“There’s nothing for me in Boston.”
“What’s in Virginia?”
“Nothing.”
She stared at the glow of her cigarette awhile, then asked, “Why don’t we go someplace together?”
“You have to quit smoking.”
“Can I have one after sex?”
“That’s still half a pack a day.”
She laughed. “Deal.”
The headlights of a big vehicle approached from the north, and I could see the lit windows of a bus. I stood out on the deserted highway and waved.
The bus stopped, the door opened, and we got on. I said to the driver, “Hue.”
He looked at Susan and me with curiosity and said, “One dollar.”
Best deal in town, so I gave him two, and he smiled.
The bus was half empty, and we found two seats together. The seats were wood, and the bus was old, maybe French. The passengers were looking at us. I guess we didn’t look like bus people.
The bus continued south down the dark highway and stopped in every little village, and whenever someone flagged it down. People got on and people got off. Susan was happy to be on a smoking bus, which was one hundred percent of the bus fleet. She held my hand and looked out the window at the black, desolate terrain.
There was not one major town between the dead city of Quang Tri and the resurrected city of Hue. But at some point, the countryside started to look better, from the little we could see — houses, lights, rice paddies — and I had the feeling we’d passed out of Quang Tri Province and into the province of Hue.
I thought about Quang Tri. I would’ve liked to have seen my old base camp, Landing Zone Sharon, or the old French fort named Landing Zone Betty. But those places where I’d spent most of a year existed now only in my mind, and in a few faded photographs. It was strange to feel any nostalgia for a war zone, but those places — the base camps, the vendor stalls, the whorehouses and massage parlors, the hospital where we’d donated food and medicine, the Buddhist and Catholic schools where we’d given paper and pens from our monthly allotment, the church where we’d befriended the old Viet priest and the nun — were all gone now, obliterated from the earth and from the memories of everyone except the oldest of us.
Maybe I’d waited too long to return. Maybe I should have come back before so many of the visible and psychological scars had healed, before most of that wartime generation had died or grown too old. I may have seen something different here ten or fifteen years ago; more rubble, and more amputees, and more poverty, to be sure. But also some of the old Vietnam, before the DMZ tour buses and Cong World, and backpackers, and Japanese and American businesspeople.
But life goes on, things get better — Quang Tri Province notwithstanding — and one generation passes away, and another is born.
I said, “Sorry if I upset your pleasant life here.”
“It wasn’t that pleasant. I asked for a little excitement, and I got it. I asked about the war, and you told me.”
“I’m done with that.”
The bus continued on, and we didn’t speak for some time, then I asked her, “How are we getting up country tomorrow?”
“Elephant.”
“How many elephants?”
“Three. One for you, one for me, and one for my clothes.”
I smiled.
She asked me, “Do you think Colonel Mang will be following us?”
“I’ll see that he isn’t.” I added, “You’re leaving the gun here.”
She didn’t reply.
We retreated into our separate thoughts as the old bus chugged on over the bad road. Finally, Susan said, “I’m not upset about that fax.”
“Good. Which fax?”
“The one where you said, ‘Sleeping with the enemy,’ and ‘Love to C.’”
I didn’t reply.
She changed the subject and said, “When Colonel Mang mentioned the police car accident, my heart stopped.”
Again, I didn’t reply.
She said, “What if he finds Mr. Cam or Mr. Thuc?”
I replied, honestly, “Then we’ve got a big problem.”
“Paul, I’m frightened.”
I didn’t reply.
“Maybe we should get out of the country before we get charged with murder.”
“That’s a good idea. You should fly to Saigon tomorrow and get out.”
“And you?”
“I need to push on. I’m not available to Colonel Mang after I head up country tomorrow. Then when I get to Hanoi, I’ll call a guy in the embassy and have him get me inside. After that, it’s up to Washington and Hanoi to cut a deal to get me home.” I added, “I hope it costs Washington at least a billion in foreign aid.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Susan, go home. Fly to Saigon and catch the first plane out.”
“I will if you will.”
“I can’t.”
She said, “Your Vietnam luck has run out, Paul.”
I didn’t reply.
I thought about our encounter with Colonel Mang in the desolate ruins of the Quang Tri Citadel, and I recalled the South Vietnamese colonel, probably dead now or re-educated, who had pinned the medal on me. Two very different occasions, but the same place. Actually, it wasn’t the same place; time and war had changed that place from a field of honor to a wasteland so crowded with ghosts that I swear I could feel their cold breaths on my face.
The bus continued on toward Hue.
Susan, coming out of her thoughts, said, “Plus, he was insulting. He practically accused me of being a slut.”
“You should have slapped him. Hey, what did you say to him about searching your apartment?”
She hesitated, then replied, “Well, I asked him if he masturbated while he was searching my underwear drawer.”
“Are you crazy?”
“I felt violated. I was angry.”
“Anger, Ms. Weber, is a luxury you can’t afford here.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Notice, however, he didn’t deny it.”
I laughed. But it wasn’t funny. Colonel Mang hadn’t thought so, either. He was probably in the Hue police station by now testing his electrodes.
An hour after we left Quang Tri City, the bus came into the northern end of Hue, and stopped at the An Hoa bus station, just outside the walls of the Citadel. This seemed to be the last stop, so we got off. A taxi took us to the Century Riverside Hotel.
There were no faxes or other messages for us at the front desk, making me believe that everyone in Saigon and Washington had the utmost confidence in my ability to carry out the mission; or maybe they were all just fed up with Susan and me. In either case, no news is good news.
We hit the bar before the bathrooms, showing where our priorities lay.
We hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, but strangely I had no appetite for anything but Scotch whiskey. Susan, too, drank dinner.
At about 10 P.M., we retired to my suite and sat on the terrace with beers from the mini-bar and watched the city and the river through the mist.
She said to me, “In Saigon, I told you that for people of my generation, Vietnam was a country, not a war. Do you remember that?”
“I do. Pissed me off.”
“I can see now why it would. Well, I hope I’ve shown you the country as well as you’ve shown me the war.”
“You have. I learned some things.”
“Me, too. And did you work through some things?”
“Maybe. I won’t really know until I’m home for a while.”
Dark storm clouds had rolled in from the north, and it began to rain. A flash of lightning lit up the city and the river, and the bolt crackled to the earth, followed by the distant sound of rolling thunder, like an artillery barrage.
The rain blew in on the terrace but we sat there drinking, and within a few minutes, we were soaking wet and cold.