The food came, and the burger and fries were terrific, and the Corona was ice cold with a lime in it.
She asked me, “Where do you live?”
I replied, “I live outside Falls Church, Virginia.”
“And this is your last assignment?”
“Yes. I retired last year, but they thought I should press my luck and do Vietnam, Part Three.”
“Who are they?”
“Can’t say.”
“And what are you going to do after this?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“You’re too young to retire.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“By your significant other?”
“She’s very supportive of whatever I want to do.”
“Does she work?”
“Yes.”
“What does she do?”
“Same as what I did.”
“Oh, so you met on the job?”
“Right.”
“Is she ready to retire?”
I cleared my throat and said, “She’s younger than I am.”
“Was she supportive of you going to Vietnam for this last assignment?”
“Very. Can I get you another beer?”
“I’m drinking wine. See the glass?”
“Right. Wine.” I signaled the waitress and ordered another round.
Susan said, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying.”
“Why would I think that?”
“I’m just trying to get an image of you, your life, where you live, what you do. Stuff like that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. My favorite subject is usually me.” She thought a moment, then said, “Maybe you’re interesting because you’re not here on business.”
“I am here on business.”
“I mean, money business. There’s no money in this for you. You’re doing what you’re doing for some other reason. I mean, it’s not even because of your career. What is your motivation?”
I thought about that and replied, “I honestly think I’m stupid.”
“Maybe it’s a personal reason, something you’re doing for your country, but really for yourself.”
“Have you considered a radio talk show? Good Morning, Expats.”
“Be serious. I’m trying to help you. You need to know why you’re here, or you won’t be successful.”
“You know, you’re probably right. I’ll think about that.”
“You should.”
To change the subject again, and because I needed some information, I asked her, “How good is your travel agent?”
“Very good. She’s a Viet-Kieu — understands Americans and Vietnamese. Can-do attitude.” She added, “Bottom line, money talks.”
“Good.”
Susan reminded me, “But Colonel Mang might kick you out.”
Maybe I had one beer too many, but I said to her, “What if I didn’t go to see Colonel Mang to find out? What if I just went up country? Would I be able to do that?”
She stared directly into my eyes and said, “Even if you were able to get around the country without anyone asking for your passport or visa, you’ll never get out of this country without one. You know that.”
I replied, “What I had in mind was going to the consulate first thing tomorrow and getting an emergency passport issued.”
She shook her head and said, “They are not yet an official delegation and have no passport-issuing capabilities. That won’t happen for at least six months. So, if you don’t have a passport or a visa, or even photocopies, you won’t get far.”
I replied, “If I get to the American embassy in Hanoi, it becomes their problem.”
“Look, Paul, don’t compound the problem. See Colonel Mang tomorrow.”
“Okay. Tell me about the Immigration Police. Who are these clowns?”
“Well, their business is foreigners. The police in this country were organized by the KGB when the Russians were here, along KGB lines. There are six sections, A to F. Section A is the Security Police, like our CIA. Section B is the National Police, like our FBI, and Section C is the Immigration Police. Sections D, E, and F are respectively Municipal Police, Provincial Police, and Border and Port Police.” She added, “The Immigration Police usually just handle visa and passport violations, so I wouldn’t be too concerned about this.”
“Right.” But I had the thought that Colonel Mang could be an A or B guy in C clothing. That was a fairly common ruse. The other thought I had was that Ms. Weber knew a lot about the Vietnamese fuzz, but maybe all expats had a handle on that.
It was pushing 11 P.M., and I said, “I think I’ll call it a night. Got an early A.M.”
I called for the check, but Susan insisted on paying for it with her company credit card, and I wasn’t going to argue with that.
She wrote something on her copy of the charge slip and said, “Paul Brenner — company unknown — discussed fish cannery investment, dangerous missions, and life.” She smiled and put the slip in her little bag.
We stood and went out in the street. I said, “I’ll walk you home.”
“Thank you. Sort of on the way is one last place I want to show you. Just two blocks from here. We’ll have a nightcap, and you’ll be back to your hotel by midnight.”
Famous last words. I said, “Fine.”
“Unless you’d rather go to the Monkey Bar.”
“I’d much rather have a nightcap with you.”
“Good choice.”
We walked a few blocks to a quiet street that wasn’t particularly well lit. At the end of the street was a big, illuminated building whose sign said Apocalypse Now. I thought I was seeing things, but Susan said, “That’s where we’re going. Have you heard of this place?”
“I saw the movie. Actually, I lived the movie.”
“Did you? I thought you were a cook.”
“I guess I wasn’t a cook.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Neither did Colonel Mang,” I said.
“You told him that?”
“Sounded better than combat infantryman. He may have gotten the idea I killed one of his relatives.”
“Did you kill anyone?”
I didn’t answer that, but said, “The army unit portrayed in that movie was the First Cavalry Division. My division.”
“Really? I saw the movie. Helicopters, rockets, machine guns — Ride of the Valkyries. Unreal. That’s what you did?”
“Yup. Don’t remember the Ride of the Valkyries, but sometimes they’d play cavalry charges from a helicopter on a loudspeaker.”
“Weird.”
“I think you had to be there.”
We had arrived at the front door to a long, low yellow building in front of which were about twenty cyclo drivers, hanging around, smoking.
I said to Susan, “Come here often?”
She laughed. “Actually, no. Just when I have out-of-towners in. I brought my parents here. They were uncomfortably amused.”
A Caucasian man opened the door, and we stepped into Apocalypse Now.
The first thing I saw was a cloud of smoke, like someone had popped about a dozen smoke canisters to mark a landing zone in the jungle. But it was only cigarette smoke.
The place was hopping, and a four-piece combo of Viets was playing Jimi Hendrix. Against the left side of the place was a wall of sandbags and barbed wire, like firebase chic. A big poster from the movie of the same name hung on a wall, and Susan said it was autographed by Martin Sheen, if I wanted to look. I didn’t.
The overhead paddle fans were helicopter blades, and the light globes had red paint splattered on them to look, I guess, like blood.
We went to the long bar against the back wall, which was packed with mostly middle-aged guys, black and white, and they definitely had the look of former military about them. I had this sense of déjà vu, Americans again on the prowl in Saigon.