Within five minutes, the cyclos pulled up alongside a big building that looked like an old French opera house, and which Susan said was now a people’s theater, whatever that means. Along one side of the theater was an outdoor café whose tables were filled with Westerners and a few well-dressed Viets, male and female.
We got out of the cyclos, and Susan insisted on paying the drivers — a buck for hers and two bucks for mine. She was being uncharacteristically generous, but I wasn’t comfortable with that, so I gave each of the guys another dollar.
They wanted to shake my hand, so we all shook, then Susan’s driver — the guy who in another life had flown jet fighters — said something and Susan translated. “He says his wife and children were allowed to emigrate to America four years ago. But he wasn’t allowed to leave because he was an officer in the South Vietnamese air force. But under the… what we call the Orderly Departure Program that the Americans have negotiated with Hanoi, he hopes to be allowed to leave next year.”
I said, “Tell him I wish him good luck.”
She translated, he said something, and she said to me, “He thanks America for taking his family. They are doing well and send him money. They live in Los Angeles.”
“Well… I hope they wind up someplace nice.”
My driver, the infantry captain, didn’t have anything to say, and I had the impression he was well beyond any hope for anything.
We walked into the outdoor café whose name, according to a small sign, was the Q-Bar. It seemed to occupy a piece of this theater building and was very minimalist, sort of like a trendy Washington yuppie hangout.
There was an inside section with tables and a bar, and on the walls were murals of what looked like Caravaggio paintings, but it was hard to tell through the cigarette smoke.
A young Vietnamese waitress in a black and white uniform greeted Susan in English, “Good evening, Miss Susan, and where is Mr. Bill tonight?”
I was happy for the opportunity to speak English and replied, “He’s washing his Princeton sweater, but he’ll be along shortly.”
“Ah… good. Table for three?”
“Two.”
Susan didn’t clear up the confusion.
The waitress showed us to a table near the railing, lit by an oil lamp. Susan ordered a California Chardonnay, and I asked for a Dewar’s and soda, which didn’t seem to be a problem.
The waitress moved off, and Susan lit a cigarette. She said, as if to herself, “Washing his Princeton sweater.”
“Excuse me?”
“Was that the best you could do?”
“It was short notice. It’s late.”
We let that go, and I checked out the patrons. They dressed like they made more than a buck a day, and on the street, I saw a few Japanese luxury cars — Lexus and Infiniti, which I hadn’t noticed during the day.
The drinks came. I would have raised my glass to my hostess and said something nice, but I had the feeling she’d heard enough from me. In fact, she said, “Probably I should have taken you someplace else.”
I said, “Of all the gin joints in Saigon, she takes me here.”
She smiled.
I said, “What if Bill shows up?”
“He won’t.” She raised her wine glass. We clinked and drank. “You can get a great burger and fries here. I thought you might be in the mood for that.”
“I am. Good choice.”
Susan said, “This place is owned by an American from California, and his Vietnamese-born wife, who’s also a Californian. The Q is a play on the word kieu — a Viet expat who’s returned. Viet-Kieu. Get it?”
“Got it.”
She said, “This place is popular with the American community and Viet-Kieu high rollers. It’s expensive.”
“Keeps out the riffraff.”
“Right. But you’re with me.”
To show her I wasn’t completely at the mercy of her hospitality and to show some savoir faire, I said to her, “A Frenchman on the flight in gave me the names of a lot of good restaurants and bars.”
“Such as?”
“The Monkey Bar.”
She laughed. “Wall-to-wall whores. And very aggressive. They put their hands down your pants at the bar. You can go to the Monkey Bar after we leave here.”
“I was just checking up on what this guy said.”
“Well, he wasn’t doing you any favors.”
“He recommended a restaurant called Maxim’s — like the one in Paris.”
“It’s a ripoff. Bad food, bad service, overpriced, just like in Paris.”
My French friend was batting zero for two. I asked Susan, “Do you know a woman named Mademoiselle Dieu-Kiem?”
“No. Who is she?”
“A courtesan.”
She rolled her eyes and didn’t reply.
I said, “But I’d rather be with you.”
“So would ninety percent of the men in Saigon. Don’t push your luck, Brenner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” So, my attempt at independence and suavity was squashed like the ugly little bug that it was. “Thank you for bringing me to one of your special places.”
“You’re welcome.”
The waitress brought over tiny menus. Susan ordered fruit and cheese for herself and another wine. I got my burger and fries and ordered a Corona, which they had.
It was cooler than last evening, but I had a film of moisture on my face. I remembered Saigon as hot and unhealthy when I’d left here in June of ’72. I asked Susan, “Do you have a summer house or a weekend place?”
She replied, “That concept hasn’t developed here yet. There’s no running water in the countryside. If you go into the country, you step into the nineteenth century.”
“So, what do you do on weekends in the summer?”
“I sometimes go up to Dalat where it’s cooler, or to Vung Tau, formerly known as Cap Saint Jacques.”
“Not to Nha Trang?”
“No. Never been there. It’s a hike.” She added, “But I’d love to see it. I’m sorry I can’t go with you.”
I let that one alone and asked her, “How difficult is it to travel into the interior of the former North Vietnam?”
She thought about that a moment, then said, “Generally speaking, anywhere along the coast is relatively easy. Highway One, for instance, goes from the Delta all the way to Hanoi, and it’s being improved every year. The Reunification Express — that’s the train — also links the north and south now. But if you mean heading west toward Laos, it’s difficult. I mean, the Viets do it, but they have a lot more tolerance for washed-out roads and bridges, landslides caused by overlogging, steep mountain passes, and vehicle breakdowns. And it’s the winter rainy season up there — a persistent drizzle called crachin — rain dust.” She asked, “Are you headed that way?”
“I’m awaiting further instructions. Have you gone into the interior?”
“No, I’m just reporting what I hear. A lot of Western scientists go there — biologists, mostly. They’ve actually discovered previously unknown species of mammals in the northern interior. They just found an ox that no one knew existed. Plus, there are still tigers in the interior. Have a good trip.”
I smiled. “I actually saw a tiger here once. And an elephant. And they weren’t in the Saigon Zoo where they belonged.”
“Well, be careful. You really can get hurt or get sick out there, and the conditions are very primitive.”
I nodded. At least with the army, the medics were good, and the helicopters got you out of anywhere within half an hour, and onto a hospital ship. This time, I was on my own.
Susan said, “If you’re going into the interior, you may want to pass yourself off as a biologist or naturalist.”
I looked at her. I’d had the same thought as she was telling me about the unknown species. And now I had a new thought: I was getting the briefing I never got in Washington. In fact, a lot of what had seemed like Viet trivia today may have had a purpose.