The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  You okay, Eddie? I ask.

  Yeah, he says.

  I pull myself up and over the ditch and scramble toward Colome. The flies hardly move as I reach for his rifle and tear it from his hand. I hear Colome whisper something to me. But his eyes are frozen open. It was just an exhale, a final, bottled-up breath that I freed when I caused him to move.

  I keep in a prone position searching for the silhouetted heads. I don’t see any. Maybe they moved off to the side. Maybe they’re closer. Then a silhouette leaps at me, swinging his AK and smashing my face, breaking my nose. Blood is streaming. I’m seeing double, and he’s too close for me to swing my rifle around and shoot. I launch my fist at him as hard as I can, and connect against something solid, the bolt action of the AK. My hand goes numb, and I realize my fingers are broken too. The pain will come in seconds. Then the silhouette is above me. I’m finally able to fire, and the man collapses on top of me. I don’t push him off. I turn over and keep him on my back as I skim-crawl back to the ditch. Then I throw him off.

  Eddie sees my face.

  You look like shit, man, he says.

  You smell like shit, I tell him.

  It’s funny, but neither of us laughs.

  We wait then. Hours of silence as we listen, listen. Not a word between us. I’m still seeing double. Adrenaline keeps me awake. Then we hear more rustling. They’re getting closer, somewhere out there, inching along the ground. Eddie’s head swivels to mine. His eyes shine as they bore into me.

  Ready? he asks.

  Yeah, I tell him. I’m ready.

  His mouth quivers. You said you’d do it, Quintyn. We have a deal, man.

  Smith leaves the bar with us, and we make our way back through the alleyways. I know that I can’t trust Smith. His rescue group might not exist at all. Or he has some other agenda. But at least he can help get us to the informant, Shirley. With any kind of proof about where Lieutenant Pavlik is, I’ll go higher up. To Hoffman, or find some other way to get to the president; and force them all to rescue her and the others. If not, I’ll have no choice but to go public. But maybe we’ll learn that Patricia Pavlik was never there at all. That none of them were ever there.

  Towers is exhausted, I can see it in his eyes. But it’s still morning here. If Towers and Smith and I go back to the hotel, we’ll lose a day. That’s not what I want. That’s not what I came for. So, we’ll go to Qui Nhon. Today. Right now. And try to find the informant.

  We could fly, but that would leave a trail. So I agree with Smith that we take the train. It’s a twelve-hour trip from Saigon to Dieu Tri, where we’ll connect with another train. Then it’ll be another hour to Qui Nhon.

  We retrace our steps to the main street, and Tammy is there, waiting for us in her silver Toyota. She’s smiling.

  “Where too, Mac?” she says to me.

  But she already knows. Without a word from Smith, she drives us to the train station on Nguyen Thong Street.

  “Our bags, sir?” Towers asks.

  I wave my hand. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  The early train is just arriving. It’s red, white, and blue. I’m sure the communists miss the irony in that. They call it “The Express,” a name that I soon attribute to the famous communist sense of humor, for just ten minutes out of the station I rename it “The Caterpillar” as it slowly wiggles its way north. But the landscapes are spectacular, and the South China Sea is simply astonishing in its beauty. I hadn’t fully realized that when I was here before. It’s not what soldiers remember.

  But we do pass some things that I remember. Rice patties with families working behind water buffalo. Shantytowns in the middle of nowhere. People squatting impassively as they watch the train go by toward some destination they will never see.

  The schedule says there are only three stops along the way—Mui Ne, which is a beach resort, then Phan Rang with its famous Cham stone towers, and finally Nha Trang with its pristine beaches and a new cable car out to the islands. But the going is more like a milk run with a number of stops, seemingly for no reason.

  Smith seems too edgy to be tired, but Towers and I doze off and on, waking to more rice paddies and more water buffalo, any scene of which would fit nicely on a postcard. Also, glimpses of stick hamlets and Catholic churches as well as Buddhist temples. Every mile, there seems to be a military contingent. And wherever we pass a small population, we see a gathering of tan-and-red uniforms—“The People’s Public Security,” which might as well be named the Gestapo.

  I don’t know what Eddie is doing all this time. Snoozing maybe, or pacing the train. Perhaps he’s in the club car. I’m sure he’s anxious too.

  It’s well after sunset when we arrive at the Dieu Tri Station. It’s a white blocky structure that looks like it might have been a factory at one time. Crowds are waiting, a number of tourists among them. Our train arrives two hours late, but the connecting train is also two hours late. Maybe that’s how communists keep things running on time.

  We board the train, our last leg to Qui Nhon. It’s also red, white, and blue. More hills and rice patties, tiny hamlets to the side. Then, an hour later, well after dusk, we reach Qui Nhon, a coastal city of about two hundred thousand. Qui Nhon is known for its pristine beaches, slower way of life, and quaint atmosphere. The station looks more like a bus stop. As we pull in, I can already tell that the air here is cleaner and not so humid.

  Outside the station Smith leads the way to a white taxi with orange markings that seems to be waiting for us. He says something to the driver, who looks like he could be a middle schooler. In the taxi, Smith tells us, “We’re staying at the Sunflowers Hotel. Not exactly five stars, but it has a few amenities, and it’s run by a friend of mine, so there won’t be any tourist scams or midnight robberies.”

  The taxi pulls out and I note that there are fewer cars here. Mostly other taxis, an old-fashioned rickshaw, and some scooters and motorbikes.

  We make it to the Sunflowers Hotel in no time. It’s a green building, narrow but tall, about six stories in all. It’s dark out now, but the hotel is well lit on the outside. At the entrance I see a placard announcing Pets Allowed, as if travelers would bring their tabby to Communist-land. Another placard announces karaoke at ten. Good, we haven’t missed it. And the party floor is open all night. Can’t wait.

  Give me a room. Give me a bed. That’s all.

  At the check-in counter the male clerk seems alarmed by my size and stands way back. Smith says something sharp to him, and he finally comes forward and says something in Vietnamese.

  Smith turns to me. “He wants to know how many girls you want.”

  “Tell him, just one,” I answer. “And that she’s not here.”

  “How about you, Towers.”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  Towers and I have adjoining rooms. Smith is down the hall. My room is sparse but neat. I smack the bedcover with the flat of my hand. Dust springs into the air. Okay, maybe it’s a one-star hotel, but at least it’s on the water. In fact, I can practically fish from my balcony. And the bathroom has a toilet and shower. There’s also a flat-screen TV from which I could probably catch The Simpsons or Law & Order; the world has shrunk that much.

  There’s a blue phone beside the bed, reminding me again that my own phone is at the hotel in San Diego. Did I really get married? Was I really on my honeymoon? It seems so long ago and far away. I’ll try Julia again. Maybe she’s thinking about me and taking calls now. What time is it there? Must be nearly nine in the morning.

  I pick up the phone and give the operator Julia’s number. Minutes pass. Finally there’s a long chirp before a message that announces, We’re sorry, this is no longer a working number.

  As I sit down on the bed I catch my reflection in the mirror on the closet door. Single gold earring. Nose pushed to the side. I hear Julia in my head: We can do something about that nose. I miss her quick humor and soft eyes. I miss what it’s like to hold her. I finally had a woman who was up for just about a
nything; emphasis on “just about.” But I went too far.

  My mind goes to Colonel Corso, the officer who confirmed that Americans had been left behind in Korea and were then shipped to the Soviet Union. Then I recall General Eugene Tighe, the DIA head who testified that we had indeed left soldiers here. My mind leaps to Mr. Rowland: I’m tired. I’m tired. And Brian Pavlik: Where the hell have you been for the last thirty years? Finally, I remember an incredulous General Finders: You mean the Vietnam War?

  Yes, sir. That one.

  Smith says he wants to get Pavlik into the Program. I want to force the military to rescue all of them, or let Rogowski bust it wide open. If Pavlik is really alive. If she’s really here at all. A strand of her hair or fingernail clipping for DNA testing would do it; or a new photo of some sort. Anything to prove her existence after all this time. I’ll have the leverage then. And I remember what Rogowski said: I want to tell the story that no one wants told.

  I step out onto the rickety balcony and survey Qui Nhon’s beach. In the moonlight the South China Sea is a placid greenish-blue. I can see for a half mile in each direction. The air is warm and heavy, though not oppressive. Down from the hotel, two fishermen are hauling their boat in by hand. I watch as they rest along the sand, talking; then they pick up their catches and head toward town with tomorrow’s meals for the families of Qui Nhon.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  “You and the kid,” Smith announces through the door, “come with me.”

  I open it. “Where?”

  “Shirley is waiting,” he says.

  “At work?”

  “She’ll be at home. And no, I don’t have the address. Shacks don’t have addresses.”

  I knock on Towers’s door. He’s already asleep on the bed. I rouse him, and we follow Smith down the hallway and outside where the same taxi is waiting. Smith takes the front, with Towers and me climbing in back. Almost immediately we’re into the dark side streets of Qui Nhon.

  “This place is begging for a Disneyland,” Smith tells us.

  “Just get us there,” I say.

  There’s hardly anyone out on these back streets. I look for street markers but see only one street sign. It says Ha Huy Tap. Then we take a sharp turn into a dark alleyway that leads us to yet another dark alley, and then another. The alleyways are lined on both sides with clusters of low shacks patched together from wood and torn pieces of plastic and aluminum. It reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of Calcutta. I smell sewage. And I’m thinking that this is as good a place as any for Smith to leave two bodies.

  Finally, we come to a stop. We get out. Smith looks left and right, as if getting his bearings. He points and steps toward one of the shacks. No knock. No hello. He shoves the door open.

  The room is dark, but he finds a lantern by the door. He lights it, and we look around. One room. A mattress on the floor. No kitchen. No bathroom. It’s deserted.

  Smith steps outside again and goes to the next door. This time he knocks and an older woman opens it. She takes a step back when she sees Smith and then me behind him.

  The woman looks to be in her midsixties and is wearing black pants and a dirty beige blouse. In the dim light I see her high cheekbones and tiny chin. Her forehead is wrinkled.

  Smith says something to her.

  She shakes her head anxiously and steps back.

  “Where is she?” Smith demands.

  She tries to close the door but Smith grabs her arm and pulls her outside. He says something to her in Vietnamese.

  Finally, the woman looks left and right in the alleyway. She waves us in.

  It’s another one-room dwelling, this one with two plastic chairs, a mat, a dresser, and some clothes hanging in the back. With nervous motions, the woman points for us to sit. Smith and I each take a seat. Towers stands. The woman squats on a mat in front of us, her eyes lowered.

  “I know these dinks,” Smith says confidently. “She’ll need a little grease.” He pulls out some bills, Vietnamese currency, and holds it up for her to see. He speaks to her, and she looks up at him, not at the money. But she reaches for the money.

  Smith turns to me. “Ask her whatever,” he says. “I don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything.”

  “Are you Shirley?” I ask in English.

  She shakes her head.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mai,” she says. “My name Mai.”

  I point in the direction of the shack next door. “Where is Shirley?”

  The woman says, “That not real name. It Lien. Her name Lien. She gone now.”

  “You speak English?” I ask her.

  She smiles. “Long time ago.”

  “Mai, where did Lien go?”

  “They take.”

  “Who?”

  “Cảnh sát,” she says. “Police. They come. Big fight. They take her. They say she a phản bội.”

  I look to Smith. “A traitor to the people,” he translates.

  I take out the picture of Lieutenant Pavlik. “Have you ever seen her?” I ask.

  She searches the picture. She shakes her head. “I no see.”

  “Please look again, Mai. It’s an old picture.”

  The woman doesn’t understand, and Smith translates. She shakes her head again and says something in Vietnamese.

  “She’s never seen her,” Smith translates. “But she thinks she saw an American.”

  “An American woman?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “When?”

  “Two days,” she says.

  “Where?”

  “Here!” she exclaims, pointing to the floor. “Here! I see her here!”

  “What? How did she get here?”

  She shrugs that she doesn’t know. “Lien go find,” she says. “Bring here.”

  “Was there a reward? For money?”

  “Lien want to help. I see American. She smell very bad.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  The woman says something to Smith, and he translates. “She says that they fed the woman and got her some medicine. She said that she tried to talk to her, but it was difficult.”

  “Because of the language?” I ask.

  Smith translates, and the woman turns to me. “No! She crazy. Điên cái đầu. You know?”

  “How did you know?”

  “She crazy!” the woman repeats. “She look bad. Cry a lot. Not stop. Say she go away. Keep say she want go away.”

  I think a moment. “Did she say this in English or Vietnamese?”

  “She talk Vietnamese. Talk good.”

  “Did she tell you her name?”

  She shakes her head.

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “Say she here long time. Want go. Go away. That what she say to me.”

  I hold up the picture again. “And you’re sure it’s not her?”

  “I sure.”

  “But how could Shirley, or Lien, find the woman in the first place?” I ask.

  Smith translates again.

  “Soldier,” the woman says. “High up soldier. He help Lien find. Go get. Bring her here.”

  “Must be that colonel,” Smith says. “The one she recruited. The one who told Shirley about the ROWBEC letters in the first place.”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “To get that info,” Smith adds with a laugh, “Shirley must give one mean blow job.”

  The woman somehow understands and is suddenly angry. “You go!” she says. “Go! Go!”

  In a quiet voice, Smith says something in Vietnamese, and she immediately draws back, trembling.

  “What happened to the woman,” I ask.

  “Trucks come. She hide. Then they take Lien. Take Lien away. They say Lien is a phản bội. The American woman, she trốn thoát.”

  “What?”

  “Escaped,” Smith says. “She said the American woman escaped.”

  “How did the woman hide from them?” I ask.

  “Nhà vệ sinh,” s
he replies, looking at Smith. “Cô ấy giấu nhà vệ sinh.”

  Smith translates. “She says that the woman hid in the outhouse.”

  The woman nods. “Nhưng khi họ đi xem đó, cô ấy đi rồi.”

  “But when the soldiers searched the outhouse,” Smith says, “she had already gone.”

  “But where would she go?” I ask the woman.

  “She want go Cuy Hoa. She say maybe safe there, she trốn thoát.”

  “She escaped,” Smith translates again.

  “How could she get there?”

  She shakes her head. “Maybe bờ biển. Not far. Maybe trốn thoát bờ biển.”

  “Down the shoreline,” Smith translates.

  “When the soldiers were here,” I ask, “did you tell them where the woman was going? To Cuy Hoa.”

  “I no tell,” she says hesitantly. “I no tell where she go.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Are you sure?”

  “I sure.”

  “Because I know they can be very persuasive.”

  Smith translates.

  She sighs. “Okay, okay,” she says, reluctantly. “I have to say to them about where she go. Or they take me too! I sorry. I sorry. Yes, I say to them about where she want go. To Cuy Hoa.”

  The woman looks from me to Smith, then over at Towers. She smiles at me. “From before,” she says, now in a soft voice, “I like Americans. They have guitars and stereo. Laugh all time. I have many boyfriend.” She laughs and straightens up. She pushes back her hair. “I very beautiful then. I have boyfriend. His name Bill. He officer. He from West Coast. Maybe you know Bill.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s a big place.”

  “He handsome. Very handsome. American guys real nice. Then Americans go and communist comes.”

  I point to the photo yet again. “And you’re sure it’s not her?”

  She shakes her head again. “Woman I see very different. Not pretty. Have broke mouth.”