Up Country

  Colonel Mang hesitated a moment, then made a note of this. Bill Stanley now had something in common with Sheila O’Connor, who I’d ratted out to Father Bennett in another lifetime. Sometimes you’ve got to rat someone out, but never rat out a friend. Pick an Ivy League grad whenever you can.

  Colonel Mang asked me, “How do you know this man?”

  “We went to Princeton together. College.”

  “Ah . . . and you say he is with the Bank of America?”

  I was getting a bad vibe about this for some reason. I replied, “I believe that’s what he said.”

  Colonel Mang nodded, then said to me, “Inform your travel agent that he or she must telephone this office this morning and ask for me.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask too many questions, Mr. Brenner.”

  “You ask too many questions, Colonel Mang.”

  This pissed him off, but he kept his cool. He looked at me and said, “You are the one who is raising questions in my mind.”

  “I have been completely truthful and cooperative with you.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He repeated, “Tell your travel agent to call me. Where are you staying in Nha Trang?”

  “I have no reservations at this time.”

  “You must have an address.”

  “I’ll get an address when I get there.”

  “Why do you wish to go to Nha Trang?”

  “It was recommended as the best beach in Southeast Asia.”

  This seemed to please the little shit, and he said, “It is. But you did not come all this way to go to the beach.”

  “I was there in 1968.”

  “Ah, yes, where the combat soldiers would go for rest.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Meanwhile, the guy was chain-smoking, and the air was thick with smoke, not to mention humidity and the smell of sweat, which may have been my own.

  Colonel Mang made another note on a piece of paper and said to me, “When you arrive at Nha Trang, you will report to the Immigration Police and give them your address. If you do not find accommodations, inform them of this.” He looked at me and said, “They will see to it that you have a place to sleep.”

  I thought he meant jail, but he continued, “They have some influence with the hotels.” He smiled.

  “I’m sure they have. I thank you, Colonel Mang, for your assistance, and I won’t keep you any longer.”

  He gave me a nasty look and informed me, “It is I, Mr. Brenner, who am keeping you longer.” He took a sip of tea and said to me, “How do you propose to travel from Nha Trang to Hue?”

  “By whatever means are available.”

  “You must inform the Immigration Police in Nha Trang of your means of travel.”

  “Can they help me with transportation?”

  He seemed to miss my sarcasm and said, “No.” He looked at me and asked the big question. “You have five days between the time you leave your hotel in Hue and the time you are to check into the Metropole in Hanoi. What do you intend to do with those days?”

  Well, I had to go to Tam Ki on a secret mission, but I really wanted to go to Washington and break Karl’s neck.

  “Mr. Brenner?”

  “I’m going to travel up the coast, by train or by bus, to Hanoi.”

  “The trains do not run for four days after Sunday. The bus is unsuitable for Westerners.”

  “Really? Well, I’ll hire a car and driver. Through Vidotour, of course.”

  “Why do you wish to travel by land and not aircraft?”

  “I thought it would be educational to see the former North Vietnam on my way to Hanoi.”

  “What do you wish to learn?”

  “How the people live. Their customs and way of life.”

  He thought about that a moment, then informed me, “For ten years, the people in the north suffered and died under American bombs, and shells from your battleships. I recommend to you the Vinh Moc tunnels where the residents of that coastal town lived for seven years during the American bombardment. You may not find those people as friendly to you as you may have found them here in the former American puppet state.”

  Colonel Mang might make a good Cong World tour guide. I said, “Well, then, I want to learn from that experience.”

  He seemed to be mulling this over. If I was Colonel Mang, I wouldn’t press Paul Brenner about this loose itinerary from Hue to Hanoi. Because if Paul Brenner was up to something, then most likely what he was up to was going to transpire during those days.

  Mang looked at me and said, “You are free to travel north from Hue to Hanoi by any legal means at your disposal.”

  We made eye contact. We both knew we were both full of shit.

  Colonel Mang made a few more notes on his piece of paper, and though I’m trained to read upside down, I can’t even read Vietnamese right side up. Colonel Mang said to me, “And when you are in Hue, you will visit the places in the vicinity where you were stationed. Correct?”

  I replied, “I intend to take a day trip to Quang Tri City and see my former base camp.”

  “Well,” said Colonel Mang, “you will be disappointed. There is no city of Quang Tri any longer. Only a village, and no evidence of the former American bases in the area. Everything was completely destroyed by American bombs in 1972.”

  I didn’t reply.

  He said, “You will report to the Immigration Police in Hue.” Colonel Mang sat back, lit yet another cigarette, and stared at me through the smoke. “So, how have you spent your days in Ho Chi Minh City?”

  Not wanting to piss him off again about place names, I said, “In Ho Chi Minh City, I saw many excellent places. I took your advice and went to the Museum of American War Crimes.”

  He didn’t seem overly surprised at this, making me wonder if I’d been followed.

  I continued, “I saw photographs of what happened to the South Vietnamese soldiers and the Montagnard hill people who didn’t lay down their arms after the surrender. They paid a high price, but they should have just gone into the re-education camps like a few million other people, and they would have come out happier and better citizens of the Socialist Republic.”

  Colonel Mang seemed uncertain of my enthusiasm and conversion. Maybe I was laying it on too thick, but there was no reason to stop. “That evening, I had dinner at the rooftop restaurant of the Rex where the American generals dined while their troops fought and died in the rice paddies and jungles.”

  I made eye contact again with Colonel Mang. If he was sharp, he already knew from my hotel bill where I had dinner, and that I hadn’t dined alone, unless I ate a lot. But he just stared at me.

  I said, “On Sunday, I saw the former presidential palace where Diem and Thieu lived like emperors while their soldiers and the people suffered and died.”

  Again, I couldn’t tell if he already knew this. I decided that I was giving him too much credit for police state efficiency. I said to Mang, “I’m very impressed with all I’ve seen and learned.” I elaborated a bit, as though I was an inmate in a re-education camp looking to get out.

  Colonel Mang listened as I related my many moments of epiphany, and he nodded. He seemed to be buying it. If I’d bought those Ho Chi Minh sandals, I would have put my feet on his desk, but I seemed to be doing okay without the props.

  I said, “On Sunday, I went out to the Cu Chi tunnels.”

  He leaned forward. “Yes? You traveled to the Cu Chi tunnels?”

  Colonel Mang realized he’d shown genuine surprise instead of inscrutability. He asked, “How did you get to Cu Chi?”

  “I took a tour bus. It was absolutely amazing. Two hundred kilometers of tunnels, dug right under the nose of the South Vietnamese and American armies. How in the world did they hide all that dirt?”

  Colonel Mang answered my rhetorical question. “The soil was thrown into streams and bomb craters by thousands of loyal peasants, a kilo at a time. When the people work as one, anythi
ng is possible.”

  “I see that. Well, it was all very educational, and it certainly changed my thinking about the war.” So, let’s get the fuck out of here.

  Colonel Mang stayed silent for some time, then asked me, “Why do you travel alone?”

  “Why? Because I couldn’t find anyone to go with me.”

  “Why did you not join a veterans’ group? There are groups of men who shared the same experience and who return with organized tours.”

  “I’ve heard about that, but I wanted to come here during Tet, and I made a last-minute decision to just come.”

  He looked at my visa again and said, “This is dated ten days ago.”

  “Right. Last-minute decision.”

  “Americans usually plan for months in advance.”

  Obviously, this is what first caught the eye of the guy at the Passport Control booth. I owed Karl a kick in the nuts. I said, “I’m retired. I just go where I want, when I want.”

  “Yes? And yet your passport was issued several years ago, and there are no visa stamps or entry and exit stamps on the pages.”

  “I travel in the United States and Canada.”

  “I see. So this is your first overseas trip?”

  “Since that passport was issued.”

  “Ah.”

  Colonel Mang gave me one of those looks that suggested he was somewhat confused by an inconsistency in my responses. He changed the subject and asked me, “Are you married?”

  I replied, “That is a personal question, Colonel Mang.”

  “There are no personal questions.”

  “There are, where I come from.”

  “Yes? And you can refuse to answer the question of a policeman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what happens to you when you refuse to answer?”

  “Nothing.”

  He said to me, “I have heard this, but I do not believe it.”

  I replied, “Well, go to the U.S. and get yourself arrested.”

  He didn’t think that was funny. He played around with the papers on his desk, and I didn’t see my passport. “You have seen many prostitutes in Ho Chi Minh City. Correct?”

  “I may have.”

  “They service the foreigners. Vietnamese men do not go to prostitutes. Prostitution is not legal in Vietnam. You have seen karaoke bars and massage parlors. You have seen drugs for sale, and you have seen a great deal of Western-influenced decadence in Ho Chi Minh City. You are thinking that the police have lost control, that the revolution has been corrupted. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  He informed me, “There are two cities that occupy the same time and space. Saigon and Ho Chi Minh City. We let Saigon exist because it is useful for the moment. But one day, Saigon will no longer exist.”

  “I think, Colonel Mang, the foreign capitalists may disagree with you.”

  “They may. But they, too, are here only as long as we want them here. When the time comes, we will shake them off, the way a dog shakes off his fleas.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that.”

  He didn’t like that at all and stared at me a long time. He changed the subject and said, “As you travel, Mr. Brenner, you can see the destruction your military caused, which is still not repaired.”

  I said, “I think both sides caused the destruction. It’s called war.”

  “Do not lecture me, Mr. Brenner.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Colonel Mang. I know what war looks like.”

  He ignored that and continued his lecture. “Now you will see a country at peace, ruled for the first time in a hundred years by the Vietnamese people.”

  Poor Colonel Mang. He was a real patriot, and he was trying to come to grips with the guys in Hanoi who were selling the country to Coca-Cola, Sony, and Credit Lyonnaise. This must really be a bitter pill to swallow for this old soldier who gave his youth and his family for a cause. Like most soldiers, myself included, he didn’t understand how the politicians could give away what had been bought in blood. I almost felt some empathy with the guy, and I wanted to tell him, “Hey, buddy, we all got screwed—you, me, and the dead guys we know, we all got the shaft. But get over it. The new world order has arrived.” Instead, I said to him, “I’m very much looking forward to seeing the new Vietnam.”

  “Yes? And when you visit your old battlefields, what will you feel?”

  I replied, “I was a cook. But if I was a combat soldier, I have no idea what I’d feel until I stood on the battlefield.”

  He nodded. After a few seconds, he said to me, “When you arrive in Hanoi, you will again report to the Immigration Police.”

  “Why? I’m leaving the next day.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  I leaned toward Colonel Mang and said, “My first stop in Hanoi will be the American embassy.”

  “Yes? And for what purpose?”

  “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

  Colonel Mang thought about that and said to me, “Did you contact your consulate here?”

  I replied, “Through my acquaintance here, I registered my presence in Ho Chi Minh City, my problem at the airport, my passport being taken, and my arrival date in Hanoi.” I added, “My acquaintance here will or has already contacted the American embassy in Hanoi.”

  Colonel Mang did not reply.

  I liked the subject of the American embassy, so I said, “I think it’s a very good thing that Washington and Hanoi have established diplomatic relations.”

  “Do you? I do not.”

  “Well, I do. It’s time to bury the past.”

  “We have not even buried all the dead yet, Mr. Brenner.”

  I wanted to tell him I knew about the Communists bulldozing the cemeteries of the South Vietnamese military, but I was already a pain in his ass. I said, “If America had no diplomats here, who could I complain to about your behavior?”

  He actually smiled, then informed me, “I liked it much better the way it was after 1975.”

  “I’m sure you did. But it’s a new world, and a new year.”

  He ignored this and asked me, “Did you give your acquaintance, Mr. Stanley, your travel itinerary?”

  “I did.”

  He smiled. “Good. So if you met with a misadventure along the way, and if no one hears from you in Nha Trang or Hue or at the Metropole in Hanoi, your embassy and the police can join in making inquiries.”

  I said, “I don’t intend to meet with any misadventures, but if I do, my embassy will know where to make the first inquiry.”

  Colonel Mang seemed to enjoy exchanging subtle threats and counter-threats. I think he appreciated me on one level. Also, by this time, he was starting to suspect that he and I were in a similar business. And I was fairly sure that Colonel Mang was several steps up from an Immigration police officer; he’d borrowed this ratty office in Section C, full of backpackers and condom posters. Colonel Mang’s real home was in Section A or maybe B. Section C put the suspect at ease and off his guard. And regarding my notifying the embassy, or Karl, they weren’t as concerned about the Immigration Police as they would have been about the Security Police or the National Police.

  Also, I thought, there was some irony and symmetry at work here—I wasn’t a former cook or a tourist, and Colonel Mang was not an Immigration cop. And neither of us was going to get nominated for Best Actor Award.

  I said, “Colonel, I need to get back to the Rex Hotel, or I might miss my transportation. Thank you for your time and advice.”

  He pretended he didn’t hear me and looked at my hotel bill. He said, “A very expensive dinner. Did you dine alone?”

  “I did not.”

  He didn’t ask any further questions and didn’t ask for money. He took a piece of cheap paper and wrote something on it, then took a rubber stamp off the desk, and pressed it onto the paper. Colonel Mang said, “You will show this to the Immigration Police wherever you report to them.” He handed me the stamped paper, my hotel bill, my pa
ssport, visa, and another square of paper with a C on it, though this one was yellow. “You will take this pass directly to the desk where you entered the building and give it to the man there.” He smiled and added, “Do not lose your pass, Mr. Brenner, or you will never get out of this building.”

  Colonel Mang had a little sense of humor; warped, but at least he was trying. I stood and said, “I had an interesting visit, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

  He ignored this and informed me, “If you deviate from your itinerary, notify the closest Immigration Police. Good day.”

  I said to him, “And thank you for returning my souvenir to my room.”

  “That is all, Mr. Brenner.”

  I couldn’t resist and said, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”

  “Leave, before I change my mind.”

  Well, we didn’t want that, so I left.

  Outside in the hallway, there was no one to escort me, so I just walked down the hall by myself.

  I got to the front lobby and gave the guy there my yellow pass, and he pointed to the front doors and said, “Go.”

  I walked toward the front doors. The Ministry of Public Security was sort of a bad imitation of Orwell’s Ministry of Love, but there was a palpable presence of police power in this building, a feeling of accumulated decades of fear, intimidation, interrogations, blood, sweat, and tears.

  I left the building and walked out into the sunlight. As Susan said, there were no taxis around, and I walked a block before a cab pulled alongside me. I got in and said, “Rex Hotel.”

  And off we went. I glanced at the note that Colonel Mang had given me. It was a long sentence in Vietnamese, except for the words Paul Brenner. I also recognized the word My—American. Colonel Mang had signed the note with his full name, which was Nguyen Qui Mang, followed by his rank, dai-ta. These Nguyens got around. Anyway, the stamp on the note was a red star with a few words, including phong quan ly nguoi nuoc ngoai. I put the paper in my pocket, pretty pissed off about having to carry around a note from the fuzz.

  It was a few minutes after nine, and within ten minutes, I was back at the Rex.

  I walked into the lobby, and there was Susan Weber, sitting in a chair facing the door, wearing navy blue slacks, walking shoes, and a tan cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She saw me, stood, and moved quickly toward me, as though we were lovers meeting for a tryst.