To the sound of the brass band, the general, the American AID representative, the mayor of Hoi An, and the division commander all marched over to the ceremonial ribbon hanging at the gate on the main street of the hamlet. The ribbon was made of white nylon fabric. Some young girls brought out a shiny new pair of scissors on a cloth-covered tray and held it out to the four dignitaries. Cameras flashed as the ribbon was cut.
With General Liam and Butler side-by-side and a long line of people in tow, the group marched along past the new houses. Pham Quyen and the lieutenant in charge of security walked directly behind General Liam. The general halted in front of a house located in the center of the hamlet, opened the door and looked inside. As in a traditional Vietnamese residence, the structure was built as a single room, just four walls and a ceiling. Partitions made of bamboo and reeds were placed along the walls of the wide hall, and the area in the center was used for eating and drinking tea. Given the layout of the house, a young couple had to get a strong and sturdy bed so that the creaking sound of their lovemaking would not disturb the others in the family. The interior of this house had a concrete floor, but the walls were whitewashed and partitions were set up. There was a back door and, beside it, a kitchen.
“Wonderful,” said General Liam.
Mr. Butler looked into a partitioned space that seemed to be a bedroom. There was no door, but a curtain or bamboo screen would probably be hung at the entrance. Mr. Butler looked back at Major Pham Quyen.
“When the next generation is born in this room, Vietnam will be sure to regain eternal peace.”
Pham Quyen quickly responded with a smile.
“Of course, sir. They’ll be phoenix babies, so to speak.”
“What is that?”
With a look of curiosity, Mr. Butler pointed to a hole that had been dug out in the middle of the yard.
“Ah, I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”
Pham Quyen turned around to ask one of the entourage from the provincial administration, a civilian, who hurried over to question the villagers. He then rushed back to Pham Quyen in a fluster.
“It wasn’t in the plans, sir. They say it’s a bomb shelter.”
“Who dug it?”
“Well, looks like each resident already fixed up his house somewhat. There’s even one with a Buddhist altar already installed.”
“Who gave them permission to make changes even before moving in?”
Pham Quyen said no more and turned back to Mr. Butler who was waiting for an answer with a curious look on his face.
“I understand it’s a start on a pigpen they plan to construct after they receive their allotment of cement.”
“Oh, that’s a very good idea. There’ll be plenty of breeding pigs and sheep brought in from abroad.”
As Pham Quyen turned away from Butler, his expression went vacant again. The parade passed the community laundry, equipped with tubs and faucets and underneath a huge water tank. Then they arrived in front of the public toilet, located in a concrete block building painted white. There were no flush toilets, but the cesspool had been dug deep enough that the excrement could accumulate several months before they would have to scoop it out with buckets. There were separate entrances for men and women with “Knock” written on the plywood doors. The ceramic toilets were a sparkling white against the cement floors.
Pham Quyen knew that the villagers would never use these facilities. They would want to grow small vegetable gardens behind their houses. Anybody who had a spade would go out back, dig a shallow hole, and deposit their waste in the earth. It was like repaying the earth for giving them food to eat. They would carefully refill the hole and stamp it down with their bare feet. The earth would become rich and when the monsoons came, everything would grow abundantly in the fertilized soil. If something was out of place in this phoenix hamlet, it was this bright white public toilet building standing at its center.
The line of people came to the children’s playground next. The local VIPs and the entourage from the provincial government were busily herding the children into the playground. Seesaws and swings, slides and monkey bars had been erected in the yard. Looking uncertain, the children reluctantly approached the play apparatus. The bigger children tried the swings, and one by one the other children started getting on the seesaws and the slides.
“The children from now on will begin to learn the value of peace in this hamlet of An Diem.”
Butler grinned widely as he spoke to General Liam, who responded in a single sentence.
“There’s no other playground like this one, not even in Saigon.”
Pham Quyen, however, did not fail to notice that the children romping on the monkey bars were pretending to shoot at one another, pretending their fingers were pistols. In loud voices they mimicked gunshots and one of them fell to the ground, pretending to be shot and dying. The adults lingered before the playground for quite a while, proud of the feat they had accomplished. Someone found a one-legged child wearing a prosthesis imported from Hong Kong. The reporters clamored about as they put the handicapped child on a swing and pulled it way back before releasing it. The cameramen were squatting, wriggling, and changing positions to try and make the most of this touching moment. It would make a very fitting picture, especially for those Americans who fell head over heels for war orphans, children in hospitals, children asleep on the back of refugees, children in unfortunate circumstances of any kind.
The procession moved on past the two-room schoolhouse and then filed past the village assembly hall, then returned to the ceremonial platform in the middle of the hamlet. Then they got into their cars and departed, leaving behind the music from the brass band, the squeals from the schoolgirls, and the applause from the villagers. The governor would never be setting foot in this place again. This time Major Pham Quyen planned to accompany the general back to Da Nang. Tonight the governor was giving a dinner party at his official residence. As he walked toward the helicopter, one of the entourage called out to him from behind, “Major, we have someone who’d like to have a word with you.”
When Pham Quyen looked back, he saw an old man who had been sitting on the platform amidst the village notables.
“What is it?”
“Well, sir, I. . we haven’t received even half of our wages yet.”
It had been arranged for the villagers, while building the An Diem hamlet, to receive one-third of their wages in American surplus wheat and the rest in rice or cash. Pham Quyen scowled at the old man.
“Didn’t you get the flour? The cost of milling wasn’t deducted. The rest will be included in the resettlement funds.”
Having so spoken, Pham Quyen took out his notebook from the pocket of his uniform jacket. He pressed down firmly with the ballpoint pen, pretending to write, and asked the old man, “What is your name and your house number?”
The old man hesitated.
“Sir. . well, I. . I only. . I only. . the villagers.”
The member of the entourage hurriedly intervened.
“Sir, he is one of the village representatives. I have all the necessary information, sir.”
Pham Quyen saw the propeller of the helicopter begin to rotate and he quickly put away his notebook.
“All right. Submit a written request directly to the authorities.”
He boarded the helicopter. As they took off, An Diem looked like a border of pebbles on the edge of a flower garden.