elbow. He moved like a Nha Nhac Classical dancer, even with the small backpack strapped between his shoulders and his sixty-plus years in this enchanted land.
Morgan went first, pushing aside another tapestry curtain and moving away from the front door. A couple steps later and he moved an old spool table aside, pulling up a metal door from under a rug. Tunnel.
Silly to be shocked. The Montagnards would have more than the river escape route, and they were expert tunnelers, having been kidnapped in the thousands during several conflicts to “help” the flatlanders dig. Starting during the French-Indochina War, the complexes reached their greatest volume during the American invasion. Only thirty kilometers from Sai Gon, the largest and most infamous tunnel warren was located at Cu Chi, now a highly visited tourist magnet in Vietnam, even greater than cheap medical care, gay bars, vets looking for redemption, and golf. Underground cities were excavated that included hospitals, dormitories, libraries, kitchens, classrooms, and bicycle generators for power. The majority of the people living below the surface had malaria and all suffered intestinal parasites. I knew much more about the tunnels than this, but, for now, I wanted to focus on anything other than my claustrophobia and the inordinate fear of reptiles. Morgan flicked on a flashlight and started to push me down a ladder that disappeared into the dirt.
“No,” I said. “I won’t go down there.”
“Yes, you will,” Morgan said.
“Hurry,” Luong said. “I think I hear someone coming.”
“No,” I said. “I’ll stay here and die with my face to the clouds. Not fro
m a snake bite.” I went rigid, my arms firmly crossed on my chest.
“You’re going with us,” Morgan said. “I hate this shit, too, but we can’t leave you.” From behind his back, he pulled out a pistol. “If you refuse, we can’t let you live. They’ll stop being nice and cut you till you give them whatever they want. And more.” He poked me the barrel of the .22. “Go.”
Two deep breaths and I looked down the ladder into the abyss. I turned and put my foot on the top rung, closing my eyes and beginning a prayer to Buddha. And Confucius. It didn’t matter which one came to my aid. Only that some god keep the cobras and green snakes far away. And the scorpions, fire ants, ticks, and leeches. I began the climb downward, Morgan just above.
“When you get to the bottom,” Morgan whispered, “wait for me.”
My feet touched hard earth, and I had the reassuring thought that we probably wouldn’t die from a cave-in. The laterite clay soil of Vietnam, a ferric soil mixed with clay and iron oxide, was perfect for making tunnels that turned as hard as concrete all by themselves once they were shaped into a passageway or room. This one smelled of mold and dirt, not the stench of unwashed thousands and kerosene. It most likely wasn’t used much, maintained only for adventures like the one I was now part of. I waited, trying to get a glimpse down the passageway through the shadows.
A brief glimpse allowed by the flickering light showed me we wouldn’t be hiking upright. At best, we’d be doing a duck walk squat, since the ceiling was about one-and-a-half meters from the floor and only wide enough for one of us at a time to squeeze through. The little chamber I was in was a bit wider and pushed against the earthen walls, increasing my prayers that no beast was there. Within seconds, both Morgan and Luong were pressed alongside me. Above, someone closed the hatch.
“I’ll take point,” Luong said. “I’ve been here before.” He flipped on a flashlight.
“Please do,” Morgan said. “I’ll take drag.”
“I’ll just stay here and make sure no one is following,” I said, reaching for the ladder.
“No, you won’t,” Morgan said. “You’re coming with us.”
Luong had already crouched and was moving away from us into the void. I stooped, waiting only a second for him to clear out. I turned back to Morgan.
“Cao ni zu zong shi ba dai.” Fuck the eighteen generations of your ancestors. This was absolutely the worst insult any Chinese could give and was saved only for the most important and worthy events. Since I was sure I wouldn’t survive the next few minutes, it was such a time. Even if Morgan didn’t know the import, he got the vibration.
“And fuck you too,” he said. He pulled my hand off the ladder and shoved me down, pressing the pistol into my back.
“Move it, Charlie,” he said.
“Now,” I said. “you’re showing your true American racist colors, peckerhead.” I didn’t really know what that one meant, having heard it in a favorite movie, Deliverance, and sensing it was truly harsh. Morgan just laughed, ramming the .22 harder into me, knowing full well I’d stall until the next dynasty began its reign. I could have called him “mee-gook nom,” American bastard, in Chinese. I was sure he wouldn’t have got that one without translation, so I stuck with “peckerhead.” As usual, my only defense was my mouth, and, predictably, that was failing again.
“Go,” he barked.
It was easy to follow Luong since there was only one direction to move. I bent lower, trying my best not to rub any surface that might hold something I didn’t want to know and would certainly bite me into oblivion.
The strip of land we were under was narrow and we could only be headed east toward Luong Phuoc Street. In all other directions, the Sai Gon River would block the tunnel. Phan and the watchers had to be on that road or trying to follow us in the hostile labyrinth of Binh Thanh. While I tried to keep from letting the terror shut my body down by repeating my mantra, I estimated we would doubtless emerge from the depths somewhere in the row of shops and houses across Luong Phuoc. That neighborhood wasn’t part of the Montagnard slum. Still, it wasn’t one of Sai Gon’s most prosperous wards and was lately notorious for the illegal weekend motorbike races through its streets, where several drivers and spectators had been crushed. Mostly, I tried to stay as close to Luong as I could, hoping any vipers would nibble on him, not me.
After about ten minutes, Luong slowed, and I nearly head butted him. We were at another ladder in an open space. I stood, my knees aching for release. Morgan was right behind, and the three of us crammed into the tight opening. The light made shadow puppets on the dirt walls, and I tried to keep my focus as narrow as possible, not wanting any surprises.
“There shouldn’t be any problem,” Luong said. “We’ll be coming out in the back room of a cashew nut stall. Just wait down here until I check upstairs.”
“Do I look like a worm?” I asked, grabbing Luong’s shirt. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“In my village,” Luong said, “worms are greatly revered. They are viewed with the same respect as all creatures and are a good source of protein, unlike you. Not enough meat. And bones are hard to chew.” He started to climb, and I wondered if he was being humorous. No. Solemn honesty was his character. Besides, if it was meant as a joke, it would be an original.
Morgan chuckled from behind and held me back as I tried to follow Luong.
“Stay here, worm,” he said.
The few seconds felt like years until Luong whistled and I raced up the ladder as if I were being eaten by the fire ants that made this tunnel home. Morgan didn’t hesitate, either.
At the top, we were in a tiny room that held woven sacks of nuts, shelves with glass jars filled with nuts, and plastic bags stuffed with nuts. The floor was littered with rat traps and dishes of warfarin that, when eaten, would explode any rat’s heart after blocking their livers. The area smelled like decay, cashews, and the lavender air fresheners that hung from the ceiling.
Morgan closed the door over the tunnel, giving us a little more freedom of movement. When he stood, he took out a cell phone and pushed one key, while I attempted to slow my breathing. The mantra hadn’t worked. Our escape had caused relief to wash over me like a warm monsoon.
“Two minutes,” was all Morgan said, immediately stepping around me and pushing aside a curtain that hung from a rail attached to the wall.
“Let’s go,” he said.
No questions this time. Any distance between me and the tunnel was a lifeline. I was right behind him, Luong not far back.
We squeezed through a little booth, jammed with more cashews in various displays, mostly fifty-pound bags, and out onto a street I recognized as No Trang Long. In front of us was the normal evening anarchy of meeping cyclos, blue fumes, flashing neon, and the ever-present pungent scent of decay. A few seconds later and a white Toyota sedan pulled up, the driver’s window down. It was Hatati. Morgan didn’t hesitate to open the back door and push Luong and me inside. He ran around to the passenger side and jumped in next to Hatati. It all took less time than to pull out and examine a fingernail and we were on our way somewhere. If my hand weren’t still throbbing, I’d almost have grinned as a fast left turn pressed me against Luong.
No one spoke. Hatati was an excellent driver and wove her way through the bedlam with only a single motorcyclist tumbling to the pavement and getting a few “dit con me may tec hang,” fuck your mother till her vagina is broken, comments. In a roundabout way, and constantly checking her rear view mirror, she eventually came to Vo Van Kiet Road and headed toward Cholon. I guessed we were going to see Mr. Liu. I was wrong. She drove through Cholon and District Five, north into District Three, stopping at a typical five-story building next to a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise. The street level held a battery store, a boutique that advertised “We Best Short and Curly,” and a place that looked to be selling old carburetors. Beside the salon, a metal door began to rise. When it was completely open, Hatati drove down a narrow passage to a small parking lot. It was pitch dark a
nd she switched on her brights, the beams illuminating an empty space about the size of a basketball court. At the far end, a dim lamp shown over a door. Hatati shut off the Toyota and we all got out, following Morgan to the exit. His .22 was in his hand and he stopped before we went farther, signaling us to wait. My eyes began to itch with the mold smell and a sneezing attack was imminent. I stifled it and followed Morgan through the door after he motioned us forward.
Three flights of gloom, cement stairs, and spiderwebs and Morgan led us into a quiet hallway, open windows at both ends. The breeze gave us fresh evening air, and I inhaled with the pleasure I usually only found at Ma Jing’s. Two doors down on the left and he went through one marked “6” without knocking, pistol leading the way. We pushed in right behind him, Luong closing the door after a quick glance down the hallway.
Morgan strode to the far wall that was mostly one big window overlooking the street and looked out, trying to see if we’d been followed. Hatati disappeared into another room that was either the kitchen or the bathroom, while Luong joined Morgan at the window. I sat down on a large couch that someone must have bought at Mo’s Furniture in District One, the major Sai Gon discounter in a country where retail didn’t exist. IKEA wasn’t scheduled to open here until 2015. In the meantime, cheap sofas like this one that felt like an old man’s bones and creaked just as loud when I sat, were better than the used fixture outlets by the Dong Thanh garbage dump. At least the cotton tapestry that covered whatever upholstery that was left was done in my favorite purple and blue colors. Nothing else but a few chairs and table were in the room and there was no sense that anyone lived here. It was a safe house and I knew all my idle speculations wouldn’t prolong whatever Morgan and Luong had planned for me.