by C. L. Hoang
I followed her back inside the lounge. The woman stood by the sofa waiting for us, her face still angled away. Someone had cranked down the volume on the TV set.
“Doctor Connors,” Mme Yvonne said. “This is Lee Anne.”
She turned toward me with an apprehensive half smile, and bowed slightly. I was struck by how young and innocent she looked, almost like a college student, with her unadorned long hair reaching down to the middle of her back. The áo dài she wore was lovely, although not quite as elaborate or dazzling as the ones I had admired earlier in the garden, and it embraced her small form exquisitely. There was still a trace of puzzlement in those long brown eyes the shape of bamboo leaves, but I sensed she was struggling with all her might to put her best face forward.
We all sat at a table, with Mme Yvonne between Lee Anne and me. Her perfect posture notwithstanding, the young woman was obviously nervous, almost scared. She barely looked at me, kept fiddling with the front flap of her gown. I noticed a gold band on her finger. To make conversation, I asked her some simple questions, repeating or rephrasing them as necessary so she could understand. She replied in her hesitant, formal English—the kind taught in academic surroundings. I found her accent charming, her voice soft and pleasant, albeit with a tremor in it that made me think of a frightened bird.
“You can relax. It’s not a job interview.” I regretted the joke at once, as she blushed deeply and became more flustered. Mme Yvonne asked if they could offer me something to drink, then the two women wandered off together toward the counter.
Lee Anne brought me a glass of icy lemonade and another for herself.
“This is on the house, Doctor,” said Mme Yvonne, clearly relieved to have averted a personnel crisis. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on my other guests.” She flashed an encouraging smile at her newest employee. “I know I can count on Lee Anne to take excellent care of you. À tout à l’heure—till later.”
The young woman’s eyes opened wide with a flicker of panic, but already Mme Yvonne had ambled away. I waited until Lee Anne had retaken her seat, with Mme Yvonne’s empty chair still between us. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t making fun of you earlier.”
She blushed again, shaking her head politely.
“I’d be more than glad to help you practice your English, if you’ll allow me,” I proposed. “But you must promise in return you’ll be patient when you teach me a few Vietnamese words later. Agreed?”
She looked up with a shy smile and uttered a simple, “Thank you.”
“How about we take turns asking and answering questions? Just pretend it’s Conversational English hour, in school. I’ll go first, if you prefer.”
I scooted over to the empty chair between us. “May I sit here?”
She nodded in response, this time with a bigger smile.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon getting to know each other. Given its rough start, I was pleased at how smoothly our “classroom” session proceeded, because once she began to loosen up, Lee Anne allowed herself to really get into our little game. It turned out my initial hunch was spot-on. She was indeed a part-time third-year student, majoring in English as a foreign language at the University of Sài-Gòn.
“The department is very poor,” she said. “We study to read and write English, but we have no audio labo—laboratory. We have to look in dictionary how to pronounce new word. Also, we do not practice to speak English enough.” Her voice dropped. “Nobody to practice. So this is helpful to me. Thank you very much.”
I asked what had influenced her choice of study. She fell quiet momentarily, then gave me a quick glance. “It is long story. I am afraid you bored with it.”
“I’ve all the time in the world, if you care to share it,” I assured her.
She rearranged her áo dài, discreetly pulling the back flap out in front and folding it over her white silk trousers. “My parents were born and raised in the North,” she started hesitantly, searching for the correct words, her beautiful eyes peering through an invisible curtain before her. “After World War II, their generation fought against French for independence. Then communists took over, and they forced tota—totalitarian regime. They said ‘social reforms,’ but they spread terror and suffering. Shed so much blood, of their own people.” Her voice quivered, and she paused to compose herself.
“Lee Anne. You don’t have to talk about this now,” I said gently.
She swallowed, tried to smile. “I am okay . . . I like to finish story.”
Drawing a deep breath, she went on. “In 1954, French lost battle at Điện-Biên-Phủ. Geneva Accords divided Việt-Nam in two: communist in the North, and free country in the South. I was eight years old, my brother only five. Our parents decided to not live with communists. They packed everything in bags and wrapped my brother and me in warm clothes. We ran and walked during the night to seaport Hải-Phòng. It was one of few migration centers. We hoped to get help to move to free South.”
Her eyes glistened. Her breathing grew faster. “Of course, communists did everything to stop people to leave. They chased after us and fired guns. My father and my brother were shot. We dropped and lost all our bags, but we arrived finally in Hải-Phòng.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks as I sat transfixed by the surprise revelations.
“We were checked into refugee camp tended by very young and very helpful Bác-sĩ Mỹ—American doctor. But it was too late for my baby brother. He died there. Lost too much blood and wound was infected very bad. But good doctor was able to save my father’s life.”
Lee Anne stopped and turned away to dry her eyes. I thought it best to leave it up to her whether to continue.
After a moment, she cleared her throat before resuming her fascinating story. “When my father recovered, the kind doctor helped our family get on next US ship for Sài-Gòn. We were among one million people evacuated that year under Operation Passage-to-Freedom conducted by US Navy. Many of us received care from doctor and his friends, and we were grateful to all of them. I begged my father please write down his name. I promised myself to try to contact doctor when I grew up, to thank him. His name was Dr. Thomas Anthony Dooley, medical officer in US Navy.”
She looked up at me with a sad smile. “You maybe heard of him. He is no longer with us. I learned later that he died very young, from cancer, in 1961. Only thirty-four years old. What do you say—only the good die young?”
I nodded in silence. Lee Anne seemed lost in thought for a moment, then collected herself and continued. “In high school, I found a Vietnamese translation of the book he wrote about his experience in Hải-Phòng. It made me cry, and I told myself that one day I will learn English very well so I can read the original. His book is called Deliver Us from Evil. I have now read the English version. Many times.”
She suddenly appeared self-conscious, rushing to conclude, “That is very long explanation why I chose to study English. I am sorry I talk too much.”
“Please don’t be,” I hastened to set her mind at ease. “I’m honored you decided to share your remarkable story with me. Thank you.”
Then I tried to lighten the mood. “Now it’s only fair I fulfill my end of the bargain. You relax, enjoy your lemonade, while I tell you a little about my hometown and my family.”
I proceeded to describe Lone Pine with its diverse scenery of mountains, meadows, and deserts, as well as my parents’ bed-and-breakfast along the lonely highway.
“Moon Meadows,” she whispered dreamily. “What a romantic name for a—hiding-out? It must be beautiful there.” Like a child full of wonder, it gave her obvious pleasure to let her imagination transport her to new horizons.
On a roll, I confided to her the long-term plans that Debbie and I had made together, namely to hang out our own shingle in the shadow of Mount Whitney upon my return from Việt-Nam.
“So exciting,” Lee Anne exclaimed,
genuinely appreciative of our good fortune. “I am sure you will be very successful and happy.” Drawing her thin shoulders closer together, she retreated once again behind a resigned smile. “It is wonderful you can make plans for future. You are very lucky. I am glad for both of you.”
Fingering her bare wedding band, she admitted that life had been anything but predictable for her and her husband, a junior officer in the Army of the Republic of Việt-Nam. He was away from home most of the time, constantly on rotation from one battlefront to the next, with a rare couple of days off in between assignments. To make ends meet, they stayed with her parents in their tiny one-bedroom house, and still couldn’t afford to start a family of their own. She continued to help her mother around the house while enrolling in night classes at the university, in the hope of one day assuming a larger share of responsibility for the family. Without warning, the day had arrived sooner than she’d anticipated.
“My father had stroke two months ago,” she explained. “He is better but cannot go back to work for long time.” She smoothed some loose strands of long black hair and swept them back over her shoulder. I felt her soft exhale. Then she spoke, as if to herself, or maybe to someone who wasn’t there. “He is only low-level function—functionary, but we depend on his pay beside my husband’s. With no pay, plus medical expenses, I had to find work. Any work.”
She wore light makeup, and only then did I notice how pale her face was when she wasn’t blushing, with a hint of darkness under her eyes.
She straightened as if pushing back against an invisible weight over her shoulders. “But I believe if you are good person, things will be okay for you. Honestly, it is truth,” she said with conviction. “Mme Yvonne is an old friend of us, but we lost contact long time ago. Until I saw her again last week at Bến-Thành Market downtown, and she invited me to come work for her. Then today I meet you here, and you are so kind. How can I thank you?” She choked up. I felt like reaching for her hand to comfort her but thought better of it for fear of embarrassing her.
“I think somebody looks for you,” she whispered, alarmed by an interruption at the French doors behind me. I turned and saw Bob standing at their threshold. Mme Yvonne had probably updated our group on my situation since they’d left me on my own in the lounge all afternoon, until now. I’d lost track of time, and it must have been getting late. We would need to hit the road soon if we didn’t want to miss our helicopter ride at Tân-Sơn-Nhất. I signaled to Bob for one additional minute. He gave me the thumbs-up before disappearing back outside.
“You go already?” Lee Anne asked.
“Yes, I’d better. Listen. It’s been so nice to meet you. I hope things continue to improve for you and your family.” I hesitated before adding, “Mme Yvonne seems like a very nice lady, and this place appears . . . pretty safe, you know. Truthfully, I don’t think you need to worry about anything, working here.”
She looked down at the floor, a rosy glow on her cheeks. “I see you again?”
“I certainly hope so. I just don’t know when,” I replied, flattered that she would even ask. “But the next time we’re back in town, I’ll pop in and say hi. You owe me still. You didn’t get a chance to teach me any Vietnamese words today, remember?”
We got up. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next, so we simply stood there looking at each other. Then she gave me a polite half bow, which I promptly returned.
“Good-bye, Lee Anne. Take good care,” I said, as she leaned to pick up our empty glasses.
“Awfully quiet over there,” Dean said to me. “Penny for your thoughts?”
Dick was driving us back to Tân-Sơn-Nhất. We had all thanked him for introducing us to his favorite hangout, which had been a big hit with everyone, including hard-to-impress Dean. That in itself was prize enough for Dick, to whom, I suspected, Mme Yvonne’s private club had become a home away from home. As the conversation carried on, I’d lapsed into silence.
“I’m trying to grasp what a struggle it must be for the people here just to survive from day to day,” I answered Dean. “Colonialism, endless wars, a total wreck of an economy, not to mention the change-over from old society to new. Talk about having the deck stacked against you.” I told the story of Lee Anne and her family with their problems.
“I’d like to think that’s why we’re here—to lend them a hand,” Dean said. “And I hope we’re providing them with the right kind of help that will leave them stronger and capable of fending for themselves, down the road.” Looking out the car window, he went on with his personal assessment. “It’s a daunting task, though, this business of nation-building. It requires a great deal of patience and total commitment on our part, the US of A. Which explains why some folks back home are ambivalent about it, if not downright against it.”
We all fell quiet after that, each wrapped in his own thoughts for the remainder of the trip. At the airport, Dick pulled over to the curb and we jumped out.
“Hey, listen,” he said, as he shook hands with us and gave me a bump on the shoulder. “Anytime you guys have business in the city and need a place to crash, you’re welcome to use my pad. It’s no Hôtel Caravelle but it ain’t too shabby, and just a step from everything. Mi casa es su casa. All right, boys?”
“Where do you live?” I yelled as he turned to go.
Dick swung around, tapping his forehead. “I never took you guys to my place, did I? It’s real easy to find, on the ground floor inside the Passage Eden building. You can use the entrance on Nguyễn-Huệ Boulevard, the one facing the Rex Hotel. Here’s the complete address.” He scribbled it on a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.
“Now, another important detail,” he added with a grin. “Down the street from the entrance, toward the gingerbread City Hall, there’s a gourmet shop that carries loads of wines and food imports from France and Algeria. The owner is a ropy old Corsican fellow and a good buddy of mine. He’s got my spare key. In case I’m out of town you can still drop in, introduce yourselves, and get the key from him. And while you’re in the store, charge whatever you want to my tab.”
“You may regret that,” I warned Dick as I gave him a slap on the back. “It’s great to see you again, man. Hang loose, until next time.”
I was happy to reconnect with my old friend, but even more thrilled to discover he was still the same kid I’d grown up with, kind-hearted and generous to a fault.
In the heart of the foreign capital that summer evening, it suddenly felt like the good old days again.
Chapter Eight
As it turned out, Dick, Dean, and I saw quite a bit of one another over the next two months, from mid-August through October 1967. There were enough official matters for Dean and me to tend to at 3rd Field Hospital, which justified our helicopter-hopping to Tân-Sơn-Nhất every few weekends, between our MEDCAP activities around Biên-Hoà. We’d coordinate to fly those trips together and to meet Dick at the Continental Shelf in downtown Sài-Gòn after business.
For the most part, Bob would opt out of those weekend excursions, preferring to spend the time writing letters or recording taped messages for Nancy and their unborn child. “I want the baby to start learning my voice when Nance listens to the tapes,” he told me. Despite the great distance between them, the happy couple was caught up in the same flurry of preparations that typically absorb first-time expecting parents: picking out names, selecting paint colors for the nursery, discussing a bigger house, school choices, and finances; in short, mapping out the future for the three of them. Besides the mail, Bob also reserved five-minute slots at the MARS station to call home on weekends, and thus he was more than happy to delegate the medical follow-ups at 3rd Field to me.
While in the city, Dean and I regularly returned to Mme Yvonne’s place, in the beginning still as Dick’s guests, but subsequently as full-fledged members on our own. Our official invitation to join the club had been extended by the proprietress herself, who d
ubbed the three of us Les Trois Mousquetaires—The Three Musketeers. With sufficient notice from Dean and me, resourceful Dick usually managed to arrange for our favorite hostesses when we arrived chez Mme Yvonne.
From the outset, I’d been aware of the special friendship between Dick and Vivienne. They seemed like a perfect match, both being very considerate and down-to-earth people. The surprise, instead, was with Dean “the Lonely” Hunter, who didn’t appear to reject outright, as I’d thought he would, the cozy setup those two had devised for his benefit. In his tacit way he might even have welcomed it, worn down by his loneliness perhaps, although it was never easy to tell with Dean. At any rate, the situation with him started this way.
In that same lounge where I had first met Lee Anne, in the corner by the French doors stood an upright piano. It was an old Baldwin Acrosonic Console purchased for Mme Yvonne by her American husband. I hadn’t seen anyone sitting at it, let alone playing it, until one Sunday afternoon when a flash thundershower sent everyone scampering into the lounge—a crowd of about thirty, all annoyed at being disrupted from their outdoor picnic and crammed into a closed-up space with no entertainment, since there was nothing on TV at that hour but the news. Then suddenly, out of this restless chaos of voices and footsteps, rose the scintillating sound of piano. Somebody had sat down at the instrument and brought it to life, playing the nostalgic “Autumn Leaves” with beautiful aplomb. The noise died down as a quick-thinking hostess switched off the TV, and the crowd gathered in admiring silence around the pianist.
She was an elflike creature with an urchin haircut evocative of a young Audrey Hepburn. One of the few hostesses in Western attire, she looked poised and elegant in a knee-length dress the bright color of canaries. As we watched her tapered fingers glide effortlessly over the keys, it was evident she had received more training than just casual lessons. For a solid half-hour, she mesmerized us with a remarkable repertoire from memory: excerpts from well-known pieces by Roger Williams and Burt Bacharach, melodies from popular Vietnamese and French songs (according to Vivienne, standing next to me), and lastly, short extracts from a pair of classical works for a resounding finish. As the audience erupted in cheers and applause, I whispered to Vivienne, “Who’s she? I don’t think I’ve seen her before.”