Up Country (43 page)

W
e got up at six, dressed, and went down to the hotel dining room where New Year’s Eve dinner was being served, buffet style.

Every seat seemed to be filled, and we sat at a small table for two near the riverside garden, which, according to Susan, was not far from her buried pistol.

Everyone there was a European or American, and I spotted the three guys I’d seen before. They were sitting at a table with a group of women, and I could tell by the body language that the ladies were not their wives or girlfriends. The guys were on their game, and the women were either entranced or faking it.

A band played elevator music, and the dining room was a sea of smiling faces, sparkling crystal, and hustling waiters. In 1968, I wouldn’t have thought this was possible.

One buffet table was laden with real Vietnamese holiday food, which had signs in several languages, so that everyone could avoid most of it. The other tables had make-believe Vietnamese food, Chinese food, and Western dishes. Susan and I ate like pigs, using chopsticks, knives, forks, and our fingers.

We left the hotel at nine and walked across the Perfume River via the Trang Tien Bridge.

The night was cool, and the sky had become clear. The moon was now a thin sliver that would disappear shortly, and the stars were brilliant. Thousands of people strolled along the tree-shaded embankment, between the river and the towering walls of the Citadel. The city was festooned with red flags, and many of the buildings were outlined in lights and Chinese lanterns.

The focus of activity seemed to be around the historic flag tower opposite the main gates of the wall. Entire families sat or walked, greeting one another and wishing each other a Happy New Year.

Susan said, “Fireworks are banned for individuals, but the city will
probably fire off a few rockets like they do in Saigon. When I arrived in Saigon three years ago, fireworks were still legal, and on Tet Eve, the whole city sounded like a war zone.”

“I know that sound.”

Opposite the flag tower, the massive Citadel gates were open, and beyond the gates was an ornamental bridge, which led to the Emperor’s Palace. The palace was big, made of stone and red lacquered wood, and had a traditional tiled roof. It was all lit up with floodlights, and decorated for the holiday. I wondered how this place had escaped the bombing.

But then Susan said, “People and organizations from all over the world donated money to rebuild the palace in its original style.”

“Good. Let’s go in. I’ll donate a fiver.”

“You can’t go in tonight. See those soldiers? They’re turning people away. Must be a government ceremony or something.”

“I’ll give them a ten.”

“Forget it. You’re in enough trouble.”

So we continued our stroll along the embankment, then passed through a smaller gate into the city.

There were lots of people around, and we saw a dragon dance, and a few silly puppet shows set up in makeshift theaters. There were groups of musicians playing traditional music on stringed instruments, which was very whiny and irritating.

Most of the cafés and restaurants had closed, but we found a café owned by a Catholic couple who stayed open to get the Buddhist business.

The café was crowded with Viets and Westerners, but we found a table and had coffee.

I said to Susan, “This is nice. I’m glad I’m here.”

“Me, too.”

“You’re missing the Vincent party in Saigon.”

“There’s no place in the world that I’d rather be than here, with you.”

I said, “I feel the same way.”

We finished our coffee. There were no taxis or cyclos around, so we walked back across the Perfume River by the Phu Xuan Bridge into the New City where Susan said the cathedral was located.

From the bridge, I could see a big sports complex along the riverbank, with tennis courts, a swimming pool, and playing fields. Susan said, “That’s
the Cercle Sportif. The old French sporting club. There’s one in Saigon, and in a lot of major cities. Used to be whites only. Now, it’s mostly Party members only.”

“Commies play tennis?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. Why not?”

“I’m trying to picture Colonel Mang in tennis whites.”

She laughed, then said, “When no one is looking, the pigs walk on their hind legs.”

“So I’ve heard.”

We continued across the bridge, and suddenly there were flashes of orange light in the sky, followed by a series of explosions; I flinched, then realized it was sky rockets. My heart was actually racing, and I took a deep breath.

Susan looked at me.

I felt a little foolish and joked, “I thought Charles was back.”

She said, “That’s why I mentioned the fireworks before.”

As we came off the bridge, I started to cross the street, but Susan stopped me. “See that little booth on the opposite corner? That’s the police checkpoint. Avoid that corner. They sometimes harass Westerners, as I found out when I was here.”

“I haven’t been harassed by the police since Thursday night. I’m feeling neglected. Let’s go have an argument with them.”

“Please.”

We avoided the police booth and crossed in mid-block. As we walked, I said to her, “Maybe we can skip mass.”

She replied, “You should get down on your knees and thank God that you’re even here in one piece.”

It was a hike to the cathedral, and the city streets were starting to become deserted. Susan said, “Everyone is home now for the traditional meal.”

“Why don’t the Buddhists go to the pagodas for midnight mass?”

“I don’t think it’s called mass, and they pray when they feel like it.”

We arrived at the Cathedral of Notre Dame at about quarter to midnight, and there were still people arriving, mostly on foot. The majority were Viets, but there were a number of round-eyes as well.

The cathedral was impressive, but not old. It was, in fact, fairly modern, with some Gothic and Vietnamese touches. I assumed that whatever old churches had existed had been destroyed.

We went inside and found space in a pew toward the rear. I said to Susan, “If this is a Buddhist holiday, why is there a Catholic mass?”

“I don’t know. You’re Catholic. E-mail the Pope.”

The mass began. The entire mass and the hymns were in Vietnamese, which was funny, like it was being dubbed. I skipped communion as I’d done in Notre Dame, Saigon, but most of the congregation, including Susan, went up to the altar. There wasn’t any of this sign of peace stuff that they do now in Catholic churches in the States, which was good because this crowd would probably bow instead of shaking hands, and everyone would bump heads.

I noticed that the citizens of Hue were better dressed than the Viets south of the Hai Van Pass, and I supposed that had to do with the cooler weather, and maybe the sophistication of this city.

My multicultural experience came to an end, and we followed the recessional out into the open plaza in front of the cathedral.

People stood around and chatted, and somehow, don’t ask how, Susan got into a conversation with a Viet family. They were very impressed with her fluent Vietnamese, and her rudimentary French, which they also spoke.

Long story short, we were on our way to dinner with the Pham family.

On the way there, walking with this entire clan, I said to Susan, “Didn’t you tell them I wasn’t of good character?”

“Fortunately, they didn’t ask about either of us.”

On the way, Susan gave me a quick course in Vietnamese table manners. She said, “Don’t leave your chopsticks sticking up in the rice bowl. That’s a sign of death, like the joss sticks in the bowls in cemeteries and family altars. Also, everything is passed on platters. You have to try everything that’s passed to you. If you empty a glass of wine or beer, they automatically refill it. Leave half a glass if you don’t want any more.”

“Sounds like South Boston.”

“Listen up. The Vietnamese don’t belch like the Chinese do to show they enjoyed the meal. They consider that crude, as we do.”

“I don’t consider belching crude. But then, I don’t belong to the Junior League.”

She made a sound of exasperation, then said, “Okay, when you’ve had enough to eat, you stick your chopsticks in your nostrils.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

The Phams lived in a nice private house, not too far from the cathedral, and they obviously had a few dong.

I still had rice coming out of my ears from the meal at the hotel, but that was no excuse not to eat.

I found myself wedged in at a long table between a hundred-year-old grandma and some snotty kid. Across from me, however, was a number one co-dep, and she spoke a little English, but not enough for me to show her how charming I was. She may have belonged to someone, but she kept smiling and giggling, and passing me platters.

Everyone spoke ten words of English, and they weren’t the same ten words, so the conversation moved okay. Plus, most of them knew some French, and my limited French was coming back to me. The Vietnamese phrases that I knew well, as I said, were not appropriate for a family dinner. I did, however, consider asking co-dep to show me her ID card.

Susan was down at the other end of the table, and she was having a good time.

The Vietnamese seemed very pleasant in a family setting, but the public and commercial life of this whole country was a disaster.

A guy of about thirty sitting next to Susan said in passable English, “Mr. Paul, Miss Susan tell me you here in 1968.”

“Quang Tri.”

“Yes? You fight Communists.”

“That’s why I was here.”

“You kill?”

“Uh . . . I guess.”

“Good.” He stood and said something to the crowd, raised his glass to me, and said in English, “To this brave soldier who kill the . . .” He asked Susan something, then finished his sentence with, “kill the Antichrists.”

Everyone toasted, and I felt compelled to stand. I had the distinct feeling this was an anti-Communist crowd, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the door burst open and the Ministry of Public Security goons came in and arrested everyone. Karl would not approve of me being here. I raised my glass and said, “To the brave Catholics of Vietnam. The only good Red is a dead Red.”

My host seemed momentarily confused, but Susan translated, and everyone applauded.

I looked at Susan and saw she was rolling her eyes. I sat and waited for the door to burst open.

At about 2
A.M.
, I considered sticking my chopsticks up my nostrils, but we didn’t get out of there until about 3
A.M.
, and the streets were deserted. Also, I was a little inebriated.

Susan said, “Wasn’t that an experience?”

I burped. “It was.”

“I’m having such a good time with you.”

I burped again. “Good.”

“They were such nice people.”

“Right. A little bloodthirsty, but nice.”

“Mr. Uyen, the man sitting next to me, who toasted you, told me that many of his family were murdered by the Communists in 1968. That’s why they’re so . . . hateful of the regime.”

“You know, everyone here is full of suppressed hate and rage over what happened. Colonel Mang, Mr. Uyen, all of them. They’d love to get their hands around each other’s throats again.”

Susan didn’t reply.

I said, “Anyway, the Phams should be careful. The Ministry of Public Security does not play games.”

“I’m sure they’re careful.”

“They didn’t even know us.”

“We’re Americans, and Catholics. One of us is Catholic.”

“Right.” It was interesting that the Viets assumed all Americans were anti-Communist. I guess they hadn’t met any Ivy League professors. I said, “I don’t think we were followed from the cathedral, and no one is following us now. But you didn’t do the Pham family any favors by inviting yourself to dinner. Conversely, they’re probably on a few watch lists, so we didn’t do ourselves any favors by going there.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “Point made.” She added, “But I think even the cops are celebrating tonight.”

“I hope so.”

We walked through the quiet streets, then Susan said, “You seemed to be enjoying the company of that young lady across from you.”

“What young lady?”

“The one you were speaking to all night.”

“Oh, that one. She’s a nun.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Susan, I’m tired, I have a headache, and we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost. The hotel’s that way.”

We kept walking, and sure enough, we turned a corner and saw the hotel.

Susan suddenly stopped. “Paul.”

“What?”

“Weren’t you supposed to report to the Immigration Police today?”

“I was busy today. I’ll do it tomorrow.” We continued walking.

“You should have gone today. They know you’re here because the hotel reported your check-in.”

“Well, then, they know I’m here. Fuck ’em.” I added, “Colonel Mang has me on a long leash. He wants to see what I’m up to.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know.”

“So what happens tomorrow when you have to make a rendezvous? What if you’re being watched?”

“You always plan a secret rendezvous as if you’re being watched. That’s why they’re called secret.” I added, “I have to ask you to stay out of the Citadel tomorrow.”

“Oh . . . okay.”

“Unless you’re my contact.”

“That would be interesting.”

We got to the hotel, and I said, “Let’s go around back, and you can show me where it’s buried.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Now.”

“Okay . . .”

We walked on a path to the gardens at the rear of the hotel. The land sloped down to the river, and the gardens were terraced and lit with small ground lights.

We walked down a path toward the river, and Susan nodded to her right. “See them? Orange birds-of-paradise.”

“Is that the flower that eats flies?”

“No, Paul. Do you see them or not?”

“I do. Someplace in there?”

“Yes. A foot to the right of the middle garden light. The soil is very loamy. I can dig it up with my hand.”

“Okay. I’ll get it before we leave.”

“I’ll
get it.”

I didn’t reply. We stood in the garden and looked out at the river. At this hour, we were the only ones there; we turned and walked back to the front of the hotel.