I stood. “Thanks.” I added, “I had a really nice evening.”
“Me, too.” She picked up her attaché case. “Thanks for dinner. You’ll let me buy you dinner tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
She hesitated, then looked me in the eye and said, “I know a few men your age who work here, and a few men who I’ve met here who have returned to find something, or maybe lose something. So, I know it’s tough, and I can understand. But for people my age, Vietnam is a country, not a war.”
I didn’t reply.
“Good night, Paul.”
“Good night, Susan.”
I watched her disappear into the enclosed restaurant.
I looked at the cocktail napkin, memorized her home phone number, and crumpled the napkin into my coffee cup.
It was, as I say, a beautiful evening with a warm breeze rustling the plants. The band was playing “MacArthur Park.” I closed my eyes.
A long time ago, when Vietnam was a war and not a country, I could recall nights like this out under the stars, the tropical breeze moving through the vegetation. And there were other nights without a breeze, when the vegetation moved, and you could hear the tapping of the bamboo sticks that they used to signal one another. The tree frogs stopped croaking and even the insects became still and the night birds flew off. And you waited in the deathly silence, and even your breathing stopped, but your heart thumped so loudly you were sure everyone could hear it. And the sound of the tapping bamboo came closer, and the vegetation swayed in the breezeless night.
I opened my eyes and sat there awhile. Susan had left a half bottle of beer, and I drank from the bottle to moisten my dry mouth.
I took a deep breath, and the war went away. I found myself looking forward to tomorrow.
I went to my room carrying the newspaper. There was no message light on, no message envelopes anywhere, and the snow globe had been moved by the maid who turned down the bed. It was now on the desk.
I sat at the desk and opened my International Herald Tribune to the crossword puzzle, which was the New York Times puzzle and was half finished. I studied the puzzle a moment, then I noticed that next to number 32 down was a tick mark.
I opened my Lonely Planet Guide to the section on Hue. There was a map of the city and a numbered key that showed points of interest. Number 32 was the Halls of the Mandarins, located, I saw, in the Imperial Enclosure, which was a walled section within the Citadel walls of the Old City.
This was where I was supposed to meet my contact on the appointed day at noon. He — or she — was a Vietnamese, and that’s all I knew.
If I somehow missed the hour, or if no one was there to meet me, I was to go to the alternate rendezvous at 2 P.M. The alternate was identified by the reverse of the digits 32, according to Mr. Conway. I looked at the map of Hue and saw that number 23 was the Royal Library, which was located in the inner sanctum of the Imperial Enclosure, called the Forbidden Purple City.
The third alternate at 4 P.M. was the sum of 3 and 2, which on the map was an historic temple called Chua Ba, outside the Citadel walls of the city.
If my contact didn’t show up at any of these rendezvous, then I was to go back to the hotel and wait for a message. I was supposed to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.
I thought this was all a little melodramatic, but probably necessary. Also, I didn’t like the idea of having to trust a Viet, but I had to assume the people in Washington knew what they were doing. I mean, they’d been so successful here before.
I put a few more tick marks against the numbers in the crossword puzzle and did more of the puzzle, noticing that Ms. Weber got some really difficult clues right. Obviously a bright lady, and obviously, too, she had her own agenda — or someone else’s agenda.
Tomorrow should be interesting.
CHAPTER TEN
I got off the elevator and walked into the hotel lobby at ten after eight. Sitting in a chair under a palm tree was Susan Weber, reading a magazine. Her legs were crossed, and she was wearing black slacks and walking shoes. As I got closer, I could see that the magazine was in English and was called the Vietnam Economic Times.
She put down the magazine and stood. I could see now she was also wearing a tightly tailored red silk shirt with half sleeves and a high mandarin collar. She had sunglasses on a cord around her neck, and one of those nylon fanny packs around her waist. She said, “Good morning. I was just about to start calling around for you.”
“I’m alive and well.”
She said, “I may have had a little too much to drink last night. If so, I apologize.”
“I certainly wasn’t in a position to judge. I hope I was a good dinner companion.”
She replied, “I enjoy talking to people from home.”
Ms. Weber was a little cooler this morning than she’d been last night, which was understandable. Remove the alcohol, the music, the candlelight, and the starry night, and people get a little more reserved around last night’s date, even if they’ve wound up in the same bed.
I was wearing my standard khaki slacks, and instead of a golf shirt, I wore a short-sleeve dress shirt. I replied, “Am I dressed all right for church?”
“You’re fine. Ready?”
“Let me get rid of my room key.” I went to the front desk and gave the clerk my key. “Any messages?”
He checked my box and said, “No, sir.”
I walked toward the front doors where Susan was standing. This was really annoying about the passport. Mang knew I was leaving tomorrow, and I needed my passport to travel.
I joined Susan, who said, “I see you didn’t get your passport back. But I’m sure they’ll return it today if they know you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll be picking it up at Gestapo Headquarters.”
“They usually just return it to the hotel. Or they’ll tell you to pick it up at the airport. But that usually means you’re going home sooner than you thought.”
Fine with me, though I didn’t say that.
She asked, “Do you have your visa?”
“The hotel has my visa.”
She thought a moment and said, “You should always have photocopies of your passport and visa with you.”
“I did. The police stole them from my overnight bag at the airport.”
“Oh…” She said, “I’ll get a copy of your visa made.” She walked to the front desk and spoke to the clerk, who checked a file box. He pulled out a piece of paper, read it, and said something to Susan. Susan came back to me and said, “The police have taken your visa.”
I didn’t reply.
She said, “Well, don’t worry about it.”
“Why not?”
“No one’s going to stop us. Ready?”
We walked outside, and it was hotter than the day before. Motor traffic on Le Loi was a little lighter on a Sunday, but there were as many bicycles and cyclos as on Saturday.
Susan gave the doorman a dollar, and we walked toward a red motor scooter parked on the sidewalk. She stopped beside the motor scooter, took a pack of cigarettes from her fanny pack, and lit one. “I need a cigarette before we go.” She smiled. “You might need one after we get on the road.”
“Can we take a taxi?”
“Boring.” She patted the motor scooter. “This is a Minsk, 175cc’s. Russian made. A good machine for around town. I also own a motorcycle, a 750cc Ural, a real beast. Great for the open road, and a very good crossover bike in the mud.” She took a drag on her cigarette and said, “The Russians make decent bikes, and for some reason, there are always parts available.”