“Just practicing.”
She asked, “Don’t they have lots of Vietnamese restaurants in Washington?”
“Why do you think I live in Washington?”
“I assume you work for Washington.”
“I live in Virginia. I’m retired.”
“Did you have Vietnamese food when you were here in the army?”
“I had C rations. You weren’t allowed to eat the local stuff. Army regulations. Some guys got very sick on the food.”
“Well, you still have to be careful. Drink lots of gin and tonics, bottled water, beer, and Coca-Cola. I was really sick when I first got here. We call it Ho Chi Minh’s revenge. But I haven’t been sick since then. You build up immunities.”
“I won’t be here that long.”
The food came, course after course. Ms. Weber ate like a Vietnamese with the bowl up to her face, shoveling in everything with chopsticks. I used my knife and fork.
We made small talk, mostly about Saigon and her job. She explained what she did, but I being a government employee with no business background, none of it made sense to me. It had to do with giving advice and arranging loans for mostly American investors who wanted to do business in Vietnam. Even though it made no sense to me, it made sense to her, and I concluded that she really was an investment advisor. I can usually tell when someone’s faking it because many of my assignments require me to take on an undercover role and pretend I’m a clerk, or an armory sergeant, or anything that will get me close to the suspect.
After a while, I think we felt comfortable with each other. She said to me, “I know I’m not supposed to ask you questions, so I don’t know what to ask you to make conversation.”
“Ask me anything you’d like.”
“Okay. Where did you go to school?”
“I can’t answer that.”
She smiled. “You think you’re funny.”
“I am funny. Where did you go to school?”
“Amherst. Then Harvard for my MBA.”
“And then?”
“I worked in New York with an investment bank.”
“For how long?”
“If you’re trying to figure out my age, I’m thirty-one.”
“And you’ve been here three years.”
“Three years next month.”
“Why?”
“Why not? It’s a good résumé builder, and no one bothers you here.”
“You like it here?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, thought a moment, then said, “I guess… being an expat is who I am. You understand?”
“No.”
“Well… it’s part of my identity. In New York, I was nobody. Just another pretty face with an Ivy League MBA. Here, I stand out. I’m exotic to the Vietnamese and interesting to Westerners.”
I nodded. “I think I understand. When are you going home?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think about it.”
“Why not? Don’t you get homesick? Family? Friends? Fourth of July? Christmas? Groundhog Day?”
She played with her chopsticks awhile, then said, “My parents and my sister and brother come and visit at least once a year. We get along very well now because I’m here and they’re there. They’re all very successful and competitive. Here I can be my own person. A few good friends have visited, too. Also, the American community here goes out of its way to celebrate holidays, and somehow the holidays are more special and more meaningful. You understand?”
“I think so.”
“Also, this isn’t just a Third World country. It’s a semi-totalitarian state, and the Westerners here feel like they’re living on the edge, so every day is interesting, especially when you beat these idiots at their own game.” She looked at me. “Am I making any sense, or have I had too much to drink?”
“Both. But I understand.”
“You should. You’re a spy.”
I informed her, “I’m a retired army person, I served two tours here in ’68 and ’72, and I’m back here as a tourist.”
“Whatever. Does this place bum you out?”
“No.”
“Did you have a bad time when you were here?”
“I’ve had better times.”
“Were you wounded?” she asked.
“No.”
“Did you ever have any post-traumatic stress?”
“I have enough everyday stress to keep me happy.”
“Where were you when you were here?”
“Mostly up north.”
“You mean Hanoi?” she asked.
“No. Hanoi was in North Vietnam. We never fought there.”
“You said north.”
“The northern part of the old South Vietnam. The DMZ. Did they teach you any of this in school?”
“In high school. I didn’t take history in college. So, where were you stationed?”
“In ’72, I was at Bien Hoa. In ’68, I was mostly in Quang Tri Province.”
“I’ve been as far north as Hue. Beautiful city. You should try to get there. I’ve never been to the Central Highlands. I did fly to Hanoi once. They hate us in Hanoi.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Well, whatever you did, they still hate us.” She looked at me. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“So, are you going to visit those places?”
“Maybe.”
“You should. Why else would you come here? Oh… I forgot, you’re…” She put her finger to her lips and said, “Shhh,” then laughed.
I changed the subject. “Do you live in central Saigon?”
“I do. Most Westerners do. The surrounding districts can be a little too native.” She changed the subject back and asked me, “What did you do here in Vietnam?”
I said, “I’d rather not talk about the war.”
“Do you think about it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then you should talk about it.”
“Why? Because I think about it?”
“Yes. The point is, men keep things to themselves.”
“Women talk about everything.”
“That’s healthy. You need to talk things out.”
“I talk to myself, and when I do that, I know I’m talking to an intelligent person.”
“You’re a tough guy. Old school.”
I looked pointedly at my watch. Somehow, Ms. Weber and I had become familiar, which may have been a result of too many beers. I said, “It’s been a long day.”
“I’m having dessert and coffee. Don’t run off.”
“I’m jet-lagged.”
She lit a cigarette, ignored me, and said, “I never smoked before I got here. These people smoke like chimneys, and I got hooked. But I don’t do grass or opium. I haven’t gone completely native yet.”
I watched her in the flickering light of the candle. This was a somewhat complex woman, but she seemed to be a straight shooter. I never compare Woman A to Woman B, but Susan reminded me a little of Cynthia — the straightforwardness, I think. But whereas Cynthia was formed by the army, as I was, Susan came from another world, Lenox, Amherst, Harvard. I recognized the upper-middle-class accent and bearing, the other Massachusetts that Southies used to laugh at, but also envied.
She signaled a waiter and asked me, “Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee.”
She said something to the waiter, and he left. She said to me, “The native coffee is good. It’s from the highlands. You want dessert?”
“I’m stuffed.”
“I ordered fruit. The fruit here is out of this world.”
She seemed to be enjoying my company, or enjoying herself, and that’s not always the same thing with women. In any case, she was kind of fun, except she’d had a beer too many and was starting to get silly.