“Despite his aggressive behavior, they fell in love and began a life together.”
“That’s nice. And lived happily ever after?”
“No. The gods were angry at them for what they had done.”
“Did the gods live in Washington?”
“Some place like that. The gods sent the male fairy off to a re-education camp.”
“Bummer.”
“Right. But the female fairy waited for him for centuries.”
“Good lady.”
“Yes. But she was heartbroken, and thought he would never return. So she lay down and turned into stone. See that mountain?” She pointed to the northwest. “That’s called Nui Co Tien—Fairy Mountain. That peak on the right is her face, gazing up at the sky. The middle peaks are her breasts, and the peaks on the left are her crossed legs.”
I looked, and yes, you could imagine a reclining female with her legs crossed.
Susan said, “One day, the male fairy returned to this spot and seeing what had become of his lover, he slammed his hand down over his old handprint, where he’d first seen her bathing on the beach. He was so grief-stricken, he died, and he, too, turned to stone.”
I didn’t say anything for a while, then commented, “Sad story.”
“Almost all love stories have a sad ending.” She asked, “Why is that?”
I replied, “I think when the affair begins illicitly, and when everyone around the lovers is hurt or angry . . . then the affair is going to have an unhappy and probably tragic ending.”
Susan looked off at Fairy Mountain. She said, “More importantly, though, the lovers stayed true to each other.”
“You’re a romantic.”
She asked, “Are you the practical type?”
“No one ever accused me of being practical.”
“Would you give up your life for love?”
“Why not? I’ve risked my life for less important things.”
She gave me a kiss on the cheek, took my hand, and we walked down the mountain.
That night, we went to the new resort called Ana Mandara that we’d seen on the way down to the Nha Trang docks, and we had a first-rate dinner of Westernized Vietnamese food. The place was owned by a Dutch concern, and the clientele was mostly European, but there were a few Americans as well.
A nice combo was playing at poolside, and we had a few drinks, danced, talked, and held hands.
Susan said, “After dinner at the Rex, I went home that night floating on a cloud.”
I replied, “I think I felt the same way.”
“You sent me away. What if I hadn’t come back?”
“Weren’t you told to stick close to me?”
She replied, “Only if you wanted my company, or needed something. If not, I was supposed to disappear. But I wasn’t going to do that. I was going to phone you. Then, I decided to just come back and join you for dinner.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said, but I recalled thinking at the time that it wasn’t as spontaneous as Susan was suggesting. Then there were the inconsistencies in the Bill Stanley story, and a few other things that didn’t quite add up. The elephant grass swayed, but there was no breeze; the bamboo clicked, a little closer now.
We left the Ana Mandara, and walked back to the Grand Hotel. We’d kept both rooms, but Susan’s room was the one where I slept.
We made love and lay close together on our backs in the bed, surrounded by the cocoon of the mosquito netting, the bed garlanded with branches of Tet blossoms, the orange-scented candle flickering, and the boric acid on the floor.
We watched the paddle fan spin lazily overhead. A breeze blew in from the open balcony, and I could smell the sea. The next day, Friday, was to be our last full day in Nha Trang, so I said to her, “Have you arranged transportation back to Saigon?”
She was running her foot over my leg. “What?”
“Saigon. Saturday.”
“Oh. The trains stop running Saturday. That’s Lunar New Year’s Eve.”
“How about a car and driver?”
“I’ll try to arrange that tomorrow.”
This didn’t sound like a definite plan. I asked, “Will that be a problem?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve never tried to travel around Tet.”
“Then maybe you should leave tomorrow.”
“I’m not leaving early. I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”
“Well, me, too, but—”
“How are you getting to Hue?”
“I don’t know. But I need to be there.”
She said, “Every plane and train has been booked for months.”
“Well . . . maybe I should also leave tomorrow.”
“You should if you want to try to buy yourself a place on the train.”
“Could I get a car and driver tomorrow?”
“We’ll try. If all else fails, there’s always the torture bus. No reservation required. Just buy a ticket at the terminal, and jam yourself in. All you need are elbows and dong.”
“What do I do with my dong?”
“Dong. Money. Stop being an idiot.” She said, “I took a bus once, Saigon to Hue, just for the experience, and it was an experience.”
“Maybe we should see about getting out of here tomorrow.”
“Yes, that’s what we should do first thing tomorrow.”
Part Two. She informed me, “I was supposed to go to a Tet Eve house party with Bill.”
I didn’t reply.
She said, “Everyone we know will be there. Americans, Brits, Aussies, and some Catholic Viets.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going now. I’ll just stay home and watch the dragon dances from my window.”
“You’ll thank yourself in the morning.”
“My housekeeper will be with her family, of course, and most of the bars and restaurants are closed, or open only by invitation. So, maybe I’ll just warm up some pho and get a bottle of rice wine, put on a Barbra Streisand album, and get to sleep early.”
“Sounds horrible. How about the Beach Boys?”
“I suppose I could go to the party, but it would be awkward.”
“Would you like to go to Hue with me?”
“Oh . . . that’s an idea.” She crawled on top of me and said, “You’re such a sweetheart.”
“And you’re trouble.”
“What are they going to do to you? Send you to Vietnam?”
She kissed me, my linga got longer, and we made love again. It was less than an hour since we’d done this, and I hadn’t had my bird’s nest soup today. This was fast becoming like my last R&R in Nha Trang, except then, I was a lot younger. I pictured myself meeting Karl in Bangkok on crutches. At least I was tanned.
She fell asleep in my arms. A strong wind had come up, and I could hear the surf crashing. I couldn’t get to sleep, realizing that I was up to my tanned butt in official trouble, and getting in deeper.
I thought about the cautionary fable I’d learned on Hon Chong Mountain. No one could say I hadn’t been warned.
The world is not always kind to lovers, and in the case of Paul Brenner and Susan Weber, we had really pissed off the gods.
Susan was right that we had to leave tomorrow rather than Saturday, which was Lunar New Year’s Eve. But she knew that all week.
I was certain that Susan Weber was ready to go home, if I took her home. But she never once said, “Let’s get out of here.” She said, “Let me go with you wherever you have to go.”
And that brought me to three possible conclusions: One, she was bored, finished with Bill, and was looking for an adventure and challenge; two, she was madly in love with me and didn’t want to leave my side; three, she and I were on the same assignment.
One, all, or any combination was possible.
That aside, I think we both understood that if we parted here in Nha Trang, we might never meet in Hanoi, or anywhere; and if we did meet in Hanoi, it wouldn’t be the same. My journey h
ad become her journey, and her way home had become my way home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Early Friday morning, we went to the government travel agency, Vidotour, but like most government agencies, they were closed for the holiday. In fact, aside from food and flower shops, the town was starting to shut down.
We went next to the train station, but this being the last day that any trains were running until the following Friday, we couldn’t even buy a standby ticket. To make matters worse, even if we bribed our way on a train, the ticket or bribe was only good to Da Nang where we’d have to go through the process again, or get stranded in Da Nang.
As we left the train station, Susan asked me, “Why did they send you here during the Tet holiday?”
I replied, “It’s not as stupid as it seems. I need to find someone in his native town or village.”
“Oh. Well, he should be there.”
“I hope so. That’s the only address we have.”
“Tam Ki? Is that the village?”
“I don’t think that place exists. It’s another place whose name I’ll get in Hue. After Hue, I need to go to this place. But you will not—repeat not—go with me.”
“I know that. I’ll stay in Hue. Then I’ll get myself up to Hanoi and meet you.”
“Fine. Meanwhile, we need to get to Hue.”
“Money talks. I’ll get us to Hue.”
We walked around town with the tourist map that I’d bought on the beach, but the two private travel agencies were closed.
As we walked, I looked for a tail, but I was fairly certain we were alone. After some inquiries on the street, we found a mini-bus-tour office that was open near the central market. The guy behind the counter was a slicky boy with dark glasses and the instincts of a vulture. He smelled money and desperation the way a carrion-eating bird smells impending death. Susan and he slugged it out for ten minutes, then she said to me, “He’s got a tour group leaving here at 7 A.M. tomorrow. They arrive in Hue about 6 P.M., in time for Tet Eve. When do you have to meet your person?”
“Not until noon the next day—New Year’s Day. Sunday.”
“Okay. He says there are no actual seats left on the mini-bus, but we can sit in the doorwell or someplace. Plenty of room for our luggage. Fifty bucks each.”
“What kind of tour group?”
She asked Slicky Boy, then said to me, “They’re French.”
“Let’s walk.”
She laughed.
“Tell him he has to pay us.”
She actually translated this to Slicky, and he laughed and slapped my shoulder.
I said, “Ask him if he has a car and driver available today.”
She spoke to him, and he looked doubtful, which meant, “Yes, and it’s going to cost you a fortune.”
Susan said to me, “He has a man who can drive us to Hue, but because of the holiday, it will cost us five hundred dollars.”
I said, “It’s not my holiday. Two hundred.”
She spoke to Slicky, and we settled on three hundred. Susan said to me, “He says the driver and the car aren’t available until about 6 P.M.” She added, “By car, we can make it in seven or eight hours if we leave about six when traffic gets light. That will get us in at one or two in the morning. Is that okay?”
“Sure. We can sleep in the hotel lobby if there isn’t a room available.”
“All right . . . you understand that night driving isn’t that safe?”
“Neither is day driving around here.”
“Right. I’ll tell him to pick us up about six at the hotel.”
I took her aside and said to her, “No. Tell him we’ll come here. And tell him we’re going to Hue”Phu Bai Airport.”
She nodded and passed this on to Slicky Boy.
We left Slicky Boy Tours and found an outdoor café where we got coffee.
I said to Susan, “You did a great job. I was getting a little concerned about getting out of here.”
“For that kind of money—about a year’s salary—you can get what you want. As my father used to say, ‘The poor suffer, the rich are slightly inconvenienced.’ ” She looked at me and said, “If we have three hundred dollars, we must have more. And it’s a night drive. So don’t fall asleep.”
“I already figured that out. That’s why I’m still alive.” I added, “If we don’t like the looks of this tonight, we have the mini-bus in the morning as a backup.”
She sipped her coffee and asked me, “Why didn’t you want the driver to pick us up at the hotel?”
“Because Colonel Mang doesn’t want me using private transportation.”
“Why not?”
“Because Colonel Mang is a paranoid asshole. I need to go to the Immigration Police and show them a ticket to Hue. You said I could get a bus ticket.”
“Yes. The ticket is good for any time, Nha Trang to Hue. So the police won’t ask what bus you intend to take. Hue is about 550 kilometers from here, and that could take ten to twelve hours by bus, so my guess is the last bus for Hue will leave here about 1 P.M., to arrive in Hue about midnight.”
“So, if I was really taking the bus, I’d need to leave soon.”
“That’s right. And you’d have to check out of the hotel soon.”
“Okay.” I stood. “Bus station.”
We paid the bill, left, and walked to the main bus terminal.
The bus terminal was a mass of impoverished humanity, and I didn’t see a single Westerner there, not even a backpacker or a schoolteacher.
The lines were long, but Susan went to the front of the line and gave a guy a few bucks to buy my ticket. Susan asked me, “One way, or round-trip?”
“One way, observation deck, window seat.”
“One ticket for the roof.” The Viet guy bought the ticket, and we left the teeming bus terminal.
Susan said, “The ticket agent said there’s a noon bus, and a one P.M. bus.”
We walked toward the police station, and I said to Susan, “You stay here. By now, they know you speak Vietnamese. I do better with pidgin English.”
She said, “More importantly, if you don’t come out of there, I’ll contact the embassy.”
I didn’t reply and walked to the Immigration police station.
Inside was a different guy behind the desk, and I presented him with Colonel Mang’s letter, which he read.
The waiting room was nearly empty this time, except for two backpackers sleeping on benches.
The Immigration cop said to me in passable English, “Where you go now?”
“Hue.”
“How you go Hue?”
I showed him my bus ticket.
He seemed a little surprised, but I had the five-dollar ticket so I must be telling the truth. He asked me, “When you go?”
“Now.”
“Yes? You leave hotel?”
The guy knew I was checked in until tomorrow. I said, “Yes, leave hotel today.”
“Why you leave today?”
“No train to Hue tomorrow. No plane. Go bus. Today.”
“Yes. Okay. You go to police in Hue.”
I said sharply, “I know that.”
“Lady go with you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We talk.”
He asked, “Where lady now?”
“Lady shop.” I looked at my watch and said, “I go now.”
“No. You need stamp.” He produced the photocopies I’d given to them when I arrived, and he said, “I stamp. Ten dollars.”
I gave him a ten. He stamped my photocopies, and wrote something on the stamps. I think they make this up as they go along.
I left before he thought of anything else.
I looked at the stamps and saw that the guy had handwritten Hue—Century over the red ink, so he already knew where I was staying. He’d also written the time, 11:15, and dated it.
I met Susan down the street, and she asked me, “Any problems?”
“No. Just another round-eye tax.” I showed her the photocopies with the r
ed stamps on them and asked, “What are these?”
She looked at them and said, “These are the old internal travel stamps you used to need years ago.”
“Cost me ten bucks.”
“I buy my own rubber stamps for five bucks.”
“Bring them next time.”
She said to me, “So, you’re staying at the Century Riverside. That’s where I stayed when I was in Hue.”
“Well, that’s where you’re staying this time. But we’ll try to get separate rooms.”
We took a taxi back to the Grand Hotel. As we drove along the road, Susan asked me, “If I weren’t here, would you have gotten a Viet girl to stay with you at the hotel all week, or had a different one every night, or picked up a Western woman at the Nha Trang Sailing Club?”
There didn’t seem to be a correct answer among the choices. I said, “I would have spent more time at the Oceanographic Institute and continued with the cold showers.”
“No, I mean really.”
“I’m involved at home.”
Silence.
I’m good at this stuff, so I said, “Even if I wasn’t involved with anyone, when I’m on an assignment, I never do anything that can complicate or compromise the mission. But in this case, you’re sort of part of the team—as I very recently found out—and therefore I felt I could make an exception.”
She replied, “I’m not part of the team, and you didn’t know anything about that in Saigon when we decided to come to Nha Trang together.”
I didn’t recall making that decision, but again, I know when to shut up.
She continued, “So, if you’re on an assignment with a female co-worker, then you might consider a sexual or romantic involvement. That’s how you met what’s-her-name.”
“Can we stop at the marketplace for a leash?”
“Sorry.”
We arrived at the Grand without any further conversation.
At the front desk, there was a fax for Susan on Bank of America letterhead. I said, “Maybe your cyclo loan has been approved.”
She read the fax and handed it to me. It was from Bill, of course, and it read: Washington firm absolutely insists that you return to Saigon as soon as possible. They need to talk with you via e-mail. On a personal note, I would have no objection if you wanted to come to the Vincents’ party, Tet Eve. We can be civilized about this, and perhaps discuss our relationship, if any. Need a full response.