She asked me, “Where is the A Shau Valley?”
I pointed due west. “Right over that mountain range, maybe seventy kilometers, near the Laotian border. It’s a very isolated place, more of a box canyon than a valley, surrounded by mountains, and socked in by clouds most of the year. It may be hard to get there.”
“I’m game.”
I looked at her and smiled. “Were you really boring once?”
“Boring and coddled. I used to throw a fit if room service was slow.”
I took a final look at the city of Hue, turned and walked off the terrace.
I went into the bathroom, shaved and showered.
Susan and I made love in the comfortable bed, then fell asleep.
We got up at six, dressed, and went down to the hotel dining room where New Year’s Eve dinner was being served, buffet style.
Every seat seemed to be filled, and we sat at a small table for two near the riverside garden, which, according to Susan, was not far from her buried pistol.
Everyone there was a European or American, and I spotted the three guys I’d seen before. They were sitting at a table with a group of women, and I could tell by the body language that the ladies were not their wives or girlfriends. The guys were on their game, and the women were either entranced or faking it.
A band played elevator music, and the dining room was a sea of smiling faces, sparkling crystal, and hustling waiters. In 1968, I wouldn’t have thought this was possible.
One buffet table was laden with real Vietnamese holiday food, which had signs in several languages, so that everyone could avoid most of it. The other tables had make-believe Vietnamese food, Chinese food, and Western dishes. Susan and I ate like pigs, using chopsticks, knives, forks, and our fingers.
We left the hotel at nine and walked across the Perfume River via the Trang Tien Bridge.
The night was cool, and the sky had become clear. The moon was now a thin sliver that would disappear shortly, and the stars were brilliant. Thousands of people strolled along the tree-shaded embankment, between the river and the towering walls of the Citadel. The city was festooned with red flags, and many of the buildings were outlined in lights and Chinese lanterns.
The focus of activity seemed to be around the historic flag tower opposite the main gates of the wall. Entire families sat or walked, greeting one another and wishing each other a Happy New Year.
Susan said, “Fireworks are banned for individuals, but the city will probably fire off a few rockets like they do in Saigon. When I arrived in Saigon three years ago, fireworks were still legal, and on Tet Eve, the whole city sounded like a war zone.”
“I know that sound.”
Opposite the flag tower, the massive Citadel gates were open, and beyond the gates was an ornamental bridge, which led to the Emperor’s Palace. The palace was big, made of stone and red lacquered wood, and had a traditional tiled roof. It was all lit up with floodlights, and decorated for the holiday. I wondered how this place had escaped the bombing.
But then Susan said, “People and organizations from all over the world donated money to rebuild the palace in its original style.”
“Good. Let’s go in. I’ll donate a fiver.”
“You can’t go in tonight. See those soldiers? They’re turning people away. Must be a government ceremony or something.”
“I’ll give them a ten.”
“Forget it. You’re in enough trouble.”
So we continued our stroll along the embankment, then passed through a smaller gate into the city.
There were lots of people around, and we saw a dragon dance, and a few silly puppet shows set up in makeshift theaters. There were groups of musicians playing traditional music on stringed instruments, which was very whiny and irritating.
Most of the cafés and restaurants had closed, but we found a café owned by a Catholic couple who stayed open to get the Buddhist business.
The café was crowded with Viets and Westerners, but we found a table and had coffee.
I said to Susan, “This is nice. I’m glad I’m here.”
“Me, too.”
“You’re missing the Vincent party in Saigon.”
“There’s no place in the world that I’d rather be than here, with you.”
I said, “I feel the same way.”
We finished our coffee. There were no taxis or cyclos around, so we walked back across the Perfume River by the Phu Xuan Bridge into the New City where Susan said the cathedral was located.
From the bridge, I could see a big sports complex along the riverbank, with tennis courts, a swimming pool, and playing fields. Susan said, “That’s the Cercle Sportif. The old French sporting club. There’s one in Saigon, and in a lot of major cities. Used to be whites only. Now, it’s mostly Party members only.”
“Commies play tennis?”
“I don’t know. I guess so. Why not?”
“I’m trying to picture Colonel Mang in tennis whites.”
She laughed, then said, “When no one is looking, the pigs walk on their hind legs.”
“So I’ve heard.”
We continued across the bridge, and suddenly there were flashes of orange light in the sky, followed by a series of explosions; I flinched, then realized it was sky rockets. My heart was actually racing, and I took a deep breath.
Susan looked at me.
I felt a little foolish and joked, “I thought Charles was back.”
She said, “That’s why I mentioned the fireworks before.”
As we came off the bridge, I started to cross the street, but Susan stopped me. “See that little booth on the opposite corner? That’s the police checkpoint. Avoid that corner. They sometimes harass Westerners, as I found out when I was here.”
“I haven’t been harassed by the police since Thursday night. I’m feeling neglected. Let’s go have an argument with them.”
“Please.”
We avoided the police booth and crossed in mid-block. As we walked, I said to her, “Maybe we can skip mass.”
She replied, “You should get down on your knees and thank God that you’re even here in one piece.”
It was a hike to the cathedral, and the city streets were starting to become deserted. Susan said, “Everyone is home now for the traditional meal.”
“Why don’t the Buddhists go to the pagodas for midnight mass?”
“I don’t think it’s called mass, and they pray when they feel like it.”
We arrived at the Cathedral of Notre Dame at about quarter to midnight, and there were still people arriving, mostly on foot. The majority were Viets, but there were a number of round-eyes as well.
The cathedral was impressive, but not old. It was, in fact, fairly modern, with some Gothic and Vietnamese touches. I assumed that whatever old churches had existed had been destroyed.
We went inside and found space in a pew toward the rear. I said to Susan, “If this is a Buddhist holiday, why is there a Catholic mass?”
“I don’t know. You’re Catholic. E-mail the Pope.”
The mass began. The entire mass and the hymns were in Vietnamese, which was funny, like it was being dubbed. I skipped communion as I’d done in Notre Dame, Saigon, but most of the congregation, including Susan, went up to the altar. There wasn’t any of this sign of peace stuff that they do now in Catholic churches in the States, which was good because this crowd would probably bow instead of shaking hands, and everyone would bump heads.
I noticed that the citizens of Hue were better dressed than the Viets south of the Hai Van Pass, and I supposed that had to do with the cooler weather, and maybe the sophistication of this city.
My multicultural experience came to an end, and we followed the recessional out into the open plaza in front of the cathedral.