So, all I had to do was figure this out, which wasn’t that hard. Married to another American. Obviously, he meant that Susan might be working for another American intelligence service. But I already suspected that. So what? I wasn’t even sure who I was working for.
Your Hue itinerary looks good. Tomorrow’s rendezvous was on.
I opened the pencil drawer and found a fax transmittal form and wrote: Dearest Kay, Have arrived in Hue and received your fax. You’re so sweet to worry about my love life. But if you sleep with the enemy, you know where they are at night. The trip is going well — very moving, very enlightening. I love the Vietnamese people, and the government is doing a wonderful job here. I can’t thank you enough for suggesting this trip.
I looked up from my note, thought a moment, then added: The long shadows of the past do indeed still stretch from here to there, but the shadows in my mind and in my heart are fading, so if you don’t hear from me for a long time, know that I have found what I was looking for, and that I have no personal regrets about this journey. My love to C.
I looked at what I’d written, decided it was fine for Karl, for Colonel Mang, for Cynthia, for me, and for posterity.
I recalled my letters home in 1968, and remembered them as a mixture of news, some GI complaining, and a little homesickness. But like most of the guys in combat, who realized that each letter could well be the last, I always ended on a note that suggested I was at peace with myself; that I accepted the possibility of death, was not frightened by it, but, of course, hoped for a happier outcome. Implicit in the message was always the idea that the experience was doing me some good, so that I’d be a better person when I returned. I hoped God was reading the letter, too.
It was all pretty heavy stuff for an eighteen-year-old, but you grow up fast when you’re measuring your allotted time on earth in minutes.
And now, nearly three decades later, here I was again, my life still in danger, and my letter home still saying pretty much the same thing: I’ve prepared myself for whatever happens, and so should everyone there.
I left Karl’s fax to me on the desk because to destroy it might look suspicious to the people who’d already read it.
I stood and carried my overnight bag into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, washed up, and combed my hair.
The doorbell rang, and I went into the living room and answered the door. It was my suitcase, and I gave the guy a buck. I opened the suitcase and threw on a wrinkled blue blazer. I was anxious to see Susan, so I didn’t unpack, and took my fax from the desk and went down to the lobby.
I gave the fax to a desk clerk along with a dollar, and asked the clerk if he’d fax this now and give me the fax back.
He replied, “Sorry, sir, fax machines are all day busy. It take one, two, hour. I fax for you and return original to room.”
I knew this routine, and what we’d gotten away with at the Grand Hotel in Nha Trang, I wasn’t going to get away with here. I could have gone to the General Post Office, but for all I knew, they photocopied your fax for the cops right in front of you. In any case, my fax to Karl was clean, and I was in a hurry. I left it with the clerk. I then went to the cashier and cashed five hundred dollars in traveler’s checks, for which I was given two trillion dong or something like that.
I looked around the lobby to see if Susan was there, but she wasn’t. I didn’t want to ask the desk clerk if she’d checked in, so I stood there awhile and waited. The lobby was bustling on this Saturday afternoon, the eve of Tet. Virtually all the guests were Western, and most of them looked European by their dress.
I did see three middle-aged guys who were obviously Americans, and just as obviously veterans. They were fairly well dressed for Americans — long pants, collared shirts, and blazers — and they carried themselves well. One of them had a Hemingway-type beard, and he looked familiar, like I’d seen him on TV or something.
I’m good at making educated guesses about people — I do it for a living. As I watched them standing in the lobby, talking, I guessed that they had all been officers, probably army or marines, because they didn’t have the sloppy and goofy mannerisms of air force officers, and they didn’t strike me as navy. They may have been combat veterans, rather than rear echelon types, and for sure they’d become financially successful over the years. They had gotten together and decided it was time to go back. They may have had women with them, but they were alone now. The guy with the beard made a command decision, and they all headed for the cocktail lounge. I followed.
The lounge had no bar, so I sat at a cocktail table facing the door. I was supposed to be at the Immigration police station now, but I’d decided that they could wait. Actually, they could go fuck themselves.
A waitress came by, and I ordered a San Miguel, then made it two. The waitress asked, “Person join you?”
“Yes.”
She put down two napkins and a bowl of peanuts.
I looked at my watch and looked at the door. Susan wasn’t the kind of woman you had to worry about to accomplish a simple task like taking a taxi from the airport. It was the gun thing that had me totally bummed out. All it would take was a random ID check at the airport, a minor auto accident, or a routine police stop on the road, and we’d be talking about a shoot-out or an arrest for a capital offense. Despite my job, I’m not crazy about guns, but I could see why so many Americans were enthusiastic about their rights to bear arms.
This made me wonder what happened to the millions of M-16s we’d given the South Vietnamese army. I hadn’t seen one American M-16 carried by a cop or a military man since I’d been here; they all had their Russian AK-47s, which they loved during the war.
Maybe, I thought, there were millions of M-16s hidden by the former ARVN, buried in plastic out in the vegetable patch or something. But probably not. This was a country of unarmed civilians and armed cops and soldiers. The defeat was complete, and the chances of an insurgency starting was nil. I recalled the photographs in the Museum of American War Crimes, the mass executions of insurgent tribespeople and former ARVN. Hanoi didn’t mess around.
Where was Susan?
The beers came and the waitress put them on the table with two glasses. I signed a chit and gave her a buck.
I drank some beer and ate some peanuts, staring at the door and glancing at my watch.
I could hear the three guys at a table nearby, and I listened, to take my mind off worrying about Susan.
I could only catch pieces of the conversation, but I heard some military talk and acronyms, so I’d gotten that right. One guy said something about a dustoff, meaning a medical evacuation by helicopter, and another guy said, “incoming,” meaning unfriendly rocket, artillery, or mortar fire. The third guy said something about the “pucker factor going up,” which meant everyone’s sphincter was tightening with fear. They all laughed.
Definitely combat vets. I glanced at them, and I could see they were having a good time, old vets like myself, back to kick the beast in the balls.
I wondered if they felt as strange and disconnected as I’d felt on the roof of the Rex, and was starting to feel here in the nice cocktail lounge of the luxury hotel built on the bank of the Perfume River where the marines had been dug in, exchanging fire across the river with the enemy, who held the opposite bank. I think if you keep the patter and chatter going, you block out the sounds of the machine guns and rockets. But if you sat silently, as I was doing now, you could still hear the distant thunder as it receded in time.
Susan should have arrived by now, and I needed to check with the desk clerk. I stood and started toward the door.