by Don McQuinn
Once across the bridge, a roofed alley opened to the left, the tunnellike entrance to the Chantareansay Pagoda. There were rumors of militant monks struggling for leadership of the Pagoda and the city shuddered at every hint of trouble from the saffron robes.
A few blocks further on, the Bluebird pulled to the curb. Taylor got out quickly, urged by the honking behind him. The driver listened for the sound of the door closing, then jerked away into the torrent. At no time did he look to see if his passenger was safely out.
Taylor walked around the corner and set off toward his appointment. He could as easily have taken the cab to Mrs. Ly’s, but at the outset of his lessons he’d walked the streets convinced that unseen eyes noted every step. Now he winced inwardly at his conceit.
Once off the main streets, the traffic thinned. Although hardly a suburban environment, it was possible to walk the shaded sidewalks and imagine the Saigon of quiet beauty that was presently submerged by a flood of refugees.
His destination was a large home set back from the street and surrounded by a high wall, crowned with teeth of broken glass that glittered in the light from the windows in a fierce corona. He knocked at the wall’s massive door and waited for the guard’s eye to come to the spyhole for recognition. The wooden mass swung away with the complaint of hinges never designed to accept the weight of the additional steel plates bolted to the interior side. The thud of its closure behind him cut off the world.
The house was a sanctuary, shaded by huge trees, surrounded by exuberant tropical plants constrained by discipline as effective as it was apparently artless. The house itself was a balanced arrangement of rectangles and squares, functional and beautiful. Inside this citadel the Pham family fought a graceful battle to continue an existence they could barely remember.
The maid, wrinkled age in contrast to her pressed white jacket and black pajama-trousers, opened the door at his knock, bobbing and smiling.
“Chao, Trung Ta,” she greeted him, then, proudly, “How you are?”
Surprise lifted Taylor’s eyebrows and she took a deep breath, adding, “Toi hoc tieng Anh—l am study English.”
He answered in Vietnamese. “Ah, Chi Hong, if you learn English, how can Americans have secrets?”
She laughed. “Americans have no secrets.”
“Only hair,” he said, making a sad face.
She clapped her hands over her mouth and ran from the room with a gait like skater’s strides, shrieking with laughter. He watched her, remembering how upset Ba Ly was at the end of their first lesson when he’d shown off and called the maid Ba Hong. Servants were Chi, he’d been told—the word for sister—and he was to remember it. It was fairly easy to remember to use the given name instead of the family name. The word Ba didn’t mean exactly the same thing as Mrs., but it was sufficiently approximate that both cultures understood the intent of the translation. Ba Ly would be Mrs. Nguyen Thi Ly in America. In Vietnam she was Ba Ly and her husband’s family name was practically unused.
He stayed just inside the entry, hesitant to enter further without invitation. The peacefulness of the place gave the eye a chance to study, to coordinate things. Ba Ly had already told him the flowing modern furniture was locally built, rosewood and teak. The upholstery was a rich tan and felt as good to the touch as the sensuous wood. Beside him towered a huge vase, shoulder high, its surface a mass of intertwined dragons, clouds, mountains, blossoming trees and frothing streams. Aside from the vase, the only other bright colors in the room came from the Oriental rug and two smaller vases full of flowers. It came to him that he’d never seen any part of the house when it didn’t look as if the Phams were expecting the photographers from “House Beautiful.” It also occurred to him that with two full-time maids, a cook, and a yard man, the place ought to look pretty squared away.
Ba Ly entered from the dining room. As with many Oriental women, she wore eastern or western clothes with complete ease. Today she’d chosen the ao dai, the outer sheath daffodil yellow. As she passed a window the reflected light from the panes lanced across the material in shining swaths. The muscles at the small of Taylor’s back bunched.
Her usual placid beauty was disturbed by a puzzled frown.
“What did you do to Chi Hong?” She motioned him toward the sofa. “She is laughing so hard she can barely speak.”
Taylor grinned as he sat down. “I confessed that Americans have no secrets, being only hairy foreigners.”
The frown was swept away in laughter and then she shook a finger at him with mock severity. “You shouldn’t give her excuses to laugh at you. You will lose face.”
“Maybe. I doubt it. And I’m not that worried about my dignity. Not with her. We know each other.”
She leaned to one side. “She likes you, you know. You have made a conquest. Now she says there are good as well as bad things to say about the Americans.”
“She disliked us before?”
“No, not disliked. Before, there were bad things to say, but that was offset by the fact that you meant well. Still, there were no good things. Now she tells her friends there are Americans trying to understand us. She knows one, and if there is one, there are others.”
Taylor’s grin skewed to a rueful expression. “I should go home. I’ve won a heart and a mind. I’ve made my quota.”
She refused to be amused. “I know you joke, but there is much truth in it. This war will be won with words.”
Meanly, Taylor wanted to say, a little land reform wouldn’t hurt. I’ve heard about your mother’s family’s holdings. Instead, he tried to explain his actions, rather than his beliefs.
“I have to make jokes. As confused as I am, if I don’t keep laughing, I’ll go crazy.”
She looked at him with sympathy. “It is very difficult for you. There are things we don’t understand and it is our culture that is involved. It must be terrible for you.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Uncle Ho’s the best example. We come here prepared to hate him because he started this mess. Can you imagine what a shock it is to find South Vietnamese fighting his army and loving him?”
“Almost all of us respect him greatly. Those who understand what the communists really are can’t accept his politics, but he’s the man who gave us independence. We can’t forget that.”
“But now you have the Americans.”
Her eyes flew wide open. “Never say that, Major. Never. Too many Vietnamese already believe it and the rest would take it as a very bad joke.”
“So bad as that?”
She leaned toward him, her hand settling on his arm with butterfly nervousness. “Any hint from an American, especially an officer, that you think of South Vietnam as a colony is worth a battalion to the VC.”
He was as aware of her confiding hand as he would have been of a branding iron. Blunt pictures of his monastic existence popped into mind.
“I’ll remember,” he assured her. “I have enough trouble without Colonel Winter accusing me of recruiting for the VC.”
“Not even he would be so harsh,” she said, laughing easily again. She withdrew her hand and folded both in her lap. “Anyone who watches you knows you are a professional soldier.”
“Oh?”
“Of course. Even here, you do not study, you attack the words. You learn our customs one by one, as if each piece of knowledge is a fort to be captured. You start with a puzzled expression,” she mimed his face, “and then, when you do not see the answer immediately, you scowl.” She drew arched brows together and stuck out her lower lip. “Finally, you make words deep in your throat, like growling. I never hear the words, but I know you say very bad things.”
He defended himself. “Any man would be angry, trying to learn a language that has tones like a song. I’m allowed to growl.”
“Oh, there’s more than that. I have seen you walk down the street. Your back is straight but you look at everything like a forest animal, always ready to move in any direction. When you come to my door you look at the m
aid, then right away you look past her into the house, searching.”
“But I feel so relaxed here,” he protested. “I may look cautious out on the street, but I’m comfortable in your home.”
“That is what made me certain. If I leave you, sometimes when I come back you look at something far away. It is the face of a small boy, dreaming of adventures. The first time I saw that, I knew you were not just another man in a uniform.”
“You said I was the one who looked at everything,” he chided her.
She clasped her hands around her knees and rocked back on the sofa, a childlike expression of pleasure.
“But you made a mistake,” he continued seriously, and she looked confused. “When you come back, I have no dreams of adventures. In English, we would say my expression is wistful. When you go, my thought is, ‘How sad the garden, when the flowers have gone.’ ”
For a full second she stared at him in shocked surprise. Then she blushed. Her hands reached to cover it and she laughed.
“Now see what you’ve done! My face is burning! I will be afraid to leave you to get tea for you!”
“Then we both have a problem.” He feigned sadness. “You will be afraid to go and I will be afraid you will not come back.”
She stood up. “We must both be good soldiers then, and attack. Would you like tea?”
Taylor also rose, looking down at her upturned face. The move brought them within inches of each other.
“Please,” he said, disturbed to feel the single word force its way out like a bubble through viscous liquid.
Her eyes flicked away and she took a step backward, covering the movement with a quick half-smile. Swiftly bending to pick up the language text from the coffee table, she handed it to him and stepped back further.
“It’ll be a minute, only. Study the section on predicative elements.”
He opened the book to the proper chapter and tried to concentrate. He was finally able to dismiss her but his mind perversely brought up the meeting arranged for that evening with the people at the Friendly Bar. He’d have to be as attentive as ever to Tuyet and after what had just happened, that would be difficult.
He squeezed his head to force the problem away and Ba Ly’s image returned.
The situation would be impossible. If he asked her out and she accepted, most of her friends would ostracize her. And he knew the reaction of most Americans toward Vietnamese women who were seen with other Americans. It would take a peculiar combination of determination and compromise to submit a woman to all that.
When she returned with the tea she was the teacher and he the student. The conversation was over and the hours trudged by.
Suddenly he was aware of time. His momentary preoccupation was enough to catch Ba Ly’s eye. She closed the book.
“Enough for this evening,” she said. “Is it becoming clearer for you?”
“Slowly, slowly.” He massaged his temples.
She patted his hand. “That is not so. You are the quickest student I have ever seen. And you work harder. You are my prize pupil.”
“Is that why you let me stop early?”
“A few minutes. It won’t hurt you.”
The thought of the meeting at the bar made his smile more rueful than he intended. He looked at her and the thought of the ardently avaricious Tuyet intruded.
He got to his feet. “I don’t know what my appetite will think, being attended to so early in the evening. It’s not quite eight o’clock—still the hour of the cat, right?”
She was pleased. “In a few minutes it will be the hour of the dragon. Do you know what comes next?”
Wryly, he said, “The hour of the MP, who enforces the curfew.”
“You are terrible!” She clapped her hands together, laughing at him. “Now, be serious, what comes after the dragon?”
“The two hour period of the day known as the hour of the dragon is followed by the sixth two hour period of the day, the hour of the serpent, followed by the hour of the horse.” He stopped the monotoned recital, grinning at her. “Want more?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “You show off.” She tossed her head, causing the long black wings of her hair to flutter from her shoulders and settle on her back. “I said you were like a small boy.”
He bowed gravely. “At my age, dear lady, a statement like that can only be a compliment.”
A sound of rustling cloth interrupted them and they turned together as Ba Ly’s mother, Ba Lien entered the room. She, too, wore the ao dai, a rich maroon, and could easily have been her daughter’s older sister. Her face was unaware of the march of years, her figure trim and firm. There was about her, though, an aura that pressed on imperiousness. Her dealings with Taylor always left him with the impression that he was welcome, not as a guest or student, but as an intruder who was oddly entitled to all the rites of hospitality.
Taylor half-bowed. “It’s good to see you, Ba Lien. You and your husband are well?”
She smiled. “We are well, thank you, Trung Ta. And you?”
“Your daughter makes me work too hard, but I am still healthy.”
Ba Ly made a face.
"And our friends, Colonel Winter and Dai Ta Loc?”
“They are well. They will be honored that you asked about them. I hope our talking didn’t disturb you this evening?”
“No, I was reading in the library while my husband works on some of his constant paperwork.” Her expression turned to disdain. “The government thinks enough paper will solve any problem. But it is I who must apologize. I have interrupted your lesson.”
“We were just finishing, Mother.”
Taylor said, “I’m glad you came in. It gives me a chance to tell you again how I appreciate your kindness, allowing me to study here with Ba Ly.”
“We are happy to be able to help. In these times, everyone must do whatever possible.”
He nodded gravely, wondering why she didn’t just go ahead and add, “no matter how painful.” It was a good cue to exit on.
“Well, ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go now. I’m staying too long.”
“Chao, Trung Ta.” Ba Lien’s sibilant ao dai whispered her departure.
“Same time tomorrow?” Ba Ly asked.
“Same time. See you then.” He stepped out and she stood in the doorway.
“Be careful, Charles.”
He waved over his shoulder, walking past the guard and onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t until the sound of the closing gate was in his ears that he realized she had used his first name.
Ly was aware of what she had said as soon as the word was spoken and the impact of the situation dazed her. She shut the door hastily, staring at the paneling.
Never in my life have I used the first name of a foreigner, she thought, the memory ringing in her ears.
Her mind raced on. He is a good man. I like him. I look forward to his visits. There could never be anything more than those visits. I must make that very clear to him when he comes tomorrow evening. It would be rude to mention this incident, so I will simply not mention it. I will call him by his rank, only—even one of them will understand what I am doing.
She turned from the door just as Hong entered.
“He has gone?” the maid asked.
Ly walked to the table and picked up the textbook. “Yes, he just left. Did you wish to speak to him?”
“No,” Hong said guilelessly, “I wanted to see how he said goodnight to you.”
“What do you mean?”
Hong shrugged. “I am an old woman, and poor. There is no excitement in my life. The movies cost too much. I thought it would be good for my heart to see some romance. Is he as clumsy as the Americans we see on the TV?”
“It will do you no good to spy,” Ly said sharply, “unless you hope to improve your language.”
Hong picked up the tea glasses and the ashtray, turning eyes that were at once challenging and sad on the younger woman.
“A pity. Of course, he is as hairy as the rest
of them, but he doesn’t smell too bad and he looks strong.”
“I’m sure he’s very healthy.”
Hong scratched an arm while she considered. “No, he cannot be. You are a beautiful woman, still young. You are alone with him every evening for hours, side by side. He only studies.” She shook her head. “He is not healthy.”
Ly tossed her head. “There have been many Americans come here as my students. They mean nothing to me.”
“That is so.” Hong puffed the sofa cushions and Ly resumed her course toward the stairs.
“On the other hand,” Hong’s voice checked her, “with the others you sat at the table in the dining room. The student sat at one end and you at the other. One heard words clearly. Now you sit here on the sofa and there is only buzz-buzz-buzz.”
Ly felt her face warm again. Twice in one evening! It was insufferable! She rounded on Hong. “You have been spying!”
“I do not spy.” Hong oozed dignity. “Sometimes I look in to see if an old woman may be of some help, but I never look long. There is never anything to see, anyhow. And all I ever hear is his great, deep voice,” she lowered her own as far as she could, “toi kheong biet!” she burlesqued, horribly mispronouncing the Vietnamese for “I don’t understand.”
“That is not true! He speaks very well! In another month he will speak better Vietnamese than you!”
Hong cocked her head to the side, her expression suddenly as sharp as a market haggler’s. “Does the teacher defend her pupil, or the woman defend an exciting man?”
“Don’t be silly!” Ly hacked at the air angrily. “I am twenty-seven years old, not some silly village maiden!”
Hong cackled happily. “When I was only twenty-seven I considered every man I could see! My husband never knew a full night’s sleep!”
They faced each other for a long moment, one frowning and the other smiling, until both expressions began to alter, the younger afraid and the older sympathetic.