Saigon (67 page)

Ten minutes after the bombing raid ended, the Tatra halted for inspection at a heavily guarded gate in a high wall, then pulled into a fortified courtyard behind a featureless modern building that owed its austere lines to the influence of the bleak Stalinist architectural styles of the 1940s. On the Tatra’s rear seat, Mark Sherman was fully conscious again; his forehead was discolored and swollen where the fragment of falling masonry had struck him, but he still sat slumped against the seat back as before, his features robbed of all expression. Unresisting, Mark allowed himself to be led down several flights of steps into a deep basement, and at a succession of checkpoints in its corridors, wary groups of soldiers of the North Vietnamese People’s Army armed with Russian AK-47 assault rifles glared at him with unconcealed hostility while inspecting Kim’s credentials. 

The leg-irons and the makeshift prison sandals made from old auto tires that he wore forced Mark to shuffle along the dimly lit passageways in an ungainly fashion, and his two guards prodded him with their weapons whenever he faltered. Before a plain, unadorned door flanked by four more soldiers, they ordered him to bait, and Kim knocked once before entering alone. While Mark waited, all the guards glared at him with hate-Filled eyes as though scarcely able to restrain themselves from attacking him bare-handed there and then, but the American remained oblivious, standing with his head bowed and his manacled hands hanging loose in front of him. Even after he had been led inside and the door closed behind him, he still didn’t raise his head, but continued staring sightlessly at the floor. 

At the far end of the basement room the figure of a wizened Vietnamese was hunched over a clutter of paperwork strewn across the polished conference table. The empty blotters that had not yet been removed and the disarranged chairs suggested that a meeting of the Politburo of the Lao Dong had recently ended, and on the wall behind the old man, a black-and-white portrait of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin gazed sternly down on the room, the eyes ablaze with revolutionary fervor, the goatee jutting aggressively beneath a square, determined mouth. 

“Advance!” One of his guards urged the American forward with his rifle, then ordered him to halt a few yards short of the table. The old man went on writing for fully a minute without looking up, but when at last he put down his pen, he waved the guard’s gun aside with an impatient gesture. 

Mark raised his eyes then for the first time but gave no sign that he recognized the shriveled yellow features and straggling beard as belonging to a man whose name had become a greater inspirational totem to would-be revolutionaries around the world than the portrait of Lenin on the wall behind him. Against the backdrop of Lenin’s commanding visage, the aged Vietnamese Communist leader looked frail and insignificant: his skin was cracked like ancient parchment, his concave chest left his cotton jacket sagging scarecrow like from his bony shoulders and only his eyes seemed to retain any spark of vitality Piercingly bright and possessed of an extraordinary, calm strength, they seemed to gather and concentrate all the light and energy of the room into their unwavering gaze, and when his lips parted, the forbidding face was transformed unexpectedly by a warm, avuncular smile. 

He continued smiling as he lit a cigarette, then tapped a sheet of paper on the table with a bony finger. 

“Your father has written a letter to me, Lieutenant Sherman,” he said in clear confident English. “Please sit down.” 

The guard with the gun moved forward warily as the American shuffled towards the indicated chair, but again the old man motioned the soldier away and he retired a pace or two. 

“Your father also sent me this photograph of us together.” Ho Chi Minh pushed a small, sepia-tinted snapshot across the polished table, still smiling. “When that was taken he was not much older than you are now. We were friends then, and I can see that the family likeness is strong.” 

Tran Van Kim, who had been standing quietly beside the president’s chair, moved around behind him to study the young American’s face as he looked at the snapshot. It showed a smiling, fifty-five-year-old Ho Chi Minh relaxing with a group of OSS officers in a jungle clearing in August 1945. The Americans were dressed in Forage caps, shorts and jungle boots, and Joseph Sherman stood grinning at Ho’s left shoulder. 

“Those were memorable days for us,” said Ho, letting out a long, resigned sigh. “I helped your father get home after he was shot down by the Japanese and he rendered valuable assistance to us too — but sadly such close cooperation between our two countries didn’t last long.” 

Mark Sherman looked up slowly from the photograph of his father to stare at Ho. Among the more courageous American prisoners, the North Vietnamese leader was referred to as “Horse Shit Man”. they distorted the pronunciation of his name deliberately in this way in front of their torturers, and for this willful insult they were invariably punished with great severity. But it had become a matter of honor among them not to say the name any other way, and for a moment a troubled expression crossed Mark’s face; once or twice his lips moved as though he was about to speak, hut then his features collapsed suddenly once more into their familiar blank expression. 

Ho studied him intently for a second or two, then smiled warmly again and opened one of several bottles of beer standing on a tray at his elbow. He poured the amber liquid frothing into a glass and pushed the drink towards Mark before pouring another for himself. “It’s a tragedy of history that the American nation should have withdrawn the hand of friendship so gladly given in 1945. Instead it offers us now only the sword of war. So we should drink to your country’s past wisdom, lieutenant — not your present folly. Perhaps one day your leaders will again become wise.” He raised a bony hand, signaling the American to drink, but Mark stared back at him impassively, leaving the beer untouched on the table. 

The old man drank noisily from his Own glass and pointed towards the swelling on Mark’s forehead. “The bombs of your countrymen almost killed you on your way here tonight, didn’t they? How ironic that would have been. I invited you, you see, only to reassure myself of your safety for an old-time comrade.” 

Behind the chair Tran Van Kim made a surreptitious hand signal in the direction of the second guard at the far end of the room, and he turned and went out quietly. 

“You’ve had two years to think over the foolishness of your country’s actions, haven’t you?” Ho smiled at Mark again, but this time his expression was sardonic and without humor. “By now you’ve learned enough about us to know that our cause is just. We’ve fought a thousand years for our independence, after all, and we must have convinced you that we’ll never rest until we’re victorious.” He paused for a long moment, his eyes burning into Mark’s face. “The realization is growing even among your own countrymen at home that the United States must give up its neo-colonialist war of aggression. They’ve become aware since you’ve been our prisoner that the people of Vietnam are certain in the end to win total victory. You could help speed up that process and limit the suffering of yourself and others like you if you were to denounce publicly your country’s folly.” 

Mark’s only response was to slouch lower in his chair, but at that moment the door behind him opened and the scuff of the second guard’s sandaled feet advancing quickly towards them broke the silence. When he reached the table he placed a little cloth bundle in the pool of light between the two men and returned dutifully to his place. Tran Van Kim stepped forward to unknot the bundle and spread its contents carefully on the table-top; when he retreated again an unposted airmail letter in a blank envelope lay beside a few crumpled piastres, some keys, a hand-. kerchief, arid the fur-covered foot of a small animal mounted on a line gold chain. 

“These items were found in Lieutenant Sherman’s possession when he was captured, comrade president,” said Kim quietly. 

The long wisps of white beard brushed the table-top as Ho leaned forward to pick up the letter. He opened it, read it, then looked across at Mark again. “For reasons of compassion and in response to your father’s inquiry about you, we shall allow this letter you wrote to your mother before you took off on your last flight, to be mailed now. This at least will provide evidence for your family of your continued well-being. I trust you’ll appreciate that this is a concession made out of deference to your father’s past services to us.” 

Ho tapped the envelope to emphasize his words, but Mark wasn’t listening. The glassy expression had disappeared from his eyes and he was staring intently at the little collection of articles on the table. Sensing that his mood had changed, Kim motioned the guard forward, but before he reached Mark’s side, the American without any warning catapulted forward out of his chair. His manacled hands scrabbled frantically across the table- top until they closed round the little furry object, but before he could draw it to himself, the guard unbuttoned his revolver from its leather holster and brought it crashing down on his knuckles. In the same movement he clamped a rough stranglehold around Mark’s neck from behind, but although the American gagged and choked, and his eyes bulged wildly under the pressure of the lock, he still didn’t release his grip on the talisman. 

“What- is this thing?” The parchment of the old man’s face wrinkled in inquiry as he addressed Kim impatiently in their own language. 

“I think it’s the foot of a rabbit, comrade president. Under interrogation Lieutenant Sherman in the end admitted he always carried it in his flying overalls during operations. In the West such objects are believed to bring the bearer good fortune.” 

The guard, who had been listening, reached down suddenly with his free hand, forced Mark’s fingers apart and wrenched the rabbit’s foot from his grasp. With a little grin of triumph he tossed it back onto the table, but although his hands were still firmly manacled, Mark struggled frenziedly once more and tore himself free. He lunged towards the table in a new attempt to grab the rabbit’s foot, but the other guard, who had raced forward from his position by the door, flung himself on the American too. With considerable difficulty the Vietnamese soldiers wrestled Mark to the floor and pinned him there, breathing noisily. 

The president watched the three thrashing bodies for a moment, then turned again to Kim. “Under what conditions has Lieutenant Sherman been held captive?” 

Kim leaned forward close to his ear. “He’s been the most stubborn of all the American captives. For nine months he successfully resisted all persuasive techniques. Consequently he’s been in solitary confinement since his capture. For the past three months since the arrival of his father’s letter he’s been under special twenty-four-hour surveillance to prevent suicide attempts.” 

“And what exactly do you propose to do with him? So far you’ve told me only that you think he could be used in a special way.” 

“I think it might be wise to grant compassionate clemency for propaganda purposes.” On the floor Mark was still moaning between the two guards, and Kim paused and lowered his voice again. “At the right moment, that is. We might release him six months from now — but allow me personally to supervise his detention during that time. I’ve studied his case closely, and I believe if he’s handled correctly he could prove to be a great asset to those Americans campaigning for an end to the war.” 

The older Vietnamese nodded his agreement and sighed. “Your genius in these matters is too well known for inc to argue with you, Comrade Kim. Go ahead and do as you please.” 

Kim smiled his thanks and motioned the two guards to pull Mark to his feet; then he leaned over the old man’s shoulder again to whisper in his ear. The president nodded and turned back to the table to pick up the rabbit’s foot; his piercing eyes subjected Mark’s clenched face to a careful scrutiny for several seconds before he signaled with his head for the guards to release him. When they stepped back, he held the talisman towards the American in an outstretched hand. 

Mark stared at it for a long time, his face working nervously, then he took an uncertain step forward. After one last suspicious look at the wrinkled face, he snatched it away and concealed it between his manacled palms. The old Vietnamese continued smiling at him for a moment like a fond uncle regarding a favored child. Then abruptly the smile evaporated and with a dismissive gesture he resumed his seat, busying himself immediately with his papers as though he was already alone in the room. 

All the way back to his new cell in the former French Süreté jail in the heart of Hanoi, Mark squeezed the rabbit’s paw convulsively in his hands in the darkness of the Tatra’s back seat, his face flexing and unflexing in time with his fingers; sometimes he dug the paw so fiercely into the heel of his hand that its tiny claws drew blood, and when at last he was left alone in the total blackness of a solitary punishment cell, he squatted on the stone floor in a fetal crouch sucking the furry tip of the paw as if it were a baby’s pacifier. Ignoring the scuttling rats which the guards had deliberately allowed in through a small hole in the floor, he rocked back and forth like this for a long time, moaning quietly to himself, until eventually he fell into the release of an exhausted sleep. 

While his youngest son slumbered fitfully in a wretched prison cell in Hanoi, Joseph Sherman was pacing uneasily through the darkened streets of Saigon, one thousand miles to the south, trying not to see the ghosts of the past which threatened to haunt him at every turning. He was back in the southern capital for the first time in twelve years, but although it had been changed almost beyond recognition by the unceasing roar and confusion of the massive American war effort, the emotional intensity of the memories evoked by his return after such a long interval frequently blotted out the reality of the present for him. 

Strolling along Cong Ly with the silent, diminutive figure of Tran Van Tam at his side, he scarcely saw the stark modern outline of President Nguyen Van Thieu’s Doc Lap Palace behind its sinister-looking rocket screens. Instead, as he glanced through the railings at the shadowy parkland that colonial landscape gardeners had laid out around the French governor general’s original grand palais, he saw only a blushing fifteen-year-old boy in his first white tuxedo dashing madly across a marble terrace to save a priceless Chinese vase from the clutches of a baby gibbon. He saw too in his mind’s eye the proud, uncertain mandarin who was the father of the man at his side, standing apprehensively on the steps as he emerged from Saigon’s other palace with the struggling animal trapped inside his torn tuxedo. The expression of innocent mystification on the enchanting ten-year-old face of the mandarin’s (laughter as she eyed the strange foreign savior of her pet also rose unhidden from the recesses of his memory, and he glanced quickly down at Tam, wondering if the Vietnamese had sensed the intensity of the nostalgia that filled his mind. But Tam’s features, which were still those of an Oriental cherub, even in late middle age, were set in their usual watchful expression; his eyes were following the passage of a noisy convoy of U.S. Army trucks, and his girlish mouth puckered with distaste as the vehicles passed, their air horns blaring, their exhaust pipe engulfing the boulevard in clouds of thick blue smoke. 

Without speaking they turned off the old Rue Taberd towards the Cercle Sportif where, Joseph had already discovered, disdainful French planters, noisy official Americans and diffident Vietnamese and Cholon-Chinese merchants gathered now in uneasy social disharmony; all trace of its former aura of colonial exclusivity had disappeared, but as the gates of the Cercle came in sight, the romantic image of that tiny, horse-drawn malabar, in which he had escorted Lan home from the tennis final nevertheless forced itself into his mind, and his mood of aching sadness deepened. He had been in Saigon only three days, and the past had started to come vividly alive even before his plane had touched down at Tan Son Nhut, He had hardly slept at all on the twenty-hour flight from Washington, and as the Pan Am Boeing began its long, flat glide across the silver veins of the Mekong’s tributaries, he had caught a distant glimpse of the twin towers of the cathedral and was reminded immediately of how that mysterious landmark had seemed to dart around the jungle like the ears of a hidden jackrabbit as the Avignon made its way slowly up the twisting Saigon river over forty years before; once down on the ground, however, he found that only occasional vestiges of the old Saigon remained. 

The city’s familiar swamp-fever humidity hadn’t altered, but now choking gasoline fumes which never seemed to clear clogged his throat and the journey from Tan Son Nhut to the Continental Palace had turned into a nightmare drive through snarled traffic jams. The cyclo-pousses, operated by the same kind of scrawny Vietnamese who had run the rickshaws in colonial days, still existed, as did the little blue Renault taxis and a few battered Citroëns and Peugeots belonging to latter-day French colons, but they were swamped now by the unending flow of U.S. military juggernauts and the more numerous Chevrolets, Pontiacs and Mercuries of American officialdom. Vietnamese youths and girls threaded their way in and out of the melee on sputtering Lambrettas and Hondas, and Joseph was delighted to see that many of the girls still wore the captivating ao dai; some even wrapped flowing silk scarves around their faces to counteract the choking engine fumes and floated through the motorized chaos with the same fragile gracefulness that had first entranced him so many years before. 

The rush and bustle of war had, however, destroyed the Saigon siesta, he soon found, and even the four-hour curfew that began at midnight was rent by the unending roar of military convoys rushing through the cleared streets. Some store owners still lowered their steel shutters for an hour or two in the middle of the day, but the garish neon-lit bars and tawdry souvenir stands that had sprung up along Tu Do, Le Loi and Nguyen Hue remained open to serve the swarms of off-duty GIs who crowded the traffic-choked streets. Shoddily built new apartment blocks that had shot up everywhere to cater to the ever-increasing American demand for living space had to his dismay obliterated almost completely the fading elegance of French colonial Saigon, but he had been relieved to find on his arrival that the government post he had accepted after much thought — senior adviser at the joint United States Public Affairs Office — entitled him to one of the old colonial villas on Cong Ly. It was there that he had just entertained Tarn to a dinner prepared by the aged Vietnamese bep who went with the villa, but despite the length and occasional intimacy of Joseph’s acquaintance with lam and his family, the Vietnamese had for most of the evening remained guarded and evasive in what he said. 

He had giggled with embarrassment when asked about his big inherited landholdings in the delta and Joseph had realized then that the fact. that he still enjoyed a big landowner’s privileges after years of American pressure for some kind of major land reform had added a new dimension of defensiveness to his manner. He was currently a deputy minister of information in President Thieu’s government, and it was a position, Joseph reflected, with minimal public exposure and therefore low political risk, which would automatically give him inside knowledge of all exploitable business opportunities in the booming, corruption-ridden wartime economy of South Vietnam; under prompting he had admitted with another embarrassed giggle that he had many other business interests now in such things as “property, construction and import agencies” but despite these revelations, his demeanor still remained wary, as though he were certain that the most uncomfortable question of all would be asked of him sooner or later. 

Joseph in the end managed to contain himself until they were sipping French liqueurs on the terrace of his villa and breathing the heavy night scents of the darkened garden; he had by then exhausted his questions on the new government, the recently promulgated constitution and Tam’s views of the pacification program, and in his turn the Vietnamese had complimented Joseph effusively on the cha gio of his chef and the delicacy of the French wines he had served. But at the very mention of Tuyet’s name Tam had fallen silent for such a long time that Joseph felt certain he was going to ignore the question altogether. When he did finally answer he peered intently into the darkness of the garden so that he didn’t have to look at Joseph, but even so his voice still betrayed a trace of embarrassment. 

“I know nothing more concrete than what I told you in 1956,” he said softly. “Your (laughter simply disappeared — virtually without trace.” 

“You say ‘virtually,’ “said Joseph, unable to conceal the tremor of hope in his voice. “Does that mean you’ve had some news of her since then?” 

The Vietnamese lapsed into a reflective silence again and Joseph fancied that his expression hardened. “They were only rumors that were never substantiated. And since Tuyet decided to give her loyalty to the Communist side, nobody in our family, you understand, has ever pressed inquiries. We heard stories that she married a guerrilla fighter by the name of Dang Dinh Luong who died in custody here in Saigon. His wife’s name at any rate was Tuyet, and she’s supposed to have Sworn to avenge his death. She joined a Viet Cong assassination squad that killed some members of our security services and the same girl later became a notorious main force platoon leader in the delta. She called herself ‘Tuyet Luong’ in memory of her husband.” 

Joseph sat forward in his chair, staring at the Vietnamese in horror. “1 can’t believe it.” 

“As I said, there’s no real evidence that ‘Tuyet Luong’ is your daughter,” added Tam hastily. “It’s only hearsay. ‘Tuyet,’ after all, isn’t an uncommon name in Vietnam. But the rumors did suggest she was of mixed race.” 

Joseph sank back in his seat and absorbed in a stunned silence the implications of what Tam had said. Then he rose and began pacing agitatedly back and forth along the terrace. “When did you hear these rumors, Tam?” 

“In the early sixties.” 

“And has anything been heard of ‘Tuyet Luong’ since then?” 

Tam shook his head. “She seemed to disappear suddenly from the scene in the delta around about 1963.” 

“So she could have been killed!” Joseph stared at the Vietnamese in dismay. 

“It is possible of course,” replied Tam, avoiding Joseph’s eyes. “But as I said, our family has not been anxious to inquire too closely. It’s possible the Liberation Front leadership ordered her to undertake some less glamorous task. The Communists demand conformity and discipline above all else. A beautiful young woman roaming around wearing American pistols on her hips like a western gunslinger hardly fits that mold. Perhaps, she was becoming too famous.” 

Joseph stopped pacing and refilled their glasses, and for a long time the two men sipped their drinks without speaking; then Joseph turned towards Tam once more, his expression thoughtful. ‘Is it possible, do you think, that ‘Tuyet Luong’ might have been assigned to Da Nang in some kind of intelligence role?” 

“To spy on the American flyers when they go out on the town, you mean?’ 

Joseph nodded eagerly, “Exactly!” 

“It’s possible. Why do you ask?” 

“Because my youngest son, Mark, joined the air force and flew from Da Nang until he went missing on a mission over the North two years ago. We don’t know whether he survived the crash, but one of his last letters to his mother contained a mysterious reference to a Vietnamese girl in the town who he thought called herself ‘Tuyet.’ It was all very unclear in the letter, but it seems ‘Tuyet,’ whoever she was, had learned his name and passed a vague message to him through another girl about ‘her father in America.’ Mark wrote about this very casually and obviously didn’t understand what it was about.” 

“Didn’t he know he had a half sister?” 

Joseph shook his head quickly and looked away. “No. Neither of my sons has been told about Tuyet. To my deep regret I’ve had very little to do with either of them since they’ve grown up.” 

“And have you been to Da Nang yet?” 

Joseph nodded. “I flew up there almost as soon as I arrived.” 

“And what did you discover?” 

Joseph let out his breath slowly. “Nothing — nothing at all. I couldn’t find any trace of her. But then I had so little to go on.” 

A. sad little smile of sympathy appeared suddenly on Tam’s face. “If ‘Tuyet Luong’ is your daughter, it must be very painful for you, Joseph, to think that she has sided with the enemy. But perhaps it helps you to understand our unfortunate country a little better. We have something in common now — we both have people of our own flesh and blood fighting against us on the other side in this terrible war.” 

“I’m sorry Tam,” said Joseph quietly. “I was thinking only of myself. I’d forgotten your brother, Kim.” 

“Don’t apologize. It’s very rare for an American to find himself in this situation —. but for a Vietnamese it isn’t at all uncommon.” 

“We had our own civil war not so long ago,” said Joseph dully, “so I suppose we should understand better. What contact have you had with Kim over the years?” 

Tam shrugged and turned his face away once more. “What contact could a leading member of the Hanoi Politburo have with a minor government minister in Saigon?” 

“But it’s not unknown, is it, for Viet Cong guerrillas to sneak home to their families to celebrate Tet even though they’re in the opposing camp.” 

“That’s possible only for minor functionaries. For my brother nothing less than leading the revolution was ever good enough, and the day he dishonored my Father I swore never to speak with him again until he begged forgiveness on his bended knees.” He let out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Can you imagine Kim coming to kneel before me in Saigon now after all the blood that’s been spilled? My mother concealed her broken heart for many years before she died but she never knew happiness again after Kim insulted my father and all our ancestors so deeply.” He shrugged his shoulders once more in a gesture of helplessness.” But even though so much divides us, even though Kim is a Communist above all else, he’s still my brother.” 

“Yes, and Tuyet, wherever she is and whatever she’s doing, is still my daughter,” said Joseph resignedly. 

They had lapsed into silence again after that, and to break the melancholy of their mood, Joseph had eventually suggested a stroll through the nighttime streets of the capital. They walked side by side but separately, wrapped in their own thoughts, and slowly the intimacy that had grown up between them in the garden had evaporated. Struck by a sudden thought, Joseph had asked Tam what had become of Lan’s Son; shaking his head sadly, the Vietnamese told him that the boy had been killed in battle only a few months after graduating from the Dalat military academy. This news served to depress their mood further, and conversation between them ceased altogether.