Four of the chairs were occupied by young backpackers, with their packs on the floor. They were chatting with one another — three guys and a girl. They looked up at me, then went back to their conversation.
I took a seat. On one wall was a big poster showing a condom. The condom had a face, two feet, two arms, and was carrying a sword and a shield. Dangling from the sword was the word AIDS, and written on the condom was the word OK. Some comedian had written on the condom in English, Vietnamese Fighting Meat Puppet Show — People’s Theater.
On another wall was a poster of a Vietnamese woman and a Western gent embracing, and the words in English said AIDS Can Kill You.
On the far wall was a poster of Ho Chi Minh surrounded by happy peasants and workers, and next to that was a sign in English that said Not to cause big disturbances and not with radio. This enigmatic message was repeated in several languages, and I hoped that at least one of them made sense.
A few more people entered the room, mostly young people, but then a middle-aged Vietnamese couple entered, and I guessed they must be Viet-Kieus with a visa problem.
The young people were all chatting with one another in English, and with various accents ranging from American to Australian to several European-sounding accents. I heard the word “fuck” pronounced six different ways.
Also, from what I could overhear, most of these kids were looking for a visa extension, but some of them were looking for their visas and passports that had been officially stolen by the police. None of them seemed particularly concerned. The Viet couple, however, looked frightened, and also astounded at the backpackers who didn’t. Interesting.
It was ten after eight, and I decided to give it ten more minutes before I caused big disturbances not with radio.
A few minutes later, a guy in a khaki uniform entered the room and looked around. He saw me and motioned for me to come with him. It’s a pretty good deal being old in a Buddhist country.
I followed the guy out into the hallway, then into another room, an office, across the hall.
A uniformed officer in khakis with shoulder boards sat behind a desk, smoking. He said to me, “Who you? Why you here?”
This must be the nasty guy. I looked him in the eye and said in slow, simple English, “I—” I tapped my chest, “here to see Dai-ta Mang.” I tapped my watch, “Appointment,” then gave him my hotel bill. I didn’t want to give him my driver’s license because these clowns had enough of my official identification, and I pictured myself out in the street with no ID, except my monogrammed handkerchief.
In any case, the guy seemed okay with the bill, which he examined for some seconds. He then looked at a sheet of paper and seemed to be trying to match names. His cigarette ash broke off and landed on my hotel bill. I looked around for a fire extinguisher, or an exit sign.
Finally, Nasty looked up and said something to the guy who’d brought me in, waved the hotel bill around as if he was an unsatisfied hotel guest, and the other guy took the bill and motioned me to follow him. And we complain about rude civil servants.
So, I followed this guy down the long, straight hallway, wondering if I’d gotten my message across, or if they thought I was a bill collector from the Rex looking for a deadbeat named Mang. I hadn’t realized how useful it was to have Susan with me.
Anyway, this guy stopped and knocked on a door numbered 6. The guy opened the door, but motioned me to stand back. He entered, I could hear talking, then the guy came out and pointed inside.
I entered a small windowless room. Sitting at a wooden table was Colonel Mang, and on the table was the hotel bill, a newspaper, his attaché case, a teapot and cup, and an ashtray overflowing with butts. This was obviously not his office, which I suspected was in Section A; this was an interrogation room.
Colonel Mang said, “Sit.”
I sat in a wooden chair across from him.
Colonel Mang looked as unpleasant as I remembered him at the airport. The narrow eyes, high cheekbones, sneering, thin lips, and taut skin made him look like he’d had six facelifts. His voice also still annoyed me.
Colonel Mang pretended to be looking at the papers on his desk, then looked up at me and said, “So, you have brought for me your itinerary.”
“Yes, I have. And you’ve brought for me my passport, and my visa, which you took from the hotel.”
Colonel Mang looked at me a long time, then said, “Your itinerary.”
I replied, “I leave for Nha Trang today. I will stay there for four or five days, then I go to Hue.”
“Yes? And how do you travel to Nha Trang?”
“I’ve asked a travel agent to find me transportation. My ticket will be waiting for me at the Rex.”
“And you have no ticket to show me?”
“No.”
“So, you may go by automobile.”
“I may.”
“If this is the case, you must go through Vidotour, the official tour agency. This is the authorized way to travel by automobile and driver in Vietnam. You may not hire a private car and driver.”
“I’m sure my travel agent knows that.”
“They know. But they do not always follow this procedure. If you travel by automobile, you must book through Vidotour, and you must tell Vidotour office to call this office and report the name of your driver and the automobile license plate number.”
“Sounds very reasonable.” The good news seemed to be that I was free to go to Nha Trang. The bad news was that I was free to go to Nha Trang.
Colonel Mang asked me, “Who is this travel agent?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you not know?”
“I asked an American acquaintance in Ho Chi Minh City to assist me.”
“Yes? And who is this American acquaintance?”
“Bill Stanley. Bank of America.”
Colonel Mang hesitated a moment, then made a note of this. Bill Stanley now had something in common with Sheila O’Connor, who I’d ratted out to Father Bennett in another lifetime. Sometimes you’ve got to rat someone out, but never rat out a friend. Pick an Ivy League grad whenever you can.
Colonel Mang asked me, “How do you know this man?”
“We went to Princeton together. College.”
“Ah… and you say he is with the Bank of America?”
I was getting a bad vibe about this for some reason. I replied, “I believe that’s what he said.”
Colonel Mang nodded, then said to me, “Inform your travel agent that he or she must telephone this office this morning and ask for me.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many questions, Mr. Brenner.”
“You ask too many questions, Colonel Mang.”
This pissed him off, but he kept his cool. He looked at me and said, “You are the one who is raising questions in my mind.”
“I have been completely truthful and cooperative with you.”
“That remains to be seen.”
I didn’t reply.
He repeated, “Tell your travel agent to call me. Where are you staying in Nha Trang?”
“I have no reservations at this time.”
“You must have an address.”
“I’ll get an address when I get there.”
“Why do you wish to go to Nha Trang?”
“It was recommended as the best beach in Southeast Asia.”
This seemed to please the little shit, and he said, “It is. But you did not come all this way to go to the beach.”
“I was there in 1968.”
“Ah, yes, where the combat soldiers would go for rest.”
I didn’t reply.
Meanwhile, the guy was chain-smoking, and the air was thick with smoke, not to mention humidity and the smell of sweat, which may have been my own.