“Yes? You are happy that Dodge City is closed? That is what you called that district — correct? Built by your own engineers.”
“Never heard of it.”
Colonel Mang all of a sudden turned nasty and said to me, “Moral pollution. Degeneracy. That’s why you lost the war.”
I wasn’t going to let him bait me, so I didn’t reply.
Colonel Mang went on awhile about American imperialism, Agent Orange, the My Lai massacre, the bombing of Hanoi, and a few other things that even I wasn’t familiar with.
This was a very angry man, and I couldn’t even take any personal pleasure in getting him angry because he hated me before I walked through his door.
I recalled Mr. Conway’s advice to express remorse for the war, and I realized this wasn’t just a suggestion, but a requirement. I said, “The war was a terrible time for both our people, but especially for the Vietnamese, who suffered so much. I regret my country’s involvement in the war, and especially my own involvement. I’ve come here to see how the Vietnamese people are living now in peace. I think it’s good that so many American veterans are returning, and I know that many of them have contributed time and money to help heal the wounds of war. I hope to be able to do the same.”
Colonel Mang seemed pleased with my little speech and nodded approvingly. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I doubted it.
He asked me, “And where do you go between Hue and Hanoi?”
Actually, on a secret mission, but I replied, “I don’t know. Any suggestions?”
“Surely you will visit some of your old battlefields?”
“I was a cook.”
He gave me a conspiratorial smile, like we both knew that was bullshit. He said in a flattering tone, “You seem to me like a man who would not be satisfied stirring a pot.”
“Well, I was a real sensitive kid. The sight of blood on the pork chops used to make me sick.”
Colonel Mang leaned across his desk and said, “I killed many Americans. How many Vietnamese did you kill?”
I kind of lost it right then and there, and I stood and replied, “This conversation has become harassment. I’m going to report this incident to my consulate in Saigon and to my embassy in Hanoi.” I looked at my watch and said, “I’ve been here half an hour, and if you delay me one more minute, I’m going to demand that you let me call the consulate.”
Colonel Mang, too, lost his cool, stood and slammed his hand on the desk. He shouted for the first time, “You will make no demands on me! I will demand of you! I demand from you a full itinerary of your travels in the Socialist Republic!”
“I told you, I have no specific plans. I was told I could travel freely.”
“I am telling you, you must give me an itinerary!”
“Well, then, I’ll think about it. Please give me my passport and visa.”
Colonel Mang got himself under control and sat. He said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “Please be seated, Mr. Brenner.”
I remained standing long enough to piss him off, then sat.
He informed me, “I will hold your passport and return it to you before you leave Ho Chi Minh City. At that time, you will provide me with a full and accurate itinerary of your time between Ho Chi Minh City and Hue, and between Hue and Hanoi.”
“I’d like my passport now.”
“I do not care what you like.” He looked at his watch and said, “You have been here ten minutes, this was a routine passport and visa check, and you are now free to leave.” He pushed my visa across the desk and said, “You may take this.”
I stood and took my visa, leaving the snow globe on Mang’s desk, and walked toward the door.
Colonel Mang needed a parting shot and said, “This is my country, Mr. Brenner, and you are not the one with the guns any longer.”
I had no intention of responding, but then I started to think about this guy’s anger, his obviously traumatic war years as a combat platoon leader. I’m not a very empathetic guy, but because we were both combat veterans, I tried to put myself in his place.
But even if Mang was partly entitled to his anger, it wasn’t doing him any good. I asked him, “Don’t you think it’s time to make peace with the past?”
Colonel Mang stared at me, then stood. He said in a soft tone that I could barely hear, “Mr. Brenner, I have lost most of my family and most of my friends to American bombs and bullets. My high school class are nearly all dead. I don’t have a living male cousin, and only one of my four brothers survived the war, and he is an amputee. Now, if that happened to you, would you be able to forgive and forget?”
“Probably not. But history and memory should serve to inform the next generation not to perpetuate the hatred.”
He thought about that for a few seconds, then said, “You can do whatever you wish in your country. I hope you learn something here. I suggest adding to your itinerary a visit to the Museum of American War Crimes.”
I opened the door and left.
Standing outside was Pushy, who motioned me to walk in front of him. I re-traced my route down the narrow corridor and into the main terminal. Pushy gave me a little shove toward the baggage carousel. I walked across the deserted terminal and saw my suitcase and overnight bag, sitting at the feet of an armed soldier.
I reached for my suitcase, but Pushy grabbed my arm. He thrust a piece of paper toward me. I took it and read the handwritten words in English: $20—Arrival Tax.
My little guidebook had mentioned a departure tax, but I had the feeling that Pushy invented the arrival tax. I don’t like being shaken down, and it was time to push back. I crumpled up the blackmail note and threw it on the ground. “No.”
This sent Pushy into a frenzy, and he began shouting in Vietnamese and waving his arms around. The soldier stood by impassively.
I picked up my bags, and Pushy didn’t try to stop me. In fact, he shouted, “Di di! Di di mau!” which means get moving, and is not very polite.
I started to turn away, then I had a good idea that would make everyone happy. I put my bags down, reached into my breast pocket, and took a twenty-dollar bill from the envelope. I showed it to Pushy and gestured toward my bags. He wrestled with this temptation for a minute, weighing about three weeks’ pay against his dignity. He looked around, then shouted at me to walk to the door as he picked up my bags. If he’d been nicer, I would have pointed out the retractable handle and wheels on the suitcase.
Anyway, I went out into the hot, humid air, which smelled heavily of exhaust fumes. The rain was now a drizzle, and there was a covered walkway that led to a line of taxicabs. A few people did double takes at the sight of a uniformed guy carrying my baggage, and they probably thought I was a big-shot American.
We got to the lead taxi, and the driver wanted to put the bags in the trunk, but Pushy had the drill by now and threw both bags in the trunk.
I held out the twenty, and Pushy snatched it rudely. I really wanted to knee him in the balls, but that might have cost me another twenty. Pushy said something to me in a nasty tone of voice, then yelled at the taxi driver and stomped off.
The driver closed the trunk, opened the passenger door, and I got inside the small Honda, not much bigger than a Civic. It stank of cigarette smoke and mildew.
The driver jumped in the car, started it up, and sped off.
We got clear of the airport in a few minutes, and the driver said, in passable English, “You American? Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Come from Seoul?”
“That’s right.”
“Why take you so long?”
“The moving walkway was stuck.”
“They ask you questions?”
“Yes.”
“Communists eat shit.”