by C. L. Hoang
From the “Continental Shelf” where we sat sipping ice-cold Tiger Beers, watching sparrows fly in from the street through white-washed arches, Dick pointed out some major landmarks of downtown Sài-Gòn from a reporter’s perspective. Since the Joint US Public Affairs Office, or JUSPAO, held their daily war briefings at the Rex Hotel, one block up on Lê-Lợi Street past the giant Marines Statues nobody liked, all the news organizations had congregated in this neighborhood. Time magazine ran an office on the second floor of the Continental, while across Lam-Sơn Square, ABC and CBS News operated their Sài-Gòn bureaus from the tallest high-rise in the city, the ten-story art nouveau Hôtel Caravelle. Both UPI and Reuters headquarters were a leisurely stroll away. And camped out at their regular tables on the Shelf were French journalists with the Agence France-Presse (AFP) or the Parisian dailies Le Figaro and Le Monde, looking very much at home in their former colony.
It turned out Dick was a big fan of Graham Greene’s novel The Quiet American because of its immediate relevancy to Việt-Nam. Even before he arrived in country, it had provided him with a mental map of downtown Sài-Gòn. “It felt almost eerie when I first got here. A strong sense of déjà vu, you know, very Twilight Zone,” he explained. “Then I remembered the core action in the book took place right in this area. Pyle and Fowler met each other here at the Shelf. Phượng went for her mid-morning ‘elevenses’ at the ‘milk bar’ at Givral’s, that small café in blue and white across the way. And of course, the explosion. It was set off just steps from our table, on Lam-Sơn Square, or Place Garnier in the story.”
I smiled as I remembered how Dick had always loved a good read.
He went on. “It was all so realistic in the book. Such excellent writing. A true master. Do you know some cynics still insist that in real life Mr. Greene himself might have been the greatest ‘spook’ in town, back in the day?”
“But how do you cover the war from inside the city? If you don’t mind my asking.” Bob spoke up for the first time, twirling the beer bottle in his fingers.
Dick shot him a glance, shrugged. “I can only speak for myself. As a rule, I try to verify whatever news is broadcast on Radio Catinat, including casualty stats from the ‘Five o’clock Follies.’ That’s what we call the daily briefings at JUSPAO. I head out where the action is to see for myself. As often as the boss lets me.”
He explained that accredited journalists were accorded full cooperation and assistance by the military to go almost anywhere in Việt-Nam to report on the war. In fact, their travel priority on military transports was on a par with that of a colonel.
“We all bought jungle fatigues from the surplus pile when we first arrived. To wear out in the bush, was the idea.” Dick laughed again. “I sure got my money’s worth, but not everybody did. Have you guys noticed how my esteemed colleagues prefer to go out on the town in safari suits instead? Take a good look around you. Those green garbs are all the rage, custom-made by local tailors to a perfect fit, with cool sleeve pockets and everything. Now, picture me in them rags. Ain’t it a riot?”
He paused to light a Pall Mall—the first time I’d ever seen him smoke—then turned to Bob.
“I get what you’re saying. I sometimes wonder the same thing. Many of the fellows here are content to hang around the city, report on the rumor mill, and regurgitate the bulletin news from official briefings.” He took a long drag before continuing. “The closest they ever get to any real fighting is the rooftop bar at the Rex after sundown.”
Dick told us about a popular pastime of foreign correspondents in Sài-Gòn. Nightly, when the searing heat of the day had subsided, they’d frequent the outdoor lounges on the top floor of the Caravelle or the Hôtel Majestic, another old haunt of Graham Greene’s at the end of Tự-Do Street, overlooking the river. Occasionally, a lucky few might receive an invitation to that most exclusive club in town, the Officers’ Club on the rooftop of the Rex BOQ, also known as the Generals’ Hotel. From high above the city, with a refilled cocktail in hand, they’d stare out over the black river and watch the war unfold live on the outskirts of the capital. Illumination flares, red and green tracers, and napalm bombs lit up the horizon in an ongoing pyrotechnic sideshow, complete with audio effects. Those sights and sounds of live combat, even from a safe distance, had inspired many eloquent reports on the state of the war without subjecting their resourceful authors to any imminent danger.
“That, guys,” said Dick in conclusion, “is the Sài-Gòn my fellow journalists have come to love. A big stage of sorts. All very kitschy and surreal.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and smiled at Bob and me. “Not to change subjects, but I promised Dean I’d take him to a favorite hangout of mine a few blocks from here. You’re both welcome to join us. It’s a hole in the wall, but unlike anything you’ve seen before.”
I turned and deferred to Bob. He glanced at his watch, then nodded. “If you’re sure you don’t mind. Our ride back is not until 2000 hours.”
Chapter Seven
“How the hell did you all manage to squeeze into that little taxi?” Dick laughed as he slipped behind the wheel of the Peugeot 404 he’d borrowed from his office. “It’s true everything here is miniature. You get used to it.”
On our way from downtown, I recognized again the red-brick cathedral with its twin towers and the glass-and-wrought-iron central post office designed by famed architect Gustave Eiffel. Shortly after we sped by the US Embassy on our right-hand side, a sprawling mass of six-story buildings, Dick hung a left and drove down a busy street alongside the Presidential Palace garden, which extended over two entire blocks. Immediately past the garden stood a large, open complex with a fair amount of traffic at its gate.
“That’s the Cercle Sportif, playground to Sài-Gòn’s elite,” Dick said. “Its membership roster reads like the city’s Who’s Who. French plantation owners, wealthy Vietnamese businessmen, politicians, generals, you name it. Very chic country club. But we ain’t going there.”
He broke away from the thoroughfare and took the next left onto a shady drive that cut through an English-garden park with towering exotic trees. On either side of the road ran a trail wide enough to accommodate single-file horseback riders on a leisurely outing. The surprising scene seemed a throwback to the genteel colonial days under the French.
“Tao-Đàn Park, a gem snuggled away in the middle of the city,” Dick announced. “The French-sponsored equestrian club, the Cercle Hippique, is in the park. Nearby is the National Music Conservatory. Charming old neighborhood, this is.”
We emerged from the park onto a quiet tree-lined avenue and drove through an upper-class residential area with ivy-walled villas behind closed gates. As if reading my mind, Dick pulled over to the curb and parked.
“Here’s the scoop on this place.” He turned and fixed us with his gaze, his hands clasped in front of him. “It’s an exclusive club, members-only. You guys are my guests, so do me proud.” Then half-jokingly, “I want to hang on to my membership. It’s invitation only.”
According to Dick, the club was owned and managed by Madame Yvonne, a black métisse whose father had served in the French Foreign Legion in Indochina at the onset of WWII. She and her older American-contractor husband operated the club out of their home, a discreet villa just steps from where we had parked. In the tradition of the social salons of Paris in its heyday—at least that seemed Madame Yvonne’s aspiration—the club provided a private, pleasant setting in which contributing members could gather, socialize, and unwind from the stresses of life. The original patrons had been business associates of her husband’s, but as word spread, her list of invited-only habitués had expanded to include people from various walks of life, predominantly American. To assist her in ensuring that all her guests received personal attention and enjoyed a good time during their visit, Madame Yvonne employed a bevy of hand-groomed Vietnamese hostesses who delighted guests with their fluent English and graceful
manners.
“Absolutely no hanky-panky allowed,” Dick stressed. “This ain’t like those snack bars on Tự-Do Street. Everything’s on the up-and-up.”
“What the hell kind of a place is she trying to run? The 21 Club in Manhattan?” Dean grumbled, winking at me.
Dick shrugged. “Just telling you, men. Hostesses here are just hostesses. Many of them are married, as are most of the guests. Feel free to invite any of the ladies to join you at the table for conversation or a dance. Just make sure you refill and pay for her drinks and yours. I’ll take care of the cover charge.” Eyeing Bob’s wedding band, he quickly added, “But if you’d rather be left alone with your drink, nobody will bother you. Guaranteed.”
We got out of the car. Dick led us up the sidewalk to the solid iron gate that stood guard under an arbor of orange hibiscus flowers. Nodding and smiling at us, he reached for the little bell above the mailbox.
In subsequent years, how often I caught myself wandering back in time, lured by a siren song from the past, reliving over and over that first afternoon chez Madame Yvonne. It was an altogether different world we crossed into the minute the double gate clanked shut behind us. In silence, we followed the young girl in black silk trousers and white shirt along a stone-and-grass walkway, between two high walls covered in tropical vines. Inside, we could hear indistinct voices mixed with laughter, the merry clinking of glasses, and floating in the air, a soft strand of orchestral music, “Moon River.” The walkway opened onto a lush lawn with flowering shrubs and small trees decorated with strings of Christmas lights. Scattered across the lawn were round tables draped in white cloth, occupied by small groups of two or three. On the grass, an oblivious couple was dancing slowly to the easy-listening music over hidden speakers. The atmosphere felt intimate and welcoming, as if we’d arrived at a summer-evening wedding reception back home.
“Salut, salut, Ree-Shaar,” someone greeted Dick with effusion, pronouncing his formal first name with a thick French accent that rolled the R’s in a guttural purr. “How are you doing, mon chéri? It has been much too long.”
A tall, thin black woman in a blue evening gown glided toward us with arms open wide. She and Dick hugged and exchanged kisses on both cheeks. Even with makeup, she couldn’t have been older than thirty, with slanted wide eyes and pronounced cheekbones that reminded me of a famous Italian movie actress. A round of introductions ensued and Madame Yvonne, all honey and sugar, played the impeccable hostess to the hilt.
“Bienvenus, doctors. Any friends of Richard’s are friends of ours. Please make yourselves at home. Let me rearrange some tables together for you, right over here, in the cool shade.” She smiled broadly at Dick and continued in her lilting voice, “I shall let Vivienne know you’re here, mon chou. Tout de suite.”
We were seated at three small tables pushed together under a trellis of bougainvillea the color of fire engines. The other guests, all Westerners and men of different ages dressed in casual street clothes, looked up in curiosity and raised their glasses or waved at us with friendly smiles. The women in their company, who listened to them with keen interest, looked Vietnamese. Most of them donned the graceful traditional áo dài, form-fitting gowns made of beautiful silk or brocade, over flowing trousers in black or white silk. A few were attired in western-style evening gowns, but nowhere to be seen were the miniskirts that ruled the sidewalks on Tự-Do Street. The women sat erect in their chairs, hands folded in their laps and heads tilted to pay full attention to what the men had to say, nodding and laughing at appropriate times.
Over Henri Mancini’s orchestra and muffled voices from nearby tables, I heard the happy twitter of birds in the trees for the first time since arriving in country. The warm breeze was suffused with the sweet fragrance of jasmine in bloom and felt like a caress on my face. What a welcome change of pace from the reigning madness at Biên-Hoà AFB, I thought with relish and leaned back in my chair, eyes half-closed, as the tension in my neck and shoulders began to seep away.
“Hello, Dick,” a raspy voice pulled me back from my reverie. “How are you, darling?”
A young woman in a gorgeous áo dài was leaning over the back of Dick’s chair, her long, tapered fingers resting on his shoulders.
He jumped up, took both her hands in his, and gave her quick pecks on the cheeks. “Everyone. This is Vivienne,” said Dick, a warm smile in his voice.
Straightening, she looked a tad taller than him—rather unusual for a Vietnamese woman, even in high heels—with permed black hair and a friendly, open face. As Dick introduced us, we stood and shook hands with her. Her hand was small and soft, but resolute, neither nervous nor timid. Vivienne asked us what we’d like to drink, and we all ordered the local Tiger Beer whose crisp taste we had just discovered at the Continental Shelf.
“I invite a couple friends to join us?” she inquired casually as she was about to walk away. Dick turned to us, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.
Dean stared ahead without a word, while Bob blushed, shook his head, and mumbled, “No, thanks.” I smiled and told Vivienne, “There’s no rush, thank you. We’ll get up and stretch our legs in a while.” Behind her back, Dick rolled his eyes at us in obvious disappointment.
Vivienne soon returned with our refreshments, an iced tea for herself, and sat next to Dick. She carried out her hostess duties with aplomb and good humor, speaking excellent English and proving quite adept at the art of small talk to put her guests at ease. The moment she sensed us relaxed and ready to open up, she turned into a sympathetic listener. Although not exactly what you’d call a classic beauty, she was all poise and charm. It wasn’t long before Bob showed her his wallet picture of Nancy and told her all about their baby on the way.
Someone must have put on a new record, as I recognized Andy Williams’ baritone crooning “Days of Wine and Roses” in the background. Meanwhile, Vivienne had leaned closer to Dick and discreetly looped her arm around his. I couldn’t help but notice how relaxed and content he appeared, and I was happy for him, recalling how self-conscious he used to be around the fair sex in high school. It struck me that perhaps the two would appreciate a moment alone.
“I’d like to wash my hands, if I may,” I chimed in at the next lull in the conversation, hoping Dean and Bob would pick up on my signal.
“Toilette is inside the house. Past lounge and turn right,” Vivienne said. “I show you.” She started to get up.
“No, no, you stay, please,” I said. “I’ll find it.” I motioned to my two colleagues but neither one budged, blind as bats to my suggestion. Finally, I excused myself and headed for the house.
Through double French doors, I stepped into a spacious living area decorated like a clubroom for big gatherings, with couches, chairs, and cocktail tables around the shiny tile floor. Propped against a long wood-paneled wall, a small black-and-white TV was tuned to channel 11, the Sài-Gòn station for American TV broadcast on AFVN. There wasn’t a soul in the lounge. Aside from a couple of busy bartenders at the counter in the corner, everyone else was outdoors enjoying the beautiful landscaped garden, which was on display through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows flanking the French doors.
I found the bathroom as directed and went in. It was immaculate and beyond luxurious compared to the showers and outhouses at the base. I took my time and gave myself a mini-bath, splashing warm water over my face and my arms, indulging in the delight of indoor plumbing. A brand-new me emerged from the bathroom.
“Doctor Connors. Did you find everything you needed?” Mme Yvonne got up hastily from a couch inside the big lounge, where she had been speaking in hushed tones with somebody, and hurried over to my side.
I had the awkward impression of having trespassed on a private scene. Despite a ready smile, Mme Yvonne wasn’t able to conceal her uneasiness and preoccupation. Behind her, on the couch, a distraught-looking woman turned away from us to dab her eyes, her face half-hidden by a cascade
of long black hair.
It was an uncomfortable moment. I felt caught off guard, at a loss for words. After a few seconds of silent hesitation, Mme Yvonne took me by the elbow and nudged me toward the door, out of earshot, where she confided her delicate situation in a whisper. “I am truly sorry you had to witness this. There’s a new hostess who just started with us this afternoon, and she’s having a tough time with it.” The puzzled look on my face prompted her to continue. “Well, it’s rather complicated. She’s married, and her husband doesn’t yet know she works here. Now she’s not sure she’s doing the right thing.”
Holding a hand to her forehead, Mme Yvonne sighed. “She’s a sweet girl. I’d do anything to help her, but this is not going to work out. She will not even venture outside in the garden.”
In retrospect, I’ve always wondered what came over me in that instant, but I did what must have seemed the most natural thing at the time. I asked Mme Yvonne, “Do you think I can help? Would she agree to sit and have a drink with me in here? You’re welcome to stay and join us. That way she won’t feel so nervous, all alone with me.”
She stared at me, surprised by my offer. Then she gave me a hug. “Vous êtes un ange—what an angel. You really would do that? Bless your heart. That just might work.”
“What’s her name?” I inquired, which reminded her of an unfinished business.
“Mon Dieu,” she exclaimed. “I haven’t had a chance to choose a working name for her. All the other girls have theirs. It makes it easier for our guests, you see. Her Vietnamese name is Liên. L-I-E-N.”
“Sounds like Lee Anne, if you say it fast,” I remarked.
Mme Yvonne concurred enthusiastically, “Lee Anne. That’s it. Very pretty name. I’m sure she will like it. Give me a few minutes to speak with her alone.”
When Mme Yvonne returned, she was all smiles, once again her composed and gracious self. “Thank you for doing this,” she said. “We owe you big. Let’s give this a try, shall we?”