Standing on the other side of the line of passport booths was my French friend, who had passed through at least five minutes before with no problem. He seemed to be waiting for me, then noticed that I had an escort. He raised his eyebrows and said something in Vietnamese to my escort. The uniformed guy answered back sharply. The Frenchman, too, raised his voice, and they had a little argument, but the Frenchman didn’t seem cowed by the Commie in uniform.
The Frenchman said to me, in English, “I think this is only a random questioning. Be polite, but firm. If you have nothing to hide, it will go well.”
Actually, I had something to hide. I said to my new friend, “See you at Mademoiselle Dieu-Kiem’s.”
The short, tubby Viet guy gave me a push, which pissed me off so much I almost clocked him. But I got myself under control. The mission comes first. Clocking Commies was not part of the mission this time.
As I turned to follow the Viet, I heard the Frenchman say, “It is quite different now that neither your country nor mine is the power here. They have the power.”
So off I went with this little guy in uniform, whose hat had a big red Commie star on the peak. Last time I was here, I had an M-16, and I had the power, and if I’d seen this guy then, I’d have painted him as red as that star.
I realized I was getting myself wound up, so as I walked with this guy through the nearly deserted terminal, I calmed myself down with a mental image of me with my hands around Karl’s throat.
It occurred to me that there were three possibilities at the end of this walk. One, whoever it was I was going to talk to would kick me out of the country. Two, I’d be free to visit the Socialist Republic and do my sightseeing. Three, I’d wind up in the slammer.
I realized I might have some control over these possibilities, depending on what I said. I’m pretty good at bullshit.
We got to the far end of the terminal and came to a closed door, which my Commie companion opened, and which led to a long hallway lined with doors. The hallway was narrow, so my friend got behind me and prodded me again with a push. I could have broken his fat neck in a heartbeat, but then I wouldn’t know what door I was supposed to go through.
He grabbed my arm halfway down the hall, then knocked on a door. The voice behind the door barked, “Di Vao.”
My pushy friend opened the door, thumped his hand on my shoulder, and I entered the room. The door closed behind me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I found myself in a hot, dimly lit room whose stucco walls were the color of nicotine. In fact, the air smelled of cigarette smoke. The room was small and windowless, and a paddle fan hung motionless from the ceiling.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw on the far wall a portrait of Ho Chi Minh and a small red flag with a yellow star in the center. I could also see a photo of a guy in uniform, who I thought might be General Giap, and a few photos of unsmiling civilians, who were undoubtedly government or Party officials. I concluded that this was not the Travelers’ Aid Office.
There was a desk to my right and behind the desk was a middle-aged man in uniform. He said to me, “Sit.”
I sat in an olive drab chair that I recognized as an American army camp chair. The desk, too, was American; the standard gray steel that hasn’t changed since about World War II. On the wall above the desk was a big ventilation louver, and I could hear the rain falling outside.
The guy who had shown me into the office, who I’d nicknamed Pushy, deposited my passport and visa on the desk, then, without a word, he took my overnight bag and left.
The middle-aged guy in uniform studied my passport and visa by the light of a gooseneck lamp. I studied the guy.
He had on an olive-colored short-sleeve shirt with shoulder boards, and on the boards, he wore the rank of a major or colonel — I never could get the foreign insignia straight. Also, he had three rows of colored ribbons on his left breast pocket, and I assumed some of those dated back to the American War, as they called the Vietnam War here.
He had one of those faces that you instinctively don’t like — pinched and perpetually frowning, with high, prominent cheekbones. His eyes were narrow, and his eyeballs seemed fixed in their sockets.
He looked older than me, but I knew he wasn’t. In any case, he was the right age to be a veteran of the American War, and if he was, he had no positive feelings about Americans. I assumed, too, he was a North Vietnamese because he looked a little bigger and heavier than the southerners, who were slight of build. Also, it was mostly the North Viets who staffed the positions of power in the defeated south. My instincts told me this was not going to be a pleasant interview.
The guy looked up from my passport and said to me, “I am Colonel Mang.”
I didn’t reply. But the fact that he was indeed a full colonel led me to believe this wasn’t a simple passport and visa check.
Colonel Mang, in good English, asked me, “What is the purpose of your visit to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam?” He had a kind of high, staccato voice that was irritating.
I replied, “Tourism,” which was the lie from which all future lies would spring. And if this guy knew it was a lie, then he’d let me keep lying until he had enough lies to make a noose.
“Tourism,” said Colonel Mang. He stared at me. “Why?”
I replied, “I was a soldier here.”
Suddenly Colonel Mang’s demeanor changed from unpleasant to overly interested. Maybe I should have ignored my instructions and lied about that, but it’s really important to stick close to the truth.
Colonel Mang asked me, “When were you here?”
“In 1968, then again in 1972.”
“Two times. So you were a career military man.”
“I became a career military man.”
He tapped my visa and said, “Now you are retired.”
“That’s right.”
Colonel Mang thought a moment and asked me, “And what were your duties in Vietnam?”
I hesitated a half-second too long, then replied, “I was a cook. An army cook.”
Colonel Mang seemed to mull this over. He asked, “And where were you stationed?”
“In 1968 I was stationed at An Khe. In 1972 at Bien Hoa.”
“Yes? An Khe. The First Cavalry Division.”
“That’s right.”
“And Bien Hoa. What division?”
“I was a cook at the replacement center mess hall.”
“Yes?” Colonel Mang lit a cigarette and drew thoughtfully on it. Finally, he informed me, “I was a lieutenant with Division 325 of the People’s Army of Vietnam.”
I didn’t reply.
Colonel Mang continued, “I was an infantry platoon commander. In 1968, my regiment operated around Hue and Quang Tri. There were units of your division there as well. Were you ever stationed in that area?”
Again, sticking to the truth, but against my better judgment, I replied, “I was near Hue and Quang Tri a few times.”
“Yes? Cooking?”
“That’s right.” I thought that this could be a pleasant conversation between two veterans, except for the fact that we had once been trying to kill each other.
Colonel Mang smiled for the first time and said, “Since our time there coincided, perhaps we once met.”
Somewhat intemperately, I replied, “If we had met, Colonel, only one of us would be here now.”
Colonel Mang smiled again, but it was not a nice smile. He said, “Yes, that is true.” He stared at me awhile, then remarked, “You don’t seem to me like a cook.”
I considered offering him my recipe for two hundred servings of chili, but instead I said, “I’m not sure what you mean, Colonel.”
Colonel Mang puffed on his cigarette and seemed to be staring into the past. I had to assume he was used to questioning American veterans. I assumed, too, he enjoyed his job. What he was after, and what he knew, was another matter.