I said to her, “I killed people for my country and did all kinds of nasty things for my country. You ever hear that old saying, ‘I’d rather betray my country than my friend?’ There was a time when I didn’t believe that. Now I’m not so sure. When you get to be my age, Susan, and you look back on this, you might understand.”
We looked at each other, and I could see she was near tears, which was not a good sign in regard to my health or Mr. Vinh’s health.
Mr. Vinh was standing now and looking back and forth at us.
Susan said something to Mr. Vinh, and he began gathering up the stuff on the table.
I wanted to stop him, but I didn’t think that was a good idea for several reasons, not the least of which was the gun.
Mr. Vinh gave the photo pack to Susan, which she put in the side pocket of her quilted jacket, then the canvas pack with the letters and the MACV roster, the dog tags, the wallet, the wedding ring, and the watch, which she also stuffed in her pockets.
Mr. Vinh by now realized that Susan and I were not agreeing on something, but polite chap that he was, he didn’t want to get in the middle of a tiff between two Westerners of the opposite sex.
Meanwhile, Ms. Weber was contemplating her next move, which might be a clean exit or a messy one. She’d have to muffle the sound of the gun, and she might be thinking about that. I had trouble picturing Susan Weber killing Tran Van Vinh, or her new lover, but then I remembered her blowing away those two soldiers without blinking an eye. She moved toward her backpack and removed the pelt that the Montagnards had given her. That’s how I would muffle the gunshot. I looked at her, but she wouldn’t make eye contact with me, which was not a good sign.
She hesitated a long time, then made her decision and stuck the gun in the small of her back without Mr. Vinh being aware of what just transpired.
She presented the pelt to Mr. Vinh with a bow, which he returned. She looked at me and asked, “Are you coming with me?”
“If I come with you, I’m taking your gun and the evidence. You know that.”
She took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry,” and left.
So, there I was in the middle of nowhere in the house of the local Commie chief who didn’t even speak French, let alone English, and my new girlfriend takes a powder with the bike keys and the gun. Well, it could have been worse.
I put my finger to the side of my head and said to Mr. Vinh, “Co-dep dien cai dau. Crazy.”
He smiled and nodded.
“So, any more buses out of here today?”
“Eh?”
I looked at my watch. It was almost 3 P.M. Dien Bien Phu was thirty kilometers. On a forced march, I could make six or seven kilometers an hour over flat terrain. That should get me into town at about 8 P.M.; or maybe I could hitch a ride.
I said to Mr. Vinh, “Cam un… whatever. Thanks. Merci beaucoup. Great tea.” I put out my hand and we shook. I looked into his eyes. This old veteran had survived hell times ten, and he was now basically a poor peasant, an agrarian Communist of the old school, totally uncorrupted and totally irrelevant. If Washington didn’t whack him, maybe the new people in Hanoi would. Mr. Vinh and I had a few things in common.
I took off my watch, a nice Swiss army brand, and handed it to him. He took it reluctantly and bowed.
I picked up my backpack and left the house of Tran. I walked down through the foothills, through the burial mounds, and back into the village of Ban Hin.
I didn’t attract as much attention as last time, or if I did, I didn’t notice.
Bottom line, despite my bravado and my sarcasm, I was still in love with Ms. Bitch. In fact, I felt my stomach turning and my heart ached. I thought back to Saigon, to the roof of the Rex, the train to Nha Trang, the Grand Hotel, Pyramide Island, Highway One to Hue, Tet Eve, and A Shau and Khe Sanh and Quang Tri, and if I had it all to do over again, I’d do it with her.
Then there was the Edward Blake thing. I still couldn’t get it all straight, and I wasn’t ready to analyze it. What I knew for certain was that some power circle or the other had gotten wind of this letter and intruded themselves into it, or maybe it was the other way around; the letter had come to the attention of the CIA first, or the FBI, and the army CID was only the front. And Paul Brenner was Don Quixote, running around the countryside on knightly errands with Ms. Sancho Panza, who was the real power and the real brains. Of course, I’d figured some of this out a while ago, but I hadn’t done much about it.
In any case, some people in Washington had talked themselves into a deep paranoia, which they’re good at. And Edward Blake was a winner, according to the polls; handsome war hero, beautiful wife and kids, money, friends in high places, so anyone or anything who threatened his coming presidency was dead meat.
That aside, I didn’t think the guy was in trouble, especially if someone whacked Mr. Vinh, and whacked me. Susan, in the final analysis, couldn’t pull the trigger, so maybe I should send her a thank-you note.
I passed through the village square and glanced at the monument to the dead. This war, this Vietnam War, this American War, just went on killing.
I came to Route 12 and looked around for a lift, but it was the last day of the holiday, and I supposed everyone was stretching it out to the weekend, and no one was going anywhere for a while.
I began walking south toward Dien Bien Phu. I passed the military post and noticed that the jeep was gone.
About a half-kilometer down the road, I heard a big motorcycle behind me, but I kept walking.
She pulled up beside me, and we looked at each other.
She asked, “Why are you going to Dien Bien Phu? I told you how to get to Hanoi. You don’t listen to me. You should be hitching a ride to Lao Cai. I’m going that way. Jump on.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather crawl, and I’d rather go where I want to go.” I kept walking.
I heard her call out to me, “I’m not going to follow you, or beg you. This is it. Come with me, or you’ll never see me again.”
We’d already done this routine on Highway 6, but this time I was hanging tough. I acknowledged that I’d heard her with a wave of my hand and continued on.
I heard the motorcycle rev, then listened to the engine growing fainter as she drove off.
About ten minutes later, the motorcycle engine was behind me again. She pulled up to me and said, “Last chance, Paul.”
“Promise?”
“I was afraid you’d gotten a ride, then I’d lose you.”
I kept walking, and she kept up with me by accelerating and downshifting the bike. She said, “You can drive.”
I didn’t reply.
She said, “You have to get to Hanoi, then fly out of here Sunday. I need to get you to Hanoi or I’m in trouble.”
“I thought you were supposed to kill me.”
“That’s ridiculous. Come on. Time to go home.”
“I’ll find my own way home, thank you. Did it twice.”
“Please.”
“Susan, go to hell.”
“Don’t say that. Please come with me.”
We both stood there on the dirt road and looked at each other. I said, “I really don’t want you with me.”
“Yes, you do.”
“It’s over.”
“Is this the thanks I get for not killing you and Mr. Vinh?”
“You’re all heart.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“I don’t care if you burn.”
She lit up and said, “Okay, here’s what happened. In Tran Van Vinh’s letter, he said that he was in the Treasury Building in the Citadel of Quang Tri City, wounded, on the second floor, looking down. He saw two men and a woman enter, and they opened a wall safe and began taking out bags. They were civilians, and Mr. Vinh, then Sergeant Vinh, speculated that they were either looting the treasury, or they were on official business and were taking the loot to a safe place. Mr. Vinh said in his letter that these people opened some of the bags, and he could see gold coins, American currency, and some jewelry.” She drew on her cigarette. “You see where this is going. Do you want to go there?”