Up Country Part 11

I held out the twenty, and Pushy s.n.a.t.c.hed it rudely. I really wanted to knee him in the b.a.l.l.s, but that might have cost me another twenty. Pushy said something to me in a nasty tone of voice, then yelled at the taxi driver and stomped off.

The driver closed the trunk, opened the pa.s.senger door, and I got inside the small Honda, not much bigger than a Civic. It stank of cigarette smoke and mildew.

The driver jumped in the car, started it up, and sped off.

We got clear of the airport in a few minutes, and the driver said, in pa.s.sable English, "You American? Yes?"

"Yes."

"Come from Seoul?"

"That's right."

"Why take you so long?"

"The moving walkway was stuck."

"They ask you questions?"

"Yes."

"Communists eat s.h.i.+t."

This took me by surprise and I laughed.

The driver took a pack of cigarettes out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket and held the pack over his shoulder. "Smoke?"

"No, thanks."

He lit his cigarette with a match and steered with his knees.

I looked out the window and saw that the city had crept out to the airport. In place of the ramshackle bamboo huts and concession stands that I remembered on this road, I saw stucco structures. I noticed electric lines strung everywhere, and I saw TV antennas, and even a few satellite dishes. There were also a lot of small trucks and motor scooters on the road in place of the ox-drawn carts I'd remembered. Now, as then, there were a lot of bicycles. Something else new was a lot of plastic and paper trash along the road.

I didn't expect to see the old Vietnam, which in many ways was picturesque and pristine, but this horn honking and the TV antennas were a little jarring.

I thought about Colonel Mang for a moment and decided that the whole incident was, indeed, random. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my run-in with the authorities had compromised the mission. I had to decide whether to push on or abort.

The driver said, "Hotel?"

"The Rex."

"American General Hotel."

"Really?"

"You a soldier in Vietnam. Yes?"

"Yes."

"I know. I drive many soldiers."

"Do they all get stopped and questioned?"

"No. Not many. They come out of building... you know? They come... how you say?"

"Alone? Late?"

"Yes. Late. Communists eat s.h.i.+t." He broke into loud laughter, warming to his subject. "Communists eat dog s.h.i.+t."

"Thank you. I get the picture."

"Mister, why the soldier carry your bag?"

"I don't know. What did he say?"

"He say you are American important person, but you are imperialist dog."

"That's not nice."

"You important person?"

"I'm the leader of the American Communist Party."

He got real quiet and shot some glances at me in the rearview mirror. He said, "Joke. Right? Joke?"

"Yes, joke."

"No Communists in America."

The conversation had a little entertainment value, but I was jet-lagged, tired, and cranky. I looked out the window. We were in old Saigon now, on a wide, well-lit boulevard whose street sign said Phan Dinh Phung. I seemed to recall that this boulevard pa.s.sed the Catholic cathedral and in fact, I caught a glimpse of the cathedral spires over the low, French-style buildings.

My new friend said, "My father a soldier. He was American ami. You understand?"

"Biet," I replied, in one of my few remembered Vietnamese words.

He glanced back at me, and we made eye contact. He nodded, turned back to his driving, and said, "He prisoner. Never see him again."

"Sorry."

"Yes. f.u.c.king Communists. Yes?"

I didn't reply. I was, I realized, more than tired. I was back. Thank you, Karl.

We turned onto Le Loi Street, Saigon's main drag, and approached the Rex Hotel.

I never saw any of Saigon when I was an infantryman. It was off limits, except for official business, and the average grunt had no official business in Saigon. But during my brief tour as an MP, I got to know the city a little. It was, then, a lively place, but it was a besieged capital, and the lights were always dimmed, and the motor traffic was mostly military. Sandbags were piled up at strategic locations where Vietnamese police and soldiers kept an eye on things. Every restaurant and cafe had steel gratings in front of the windows to discourage the local Viet Cong on motor scooters from tossing satchel charges and grenades at the paying customers. Yet despite the war, there was a frenetic energy about the city, a sort of joie de vivre that you see, ironically, when death is right outside the walls, and the end is near.

This Saigon, this Ho Chi Minh City, looked frenetic, too, but without the wartime psychosis that used to grip the town each night. And, surprisingly, there were lighted advertis.e.m.e.nts all over the place-Sony, Mitsubis.h.i.+, Coca-Cola, Peugeot, Hyundai-mostly j.a.panese, Korean, American, and French products. The Commies might eat s.h.i.+t, but they drank c.o.ke.

The taxi stopped in front of the Rex, and my friend popped the trunk and got out.

A doorman opened my door while a bellboy grabbed the bags from the trunk. The doorman said in good English, "Welcome to the Rex, sir."

My driver said to me, "Here my card. Mr. Yen. You call me. I show you all city. Good tour guide. Mr. Yen."

The ride was four dollars, and I tipped Mr. Yen a buck.

Yen looked around to make sure no one was listening, and he said, "That man in airport is security police. He say he will see you again." He jumped back in his taxi.

I entered the Rex Hotel.

The lobby of the Rex was a big, polished marble affair, with vaguely French architecture, and hanging crystal chandeliers. There were potted plants all over, and the air-conditioning worked. This was much nicer than Colonel Mang's office.

I also noticed that the lobby was decorated for the Tet holiday, which I was here for in '68 and '72. There were lots of flowering fruit branches stuck in big vases, and a big k.u.mquat tree in the center of the floor.

There were a few people in the lobby, but at this hour-it was after midnight-it was pretty quiet.

I went to the check-in desk where a nice young Vietnamese lady, whose nametag said Lan Lan, greeted me, took my voucher, and asked for my pa.s.sport. I gave her my visa, she smiled, and again asked for my pa.s.sport.

I informed her, "The police have taken it."

Her nice smile faded. She said, "I'm sorry, we need a pa.s.sport to check you in."

"If you don't check me in, how will the police know where I am? I gave them this address."

The logic of this impressed her, and she got on the horn and jabbered awhile, then came back to me and said, "We will need to hold your visa until you check out."

"Fine. Don't lose it."

Lan began playing with her j.a.panese computer terminal. She said, "This is a busy season. It is the Tet holiday, and the weather is good for tourists."

"It's hot and sticky."

"You must come from a cold climate. You will get used to it. Have you stayed with us before?"

"I walked past the place a few times in 1972."

She glanced up at me, but didn't reply. Lan found me a deluxe suite for my hundred and fifty bucks a night and handed the key to the bellboy. She said, "Have a pleasant stay, Mr. Brenner. Please let the concierge know if there is anything you need."

I needed my pa.s.sport, and to have my head examined, but I said, "Thank you." I was not supposed to call or fax anyone regarding my safe arrival. Someone would call here, which they'd probably done already, and they were wondering why I hadn't yet checked in.

Lan said to me, "Chuc Mung Nam Moi. Happy New Year."

My Vietnamese was mostly forgotten, but my p.r.o.nunciation was once good, and I was able to parrot her. "Chuc Mung Nam Moi."

She smiled. "Very good."

So, off I went toward the elevators with the bellboy. The Viets are basically pleasant people, polite, good-natured, and helpful. But beneath the placid, smiling Buddhist exterior lay a very short fuse.

Anyway, up the elevator to the sixth floor, down the wide hallway to a big door. The bellhop showed me into a nice suite with a sitting area, a view of Le Loi Street, and, thank G.o.d, a room bar. I gave him a buck and he left.

I hit the bar first and made myself a Chivas and soda with ice. This was just like a vacation, except for the bulls.h.i.+t at the airport and the fact that I could get arrested any minute for no reason, or for a good reason.

The room was decorated in what I call French Wh.o.r.ehouse, but it was big, and the bathroom had a stall shower. I examined my suitcase on the luggage stand and saw that everything was a mess. Same with my overnight bag.

Also, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had taken the photocopies of my pa.s.sport and visa. I guess they didn't have their own copy machine. Yet nothing else had been taken, and I gave Colonel Mang and his stooge credit for honesty and professionalism, despite Pushy trying to shake me down for twenty bucks. In fact, I would have been more comfortable if Colonel Mang was just a cop on the take-but he was something else, and that gave me a little worry.

I hung my clothes, straightened things out, peeled off my clothes, and got into the shower. That silly song "Secret Agent Man" kept running through my jet-lagged brain, then a few tunes from the James Bond movies.

I got out of the shower and dried off. I'd planned to check out the city, but I was barely conscious. I fell into bed and blacked out before I could turn off the lamp.

For the first time in many years, I had a war dream, a combat dream, complete with the sounds of M-16s, AK-47s, and the terrible chatter of a machine gun.

I awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. I made myself a double Scotch and sat in a chair, naked and cold, and watched the sun rise over the Saigon River.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

I went to a late breakfast in the hotel's coffee lounge, and the hostess gave me a copy of the went to a late breakfast in the hotel's coffee lounge, and the hostess gave me a copy of the Viet Nam News Viet Nam News, a local English-language publication. I sat, ordered a coffee, and looked at the headline, which read, "When U.S. Confidence Received a Major Blow." I had the feeling this newspaper might have a slant.

The headline story was written by a Colonel Nguyen Van Minh, a military historian. It said, "On this day in 1968, our army and people launched an attack against enemy strongholds at Khe Sanh. The attack shocked the United States and forced President Lyndon Johnson and the Pentagon to focus on coping with us at Khe Sanh."

I seemed to recall the incident because I was there. I read on and learned that the U.S. forces "suffered a severe and humiliating defeat." I didn't remember that part of it, but whoever controls the present, controls the past, and they're welcome to it.

I had trouble following the bad translation as well as the logic in this article, but I was interested to see a mention of my division, the First Air Cavalry, that was translated as "The Flying Cavalry Division Number One." More interestingly, the war was still news here, as I already discovered from Colonel Mang.

I looked around. The other guests seemed to be mostly j.a.panese and Korean, but there were a number of Westerners, and I heard French and English spoken. Saigon, it seemed, was making a comeback.

I checked out the menu, which was in a variety of languages and came with photos, just in case. None of the photos showed dogs or cats, or half-formed chick embryos, as I remembered from last time. I ordered the American breakfast and hoped for the best.

I finished breakfast and went to the front desk where I inquired about my pa.s.sport. The clerk looked and said, "No, sir." Neither were there any messages. I suppose I half expected a fax from Cynthia. I went out onto Le Loi Street.

Coming out of the cool, dimly lit lobby of the Rex into the hot sunlight was a bit of a shock: the sudden roar of the motor scooters, the continuous horn honking, the exhaust fumes, and the ma.s.s of people, bicycles, and motor vehicles. Wartime Saigon had been somehow quieter, except for the occasional explosion.

I began walking the streets of Saigon, and within ten minutes, I was sweating like a pig. I had a map from the front desk, and I had my camera slung over my shoulder. I wore cotton khakis, a green golf s.h.i.+rt, and running shoes. In fact, I looked like a dopey American tourist, except that most American tourists wear shorts wherever they go.

Saigon did not seem overly dirty, but neither was it real clean. The buildings were still mostly two to five stories high, but I noticed that a few skysc.r.a.pers had sprung up. Some of the architecture in the center was old French Colonial, as I recalled, but most of the city remained nondescript stucco with perpetually peeling paint. The city had some charm by day, but I remembered it mostly for its sinister and dangerous nights.

Traffic was heavy, but moved well, like ch.o.r.eographed chaos. The only vehicles that weren't playing by the rules were military vehicles, and yellow, open jeep-like police vehicles, all bullying their way through the streets, scattering everything in front of them. This hadn't changed much since last time, only the markings on the vehicles were different. You can always tell a police state, or a country at war, by how government vehicles move through the streets.

The most predominant form of transportation now, as well as then, were the motor scooters, whose riders were almost all young, men and women, driving in a predictably insane manner. The biggest difference now was that nearly everyone was talking on their cell phones.

I recalled when any of these men or women could suddenly produce a grenade or a satchel, and chuck it at a cafe without screening, a military truck, a police booth, or a bunch of drunken soldiers, American or Vietnamese. These new cell phone cyclists seemed a danger only to themselves.