Up Country (25 page)

“Such as?”

“The Monkey Bar.”

She laughed. “Wall-to-wall whores. And very aggressive. They put their hands down your pants at the bar. You can go to the Monkey Bar after we leave here.”

“I was just checking up on what this guy said.”

“Well, he wasn’t doing you any favors.”

“He recommended a restaurant called Maxim’s—like the one in Paris.”

“It’s a ripoff. Bad food, bad service, overpriced, just like in Paris.”

My French friend was batting zero for two. I asked Susan, “Do you know a woman named Mademoiselle Dieu-Kiem?”

“No. Who is she?”

“A courtesan.”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t reply.

I said, “But I’d rather be with you.”

“So would ninety percent of the men in Saigon. Don’t push your luck, Brenner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” So, my attempt at independence and suavity was squashed like the ugly little bug that it was. “Thank you for bringing me to one of your special places.”

“You’re welcome.”

The waitress brought over tiny menus. Susan ordered fruit and cheese for herself and another wine. I got my burger and fries and ordered a Corona, which they had.

It was cooler than last evening, but I had a film of moisture on my face. I remembered Saigon as hot and unhealthy when I’d left here in June of ’72. I asked Susan, “Do you have a summer house or a weekend place?”

She replied, “That concept hasn’t developed here yet. There’s no running water in the countryside. If you go into the country, you step into the nineteenth century.”

“So, what do you do on weekends in the summer?”

“I sometimes go up to Dalat where it’s cooler, or to Vung Tau, formerly known as Cap Saint Jacques.”

“Not to Nha Trang?”

“No. Never been there. It’s a hike.” She added, “But I’d love to see it. I’m sorry I can’t go with you.”

I let that one alone and asked her, “How difficult is it to travel into the interior of the former North Vietnam?”

She thought about that a moment, then said, “Generally speaking, anywhere along the coast is relatively easy. Highway One, for instance, goes from the Delta all the way to Hanoi, and it’s being improved every year. The Reunification Express—that’s the train—also links the north and south now. But if you mean heading west toward Laos, it’s difficult. I mean, the Viets do it, but they have a lot more tolerance for washed-out roads and bridges, landslides caused by overlogging, steep mountain passes, and vehicle breakdowns. And it’s the winter rainy season up there—a persistent drizzle called crachin—rain dust.” She asked, “Are you headed that way?”

“I’m awaiting further instructions. Have you gone into the interior?”

“No, I’m just reporting what I hear. A lot of Western scientists go there—biologists, mostly. They’ve actually discovered previously unknown species of mammals in the northern interior. They just found an ox that no one knew existed. Plus, there are still tigers in the interior. Have a good trip.”

I smiled. “I actually saw a tiger here once. And an elephant. And they weren’t in the Saigon Zoo where they belonged.”

“Well, be careful. You really can get hurt or get sick out there, and the conditions are very primitive.”

I nodded. At least with the army, the medics were good, and the helicopters got you out of anywhere within half an hour, and onto a hospital ship. This time, I was on my own.

Susan said, “If you’re going into the interior, you may want to pass yourself off as a biologist or naturalist.”

I looked at her. I’d had the same thought as she was telling me about the unknown species. And now I had a new thought: I was getting the briefing
I never got in Washington. In fact, a lot of what had seemed like Viet trivia today may have had a purpose.

The food came, and the burger and fries were terrific, and the Corona was ice cold with a lime in it.

She asked me, “Where do you live?”

I replied, “I live outside Falls Church, Virginia.”

“And this is your last assignment?”

“Yes. I retired last year, but they thought I should press my luck and do Vietnam, Part Three.”

“Who are they?”

“Can’t say.”

“And what are you going to do after this?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“You’re too young to retire.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By your significant other?”

“She’s very supportive of whatever I want to do.”

“Does she work?”

“Yes.”

“What does she do?”

“Same as what I did.”

“Oh, so you met on the job?”

“Right.”

“Is she ready to retire?”

I cleared my throat and said, “She’s younger than I am.”

“Was she supportive of you going to Vietnam for this last assignment?”

“Very. Can I get you another beer?”

“I’m drinking wine. See the glass?”

“Right. Wine.” I signaled the waitress and ordered another round.

Susan said, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying.”

“Why would I think that?”

“I’m just trying to get an image of you, your life, where you live, what you do. Stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. My favorite subject is usually me.” She thought a moment, then said, “Maybe you’re interesting because you’re not here on business.”

“I am here on business.”

“I mean, money business. There’s no money in this for you. You’re doing what you’re doing for some other reason. I mean, it’s not even because of your career. What is your motivation?”

I thought about that and replied, “I honestly think I’m stupid.”

“Maybe it’s a personal reason, something you’re doing for your country, but really for yourself.”

“Have you considered a radio talk show? Good Morning, Expats.”

“Be serious. I’m trying to help you. You need to know why you’re here, or you won’t be successful.”

“You know, you’re probably right. I’ll think about that.”

“You should.”

To change the subject again, and because I needed some information, I asked her, “How good is your travel agent?”

“Very good. She’s a Viet-Kieu—understands Americans and Vietnamese. Can-do attitude.” She added, “Bottom line, money talks.”

“Good.”

Susan reminded me, “But Colonel Mang might kick you out.”

Maybe I had one beer too many, but I said to her, “What if I didn’t go to see Colonel Mang to find out? What if I just went up country? Would I be able to do that?”

She stared directly into my eyes and said, “Even if you were able to get around the country without anyone asking for your passport or visa, you’ll never get
out
of this country without one. You know that.”

I replied, “What I had in mind was going to the consulate first thing tomorrow and getting an emergency passport issued.”

She shook her head and said, “They are not yet an official delegation and have no passport-issuing capabilities. That won’t happen for at least six months. So, if you don’t have a passport or a visa, or even photocopies, you won’t get far.”

I replied, “If I get to the American embassy in Hanoi, it becomes their problem.”

“Look, Paul, don’t compound the problem. See Colonel Mang tomorrow.”

“Okay. Tell me about the Immigration Police. Who are these clowns?”

“Well, their business is foreigners. The police in this country were organized by the KGB when the Russians were here, along KGB lines. There are six sections, A to F. Section A is the Security Police, like our CIA.
Section B is the National Police, like our FBI, and Section C is the Immigration Police. Sections D, E, and F are respectively Municipal Police, Provincial Police, and Border and Port Police.” She added, “The Immigration Police usually just handle visa and passport violations, so I wouldn’t be too concerned about this.”

“Right.” But I had the thought that Colonel Mang could be an A or B guy in C clothing. That was a fairly common ruse. The other thought I had was that Ms. Weber knew a lot about the Vietnamese fuzz, but maybe all expats had a handle on that.

It was pushing 11
P.M.
, and I said, “I think I’ll call it a night. Got an early
A.M.
”

I called for the check, but Susan insisted on paying for it with her company credit card, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.

She wrote something on her copy of the charge slip and said, “Paul Brenner—company unknown—discussed fish cannery investment, dangerous missions, and life.” She smiled and put the slip in her little bag.

We stood and went out in the street. I said, “I’ll walk you home.”

“Thank you. Sort of on the way is one last place I want to show you. Just two blocks from here. We’ll have a nightcap, and you’ll be back to your hotel by midnight.”

Famous last words. I said, “Fine.”

“Unless you’d rather go to the Monkey Bar.”

“I’d much rather have a nightcap with you.”

“Good choice.”

We walked a few blocks to a quiet street that wasn’t particularly well lit. At the end of the street was a big, illuminated building whose sign said
Apocalypse Now
. I thought I was seeing things, but Susan said, “That’s where we’re going. Have you heard of this place?”

“I saw the movie. Actually, I lived the movie.”

“Did you? I thought you were a cook.”

“I guess I wasn’t a cook.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Neither did Colonel Mang,” I said.

“You told him that?”

“Sounded better than combat infantryman. He may have gotten the idea I killed one of his relatives.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

I didn’t answer that, but said, “The army unit portrayed in that movie was the First Cavalry Division. My division.”

“Really? I saw the movie. Helicopters, rockets, machine guns—Ride of the Valkyries. Unreal. That’s what you did?”

“Yup. Don’t remember the Ride of the Valkyries, but sometimes they’d play cavalry charges from a helicopter on a loudspeaker.”

“Weird.”

“I think you had to be there.”

We had arrived at the front door to a long, low yellow building in front of which were about twenty cyclo drivers, hanging around, smoking.

I said to Susan, “Come here often?”

She laughed. “Actually, no. Just when I have out-of-towners in. I brought my parents here. They were uncomfortably amused.”

A Caucasian man opened the door, and we stepped into Apocalypse Now.

The first thing I saw was a cloud of smoke, like someone had popped about a dozen smoke canisters to mark a landing zone in the jungle. But it was only cigarette smoke.

The place was hopping, and a four-piece combo of Viets was playing Jimi Hendrix. Against the left side of the place was a wall of sandbags and barbed wire, like firebase chic. A big poster from the movie of the same name hung on a wall, and Susan said it was autographed by Martin Sheen, if I wanted to look. I didn’t.

The overhead paddle fans were helicopter blades, and the light globes had red paint splattered on them to look, I guess, like blood.

We went to the long bar against the back wall, which was packed with mostly middle-aged guys, black and white, and they definitely had the look of former military about them. I had this sense of déjà vu, Americans again on the prowl in Saigon.

I got two bottles of San Miguel from the American bartender, who said to me, “Where you from, buddy?”

“Australia.”

“You sound like a Yank.”

“I’m trying to fit in.”

Susan and I sidled up to the bar and sucked up the suds. The place was absolutely fogged in with cigarette and cigar smoke, and Susan lit up. She said to me, “So, GI, you lonely tonight?”

“I’m with someone.”

“Yes? Where she go? She go away with general. She butterfly. I stay with you. Show you good time. I number one girl. Make you very happy.”

I didn’t know whether to be amused or to freak out. I said, “What’s a girl like you doing in a nice place like this?”

She smiled and said, “Need money to go to Harvard.”

I changed the subject and said, “This is the opposite of Cong World.”

“It’s R&R World. Does this offend you?”

“I think that anything that trivializes war is offensive.”

“Want to leave?”

“We’ll finish our beers.” I asked, “When does the shooting start?”

But it wasn’t so easy to leave. There were four couples next to us, all middle-aged, and they struck up a conversation. The men were all former American air force officers, and they had their wives with them to show the ladies where they’d served and all that. They were okay people, and we chewed the fat awhile. They’d all been stationed up north at Da Nang, Chu Lai, and Hue”Phu Bai Airbase, and they’d bombed targets around the DMZ, and that was their ultimate destination. They asked me about my wartime service without asking me if I was a vet. I said, “First Cav, Quang Tri, ’68.”

“No shit?” said one. “We blew the crap out of a lot of targets for you guys.”

“I remember.”

“You going up country?”

“I think we’re already there,” I said.

This got a big chuckle, and one of the guys said, “Is this place unreal, or what?”

“It’s unreal,” I agreed.

The wives didn’t seem overly interested in any of this war stuff for some reason, but when they learned that Susan lived in Saigon, they descended on her, and the five ladies talked shopping and restaurants, while the five guys, myself included, told war stories until the shell casings and bullshit were knee deep. They seemed fascinated about the life of an infantryman and wanted all the gory details.

I obliged, partly because they bought me another beer, but also because this was part of their nostalgia trip, and I guess mine as well. I never get into this stuff at home, but here, in this place, and with a little buzz on, it seemed okay to talk about it.

They told me about dodging surface-to-air missiles and anti-aircraft
fire, and blowing the living shit out of everything that moved in the DMZ. They used empty beer bottles to demonstrate all of this, and I realized that these guys had totally removed any moral or ethical considerations from the stories, and saw aerial combat as nothing more than a series of technical and logistical problems that needed to be dealt with. I found myself caught up in these narratives of bombing and strafing, which was kind of scary. It doesn’t take much to stir the heart of old warriors, myself included. It was 1968 again.