Yong Kyu did not reply. Toi drove straight across the street and in a second they were pulling into the QC headquarters compound. In the parking lot stood an unbroken line of Vietnamese MP patrol Jeeps. At the sight of Oh Hae Jong, the QC staff milling around started whistling and making catcalls.
“Take us to the room,” Yong Kyu said to Toi.
As they walked into the building, Toi popped into an office and shortly reappeared and took the lead. As soon as they entered the room, Toi said something to the corporal and administrative officer inside and the two men left.
“Care for some coffee?” Toi asked the woman.
“Yes, thank you.”
In an effort to exhibit her composure, she then turned to Yong Kyu, saying, “You could offer me some lunch, too.”
“I’ll see to that once your custody is decided.”
Yong Kyu started the interrogation with questions about the delivery of the C-rations. She answered, and then gave a statement detailing where, how often, and what quantities she had delivered. Then he questioned her about the opium.
“I don’t know anything about that. The stuff isn’t mine,” she said.
“That was also your testimony when you were asked by the chief security officer at the PX, wasn’t it? I’ll get the record of that interrogation and add it to this report, and then my job will be done. They’ll make the decision.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The Vietnamese Narcotics Enforcement Team.”
“Hmmph, go ahead and call them if there is such a team. More than half the population of Da Nang, every household, would have to be arrested. The stuff belongs to Major Pham Quyen from the provincial governor’s staff. Ask him.”
Yong Kyu kept scrawling notes in his notebook.
“Fine. So you have no passport, right?”
Toi brought a tray in with three cups of coffee. The woman sipped it slowly, savoring each mouthful. In the bright sunlight her bare legs gleamed beneath the pale blue dress. She seemed much calmer. Her legs were bouncing up and down ever so slightly. Yong Kyu finished his English-language report and handed it over to Toi.
“Type this and bring it back.”
“All right.”
Toi took the papers and left. Now the two of them, Yong Kyu and the woman, were alone in the room.
“Look, what’s your name, anyway?”
Yong Kyu took out a cigarette for himself and offered her one. They lit them together.
“I asked what your name is.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“That’s not fair. You know about me through and through and I don’t even know your name.”
“Ahn Yong Kyu.”
“Rank?”
“You want to try and make trouble for me?”
“Are you a ‘lifer’? Isn’t that what you soldiers say?”
Yong Kyu relaxed a little. He wondered why had he been so hard on her at first. Maybe it was because she was, in her robe, rather sensuous, and he knew she was in the habit of sleeping with foreigners. No, I’m no lifer, he said to himself. In a strange room, so far away from home, this woman was asking him if he was a lifer.
“Why didn’t you go home?”
The woman said nothing. They just went on smoking. She looked up at the clock.
“I need to make a call. If it gets any later, these people will take their siesta. I can’t wait another two hours in a place like this.”
“Don’t worry.”
Yong Kyu also glanced at the clock. He paused, then casually asked her, “Do you know Madame Lin well?”
She responded indifferently. “A little. I worked there a while after I was fired.”
“As a bar girl?”
“Is it a crime?” she retorted angrily. “I can’t go home empty-handed. I’m no different than the rest of you. And I’m not a whore.”
Her outburst made Yong Kyu uncomfortable. He hung his head a little. “Why not go to America?”
“What do you care?” the woman asked, fixing her eyes on his. “Stay out of my business. What difference does it make to you if I stay in Vietnam or go to America?”
Her voice was growing shrill, so Yong Kyu raised his head. For a moment he thought her eyes were getting moist, then immediately tears started streaming down her face. He had touched a wound. He quietly stood up and gave her space. She quickly pulled herself together, taking a handkerchief from her purse and cleaning her face.
“This is why I hate running into you people here. Who do you think you are, anyway? You’re no brother of mine. Once I found a Korean girl, a dancer, dead drunk and crying her eyes out. Some bastard, one of our recruits, had thrown a bottle at her on stage for taking her clothes off in front of American GIs. Crazy bastards. Who do they think they are — they themselves are licking asses for a lousy few US dollars a month? Don’t make me laugh!”
There was an element of truth in what the woman said.
“I’m sorry,” Yong Kyu mumbled under his breath, “I didn’t mean to insult you.” Then, in spite of himself, he blurted out, “Seeing you come out of that dark room, awakened from sleep. . I felt sorry for you somehow. . We’re in a war zone.”
The woman softened a bit and then replied in a lighter tone, “Well, I appreciate the compassion.”
Toi came back in, holding the typed report out to Yong Kyu. He checked it for errors and then said to the woman, “Read this, and if it’s all true, sign it.”
She read through the report, then carefully signed it and tossed down the ballpoint pen.
“Are you done with me?”
“Yes, you can go now.”
Yong Kyu also put his signature at the bottom. Then with a smile he said, “Sorry for the trouble. The exit is over there. You know the way, don’t you? It’s not far. It will take you just a few minutes to walk back to the Thanh Thanh from here.”
The woman looked uneasily at the report Yong Kyu was putting away.
“Mr. Ahn Yong Kyu, what are you planning to do?”
Yong Kyu was startled, as though it was the first time he ever heard a woman call his name.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
He looked over at Toi. Unable to understand anything of what they had been saying, Toi had a vacant look on his face.
“We’ll probably consult with Major Pham Quyen. He’ll be able to come up with a satisfactory solution,” said Yong Kyu.
The woman rose and walked toward the door, then stopped. She turned back and said to Yong Kyu, “Your concern, I really do appreciate it.”
14
Pham Quyen had gone home during the afternoon siesta. That morning just after he arrived at work his sister had called him, saying his mother was sick. Only two days before his mother had been in good spirits, singing as she cleaned the house, and then, all of a sudden, she had taken ill for no apparent reason. He knew his mother well. She had used that same ploy as long as he could remember, feigning sickness to make his father rush home from business trips. His father would walk into the house with a hearty laugh and a “Where’s my poor sick baby?” In his hand there would be some Coty perfume or some fancy chocolate from Hanoi, and his mother’s sham illness was miraculously cured before her husband had time to take his hat off.
Everyone told Quyen that he took after his father. He knew for certain that his mother was expecting him to play the father’s role. When he got out of the car, nobody came out of the house to greet him. As he walked in the living room, his sister emerged from the kitchen. There was a bowl of Chinese medicine on the tray she carried. It had to be the concoction made from boiled cinnamon and poppy oil that his mother was in the habit of taking when she suffered from nerves or from a sudden cold.