She smiled again, but didn’t reply.
The drinks came, and she said, “I think they use real quinine. Something to do with malaria. I hate the malaria pills. They give me… well, the runs. I don’t take them.”
“You live here?”
“Yes. Almost three years now. I work for an American investment company. Are you here on business?”
“Tourism.”
“Just arrived?”
“Last night. I’m staying here.”
She raised her glass and said, “Welcome to Saigon, Mr….?”
“Brenner.” We touched glasses.
Her accent, I noticed, had a touch of New England in it, and I asked her, “Where are you from?”
“I was born in Lenox — western Massachusetts.”
“I know where it is.” Lenox was one of those picture-perfect postcard towns in the Berkshire hills. I said, “I drove through Lenox once. Lots of big mansions.”
She didn’t respond to that, but said, “Summer home of the Boston Symphony — Tanglewood. Did you ever go to Tanglewood?”
“I usually summer in Monte Carlo.”
She looked at me to see if I was jerking her around, couldn’t seem to decide, then asked me, “How about you? I think I hear a little Boston.”
“Very good. I thought I’d lost that.”
“You never do. So, we’re both Bay Staters. Small world and all that.” She looked around. “It’s nice up here, except in the summer when it’s too hot. Do you like the hotel?”
“So far. Got a great massage this afternoon.”
She caught this right away, smiled, and replied, “Did you now? And what kind of massage?”
“Shiatsu.”
She informed me, “I love a good massage, but the girls only make about a dollar from the hotel — they make more by offering extras, which is why they don’t like to massage women.”
“You could tip.”
“I do. A dollar. They like men.”
“Well, FYI, I just got the massage. But this is a loose place.”
“You need to be careful.”
“I’m doing better than that. I’m being good.”
“That’s very commendable. How did we get on this topic?”
“I think it was me.”
She smiled, then said, “About the hotel — it was once owned by a wealthy Vietnamese couple who bought it from a French company. During the American involvement here, it housed mostly American military.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Yes. Then when the Communists came to power in 1975, it was taken over by the government. It remained a hotel, but it housed mostly North Vietnamese party officials, Russians, and Communists from other countries.”
“Nothing but the best for the winners.”
“Well, I understand it became a pigsty. But sometime in the mid-1980s, the government sold an interest in it to an international company, who managed to get rid of the Communist guests. It was completely renovated and became an international hotel. I always book this place for American and European businesspeople.” She looked at me. “I’m glad you like it.”
We made eye contact, and I nodded.
She looked at her watch. “I can’t imagine where this Mr. Ellis is.”
“Try the massage room.”
She laughed.
I said, “Have another drink.”
“Well… why not?” She said something to a passing waiter, then reached into her attaché case and took out a pack of Marlboros. She offered the pack to me.
I said, “No, thanks. But you go ahead.”
She lit her cigarette and while lighting it, she said softly, “I have something for you.” She exhaled a stream of smoke.
I didn’t reply. I hadn’t expected a woman, but I realized it was less conspicuous.
She said, “I received a fax from your firm. I marked what you need in a newspaper, which is in my attaché case. The crossword puzzle. They said you’d understand.”
“Offer the newspaper to me when you leave.”
She nodded, then said, “I faxed your firm last night that you’d checked in here. I told them your flight was delayed because of weather, but that you’d checked in an hour and a half after you’d landed.” She asked me, “Was there a problem at the airport?”
“They misplaced my luggage.”
“Really? There are not many flights arriving, and there’s only one baggage carousel. How could they misplace your luggage?”
“I have no idea.”
Her gin and tonic came along with another beer. The band was playing “Stella by Starlight.” There seemed to be a sky theme in these selections.
I asked Ms. Weber, “Do you really work for an American company?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Have you ever done anything like this before?”
“I don’t know — what am I doing?”
Clever reply, but I needed an answer, so I asked her again.
She replied, “No. I was just asked to do this favor. First time.”
“Who asked you?”
“A man I know here. An American.”
“What does this man do for a living?”
“He works for Bank of America.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Well enough. He’s my boyfriend of the moment. About six months. Why are you asking these questions?”
“I’d like to be sure you’re not on the watch list of the local KGB.”
She nodded, then said, “Everyone here is under surveillance by the Security Police. Especially Americans. But the Viets are not very efficient about it.”
I didn’t reply.
She added, “Three fourths of the Vietnamese police force are in plainclothes. These guys at the next table could all be police, but unless I light a joint and blow smoke in their faces, they’re more interested in their beers than in me. It’s all very random. I get stopped and fined two dollars about once a month for some stupid traffic violation.”
I didn’t reply.
She continued, “It’s all about money. This city is full of high-priced imported consumer goods, and the average Nguyen makes about three hundred a year, but he wants everything he sees, so if he’s a civilian, he works close to Western tourists for the tips, his kid brother begs in the streets, his sister turns tricks, and his brother, who’s a cop, extorts money from the tourists and the expats.”
“I think I’ve met them all.”
She smiled and informed me, “It’s a corrupt country, but the bribes are pretty reasonable, the people are basically nice, street crime is rare, and the electricity works in Saigon, even if the plumbing is a little unreliable. I wouldn’t worry too much about police state efficiency here. It’s the inefficiency, the government paranoia, and xenophobia concerning Westerners, trying to convince them you’re just here to make a buck, or take pictures of pagodas, or have cheap sex, and that you’re not here to overthrow the government. I’m no hero, Mr. Brenner, and not a patriot, so if I thought there was any danger to me in doing this little favor, I’d say no.”
I thought about all this and concluded that Ms. Weber was a little cynical, though she didn’t strike me that way at first. But maybe ’Nam got to her. I asked her, “So why did you agree to do this little favor?”
“I told you — my stupid boyfriend. Bill. Now that we have consulate people here, he thinks they can help his business. The government knows as much about business as I know about government.”
“So someone in the consulate asked Bill to — what?”
“They asked Bill to ask me to meet you. The consulate wanted a woman. The police don’t pay much attention to women, and I guess this is less conspicuous.”
“Can I check out this guy Bill?”
She shrugged. “I’ll give you his card. I have a stack of them.”
“You’re a very loyal girlfriend.”
She laughed, then said, “You’re very suspicious.”