Once again I sat in the lobby of the hotel, awaiting the courage to take on the midmorning sun. Binh joined me for a cup of tea.
" What kind of music do you like ?" Binh inquired, as if to pick up on the last conversation.
" Oh, all kinds. Um, many types. " I replied. I wasn't sure if she was familiar with k.d.lang, Portishead, or any number of John Williams' movie soundtracks, but even in Vietnam I wasn't about to associate my tastes with the more recognizable Billboard names such as Mariah Carey or Michael Bolton. So I turned the tables. " Well, who do you like?"
She smiled widely and her voice became breathy. "I like Bryan Adams. I like his song 'Forever' very much." At this comment, she literally clasped her hands together by her cheek and stared at the ceiling in a dreamy haze.
Trying to break
" Oh, yes. And the Beatles. I like them, " she responded.
" Do you like John Lennon's music?"
" Yes, very much. The song 'Woman' I like. And 'Imagine'." At mentioning this song she gains a concentrated look on her face. " It is very good in context and melody."
" Oh, I agree. It's one of my favorite songs."
" Do you like his wife Yoko Ono? She is not so attractive. But not ugly. Why do you think John Lennon liked her?"
" Well, maybe her character. I think when true love happens, the physical attraction is only part of it. It is a superficial part. It is attraction to the character that goes deep." I said this even though I haven't always abided by it in my youth. It seemed like a good answer, anyway.
" It is hard to find someone compatible, loveable, " she commented. " If you had to choose between someone beautiful and someone with good character, who would you choose?"
Trying to remain diplomatic I replied, " I've been in both circumstances. Physical beauty only goes so far. It's character that has staying power. My last girlfriend was very beautiful, but it was because of her character that I fell in love with her. Otherwise it wouldn't have lasted or been as enjoyable. " My last girlfriend being my ex-girlfiend. Ouch.
Binh paused and thought about this for a few seconds.
" I think you have deep inner feelings." She said.
At lunch, I returned to my favorite restaurant. During my meal, Ngoc spent half her time sitting with me, trading pleasant looks. I indicated that I had met two artists at the Art Institute and was supposed to meet them for tea soon.
She asked for my guide book and inquired about the daytrips she had previously suggested. With a disappointed look, I shook my head and rubbed my thumb and finger together. In my datebook I pointed out to her my other destinations. I was, unfortunately, on a budget. The reality was that I probably could have parted with a measly eight dollars for a day. But I had decided to keep myself at bay due to the confusion at what her real motives towards me were. For a while, I wasn't completely convinced that her flirtacious nature wasn't all to just drum some business out of me. Still, I had sadly concluded that since I was transitory, then maybe it wasn't worth entertaining the allure she exuded.
She maintained a poker face and picked up a pen. She circled a few locations in the countryside near
I was a little ashamed. I thought I had figured her out, but I was pleased to find I was wrong. She wasn't just turning on the charm as a sell. She really did want to spend time with me. I looked at her for a long moment and assessed the situation. As agressive as her personality was, I could tell she was uncomfortable being this forward about a date. I picked up the pen. Circling the location of a floating restaraunt on the Perfume River, I asked her if I could take her to dinner afterward. She agreed. After agreeing on a time to start out the next day, she gets up and tends to some other customers.
Towards the end of my lunch, a balding and stocky middle-aged American man invited himself to sit down at my table and just began talking. Until he joined me, I had been passively watching him talk up another individual traveler at an adjacent table while I ate my chicken and rice. Without any prompting he soon revealed he is a veteran from the "American " war, as it's known in Vietnam.
" Yeah, I was here 67-68." he said somewhat whispfully," Based out of Camp Carroll."
" So you were here during the Tet Offensive?" , I inquired sincerely .
" Oh yeah. January twenty-seventh, 1968. Not three hundred meters from Highway Nine we ran into an ambush. ." He paused for a deep breath. " Really bad. Within fifteen minutes there were some twenty-seven dead and forty-some wounded."
" Out of how many?", I asked.
" About one hundred thirty. "
God, more than half of them cut down in fifteen minutes , I thought. He lit a cigarette and stared away at a tabletop full of receipts as he began to rattle off names of companys or units. I couldn't keep up with his military lingo, but I didn't interrupt. Marine Third Corp Battalion, Foxtrot, Echo, Golf, Alpha, Delta, Bravo, Charlie. He took a drag from his cigarette and continued his list, still staring ahead as if he was looking at the troops in front of him. He mentioned the vicious street-to-street fighting that took place in Hue. Eventually he broke his trance and looked to me.
" Some of my friends died probably not...meters from here."
He gestured out to the street where children play and motorbikes sped by, oblivious to the past.
" I still get the creeps walking around here at night. " he confided further, " Some of these streets where there's no lights have an 'inky' blackness to them. It's the same inky blackness we would have to set up a perimeter in for the night. Just didn't know who was out there."
Not knowing really how to respond, I mentioned that I had done my own reading about the conflict.
" Yeah, this city was flattened, " He responded. " What you don't hear about is the three thousand or so people they killed . The VC. They killed the doctors, teachers, professionals..." His voice trailed off.
As I listened to him vent, I learned he was from California and had made money after the war handling investements for Hollywood producers. It seems for the past 10-15 years he'd been jumping around Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam, working in various unrelated industries until he was forced to move on. As an ex-marine who had been in and out of Vietnam since the war, the local government had begun to keep tabs on him. The suspicion of the Vietnamese government seemed to be his biggest complaint. If he's not really still working for some US agency, it's evident he has been constantly trying to find ways to keep Vietnam a part of his life. I began to wonder at this bond he desires only to strengthen.
When he began to describe his reason for returning to Vietnam, my initial image of him grew more complex. He was sponsoring a local Hue family by donating twelve hundred dollars a year, a very hefty sum in Vietnam, so that the family's children could attend school. (Everybody pays a fee to attend school). He was also trying to find the family's father a good job in Hanoi. The father was a former South Vietnamese soldier, which placed limitations on his family's social and career aspirations. In describing the red tape he's had to experience in formalizing the sponsorship, he began to show more emotion in his voice. Apparently the local officials could not understand why he wanted to pointlessly sponsor what they regarded to be worthless family.
" "BUT WHY?!!', they say, ' BUT WHY!!' ", he repeated several times, angrily mimicking some local officials. " They just can't understand!" he concluded, exhasperated.
I was a little overwhelmed by this man's anxieties. His sentiment for this Vietnamese family touched me. Unfortunately as my curiousity about this man was starting to grow, Ngoc came up to me and pointed to her Swatch, reminding me of my appointment with Anh and Vinh. With humorous gestures, she indicated that I was already late. As much as I wanted to stay and listen to the ex-Marine, I had to excuse myself. He waved me off with a sort of indifference, as though he was used to it. It seemed too much like a rub-off and I felt bad. Before I stepped out of the restaurant, I hesitated and turned back. But he had already found the ear of another traveler.
Adhering to the map in my sketchbook that Anh had drawn, Tam again set out to guide us to the artists. But I quickly bicycled ahead of Tam, my male sense of omnidirectional confidence serving my impatience. I knew I was only looking for a lake on the left side of the street, anyway. On the way, the rush hour traffic provided me with an enjoyable high, visually and audibly-induced. The manic activity of the locals, the resulting dust in the air, and the orange hues from a low sun had my adrenaline flowing freely. It wasn't until I had drifted into the middle of the road and heard Tam's urgent cry of "Attention!" accompanied by the bleating horn of a police jeep bearing down on me that I sheepishly deferred to Tam's lead.
Somewhere west of Ho Tinh Tam Lake, down a few unpaved roads within the center of the Citadel, we found the humble residence of Anh and Vinh. Their single story stucco-and shutters-home was identifiable by a front courtyard occupied by various flora and a couple plaster Vietnamese nude studies. Tall trees in the surrounding neighborhood pleasantly offered adequate shelter from the sun. Vinh first appeared and invited us inside. After giving us a quick tour, she immediately she broke out the teacups. The interior of their home was simple but comfortable, three small open rooms painted in the standard light aqua of so many Vietnamese interiors. Various small sculptures, books, and art supplies layed strewn about about in an unabtrusive manner. Anh cheerfully strolled in about five minutes later, his khaki shorts stained with material from some previous project.
While Vinh paged through my sketchbook again, Anh pulled out a book he had made several years earlier. Through writings and photos it documented his thesis project at the Art Institute. Anh explained how his interest in indigenous art drove him to repeatedly hike up into the Central Highlands and visit one of the mountain tribes before they became comfortable enough to let him live with them for several months at a time. The purpose of these extended journeys were to study the customs, and in particular, the folk art of the tribe. His own resulting sculptures show a heavy influence from these studies.
He handed me several photos taken earlier in the year of one seven or eight-foot tall piece gloriously executed in wood. The main body consisted of a cubist man and woman embracing in profile, the woman's convex breast fitting into a concave shape within the man's chest. Below their feet was a pedestal around which had been carved graphic representations of people at work. From behind their heads sprouted two great wing-like apendages which arched upwards and inwards. Into these wings were carved repeating patterns of various figures in motion, as if participating in a manic dance. Anh said the title was " Glittering life of the exotic people". He offered one of the photos for me to keep. It went straight into my sketchbook.
Vinh produced for me a large pile of watercolor and ink studies to look through. Some of her work was also based around visits to hill-tribes, and some took its subject matter from the lowland countryside. The common thread through most of the work ,though, was her focus on women, whether dancing in groups during an evening tribal festival or quietly wadding through rice paddies, hunched over in work. Of the two artists she seemed more concerned of what I thought of her work. As I poured through her pieces, I could feel her carefully gauge how long I looked at each piece. Accordingly, I made sure to comment on many of the pieces. I could sypathize with Vinh. Although I seem blase when somebody flips through my sketchbook, I really pay attention to such things.
I had to wonder how difficult it is being a female artist in Vietnam. On the outside it seemed Anh and Vinh regarded each other as equals. But Anh seemed to be getting a lot of the commissioned work and because of good standing in the eyes of the government, he had recently received permission to travel to Amsterdam. There he planned to visit some Dutch artists he had previously met, to help further his studies. Regardless of what status their respective gender afforded them as artists, the two seemed like a happy pair enjoying a relatively privileged lifestyle. Their house was their own, with no extended relatives living with them. Their taste in clothes suggested a more cultivated sense of style than most of Hue's. They were happy and productive enough that they had elected to delay having children for a few years. Their domain did not appear to be the norm, having only recently been made possible by Vietnam's shifting economic policies. To come of age during these changes seemed to put one at advantage to older generations.
Before it became too dark, Anh pulled out his drawing tablet and ink bottle and declared it was time to carry out our forementioned deal. So we quietly sat in waning light of dusk, our eyes scrutinizing the peculiarities of each other's faces before darting down to lay ink on our paper, and visa versa. In his concentration, it was the only time I caught Anh without his perpetual smile. After we finished, Vinh excitedly approved of my drawing and inisted that I draw her portrait, too. So I did.
By the time Anh flicked on the flourescents, about four hours and several kettles of tea had passed. Although we enjoyed each other's company, I decided it was time for Tam and I to leave before our hosts feel obligated to feed us. I took with me the portraits and arranged to have Tam return the originals after I had made copies for myself.
The next day, when I arrived at the appointed hour , Ngoc sat down with me, glanced over to see if her sister was watching and then discretely indicated that we should wait a few hours before venturing into the countryside. She looked up to the ceiling and waved her fingers to suggest was something falling from the sky which then softly caressed her arms. At first I thought she was predicting rain, but when I glanced out at the street simmering in the sun, I realized she wanted to wait until later in the afternoon when the sun would be less intense. If her golden skin was at any risk from the sun, then my pink skin was probably more so.I nodded in agreement. She pointed to her watch and held up three fingers before pretending to rev a handlebar. In reply I flicked up my thumb. To kill some of the time I gestured for a menu and then ordered some chicken ga' and a soda. When she brought out my food I motioned her to my opened guide book. Looking at the the map of Hue and its environs, I held up three fingers and pointed to various sights, then held up eight fingers and pointed to the location of the floating restaurant. At this I turned to her and raised my eyebrows. She smiled slightly and nodded. Good, just making sure.
After lunch, I sat and hypnotized myself to the sound of motorbikes and Vietnamese babble while Ngoc attended to other customers upstairs. Her 70-year old mother noticed me nursing my Sprite and approached with a little gift. In a bizarre and grand gesture she danced towards me, wavering her torso like a belly dancer as she raised a single banana above her head with both hands. When she reached my table she snapped the banana in two and dramatically swung an arm down, offering me half with a big smile. I laughed and thanked her, feeling privileged that Mom felt comfortable enough to be goofy around me. It was evident that as much as Ngoc was trying to keep things under wrap, her Mom knew something was up. When Ngoc returned I indicated I would leave and return by three. When I asked for the bill, she waived it off.
It was three o'clock when I strolled into the restaurant again. I noticed Ngoc had changed her outfit. When I stood before her, she quietly pointed to me and then walked her fingers along a tabletop and around an imaginary corner. First I was to walk to the bridge, apparently by myself. With another handlebar-revving gesture she she would ride her motorbike there in a few minutes to meet me. I guess for reasons not entirely different from Audrey Hepburn sneaking out of the palace to meet Gregory Peck, our countryside jaunt was to be a covert operation. Fraternizing with the customers was one thing, but disappearing with a customer for an afternoon was sure to generate gossip. Although I was game, I still rolled my eyes melodramatically before departing for our rendevous, out of sight of her family.
I waited at the bridge for only a minute before she pulled up on her motorbike wearing a large brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a mischievous grin. She presented me with the bike, slid on behind me and grasped my waist. I gunned the bike and pulled off into the chaotic two-wheeled traffic. Immediately we entered a bottleneck at the entrance to the bridge. Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn't driven a motorbike in about eight years; the last time was on the empty suburban streets of South Florida, nothing like the 50cc maelstrom that surrounded me. I felt intimidated, but I still managed to maintain my composure. Panic, I assumed, isn't very debonaire when on a date in any country.
After a mile of intense concentration and a sweaty grip on the handlebars, the traffic began to diminish along with any thoughts of disaster, and I began to enjoy the ride. The passing scenery began to make it difficult to keep my eyes on the rural roads. Stucco and shutters were giving way to palms and paddies. The further we rode away from the city , the more people would take notice of us and stare, some befuddled and some amused at the sight of a foreign man joyriding with a local woman. A slender gloved arm would occasionally appear in my sights to point directions or to remind me to switch gears. Wincing from a few teasing pinches on my neck and then catching her smile in the sideview mirror, I asked myself how anybody could see Vietnam on a package tour.
About 5k from Hue, she pointed to a turn off. We rolled down a tree-lined dirt road that soon widened into a shaded clearing. A woman vendor sitting cross-legged on a wooden bench watched passively as I parked the bike next to her stand. She remained seated, preferring to let the bottled water, fruit, and other items speak for themselves. Ngoc pointed me towards an arched gateway and then sat down next to the vendor. Although they didn't immediately communicate, it was evident by their smiles and body language that they were familiar with each other.
Up close, the archway displayed tiny graffiti, mostly Vietnamese names, carved into or written on the weathered wood. I stepped through the gate, personalized by so many visitors before me, and stood before a serene environment. A perimeter of trees quietly whispering in the wind stood around a dark pond occupying a large stone basin. Beyond, up on a small hill , stood a modest pagoda and a small cemetary. The only real movement that caught my eye were subtle ripples from invisible fish sporadically breaking the surface of the pond. No one else was visible, but I could hear quiet stirrings from within a nearby monk's dwelling against which a thatched broom leaned. After skirting the pond I instictively wandered to the left, up a series of paths to the simple tombs. I reached the top of the hill and slowed my pace. Looking back down through the trees and the arch, I could see Ngoc in the distance making gestures in conversation with the vendor.
The land lacked the refinement of temples or tombs I have seen in Japan, but like these places, it could easily have seduced me into hours of contemplation. Knowing the local history of recent decades was enough to supply the profundity usually conveyed through decor. I ambled aimlessly around the dead's homes. If I had the time I would have stayed to watch nature overtake the graves. Among these crumbling structures, I experienced a wave of solitude accompanied by a strange sense of satisfaction. Far from the diversions of my world- diversions which seemed sophomoric at the moment- I felt privileged. The sound of twigs snapping under my feet and the vivid feel of moss clinging to a tomb's wall would become sensations I would relish. Tactile sensations like these create in me a longing for a Vietnam independent of an American mythology I unwarily embraced and exported to this country.
On the road again, the sun was beginning to hit us from a lower angle. The effect was soothing instead of pounding. As we rolled up to the next location, it was evident by the multiple vendors and the Vietnamese tourists piling into a mini-van that this was a more renowned local attraction . Emporer Tu Duc's tomb. The entire compound is surrounded by an immense octoganal wall, making it difficult to gauge its size from the outside. This time I was happy to see Ngoc escort me onto the grounds.
Passing through the gate, several middle-aged vendor ladies eyed us before exchanging a few hushed but visible giggles. As we walked past them I looked over at Ngoc to see her reaction. She chose to ignore the ladies' antics. We strolled along a wide brick pathway to the right of which was a small lake with an island of overgrowth. To the left was a stone stairway leading up to an unexcessive palace. Somewhere further back on the grounds were the tombs. It is recorded that in the late 1800's, Emporer Tu Duc used to come to this place to relax with any one of his 104 wives. Even though Tu Duc's tomb is one of the most frequented tourist destinations in Hue, the visitors were thankfully sparce that day. It had been obvious that we were subject to scrutinizing eyes, so I think we were both relieved at the privacy we found at the tombs. It's all very much a romantic locale, especially if visiting with someone who induces sweaty palms.
We sat down among the columns of an open air pavillion on the edge of the lake, where it is reputed Tu Duc used to recite poetry to his concubines. Opting not to dazzle my friend with poetry, I instead pulled out my date book, opened it to a back page and drew a simple picture of an envelope. Ngoc watched as it I wrote "California" above the envelope. I wanted to know about the past relationship she obviously cherished quietly in her heart. She did not protest. With a concentrated expression she began to relate to me her description of a man similiar in age and appearance to me. Apparently he worked in Saigon on business, and had been back and forth between our two countries. She related at least one opportunity she had to meet up with him in Saigon when she was in town for a modelling job. Their relationship seemed to jump around over a couple of years. Physically it appeared to be on again/off again due to his travel. The continuity was maintained in her heart.
I rubbed my ring finger and looked at her inquisitively. She shook her head no. After rubbing her thumb and fingers together to say "money", she pointed to herself and made a "small" gesture with her hand. Then she pointed to the drawing of the envelope, rubbed her thumb and fingers again and made a "big" gesture with her hand. She shook her head no, again. Essentially she was telling me that she thought he made too much money. They were from different worlds. Whether she really believed this or if it was just a defensive reaction to a broken heart, I'll never know. I pointed to myself and indicated that, as an artist, I don't experience that problem of making too much money.
We sat under the pavilion for about forty-five minutes, alternating between silent conversations, and just looking at each other and smiling. It was not awkward just looking at her as she looked at me. She pointed to my blue eyes and put her fist to her heart. Rocking her arms by her chest and pointing to my features, she joked that she wants to have a baby that has blond hair and blue eyes. I laughed and shook my head. I pointed to her brown eyes and wrote down " dep lam" , or "very beautiful". Her smile turned bashful and she looked down. Finding this irresistable, I pulled her hair back behind her ears so she couldn't hide her face.
Although I never really felt limited in communicating with her, the longer we sat under the pavillion, the more I wished I knew more about what was going on in her mind, because the longer we sat there, the more I desired to lean over and kiss her.
I was afraid to, though. I felt for her, but my transitory status held bearing on my impulses. She had already obviously confided in me more than she would to most visitors. Knowing of her previous relations with a transitory American only served to heighten my sense of impending guilt. I was probably underestimating a full grown woman's sensibilities, but this did nothing to alleviate my fear of taking advantage of her.
As much as I restrained myself, though, a tension, an excitement was beginning to mount between us under the pavillion. Her eyes reflected it. The way we huddled close reflected it. There was a consensus in both of our faces. A threshold was already being reached in the conversation. After a while we just looked at each other. My chest began to subtly shake with anticipation. Should I make a move? I felt so painfully adolescent. When a well-timed group of lively Japanese tourists arrived to take photos on the pavillion, I suggested to her that we get up and walk on.
Following beaten dirt paths away from the tourists, we walked through scenery that only enhanced the romantic overture. Birds chirped, wind whistled through the trees. Ngoc pointed out a beautiful small flora on the ground that would gracefully fold its leaves shut upon a gentle brush of the foot. She found a small white flower to playfully place in one of my button holes. Finally, like some whimsical omen, a strange purple-colored ladybug landed on my chest. The whole fanciful scene was comically testing my so-called restraint.
Letting the ladybug fly from my fingers, I paused to look around for a moment and decide our next direction. The path had lead us up a steady rise to a nearby tomb, an open area enclosed by four stone walls with a sealed sepulcher in the center. A heavy wooden door rested half off its hinges at the entrance. As I turned to consult Ngoc, she suddenly grabbed both my arms and pulled me to her face, pressing her lips to mine. I immediately embraced her and we kissed like the young fools we are. After a minute of this unbridled passion, she led me into the nearby tomb. The intimate confines of the surrounding walls encouraged our kisses to become deeper. In a few minutes we exited the gate of the tomb with big smiles on our faces, as if we shared some kind of inside joke. She grasped the heavy door and mimicked closing it with us inside. With an amorous look she pointed to both of us and then pressed her hands together near her face, joking that maybe we should lock ourselves in for the night. At least I interpreted it as a joke. For the moment, I wasn't so sure we needed to rush into things any further. She kissed me again, and then led me away, her fingers grasping my own.
My mouth had dried quickly. I paused to unzip my bag and pull out a bottle of water. Ngoc walked on without looking back. After refreshing myself, I caught up with her and offered her the bottle. She didn't immediately turn towards me. I touched her shoulder and she only half-glanced back. She was hiding her face. Slight tears were welling up in her eyes. I stopped her and dipped my head at her in concern while digging in my bag for a tissue. She wiped her eyelid before conveying a vivid message to me.
She began by pointing over her shoulder which by now I understood to mean "before". She pointed to herself, she pressed her fist to her heart, pointed to me, and then indicated "small" with her fingers. Before she had felt for me only a little bit. After a slight pause she pointed to the ground, and then repeated all the previous gestures, except the last one when she put her palms together and made them drift apart wide. Now she was beginning to feel for me more and more. I put my arms around her and stroked her head. As we embraced she made no sound. She looked up to me, smiled weakly, kissed me and then gestured that we should continue on.
For the rest of our late afternoon tour through Tu Duc's tomb, we sought out intimate corners that seemed remote from the world; if not in space, then in time. The courtyard of the palace, surrounded on all sides by the emporer's modest quarters, seemed to prohibit all sound and movement. It was still enough to seem difficult to Within the dark wood walls of the palace, we were instantly drawn to to forgotten, unadorned rooms. There in the lingering hot air and dying soft light, confident that we were shrouded from the outside world, we would steal another quick kiss. Outside, orange hues were signaling the end of the day, so we slowly and reluctantly began to head back to the motorbike. Ngoc had to return to assist her family for dinner. Descending the steps away from the palace, I heard her behind me quietly cry out in an urgent high-pitched voice. I turned and she gestured me to come over. One last kiss before subjecting ourselves to scrutiny of vendors, before re-entering Vietnam, present day. We continued down to the stairs . It was the only time I would ever hear her make any sound.
We motorbiked back to Hue until two-thirds across the bridge where she directed me to pull over in the busy evening traffic. I relinquished the bike to her and then pointed to my watch before holding up eight fingers. She nodded and then rode on. When I walked past her restaurant, she acknowledged me with a discrete, safely cordial smile.
Sometime after eight, after another secret rendevous at the bridge, Ngoc and I were served shrimp and rice, spring rolls, and a few other culinary peripherals on the deck of the floating restaurant . The sun had recently set and pinpoints of light were sheepishly emerging from the deep blue sky. From our corner table next to the water, we watched a tourist boat set out floating lanterns onto the middle of the Perfume River. Several days earlier, before I had met Ngoc, I had dined at the floating restaurant by myself. It was during that meal that I watched the sun set beyond the far banks of the Perfume river, leaving in its wake a smoldering sky of amorous colors, and leaving me feeling inadequately alone. I had not expected to return after that first dinner.
I had asked Ngoc if I could draw her portrait in my book, and was lent a ballpoint pen from a lone German woman who dined at a nearby table. The woman had been watching us and became giddy with excitement when she was asked to contribute to our little romantic date. As I sketched Ngoc, she busied herself by dividing up the dishes between us. I put my sketchbook down and attempted to try a shrimp, but my hand was smacked with a clear message. No eating until I finish the portrait. Eventually my portrait was approved and I was allowed access to my meal. In between knowing smiles, we ate our dinner . A small scufflling noise by my feet caused me to look down in time to see a healthy-sized rat scurry from under our table and into the direction of the kitchen. Ngoc saw my reaction and followed my wide eyes to the rat. She looked back to me, mimicked picking up the rat and cutting it into pieces for our dinner, and then smiled widely. For the rest of the dinner we sat with our feet resting on the rungs of the chairs.
After dinner we headed back over the river to her family's joint because she had to resume work. After she dropped me off at the usual spot, I found a photocopy stand and made a copy of her portrait for her own. At the restaurant she lead me upstairs to sit with Dave, a lone American traveler I had met the day before. While we Dave and I talked, Ngoc would periodically slip upstairs to join us for another Hue beer. She claimed she could match us beer for beer, drinking at least ten of the tall bottles in one night if she had too. I threatened to challenge her on it but she didn't seem deterred.
Dave had recently come to Vietnam via Thailand, where he worked as an extra on the Disney production " Operation Dumbo Drop". The movie told the supposedly true story of a squad of G.I.s enlisted to transport an elephant into enemy territory during the war... with all the ensuing hilarious consequences and an all-star cast. A feel good adventure-comedy that took the role of Americans saving the South Vietnamese from communism and manifested it into that of tamers looking after a wild animal. The movie still includes scenes of blowing away two-dimensional NVA soldiers, but now it's great fun for the kids, too.
Dave seemed somewhat embarresed when he initially described the plot to me, and agreed to its dubious nature, but it had paid for his trip through Southeast Asia. During the production he had played an American soldier for atmosphere.
" It was pretty cool, though, " he said in an understated manner. " They dressed us up in fatigues and gave us M-16s , and we spent a few days going up and down in helicopters"
Around one in the morning after finishing only about six bottles, I was sufficiently tipsy and indicated to Ngoc that I was going to bed. The next day would be my last in Hue. Since my flight wasn't until late in the afternoon, Ngoc made a handlebar-revving gesture and conveyed that she would take somewhere for breakfast the next morning. But before escorting me to the airport, she indicated we would tour the countryside again. Then ,with a mischeivous grin, she wrote down "Tu Duc".
Breakfast was at a place within the neighborhood making up the southeastern quadrant of the Citadel. After a typical Vietnamese morning bowl of "pho" and a bottle of water, we motorbiked back to Ngoc's restaurant to wait out the intense midmorning sun before venturing into the countryside again. The sun did eventually abate, but only because it yielded to less preferable thunder clouds which began to blanket the entire sky. Judging by the expanse of the gray, it was not to be a simple in-and-out downpour. After whipping winds momentarily announced the storm's arrival, sporadic raindrops began to smack the ground. So much for our final big day in country.
From the privacy of the upstairs balcony we stared out at the demise of our last chance at any remote intimate encounters. It was disappointing, but we both shared a look of complacency and shrugged our shoulders at the change in plans. For the next couple of hours we were content to just stay in and watch the surging and fading waves of the storm. At the far side of the room, four of her neices and nephews sat in a circle on the floor with cards and played a heated game of Go Fish. A couple of the players were so young that they couldn't read numbers. Instead they individually counted the number of spades, diamonds, clubs, or hearts on each card before making their move.
When nobody was looking Ngoc would steal a kiss from me and then run downstairs to help out. Her mother wandered upstairs and found me sitting alone. She came over, offered me a pinch in the side, and then rummaged through a closet. She pulled out a red photo album and laid on the table before me. The entire album contained pictures from a funeral procession, dating back about fifteen years earlier. From what I could gather, it may have been her husband. As I slowly flipped through it, she stood next to me and silently pointed out the familiar but much younger faces of some of her children who were now full grown and could be found downstairs. When I finished the book, she calmly took it away and left me with an approving smile.
When the time came to leave for the airport, I checked out of my hotel and brought my luggage back to the restaurant where a minor argument had broken out. Apparently two taxi drivers had been called for the same fare, and neither would give in. Before I had a chance to choose between the rides, though, Ngoc pulled me into the car of the younger driver. The driver jumped in and we left the other man standing on the street with an exasperated look on his face, surrounded by an audience of curious on-lookers. As we drove away Ngoc pointed to our driver in the frontseat and gave a thumbs-up. She pointed back to the loser behind us and grimaced with a thumbs-down.
It quickly became apparent that Thanh, our driver of choice, took a particular pride in his automobile. It was a big wide twenty-five year old product of Detroit, but it was in beautiful condition. As we lumbered down Hue's roads, its expansive frame and unusual robust horn sent Japanese mini-vans scurrying for the side of the road.
" You like this car?" Thanh asked, glancing at me through the rearview mirror.
" It's beautiful, " I said.
" It was a US Air Force car." He said, beaming.
As evidence he pointed out a small metal plaque mounted on the dashboard. Printed on the plaque were graphics listing several combinations of light signals the driver had to abide to in determining whether he had clearance to traverse a runway. I guess you just didn't look left, right, and up before crossing.
I looked over to Ngoc, who looked so tiny sitting upon the vast vinyl seat, her eyes just clearing the window. When I touched her arm, she looked over and playfully slapped my hand. She rubbed her ring finger as if to say, "not unless we're married", and then returned to gazing out the window. So I played her game and pretended to ignore her until I felt her hand sneak over mine.
At the airport I checked in and then waited outside with Ngoc for my flight to arrive. The incoming flight that would take me away was late due to the bad weather. Thanh called me over to a small group of taxi drivers admiring another American import. It was a familiar American icon that instantly cast a wave of nostalgia upon me; a Ford station wagon complete with the wooden side paneling. The family truckster looked as though it had just rolled off the line, except for the cream color that had been hand-painted around the wood panelling. The driver, an older bespectacled gentlemen, was very proud of it. He claimed it was left behind by an American general. Without prompting, he even popped the hood for me.
When a double propellor Vietnam Airlines plane finally landed, the waiting passengers were called into the departure lounge. I wanted to kiss Ngoc goodbye but wasn't sure if it was very proper in public. She waited with me until just before I went through security. She leaned in and quickly kissed me goodbye. Then she turned smiling, and headed for the exit.
Once inside, I bought some gum to help my melancholy and moped around the departure lounge until I found a window looking out onto the front parking lot. Among a group of anxious taxi drivers waiting for the new arrivals, I spotted Ngoc standing next to the young driver, looking to help him find a new fare. I caught her eye and she joined me at the window. Through a crack in the panes I slipped her a piece of Doublemint. We exchanged silly smiles and then waved goodbye once more. I watched her return to the young driver's side and then I turned away before someone else could enter her life. My last memory of
No comments:
Post a Comment