Up Country (45 page)

I
spent the next few hours sightseeing with my guidebook in hand, snapping photos, taking cyclos and taxis, doubling back on streets, and generally making life miserable for anyone who was trying to follow me.

The crowds around the sights were thin because of the late celebration the night before, and I had the feeling that my contact might wait until 2
P.M.
, when there were more people around.

Almost everyone who was meandering about were Caucasians, so I didn’t stick out. Most of the morning sufferers, I noticed, were with organized tour groups but as the morning got later, I saw a few Viet families out for a stroll. The walls of the Citadel were over two kilometers on each side, and I stayed within the walls where most of the people were.

At 11:30
A.M.
, I left the walled city through a gate that put me back on the river walk. I headed south along the embankment where there were a good number of people strolling, and dozens of cyclos, which followed me wherever I went, the drivers yelling, “Hello! Cyclo? Hello! Cyclo?”

The cyclomen, as in Saigon and Nha Trang, looked like what was left of the losing side in the war. The winning side looked like the cop in the Immigration police station. It had been one of those wars where the vanquished looked slightly more well adjusted than the victors. The only hope I saw in this country was in the eyes of the children, and even those eyes didn’t always look hopeful.

I continued along the river and came to the main gates opposite the
flag tower where Susan and I had been the night before. The gates were open to the public today, and I re-entered the walled city and crossed the ornamental bridge where dozens of tourists were snapping pictures. I was now in the Imperial Enclosure, formerly reserved for the Emperor and his court. The Emperor’s Palace was also open, and I entered the huge, dark structure. The entrance hall was red and black lacquered wood, with lots of gilded dragons, and green demons with glassy eyes, the sort of stuff that doesn’t help a hangover.

I exited the rear of the palace and directly in front of me was the Halls of the Mandarins, Number 32 in my guidebook.

This was another ornate building, which, according to my book, had been resurrected from the ashes of 1968, and it had that old/new look, like a Disneyland pavilion. I snapped a photo.

It was 11:45, and I had no idea where, exactly, I was supposed to meet this person. The Halls of the Mandarins was big, and like all buildings, it had an outside and an inside, but Mr. Conway had not been specific, though common sense would dictate inside if it was raining, which it wasn’t.

I walked around the perimeter of the building, and by now I was certain I wasn’t being watched or followed. TV shows to the contrary, it’s almost impossible to tail someone for three hours unless you’re on a treadmill, and then it’s easy to spot your tail.

At this point, if I did spot someone who was watching me, it could very well be my contact, and I looked out for that, too.

The danger, I knew, wasn’t in me being followed; I’m better at shaking a tail than a married man with a jealous wife.

The real danger was that my contact might be well known to the Ministry of Public Security, Sections A, B, C, D, and E. It’s almost always the local amateur, hired by some half-wit in Washington, who shows up at a secret rendezvous with fifteen cops on his tail, half of them with video cameras.

Thank God this guy didn’t have to pass anything to me that would be incriminating, like a box full of documents marked “Top Secret.”

No one approached me, but I still had about five minutes, so I walked through yet another gate, this one leading into the Forbidden Purple City, which was the inner sanctum within the outer sanctum of the Imperial Enclosure. These emperors liked their privacy, and according to Susan, only the Emperor, his concubines, and his eunuchs were allowed in the Purple
City. In other words, this whole compound was reserved for two balls. I need a place like this.

Actually, there wasn’t much left in the Forbidden Purple City—no emperors, no eunuchs, and unfortunately, no concubines—only wide expanses of fields and low foundation walls where buildings once stood. The only intact structure was the rebuilt Royal Library, Number 23 on my guidebook map, and my second rendezvous point at
2
P.M.
, if the first one didn’t come off.

There were a number of Westerners in the Purple City, and I overheard a middle-aged couple speaking in American English. She was saying how awful it was that the American military bombed these architectural treasures into rubble. He agreed and added, “We cause death and destruction wherever we go.”

I didn’t think he meant him and his wife, who only caused stupidity wherever they went. As part of my cover, I offered to take their picture together in front of a grassy expanse of waste and rubble. They seemed pleased and gave me their idiotically complex camera that had more stops than the Washington Metro.

As I focused, I said to them, “Did you know that the Communists attacked this beautiful city during the Tet truce, the holiest night of the Buddhist year? Smile. Did you know that the Communist political cadres executed over three thousand citizens of Hue, men and women, by shooting, bashing their heads in, or burying them alive? Smile.”

They weren’t smiling for some reason, but it was a photo that they’d remember, so I fired off two shots, the second with the guy coming toward me, holding out his hand for the camera.

The guy took his camera without a word of thanks, and he and his wife walked away, a little less ignorant than a minute ago, but obviously not happy with this new information. Hey, you’re supposed to learn things when you travel; I had.

I walked out of the Purple City, back to the Halls of the Mandarins, and wandered around inside. The place was big, and I had no idea how this person was going to spot me. If we both had tails, maybe the tails could sort of help us get together for a photo and a bust.

Despite my flippancy, I was getting a little concerned. Again, I knew I was alone, but I had not one iota of confidence that the other guy was similarly alone.

At 12:20
P.M.
, I was still wandering the building, and the fire-breathing dragons started to look like I felt.

I went outside. The sun was peeking through small cracks in the cloud cover, and it was a little warmer.

I circled the Halls of the Mandarins, but no one seemed to want to make my acquaintance.

The rendezvous had not come off. I had about an hour and a half until the next one, during which time I could go and have my head examined.

I exited the walled city onto the river embankment where I’d noticed a few snack bars. I bought a liter of water and a rice ball wrapped in banana leaves.

I ate on a bench beside a young Viet couple and stared at the Perfume River, eating my ice cream with a plastic spoon and sipping tepid water out of a plastic bottle.

I bit into the sticky rice ball. This really sucked. James Bond never sat on a park bench with a hangover, sipping warm water and eating a sticky rice ball with his fingers.

The Perfume River was flowing fast because of the winter rains, and downriver I could see the three stone pylons where the old bridge once spanned the river. I’d spoken to a marine years ago, who’d been here during the battle, and he said that you could cross the river by walking on the dead bodies floating downstream. This, of course, was a typical marine exaggeration, but all war stories have a seed of truth before they grow into gigantic bullshit trees. I’ve never actually known a war story to get smaller with a retelling.

Two co-deps in pink ao dais walked along the river, and their long, straight hair, parted in the middle, reminded me of Susan. I stood, called out to them, and indicated my camera.

They stopped, giggled, and posed. I took a picture and said, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

They returned the greeting and walked past me, still giggling and glancing over their shoulders.

This gave me a little lift.

Most people, I think, lead normal lives; I have not. In this whole world, at this moment, there couldn’t be more than a few dozen men and women, if even that, doing what I was doing now. Most secret rendezvous were of the sexual kind, and there were millions of them happening right now, and there would be millions more tomorrow, and the next day. And a
few of those lovers would wind up dead, but most would wind up in each other’s arms.

Paul Brenner, on the other hand, was going to wind up either arrested, or in possession of a piece of information that could get him arrested, or killed, or, best scenario, might get him a few more bucks in retirement pay, and the lady of his dreams back in the States.

This had all seemed like a good idea back in Washington—well, not a good idea, but at least an idea that might do me some good, and it had.

I stared at the river, and the New City on the opposite shore. I watched a thousand people stroll by. Having missed the first rendezvous was sort of a reprieve, and I had a lot of legitimate reasons to abort the mission, Colonel Mang being not the least of those reasons. Time to go back to the hotel and clear out of this country.

I sat there.

At 1:30
P.M.
, I stood, re-entered the Citadel through the outer wall and into the Imperial Enclosure, then through the final wall into the Forbidden Purple City. It hit me then that the symbolism of the name had not been lost on the dramatically inclined dolts in Washington, and I knew that this was where I’d meet my contact and possibly my fate.

I
entered the walled enclosure of the Forbidden Purple City, and walked through the vegetable plots and flower gardens toward the Royal Library, which, as I noticed before, was the only surviving structure within the inner walls.

A few tourists stood around the building, but most people were wandering through the gardens.

About twenty meters from the library, a Vietnamese man was squatting beside a garden, examining the flowers. He stood up and stepped on the path in front of me. He said in near perfect English, “Excuse me, sir. Are you in need of a guide?”

Before I could answer, he went on, “I am an instructor at Hue University, and I can show you the most important sites of the old walled city.” He added, “I am a very good guide.”

The man who was standing before me was in his mid-thirties, dressed in the standard black slacks, white shirt, and sandals. He wore a cheap plastic watch, like everyone here, and his face was unremarkable. I could have passed him a dozen times and not picked him out of a crowd. I said to him, “How much do you charge?”

He replied with the countersign, “Whatever you wish to pay.”

I didn’t respond.

He said, “I see you have a guidebook. May I look at it?”

I handed him the book, and he opened it. He said, “Yes, you are right here, within the Forbidden Purple City. You see?”

Without looking at the book, I replied, “I know where I am.”

“Good. This is an excellent place to begin our journey. My name is Truong Qui Anh. Please call me Mr. Anh. And how shall I address you?”

“Paul would be fine.”

“Mr. Paul. We Vietnamese are obsessed with forms of address.” He squatted again and said, “Look at this mimosa plant. You see, when I touch the leaves, they are touch-sensitive and they curl.”

My luck, I get a talker. While Mr. Anh was annoying the mimosa, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

Mr. Anh straightened up and flipped a few pages of my guidebook. “Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”

“No.”

“Then I will pick a few places. Are you interested in the emperors? The French colonial period? Perhaps the last war. Were you a soldier here?”

“I was.”

“Ah. Then you may be interested in the battle of Hue.”

I was starting to think this guy was really a guide, then, as he looked in my guidebook, he asked, “Mr. Paul, are you quite sure you weren’t followed here?”

“I’m quite sure. How about you, Mr. Anh?”

“I’m sure I’m alone.”

I said to him, “Why did you miss the first rendezvous?”

He replied, “Just to be on the safe side.”

I didn’t like that reply and asked him, “Did you think you were under surveillance?”

He hesitated, then replied, “No . . . to be honest with you, I lost my nerve.”

I nodded. “You got it back?”

He smiled in embarrassment. “Yes.” He added, “I’m here.”

I wasn’t going to tell him that I almost wasn’t here for Rendezvous Two myself.

I asked him, “Are you really a university instructor?”

“I am. I would be lying to you if I said I haven’t come to the attention of the authorities. I am a Viet-Kieu. Do you know what that means?”

“I do.”

“Good. But other than that, the authorities have no reason to watch me.”

“You’ve never done anything like this before?”

“Well, once, about a year ago. I like to help when I can. I’ve been back four years, and now and then I’m asked to do a small favor. Come, let’s take a walk.”

We walked together on the paths, and Mr. Anh said, “The Communists take all the credit for the rebuilding here, but the fact is, they let this entire imperial compound fall from ruin to decay because it was associated with the emperors. The Communists are suspicious of history, and whatever came before them. But Western organizations have put pressure on them to restore much of what was lost in the war. The West provides the money, of course, and the Communists reap the rewards of tourism.”

We were in the outer sanctum now, near the Emperor’s Palace, and Mr. Anh led me to a flower garden formed by the ruined foundation of a building. He said, “My father was a soldier with the army of South Vietnam. A captain. He was killed right here, where this garden is, and where an imperial building once stood. He was found after the battle in the rubble here along with fifteen other officers and men, their hands tied behind their backs, and bullet holes in their heads. Apparently, they were all executed by the Communists.”

I understood that Mr. Anh was establishing his anti-Communist credentials, but this story could be totally false and how would I know?

He said, “I was very young when he died, but I remember him. He was stationed here, where my family lives. We were home that evening, the evening of Tet 1968, across the river in the New City, when suddenly my father jumped out of his chair and shouted, ‘Gunfire!’ Well, my mother laughed and said, ‘Dear husband, those are fireworks.’ ”

I watched Mr. Anh as he stared down at the garden and relived this memory. He continued, “Father grabbed his rifle and started for the door, still wearing his sandals—his boots were in the corner. He was shouting for us to go into the bunker behind the house. We were all very frightened now because we could hear screaming in the street, and the fireworks had become gunshots.”

Mr. Anh stayed silent, staring at the ground, and he almost looked like a little boy staring at his shoes while he tried to get something out. He continued, “My father hesitated at the front door, then came back and embraced my mother and his mother, then the five children, my brothers and sisters. We were all crying, and he pushed us out the back door where the bunker was dug into the garden.”

Mr. Anh picked a flower, twirled it in his fingers, and threw it in the garden. He said, “We stayed in the bunker with two other families for a week until the American marines came. When we re-entered our house, we saw that all the Tet food had been taken, and we were very hungry. We saw, also, that our front door had been broken in, and many things were taken, but the house had survived. We never knew if Father had been taken prisoner in the house, or on his way to rejoin his soldiers. The attack was a complete surprise, and the Communists were within the city before the first shot was fired. Father would have liked to die with his soldiers, and at first we thought he had. But then in March, as the people and the soldiers were clearing rubble, they found the decomposed bodies of many massacres. My father wore dog tags, which the Americans had made for him, and that was how he was identified, right here, where a building once stood. The Communists must have shot them all in this building. I’m glad he was still wearing his dog tags so we had a body to bury. Most families did not.”

Mr. Anh stood there a moment, then walked away. I followed.

We left the walled Citadel and walked along the riverbank. Mr. Anh asked me, “So you were a soldier here?”

“First Cavalry Division, 1968, mostly up at Quang Tri.”

“Ah, so you know this area?”

“I remember some of it.”

“How does it seem to you? Vietnam.”

“Peaceful.”

“This is a country whose people have had their spirit crushed.”

“By whom?”

“The regime.”

“Why did you come back?”

“This is my country.” He asked me, “If America were a dictatorship, would you live there?”

Interesting question. I replied, “If an American dictatorship was as inefficient as this one, I might.”

Mr. Anh laughed, then said, “Well, they may appear to you as inefficient, but they did a thorough job of destroying all opposition to the regime.”

“They didn’t get you. Or a lot of other people I’ve met who seem to hate the regime.”

“Perhaps I should have said, organized opposition.” He added, “They have not won many hearts or minds.”

We passed the Phu Xuan Bridge, and Mr. Anh insisted he take my camera and shoot pictures of me with the river in the background, then from the opposite angle with the walls of the Citadel behind me. He didn’t look particularly nervous about this meeting, which could get him shot, but I could see a little anxiety in his eyes now and then.

I said, as he was shooting, “I’m assuming if they were going to arrest us, they would wait to see if we met anyone else.”

He handed me the camera and replied, “Yes, they would wait.”

“Are you frightened right now?”

“I am beyond frightened.” He smiled and added, “You know that we are inscrutable.”

We continued our walk along the river. All I wanted from Mr. Anh was the correct name of the village I needed to get to, some directions, and anything else he might have been told to pass on to me. But the man was in no hurry, and maybe it was a good idea to look like a tourist and guide.

Mr. Anh informed me, “I attended the University of California at Berkeley.”

“I thought you wanted to get away from the Communists.”

He sort of giggled and continued, “I lived mostly in northern California, but I took a year and traveled all over America. It’s an amazing country.”

I inquired, “Where did you get the money?”

“Your government.”

“That was nice of them. And now you’re paying them back.”

He stayed silent a moment, then replied, “Your government has a program to . . . how can I say this . . . to cultivate agents of influence, Vietnamese refugees, who, like myself, promise to go back to Vietnam for a period of at least five years.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“And you never will. But there are thousands of us who have come back to live, Viet-Kieus, whose sympathies lie more with Washington than Hanoi.”

“I see. And what are you supposed to do? Start a revolution?”

“I hope not.” He laughed again and said, “All we have to do is be here, and in subtle ways, influence the thinking of the people, and of the government, if possible.” He added, “Most Viet-Kieus are entrepreneurs, some like myself are academics, and a few have even entered the civil service, the police, and the army. Individually, we have no power, but as a whole, there are enough of us so that the Hanoi government hesitates before they take a
step backward, toward socialism and isolation. Private enterprise, trade, and tourism are here to stay. You understand?”

“I think so. And do you put subversive thoughts into your students’ heads?”

“Certainly not in the classroom. But they know where to come when they want to hear the truth. Do you know that it is forbidden to mention that the Communists executed three thousand citizens of this city? Everyone knows that, everyone has lost a family member, but none of the textbooks mention this.”

“Well, Mr. Anh, if it makes you feel any better, American history books rarely mention the Hue massacre either. You want to read about massacres, go to the index under My Lai.”

“Yes, I know this.”

We were at the far corner of the wall, and on the riverbank was a huge marketplace, where Mr. Anh led me.

He found a small snack bar with tables and chairs near the river, and he said to me, “May I get you something to drink?”

“A Coke would be fine.”

He went to the snack stand.

I sat and looked around. It was hard in this country to determine if you were seeing the same people twice or three times, especially the men, who all favored black slacks and sandals with socks. Some of the shirts were different, but most were white. The hair came in one color and one style, and it was all on the guys’ heads; no beards or mustaches, except on very old men, and no one wore hats. A few of the men wore windbreakers, but all the windbreakers were the same style and color, which was tan. Some of the Viets, I’d noticed, wore reading glasses, but barely anyone wore glasses for distance, though all of the drivers should consider this.

A Viet crowd was a sea of sameness here in Hue, more so than in Saigon or Nha Trang.

Mr. Anh sat and gave me a can of Coke. He had hot tea in a bowl, and a paper bag of unshelled peanuts, which he seemed to enjoy crushing.

He finally got down to business and said, “You wish to visit a certain village, correct?”

I nodded.

He pushed a handful of unshelled nuts toward me and said, “The village is in the far north. North Vietnam.”

Bad luck. I was hoping it was in the former South Vietnam, and I was hoping it was nearby, but Tran Van Vinh was a North Vietnamese soldier, so what did I expect?

Mr. Anh pretended to be looking through my guidebook as he said, “This village is small, and does not appear on most maps. However, I have done some extensive but discreet research, and I believe this is the place you seek.”

“What if it’s not?”

He chewed on some peanuts and replied, “I’ve been in direct fax contact with someone in America, and your analysts there are in agreement that this village that I’ve found is the one you are seeking.” He added, “I am ninety percent certain this is the place you are looking for.”

“Close enough for government work.”

He smiled, then informed me, “Very few Westerners go to this area, and you would need a reason to be there.”

“Do I have to supply my own reason?”

Mr. Anh replied, “By luck, there is a place close to this hamlet that does draw some tourists. This place is called Dien Bien Phu. You have heard of this place?”