by Laura Lam
“Yes, I remember, Uncle! How do I get the help from them?”
“First, you need to go to the US Army administration office and talk to the Americans there about your friend’s situation. They should refer her to the American hospital. The US Army personnel department is located inside the government building at the junction before you turn to your school. You know what building I am talking about?”
“Sure, I know where it is. Sometimes I see Americans going in and out of the big gate.”
“That’s right. You will need to show the Americans the paper from the police, with the jeep’s licence number and the driver’s name. I think the American hospital is a much better hospital, and they may be able to save your friend’s life. Now, my dear, in case you have problems getting in touch with the Americans, you must telephone me again. Let me know later how you get on.”
I remained in the phone booth and imagined my encounter with the Americans – American men in army uniform and guns. No. I was too scared. How would I communicate with them, with my poor English? Perhaps I should abandon the whole idea of going there. I got up and could not decide what to do. As I walked slowly along the road, images of Phuong – a bundle in white cloth, her internal wounds and suffering, her imminent death – kept flashing through my mind. I felt increasingly distressed.
The more I thought of Phuong’s death, the more I was driven to do something for her. I respected Uncle Nam’s advice. Meeting the Americans could be an exciting adventure.
* * *
I got up very early, in a state of great anxiety. I waited until mid-morning, then put on my normal school clothes – white ao dai and white trousers. I walked slowly to the main road. The thought of meeting the Americans made me feel increasingly uneasy. I went past the theatre, a long stretch of shops, a herbal medicine clinic, Ba Chieu market, a high school for boys, a public park, and several distinguished colonial houses with beautiful gardens. At the busy traffic junction I stopped for a moment to work up my courage. I turned to the right and in front of me was the large entrance to the heavily guarded U-shaped building, occupied by both the ARVN’s and the US Army’s non-combat personnel. I thought I might run into some ARVN soldiers there. They had often come to my stall to buy bread the year before.
I was stopped by two Vietnamese security guards. I described the situation and showed them the paper from the police. They let me pass through the high security gate and pointed to the right wing, which housed the US Army Department.
I was met by a very tall black officer. He spoke a whole phrase of English, which I failed to understand. I asked him, “Kyan yew spik Vietnamiz, suh? I kyan understand Inklish but not wary well.” He answered with a smile that he only knew English but would repeat his sentences and speak slowly. He bent his head, “Miss, now please tell me what I can do for you!” Holding the piece of paper from the police, I said, “Dee driver, Meester Stifan Egg Soolivan ran oover mee girlfriend wid hiz jeep and she iz now in de hospiz-tan” He took the paper from my hand, “ Steven H. Sullivan. Is he the jeep driver who ran over your girl friend?” I nodded my head, “Yes suh! Dat’z him” He let out a sigh, “Oh dear! Please come with me!”
We entered a huge room filled with American men in army uniform. Some of them looked up, saying hello and even smiled at me. The black officer pointed at a chair below a window and told me to sit down. “Would you like a drink, Miss?” I nodded and smiled politely. He walked away but quickly came back, holding a red-orange can. He popped open the top, handed it to me and walked away again. It was the first time in my life that I tasted Coca-Cola.
The black officer took me to the office of a senior-ranking officer, who sat dignified behind his desk. Near him was an interpreter. The senior officer started asking me questions. He appeared decent, polite, even charming – in contrast to the devilish image of white men stuck in the back of my mind. His face was striking, his nose prominent, his skin like ivory. I noticed the three golden stars on each of his shoulders. His spotless army uniform reminded me of Uncle Nam. He said he’d be happy to help, but would need to speak to the American Public Health Advisor. He made the telephone call and explained the situation to the person on the other line. Then turning to me, he spoke in a pleasant voice, “Please wait, Miss. Dr Purdue will arrive shortly”. The interpreter disappeared. I saw him talking to another American at the far end of the room. My eyes kept glancing at the interpreter, as I was anxious for him to come back. I thought the senior army officer might wish to start a social conversation of some sort while we were waiting. I deliberately avoided eye contact. I was feeling too embarrassed with my poor English.
To my great surprise, in less than twenty minutes, the Public Health Advisor appeared and stood very tall in front of us. His hazel eyes were unusually bright, and his gray hair neatly in place, perhaps he was in his mid-fifties. The officer got up and introduced me to Dr Purdue, who smiled and was ready to shake my hand. I was so pleased. But I was somehow conscious of the doctor’s sharp and pervasive eyes, directed at me, as soon as he walked into the room.
The interpreter came back. After explaining things to me through the interpreter, the doctor said he would authorize the transfer of Phuong to the US Army hospital in Tan Son Nhat.
I left with Dr Purdue and the interpreter to see Phuong at the Vietnamese hospital. After completing all the necessary papers, the doctor and the interpreter drove straight to the American hospital while I travelled in the ambulance with Phuong. I kept thinking how generous and efficient the Americans were. I had seen them before at Uncle Nam’s house, but I had been too terrified of them. I used to withdraw into the kitchen with Mai every time American generals and colonels arrived at the house for dinner. I was now beginning to see them in a different light.
Dr Purdue and the interpreter were waiting for us inside the entrance of the American hospital. When the ambulance arrived at the gate, the interpreter walked over and talked to the ambulance’s driver, instructing him where to park. Dr Purdue saw me trying to get out of the back of the ambulance. He rushed over, offering his hand. He took my hand as I jumped out of the door. I thanked him and he gave me a pleasant smile. Again I couldn’t help noticing his sharp and penetrating eyes.
Dr Purdue introduced me to the officer in charge of admissions. Phuong was admitted to the intensive care unit. Her nurse was a beautiful blond woman, so pleasant and accommodating that I felt a huge relief. The superiority of the American hospital completely overwhelmed me – the comfortable wards, the advanced medical technologies, the impressive staff, and the hygienic condition. The Vietnamese hospital Phuong had come from only demonstrated how poor our country was. I couldn’t help wanting to know more about these Americans and to see something of their prosperous and advanced world – the world of science and technology that was beyond my comprehension.
I accompanied Dr Purdue to the hospital a few times. He drove a civilian car each time I went there with him. During one of these trips he invited me to his apartment to meet his wife. I took along my pocket Vietnamese-English dictionary. I practiced English with his wife. She was very patient and every time I made some progress with either the grammar or the pronunciation, she was very pleased.
One time I arrived while his wife was taking a bath. Dr Purdue offered me a Coke and we went out to the balcony for a chat. He gazed at me with piercing eyes, and a smile that seemed not entirely sincere, “You are such an attractive young lady and I find it so hard to resist the temptation.” I didn’t respond. But I was left feeling confused between the rare pleasure of such blatant flattery and the reluctance to behave in any way against a marriage I had observed at close hand. I had never dreamed of involvement with a man so much older. It was simply that I was intrigued by them and their Americaness. I was not looking for a boyfriend or to have an affair.
That small incident alerted me to the physical inclination of so many otherwise well balanced individuals in the artificial conditions of Sai Gon. It was a clear signal that to be alone with a ma
n could be dangerous. I thought about this a great deal afterwards. How would I stop Purdue from making another pass at me? It would be awkward and difficult to turn him away without offending him. But I was so interested in the American world that I decided to take the risk and stay in touch with them.
Phuong recovered and just before she was discharged I made another visit to Dr Purdue’s apartment. He gave me a welcoming kiss. Then, with an unmistakable look in his eyes, he seized hold of me, lifted my face, kissed me forcefully, and started fondling me.
“You’re a beautiful girl, Jasmine. Oh! How I wish that my wife would understand and forgive me.”
I pulled away angrily.
“Me only nineteen.” I accused him. “I tink you ah even older dan my father. Yew mustn’t doo dat to me again!” He let me go, clearly annoyed.
From that time on, I would arrive at his place either with one of his secretaries – Cuc or Kim, or with Phuong.
One day, when the secretaries and I came to his apartment. I mentioned that I had met Dr Pollock, a cosmetic surgeon, at the hospital. Hearing this, Kim said she wanted to have her nose fixed. If she could get a referral for it, the surgery would be free of charge at the American hospital. Kim talked to Dr Purdue who agreed to help her – much to his wife’s annoyance. In her mind, that day, we were a bunch of silly Vietnamese girls pestering her husband. By now she was jealous. While we went on talking, Mrs Purdue got up and walked away toward the kitchen. He followed her. They were talking and I saw his back to us from the distance. I moved from my seat and went to look at some paintings on a wall. I heard his wife’s acid voice, “This kind of request is too much. Are you really taking her there?
“It’s no trouble at all, honey! I’ll be back shortly.”
“But she is taking advantage of you, and the system. She is wasting your time. Don’t you have better things to do?” She was even more annoyed.
My two friends were busy talking about Kim’s anticipated nose surgery and neither of them heard the couple’s conversation.
Purdue came out of the kitchen and said we could go to the hospital with him that very afternoon. We didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to his wife. Her comments didn’t bother me at all, as I was not involved in the cosmetic surgery. I liked Mrs Purdue and felt grateful to her for helping me with my English. It was a golden opportunity to learn something new.
Kim was given an appointment at the American hospital. She went through with her nose surgery. We all found the result too sharp for her Asian face. A few years later I lost contact with Kim, but Cuc remained a close friend. It was Cuc who introduced me to my last office job in Sai Gon in 1974.
By now I had met a few doctors and nurses at the American hospital, with whom I could carry on rudimentary conversations in English. To get through the hospital’s security gate on my own I required a medical appointment slip, but I had no illnesses or any reason to justify one. I accompanied Phuong when she went for her eye examinations and became acquainted with the eye doctor, Major Briskly. He was full of energy and loved to talk and correct my English pronunciation. He also appeared childish and carefree, some- one not to take seriously. I asked him for a stack of referral slips and he asked me why. I answered him, “So I kyan come here often, to spik Inklish wid yew.”
He thought I was joking but I took a stack of appointment slips from his desk and stuffed them in my handbag. From that time on, whenever I wanted to go to the American hospital, I would write my name on one of the slips and signed Briskly’s name myself.
A few weeks later, however, Briskly gave me a big shock. One afternoon, while we were chatting between patients’ visits, he asked if I would stay on at the clinic after his working hours. I said I would be pleased to, in my naiveté; he was a pleasant, non-threatening army doctor. After the last patient of the day, we both sat down and had a drink. Then he got up, closed the door, unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. I saw clearly the object between his legs – poking up like a handgun.
He stood there, without a word. I acted before he did. I was quickly on my feet and dashing past him, out of the room. I never went to the eye clinic again.
I now concluded that behind the American stereotype lay some very human beings. I stopped thinking of Americans as uninvited and threatening outsiders. I began looking at them as individuals -- with both strengths and weaknesses.
* * *
I’d been introduced to Robert, a first lieutenant, at the hospital’s cafeteria by one of the doctors. I met him again a few times during the period I was visiting the eye clinic. One afternoon, taking Phuong for her medical follow-up, I ran into him in the hall. He invited me to dinner that week. He had impressed me as a gentleman and I did not hesitate to accept the invitation. I knew Robert was married with two daughters and that his family lived in a beautiful house somewhere in the States. At the cafeteria he showed me a photograph of his two attractive daughters playing in the front garden of his house. He never mentioned his wife and I never saw a picture of her.
The dimly lit restaurant was run by the US Army. It was almost full. I wore a white cotton dress and Robert had his army uniform on. He was tall and handsome, with a manly, dignified look and an unusual air of purity. “Did you have a pleasant ride in the pedicab?” He asked. Reluctantly, I admitted, “I am nervous riding a cyclo in heavy traffic. I think of Phuong and her accident every time I take one.” Quickly, he said, “I will send you home with a taxi tonight. I don’t want you to feel unsafe while traveling on the road.” I felt that I had entered a new world – Robert’s world – endearing and considerate.
That evening, by the side of every American man there was his local female partner – mostly in heavy makeup, giggling and laughing, much to the amusement of their men. I glanced through the reception area. There were six other such couples. My mind suddenly returned to the conversations with my cousin Gai two years earlier, in my home village – the rapes of women by American soldiers, and the Sai Gon prostitutes. My mind struggled to downplay this sudden rush of fear and embarrassment but it must have shown on my face. Robert turned to me, as if he was aware of my uneasiness, “I am very happy that you could come this evening.” His gentle words and expression were reassuring. I relaxed.
A Vietnamese waitress directed us to a table next to a window. I was overcome with clumsiness. Never before had I been to such a high-class restaurant, and especially in the close company of a white man. Despite the comfort of the ambience and Robert’s attentiveness, I found myself adjusting warily to the scene, trying not to make my unfamiliarity too obvious. When the waitress returned to our table, she gave me a menu in English. I didn’t understand the names of most dishes or how they might be prepared. Robert explained the menu but I still could not decide what I wanted. He ordered a beefsteak, cooked rare. To be on the safe side, I asked the waitress for a salad, with fish and green beans. She asked me, “What dressing would you like for your salad?” I didn’t know what she was talking about. What had dress to do with food? I asked her to repeat the question and she said it exactly the same way again. I replied, “Just prepare whatever you think you’d like for yourself.”
She presented Robert with a gigantic plate bearing a giant beefsteak, a huge potato, and some greens. The potato was partly covered in a silver sheet and oozing some puffy white stuff. The size of his beefsteak reduced my appetite. I had never eaten with a knife and fork. I kept watching Robert and his silverware. I managed to get most of the fish and vegetables down, but it was a struggle. I tried to be polite to my host, saying, “It was very good.” The waitress appeared again at our table with the menu. After explaining the variety of American desserts, Robert suggested, “Would you like to try some apple pie with vanilla ice cream? I think you may like it.” He was right. This combination, I would never forget.
Robert asked me about Viet Nam and my family and listened attentively. The question that intrigued me most was to do with what I was planning for my future. Nobody had ever asked me that, nor in Vie
tnamese culture would any man be likely to. I told him that my ultimate dream was to sit in a classroom in a university, but my chances of doing that were remote. That evening was the first time I ever heard a man describing a woman’s beauty. I replied that accord- ing to Vietnamese tradition, I was neither beautiful nor even attractive. I was too tall, my complexion too dark, my nose not refined enough, and the shape of my face and the size of my mouth were seriously wrong.
The Vietnamese believe that high cheekbones presage an early death for one’s husband, the term used being “sat chong”, meaning “killing husband,” and a mouth that is too large will destroy the family’s financial fortunes and is referred to as “tan hoang cua nha”, or “bankrupting household”. Vietnamese people prefer a moon shape or an oval face for a woman and her mouth should be as small as possible. An ideal complexion is pale. Dark skin is connected with people who work outdoors, the poor labourers, the lowest class.
I never liked being photographed. Whenever I did have a picture of myself taken, I would use a black ink pen to round up the shape of my face, erasing the two cheekbones completely. With my height problem, I never wore high-heeled shoes. My paternal grandmother tried very hard to make me feel different by reminding me that I had been born in a “red sac” but I still believed I had a “bad luck” face and would never find a decent husband.
Robert seemed flabbergasted. He found the Vietnamese concept of beauty totally strange. He tried to convince me that my height was just right and that being shorter was undesirable. “Please wear high heels!” he said. I quickly answered him with a half-dismissive smile, “To stand next to yew, yes. But I kyan not do so if I am wid a Vietnamiz man.”