This took me by surprise and I laughed.
The driver took a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and held the pack over his shoulder. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
He lit his cigarette with a match and steered with his knees.
I looked out the window and saw that the city had crept out to the airport. In place of the ramshackle bamboo huts and concession stands that I remembered on this road, I saw stucco structures. I noticed electric lines strung everywhere, and I saw TV antennas, and even a few satellite dishes. There were also a lot of small trucks and motor scooters on the road in place of the ox-drawn carts I’d remembered. Now, as then, there were a lot of bicycles. Something else new was a lot of plastic and paper trash along the road.
I didn’t expect to see the old Vietnam, which in many ways was picturesque and pristine, but this horn honking and the TV antennas were a little jarring.
I thought about Colonel Mang for a moment and decided that the whole incident was, indeed, random. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my run-in with the authorities had compromised the mission. I had to decide whether to push on or abort.
The driver said, “Hotel?”
“The Rex.”
“American General Hotel.”
“Really?”
“You a soldier in Vietnam. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“I know. I drive many soldiers.”
“Do they all get stopped and questioned?”
“No. Not many. They come out of building… you know? They come… how you say?”
“Alone? Late?”
“Yes. Late. Communists eat shit.” He broke into loud laughter, warming to his subject. “Communists eat dog shit.”
“Thank you. I get the picture.”
“Mister, why the soldier carry your bag?”
“I don’t know. What did he say?”
“He say you are American important person, but you are imperialist dog.”
“That’s not nice.”
“You important person?”
“I’m the leader of the American Communist Party.”
He got real quiet and shot some glances at me in the rearview mirror. He said, “Joke. Right? Joke?”
“Yes, joke.”
“No Communists in America.”
The conversation had a little entertainment value, but I was jet-lagged, tired, and cranky. I looked out the window. We were in old Saigon now, on a wide, well-lit boulevard whose street sign said Phan Dinh Phung. I seemed to recall that this boulevard passed the Catholic cathedral and in fact, I caught a glimpse of the cathedral spires over the low, French-style buildings.
My new friend said, “My father a soldier. He was American ami. You understand?”
“Biet,” I replied, in one of my few remembered Vietnamese words.
He glanced back at me, and we made eye contact. He nodded, turned back to his driving, and said, “He prisoner. Never see him again.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes. Fucking Communists. Yes?”
I didn’t reply. I was, I realized, more than tired. I was back. Thank you, Karl.
We turned onto Le Loi Street, Saigon’s main drag, and approached the Rex Hotel.
I never saw any of Saigon when I was an infantryman. It was off limits, except for official business, and the average grunt had no official business in Saigon. But during my brief tour as an MP, I got to know the city a little. It was, then, a lively place, but it was a besieged capital, and the lights were always dimmed, and the motor traffic was mostly military. Sandbags were piled up at strategic locations where Vietnamese police and soldiers kept an eye on things. Every restaurant and café had steel gratings in front of the windows to discourage the local Viet Cong on motor scooters from tossing satchel charges and grenades at the paying customers. Yet despite the war, there was a frenetic energy about the city, a sort of joie de vivre that you see, ironically, when death is right outside the walls, and the end is near.
This Saigon, this Ho Chi Minh City, looked frenetic, too, but without the wartime psychosis that used to grip the town each night. And, surprisingly, there were lighted advertisements all over the place — Sony, Mitsubishi, Coca-Cola, Peugeot, Hyundai — mostly Japanese, Korean, American, and French products. The Commies might eat shit, but they drank Coke.
The taxi stopped in front of the Rex, and my friend popped the trunk and got out.
A doorman opened my door while a bellboy grabbed the bags from the trunk. The doorman said in good English, “Welcome to the Rex, sir.”
My driver said to me, “Here my card. Mr. Yen. You call me. I show you all city. Good tour guide. Mr. Yen.”
The ride was four dollars, and I tipped Mr. Yen a buck.
Yen looked around to make sure no one was listening, and he said, “That man in airport is security police. He say he will see you again.” He jumped back in his taxi.
I entered the Rex Hotel.
The lobby of the Rex was a big, polished marble affair, with vaguely French architecture, and hanging crystal chandeliers. There were potted plants all over, and the air-conditioning worked. This was much nicer than Colonel Mang’s office.
I also noticed that the lobby was decorated for the Tet holiday, which I was here for in ’68 and ’72. There were lots of flowering fruit branches stuck in big vases, and a big kumquat tree in the center of the floor.
There were a few people in the lobby, but at this hour — it was after midnight — it was pretty quiet.
I went to the check-in desk where a nice young Vietnamese lady, whose nametag said Lan, greeted me, took my voucher, and asked for my passport. I gave her my visa, she smiled, and again asked for my passport.
I informed her, “The police have taken it.”
Her nice smile faded. She said, “I’m sorry, we need a passport to check you in.”
“If you don’t check me in, how will the police know where I am? I gave them this address.”
The logic of this impressed her, and she got on the horn and jabbered awhile, then came back to me and said, “We will need to hold your visa until you check out.”
“Fine. Don’t lose it.”
Lan began playing with her Japanese computer terminal. She said, “This is a busy season. It is the Tet holiday, and the weather is good for tourists.”
“It’s hot and sticky.”
“You must come from a cold climate. You will get used to it. Have you stayed with us before?”
“I walked past the place a few times in 1972.”
She glanced up at me, but didn’t reply. Lan found me a deluxe suite for my hundred and fifty bucks a night and handed the key to the bellboy. She said, “Have a pleasant stay, Mr. Brenner. Please let the concierge know if there is anything you need.”
I needed my passport, and to have my head examined, but I said, “Thank you.” I was not supposed to call or fax anyone regarding my safe arrival. Someone would call here, which they’d probably done already, and they were wondering why I hadn’t yet checked in.
Lan said to me, “Chuc Mung Nam Moi. Happy New Year.”
My Vietnamese was mostly forgotten, but my pronunciation was once good, and I was able to parrot her. “Chuc Mung Nam Moi.”
She smiled. “Very good.”
So, off I went toward the elevators with the bellboy. The Viets are basically pleasant people, polite, good-natured, and helpful. But beneath the placid, smiling Buddhist exterior lay a very short fuse.
Anyway, up the elevator to the sixth floor, down the wide hallway to a big door. The bellhop showed me into a nice suite with a sitting area, a view of Le Loi Street, and, thank God, a room bar. I gave him a buck and he left.
I hit the bar first and made myself a Chivas and soda with ice. This was just like a vacation, except for the bullshit at the airport and the fact that I could get arrested any minute for no reason, or for a good reason.