I lowered the window a crack, and the kid and I argued price. We each held on to the helicopter until I released a buck, just like a drug deal going down.
I cranked up the window and said to Mr. Cam, “Cu di.”
He threw the Nissan into gear, and we continued across the pass, then down the other side.
Susan asked, “Do you like your toy?”
“You don’t see these all over.” I hand-flew the tin helicopter around, then made a whooshing noise like rockets firing, followed by the chatter of a Gatling gun.
Mr. Cam laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.
Susan asked, “Are you all right?”
“Coming in for a landing.” I hovered the chopper and landed it on the dashboard.
Mr. Cam and Ms. Susan were quiet. I love acting nuts.
By now, we were on the downslope side of Cloudy Pass, and sure enough, there were clouds obscuring the road and a wind came up, then rain started to splatter against the windshield. Mr. Cam turned on his wipers and headlights.
We continued down, and the rain got heavier, and the wind rocked the Nissan. I glanced at Mr. Cam, and he looked a little concerned. When a Vietnamese driver is concerned, his round-eye passengers should be terrified.
Traffic was light both ways, but there was enough of it to make the descent more treacherous.
Within fifteen minutes, we’d gotten to a lower elevation where the clouds thinned out, and the wind and rain eased off a little.
Susan said, “Those winds come from the northeast and are called the Chinese winds. It’s winter here, and not a good time to travel cross-country.”
We got down to near sea level, and within a few minutes, I could see a large expanse of flat land spreading from the sea to the mountains farther west.
Susan said, “We have left the ancient kingdom of Champa, and are now in the province of Hue. The people here are a little more reserved, and not nearly as easygoing as where we just came from.”
“So, Cloudy Pass is sort of like the Mason-Dixon line.”
“I guess.”
I looked at the sky, which was heavy with a solid, low, gray cloud, as far as the eye could see. The terrain, too, looked gray and wet, and the vegetation seemed colorless and stunted.
I remembered this winter landscape very clearly, and in fact I remembered the sodden smell that I smelled now, and the burning charcoal in every hut, a little heat against the cold, damp wind.
We were down in the flatlands now, and off to the right was a squalid bamboo hut, and out front, a peasant stood in his doorway, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the rain. In the brief moment that I saw his emotionless face as we passed by him, I understood just a little the lives of these rice farmers; work from sunup to sundown, home to a meal cooked over an open fire, then to bed.
And then there were the leeches, and the foot rot, and the vermin inside the huts and the lice in their hair.
And when the wars came, as they always did in this country, the peasants were the first to be recruited and the first to die — millions of them, wearing their first decent clothes, and carrying a weapon that would cost them two years of earnings made in the rice paddies.
I’d seen all of these things long ago, although I only now understood it. I understood, too, why so many of them joined the Viet Cong in hopes of a better life after the victory. But, as my French friend at Tan Son Nhat said, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
The sky was gray, the rain fell in the fallow black paddies, the countryside seemed dead and deserted.
It was Tet Eve, and I recalled the Tet Eve of many years ago, huddled in a hastily constructed bunker in the foothills west of Quang Tri, not far from here. It was raining, and I was smoking a cigarette, looking out at the rain and the dripping vegetation, not unlike that peasant back there. The gray dampness seeped into the muddy bunkers, and into our souls.
We didn’t know it then, but within a few hours, a battle would begin that would last a long, bloody month. And at the end of that month, Hue and Quang Tri would lie in ruins, the body bags would run out before the ammunition, and nothing would be the same again here, or at home.
Susan said, “Hue, fifty kilometers ahead.”
I thought of my close calls getting out of here in ’68, and my more recent close calls here. This place had colored my life, and changed the course of my personal history, not once, or twice, but three times now. I should ask myself what kept drawing me back.
BOOK V
Hue
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was a little after noon, and the rain had stopped but the sky remained gray. I could see a small propeller aircraft landing at Hue”Phu Bai Airport to the right of Highway One. This, too, had once been an American airbase, though not a major installation.
Susan spoke to Mr. Cam, and he pulled into the airport gate, where a police jeep sat. The rain had washed the mud from the car damage, and I pictured specks of yellow paint on the front fender. The two cops gave us the eye as we passed. I recalled Mr. Conway’s advice to avoid airports, but as it turned out, I needed to drag the red herring through an airport.
As we drove through the airport, I could see a few remnants of the American army and air force — concrete bunkers, revetments, and a concrete control tower that I remembered.
It wasn’t a busy place, so Mr. Cam was able to park in a space near the small terminal.
We got out of the Nissan, I opened the rear hatch, and put our luggage on the ground.
Mr. Cam stood by anxiously, waiting for what would happen next. He wasn’t dead, so he was way ahead of the game already.
I got out my wallet and counted out two hundred dollars, which I gave to Mr. Cam and said, “For Mr. Thuc.”
He smiled and bowed.
Then I pointed to the damage on the Nissan and asked him, “How much?”
He understood and said something, which Susan translated as three hundred dollars. I gave it to him without argument, looking forward to putting in this expense when I got back: Damage to hired car incurred while running police vehicle off road and killing two cops—$300. No receipt.
I looked closely at the damage and pointed out to Mr. Cam a few streaks of yellow paint. I pantomimed scraping them off, and he nodded quickly. Then I counted out another hundred and gave it to Mr. Cam, indicating that this was for him.
He smiled very wide and bowed lower.
I asked Susan, “You think that’s enough for almost getting him killed?”
“Sure. How much do I get?”
“You volunteered. He was kidnapped.” I reached in the car and took the toy helicopter off the dashboard and handed it to Mr. Cam. I said to him, “A gift for you so you can remember this trip forever.” As if he needed a reminder.
Susan translated something, and Mr. Cam bowed and said in English, “Thank you. Good-bye.”
I looked at my watch and said to Mr. Cam, “We fly to Hanoi now. You buying that?”
He smiled and said, “Hanoi.”
“Right.” I said to Susan, “Give him a final pitch about not going to the cops.”
She put her hand on Mr. Cam’s shoulder, and spoke to him in a low, soothing tone. He kept nodding. I kept looking at his eyes.
We all wished each other Chuc Mung Nam Moi, and Mr. Cam got into the Nissan and drove away.
I asked Susan, “Police station or Nha Trang?”
“Nha Trang.”
We gathered our luggage and walked into the terminal past two uniformed and armed men. The terminal, which had a Sixties air to it, was crowded, but not packed. The arrival and departure board showed flights only to 6 P.M.