Up Country

“I enjoy it. When I lived in New York, I never got to see the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building unless out-of-towners were in.”

  “I have the same deal in Washington.”

  “You know, I’ve never been to Washington.”

  “Sometimes I wish I’d never been to Washington.”

  She glanced at me, then said, “If I ever get to Washington, you owe me a tour.”

  “Deal.”

  We continued our walk around the grounds. The air was fragrant with blossoms, which was nice in January. We stopped at a refreshment stand, and we each bought a half-liter bottle of water.

  We drank as we walked, and I asked her, “When your parents first visited, what was their reaction?”

  “They were appalled. They wanted me to pick up and leave right then and there.” She laughed and added, “They couldn’t picture their coddled little girl living in a Third World city. They were really bummed out by the prostitutes, the Communists, the beggars, the food, the heat, disease, me smoking, me going to a Catholic church—you name it, they were bummed out.” She laughed again.

  I asked, “Did you take them on your motor scooter?”

  “Heavens, no. They wouldn’t even get in a cyclo. We took taxis.” She added, “My brother and sister came once on their own, and they loved it. My brother disappeared one night and came back with a smile.”

  “I’m sure he went to a puppet show. How old is he?”

  “He was in college then.”

  “What do your parents do?”

  “My father is a surgeon, and my mother is a high school teacher. How’s that for perfect?”

  “My father was a mechanic, my mother was a housewife. I grew up in South Boston.”

  She didn’t reply to that, but she made a mental note of it.

  She seemed to be heading for a particular destination, and we took a path that led through a line of flowering shrubs. In front of us was a small slope of grass, and she walked halfway up it and sat down. She took off her shoes and socks, and wiggled her toes, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of her silk shirt.

  I sat a few feet from her.

  She took off her fanny pack, fished out a cigarette, and lit up.

  I took the cell phone out of my pocket and said, “Maybe I should call the hotel.”

  She took the cell phone from me and put it in her fanny pack. “No rush. I’ll call for you later. They respond better when you speak to them in Vietnamese.”

  She finished her cigarette, rolled up her sleeves, lay back on the grass, and closed her eyes. “Ah, that feels good. You should take off your shirt and get some sun.”

  I took off my shirt and lay down beside her, but not too close. I put my shirt and empty water bottle under my head.

  The sun felt good on my skin, and there was a little breeze blowing now.

  She said, “You looked too pale.”

  “I just came from winter.”

  “I actually miss winter. I miss the fall in the Berkshires.”

  We made small talk for a while, then I said to her, “This may be none of my business, but I feel a little guilty if you and Bill had an argument about you spending your Sunday with me.” I didn’t feel at all guilty, but I wanted a response from her.

  She didn’t reply for a while, obviously considering the right response. Finally she said, “I explained to him that you were going up country Monday morning and needed to be briefed—that this was part of the stupid favor he was asked to ask me to do.” She added, “He wanted to come along. I told him no.”

  “Why?”

  “In Vietnam, three is an unlucky number, and three people together bring bad luck.”

  I replied, “I thought three was a lucky number in Vietnam. You know—Ba Ba Ba—lucky beer.”

  She stayed quiet a moment, then said, “Maybe I got it wrong.” She laughed, but didn’t really answer my question.

  It was getting hot in the sun, and I was sweating, but she looked cool as a pomegranate. I said, “So, brief me.”

  “Where are you headed next?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then how can I brief you? And why don’t you know where you’re going?”

  “I’m just supposed to travel around, maybe visit some battlefields, then I have an appointment about a week from now.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You’re not helping me.”

  “Just give me a general rundown of transportation, communication, how the hotels work, customs, currency, and all that.”

  “Okay. It’s the Tet holiday, as you know, and it’s hard to get transportation for the next week. Then, from New Year’s Day on, everything’s shut down, or on a very light schedule—the train service actually shuts down for four days. The roads, planes, and buses are empty because everybody stays close to home, and they eat and sleep. Nine months from now, there’ll be a baby boom, but that’s not your problem.”

  “And most people are in their native towns and villages?”

  “That’s right. I’d say ninety percent of the population manages to get home. The big towns and cities that are full of formerly rural people really empty out—and the villagers and peasants have the pleasure of houseguests in their little huts for a week.”

  I remembered the weeks leading up to Tet ’68, and the sight of thousands of people walking, bicycling, riding in ox carts on the rural roads. The army had put out a communication telling the troops what this was all about, and we were told not to interfere with this mass movement of people, but to keep an eye out for Viet Cong, who might have infiltrated these pilgrimages. Viet Cong meant any male of military age who had two arms and two legs and wasn’t wearing a South Vietnamese army uniform and wasn’t carrying an ID card.

  I didn’t recall finding any VC, but in retrospect, these throngs of civilians must have been filled with VC infiltrators, on the move and getting into place for what was to come. And to make matters worse, a good portion of the South Vietnamese army was either on leave, or were going AWOL to be home. General Giap, in Hanoi, who had planned this surprise attack on Tet Eve, the most sacred and most militarily defenseless day of the year, was a smart guy. I hoped that Colonel Hellmann in Washington, who had planned my Tet operation, was at least as smart.

  Susan went on about the general conditions in the countryside and reinforced some of what Conway had told me.

  She said, “The people are generally friendly, and they won’t rat you out to the police. They don’t like their government, but they love their country. Be respectful of their customs and traditions, and show an interest in their way of life.”

  “I don’t know any of their customs.”

  “Neither do I. I know Saigon, but it’s very different out there. Don’t pat anyone’s head. The head is sacred. The feet are the lowest part of the body. Don’t get your feet above their head. That’s disrespectful.”

  “How would my feet get above someone’s head?”

  “I can think of a few ways.”

  So, we lay there, and Susan went on about customs, pitfalls, police, health matters, food, guest houses where they didn’t report your presence to the police, and so on.

  I asked her, “Is there still a danger of land mines?”

  “There seems to be. Every once in a while you read about some kid getting blown up. If you’re really out in the boondocks, stay on the well-trodden paths.” She added, “You wouldn’t want to find what you missed last time.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  She asked me, “Are you going into the former North Vietnam?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, if you are, then the situation changes. The Communists have been in power there since the 1950s, and they’re pretty well organized. According to my company booklet, which I had to read, the secret police in the north have an extensive network of government informers. The people in the north are not particularly friendly to Americans, as I discovered on my first business trip to Hanoi. We killed abo
ut a million of them. Right? These people will rat you out to the police.” She glanced at me and said, “If you’re going to the north, be prepared for a more efficient police state.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Pass yourself off as an Australian. They’ll be friendlier to you. But that doesn’t work with the cops, of course, who can look at your passport.”

  “How does an Australian act?”

  “Always have a can of beer in your hand.”

  “Right.”

  “You might hear the words Lien Xo spoken regarding yourself. Kids in rural areas, who don’t see many Caucasians, will yell out, ‘Lien Xo!’ This just means foreigner, or Westerner, but the literal translation is Soviet Union.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  “Okay. When the Russians were here from 1975 to the 1980s, there were no other Westerners here, and the term Lien Xo came to mean Westerner. In the north, Lien Xo is not derogatory—the Soviets were their allies. In the south, it once had derogatory connotations because the southerners hated the Russian military and civilian advisors. Now it just means Westerner. Follow?”

  “Sort of. In the south, I’m an American, in the north, I’m Australian. But people will call me Soviet.”

  “That just means Westerner. Don’t get confused.”

  “Why can’t I be a New Zealander, or a Brit, or how about a Canadian?”

  “I don’t know. Try it. Okay, up north, the people are not as materialistic as they are in the south.”

  “That’s good.”

  “No, that’s bad. They’re real Reds, and are not as bribable as in the south. Maybe it’s a philosophical or political thing, but it’s also because there aren’t as many consumer goods in the north, so American money isn’t God. So, you can’t give a cop a tenner and expect him to turn the other way. Understand?”

  “How about a twenty?”

  She sat up suddenly and said, “You know . . . my office is closed the week after next for the holiday. And this week is very slow. You want company?”

  I sat up.

  She said, “I’d love to travel around the country. I’ve hardly been out of Saigon in a year. It might be interesting to see some of the war stuff with a veteran.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “You’re going to need an interpreter. They don’t speak a lot of English outside the cities. I wouldn’t mind taking a vacation.”

  “I’m sure there are other places you could go. Winter in the Berkshires.”

  “I always go out of the country on vacation, but I’d like to take an in-country vacation.”

  “I’m sure Bill would be happy to join you.”

  “He doesn’t like Vietnam. Can’t get him out of Saigon.”

  “I’m sure he’d make an exception if he was looking for us.”

  She laughed and then said, “We can travel together as friends. People do it all the time. I trust you. You work for the government.”

  “I don’t think the people who sent me here would approve of me taking on a traveling companion.”

  “They would if they understood what this place is about. Aside from the language problem, men traveling on their own are hassled unmercifully by pimps and prostitutes. That doesn’t happen if you have a woman with you. Also, the police are less likely to bother you. A guy by himself is presumed to be up to no good. I don’t know why they sent you here alone.”

  Neither did I, now that I thought about it. I suppose it had to do with the strong desire to limit the knowledge of this murder investigation that wasn’t a murder investigation. I smiled and said to Susan, “How do I know you’re not a double agent?”

  She smiled in return. “I’m a boring investment advisor. I need a little excitement.”

  “Drive your motor scooter.”

  “Done that. Think about my offer. I can leave a message in the office tonight, pack, and be at the Rex at 10 A.M., latest.”

  I asked, “And Bill?”

  “What’s your obsession with Bill?”

  “It’s a guy thing. Does he have a gun?”

  She laughed. “No. Of course not.” She added, “Having a gun here is a capital offense.”

  “Good.”

  She said, “I’ll send him a telegram from our first stop. Wherever that is.”

  “Let me think about this.”

  “Okay, but if you decide you’d like me along, I’d like you to understand this is strictly platonic. I mean it. I’ll pay for my own room, and you’re free to sample the local ladies, except I want a dinner companion.”

  “Who pays for dinner?”

  “You, of course. I order, you pay. And when you need to go off on some secret meeting, I’ll disappear.”

  I thought about all of this, sitting there on a grassy slope with the presidential palace in the distance, the buildings of Saigon all around the park, the scent of flowers in my nostrils, and the sun on my face. I glanced over at her and our eyes met.

  Susan lit another cigarette, but didn’t say anything.

  I’m used to working alone, and, in fact, I prefer it. If I screwed up on my own, my friends in Washington would be disappointed, and maybe sympathetic, depending on the circumstances. If I screwed up while traveling around with a woman, they’d hang me by my balls. James Bond never had this problem.

  Also, I wasn’t at all sure what she was up to. She made a reasonable case for wanting to take an in-country vacation, and then there was the excitement and adventure thing, and this might be her prime motive. Then there was moi. I am charming. But not that charming.

  In any case, her motives were completely irrelevant to the mission at hand. When I’m on a case, I’m totally focused, and I don’t even think about women. Hardly ever. Now and then, but only on my own time.

  And then, of course, there was Cynthia. Cynthia was a pro, who worked with a lot of men herself, and I’m sure she’d understand. Maybe not.

  “Are you thinking?”

  “I was watching that dragonfly.”

  “Well, let me know by 6 A.M. tomorrow. Then, as we say in business, the offer is off the table.” She put on her shoes and socks, buttoned her shirt, stood and put on her sunglasses.

  I stood and put on my shirt as she fastened her belt pouch. “Ready to roll?”

  We walked down the slope to the parking lot. She unchained the motor scooter, then took her cell phone out and dialed. She said, “I’m calling the Rex.” She said something in Vietnamese into the phone, and I heard her use my name. She didn’t seem satisfied with the answer and got a little sharp. Bitch. After a lot of monosyllables and consonants, she hung up and said to me, “Nothing there for you. But I gave them my cell phone number and told them to call as soon as your passport or anything else arrives for you.”

  She handed me the cell phone, started the motor scooter, and I hopped on the back. She said, “I’m sorry. I should have asked you if you wanted to drive.”

  “Later.”

  We rode through the streets of Saigon, and Susan was taking it easy. She asked me, “Do you remember this guy’s name at the airport?”

  “Why? Do you know the bad guys by name?”

  “Some of them. The names get around.”

  “His name was Mang. A colonel in uniform.”

  She informed me, “Mang is his first name. Do you have the whole name?”

  I replied, “He called himself Colonel Mang. How could that be his first name?”

  “I thought you spent some time here. The Viets use their first names—which are actually at the end—with their titles. So you would be Mr. Paul, and I’m Miss Susan.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s their country. They can do what they want. Didn’t you know that from when you were here?”

  “To be honest with you, the American soldiers knew very little about the Vietnamese. Maybe that was one of the problems.”

  She didn’t respond to that, but said, “They’re very careful about forms of address. You always use a
title—Mr., Miss, Mrs., Colonel, Professor, whatever—followed by their first names. They love it if you know the Vietnamese word. Dai-Ta Mang. Colonel Mang. Ong Paul. Grandpa Paul.” She laughed.

  I wondered what the word was for bitch.

  She said, “I’ll check around for a Colonel Mang, but find out his last name, if you see him again.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see him again.”

  “Did you tell this guy where you were heading?”

  “He has part of my itinerary from my hotel vouchers. He wants to know the rest of my itinerary before he gives me my passport.”

  “Do you want him to know where you’re going?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then make it up. This is not an efficient police state. You want to see another famous place?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you having fun?”

  “I have fun at this speed.”

  She reached back and patted my knee. She said, “I’m going to get the beast later, and we’ll drive out toward the Michelin rubber plantation. I want to get out of the city. Okay?”

  “Maybe I should stay close to the hotel in case this Commie colonel needs to see me.”

  “It’s Sunday. He’s home reading the biography of Ho Chi Minh while his wife cooks the family dog.” She laughed.

  I, too, laughed. I mean, you have to laugh.

  For some guys, Susan Weber would be pure male fantasy. But I had this thought that Susan Weber was like the country she was living in: beautiful and exotic, seductive like a tropical breeze on a starry night. But somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the clicking of bamboo sticks getting closer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We went up Le Duan Street, a wide leafy boulevard, and Susan pulled over onto the sidewalk and pointed across the street. “Do you recognize that place?”

  Beyond a high concrete wall with guard turrets was a massive stark-white building about six stories high; another Sixties-type structure of preformed bombproof concrete. It took me a few seconds to recognize the former American embassy.

  Susan said, “I’ve seen that news footage of the Viet Cong breaking into the embassy during the Tet Offensive.”

  I nodded. That was February 1968, the beginning of the end; the end itself came seven years later in 1975 when the embassy became the Fat Lady, singing the last aria in an overlong tragic opera.