Susan and I took the elevator up to my suite, where I collapsed in an armchair. “God, I’m getting old.”
“You’re in great shape. Open the envelopes.”
I opened the small one first and read aloud, “ ‘You to report to Immigration Police tomorrow in morning.’ ”
Susan said, “That leash is not that long.”
“Long enough. If they were really pissed, they’d be sitting here now.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve. What’s the other message?”
I opened the big envelope and took out a fax. It was from Karl, and I read it to myself: Dear Paul, Perhaps my last message was not clear — You really need to end that relationship. Please tell me you have. It was signed: Love, Kay.
The nice thing about not being in the army was that you don’t have to obey a direct order from someone who was.
I noticed a P.S. It said: C sends her love. Will see you in Honolulu.
That could be pure bullshit to keep me in line. In any case, the situation vis-à-vis Susan had become complicated, and I didn’t know how I felt about meeting Cynthia in Honolulu.
Susan was looking at me. She asked, “Who is the message from?”
“Kay.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look all right. Can I see the message?”
“No.”
She looked hurt, offended, and pissed.
I stood, went toward the terrace with the message, then turned around, and handed her the fax. I said, “It’s Ms. Kay now. Same guy.”
She took it and read it, then handed it back. She stood and said, “I think I’ll sleep in my room tonight.”
“Probably you should.”
She turned, walked to the door, and without hesitation opened it and left.
I went out on the terrace and looked at the city across the river. The holiday lights were still on, mostly red, as you’d expect in a Red country.
I thought of the Pham family. There was, I thought, a gray cloud over this country, formed from the smoke and fire of war, and it rained down hate, sorrow, and mistrust.
If that wasn’t bad enough, this cloud, or, as Karl called it, this shadow still covered my own country.
Truly, Vietnam was the worst thing that ever happened to America in this century, and perhaps the reverse was also true.
The phone rang, and I went back inside and answered it. “Hello.”
“I just wanted to say good luck tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“If something happened to you, and we parted—”
“Susan, the phones aren’t secure. I know what you’re saying, and I was about to call you.”
“Do you want me to come to your room?”
“No. We’re both tired, and we’ll have a fight.”
“Okay. Where and when can we meet tomorrow?”
“At six here in the lounge. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Okay… and if you’re very late?”
“Fax Ms. Kay directly. Do you have the number?”
“I remember it.”
“Give her all the details, and be sure you stand at the fax machine, or try the GPO.”
“I know.”
“I know you do. You’re a pro.”
“Paul…?”
“Yes?
“I had no right to get upset about that P.S. I apologize.”
“Forget it.”
“This is what it is. This is here and now. I said that, and I meant it.”
I didn’t reply to that, and I said, “Hey, I had a good day. Happy New Year.”
“Me, too, and you, too.”
We both hung up.
So, I’m having lady problems in a hostile country halfway around the world, people are trying to arrest me or kill me, and it’s 4 A.M., and I need to see the cops in the morning, then make a possibly dangerous rendezvous at noon. And yet, for some reason, none of this bothered me. In fact, the entire Highway One ordeal, including killing the two cops, and the flashbacks, and all of the rest of it, didn’t bother me.
I recognized this feeling for what it was: survival mode. Life was no longer complicated. It all came down to getting home one last time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It wasn’t the worst New Year’s Day hangover I’ve ever had, but it may have been the earliest I’d ever been awake to fully appreciate it.
I showered and dressed for success — blue blazer, white button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and docksiders with socks.
I took an orange juice from the mini-bar and swallowed two aspirin with my malaria pill. I was glad they hadn’t given me a suicide pill because I felt lousy enough to take it.
I went downstairs, skipped breakfast, and walked the few blocks to Ben Nghe Street, where the Immigration Police were located.
It was a cool, damp morning, high cloud cover, and the streets were nearly deserted, and strewn with trash from the night before.
I thought maybe I should have called Susan, but sometimes a little separation is good. I’d been separated from Cynthia more than we’d been together, and we got along great. Maybe not great, but okay.
I got to the police building, a structure of prefab concrete, and went inside.
In a small foyer sat a uniformed guy at a desk, and he said to me in English, “What you want?”
Rather than reply and confuse the idiot, I gave him a photocopy of Colonel Mang’s note, which he read. He stood and disappeared into a hallway behind him.
A minute later, he reappeared and said to me, “Room.” He held up two fingers.
I returned the peace sign and went to Room 2, a small office whose door was open. Behind a desk sat a man about my age in uniform, who looked more hungover than I did.
He didn’t invite me to sit, but just looked at me awhile. I looked at him. Something not pleasant passed between us.
On his desk lay his gun belt and holster, which held a Chicom 9mm. There wasn’t a police station in America where you’d get this close to a cop’s gun. Here, the cops were sloppy and arrogant. This offended me, and having to stand also pissed me off.
The cop looked at the note in his hand and said to me, “When you arrive Hue?”
I’d had enough of this crap, and I replied, “The Century Riverside Hotel told you when I arrived. You know that’s where I’m staying for three nights. Any other questions?”
He didn’t like my reply or my tone of voice. He raised his voice, which became sort of high pitched, and he almost shouted, “Why you not report here yesterday?”
“Because I didn’t want to.”
He did not like that. I mean, he’s working on New Year’s Day, he’s got little rice wine demons smashing gongs in his head, and he’s getting attitude from a round-eye.
So, we stared at each other, and as I said, something unhealthy was passing between us, and it wasn’t just irritation brought on by mutual hangovers. He said to me, “You soldier here?”
“That’s right. How about you?”
“Me, too.”
We kept staring at each other, and I now noticed a jagged scar running down from half an ear, zigzagging over the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his open collar. Half his teeth were missing or broken, and the rest were brown.
He asked me, “When you here?”
“I was here in 1968, I was with the First Cavalry Division, I saw combat at Bong Son, An Khe, Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, the A Shau Valley, and all over Quang Tri Province. I fought the North Vietnamese army and the Viet Cong, you killed a lot of my friends, and we killed a lot of your friends. We all killed too many civilians, including the three thousand men and women you murdered here in Hue. Any other questions?”
He stood and stared at me, and I could see his eyes go nuts before his face even twitched.