Message from Nam (22 page)

“Yeah, you could call it that, I guess. They call this a war. That’s artillery … those are tracer bullets going off … oh … I’d say somewhere in the vicinity of Bien Hoa.… Lady, you’re gonna love it here. We got fireworks anytime when our birds drop their eggs on Victor Charlie.” His attitude annoyed her, he was faintly condescending and somewhat amused by her. And it was embarrassing to realize that she had made a blunder.

She carried her own bags when she got off, and the boys who had talked to her seemed to have forgotten her by then. They had their own troubles now. And they were all loaded into trucks almost as soon as they arrived at the airport.

There was no one at the airport for her, and as she picked up her bags and went to look for a cab, she felt very brave. She spoke not a word of Vietnamese, and suddenly she felt as though she didn’t have a friend in the world.

A string of battered cars were outside the terminal, and there were U.S. soldiers everywhere. This was the main military base for Saigon, and for a last few moments, she felt safe there.

“Hey, Doughnut Dollie, welcome to Saigon!” a voice called out to her, and she turned to see who they meant, and was annoyed to discover that the black man with the accent from the Deep South meant her.

“Thanks a lot!” she called back, letting him hear her Savannah drawl.

“Louisiana?” he called back, and this time she laughed.

“Georgia!”

“Shee-it!” He smiled, and hurried on. It was still before dawn, but there seemed to be plenty of people awake and busy. And she signaled to one of the drivers of a waiting cab. It was a blue-and-yellow Renault, and the driver wore sandals and shorts, and he had a flat narrow face and shaggy black hair.

“You Wac?” he asked, speaking too loud. The noises seemed remarkable here. Even at this time of the morning, in the distance she could hear loud voices and horns. And there was a pungent smell in the air, a kind of perfume made of flowers, spices, and oil. She could smell the jet fuel everywhere, and as she looked around her, there seemed to be a haze of smoke just above them.

“No, not Wac,” she explained, wondering why he cared.

“Wave?”

“No.” She wanted to put her bags in the car. She had been traveling for more than twenty hours. “You take me to Caravelle Hotel, please.”

“You prostitute?” he asked, finally impressed, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or just admit it to him.

“No,” she said firmly, as she put her bags in his car. “Journalist.” She already knew from a phrase book she’d brought that she was a
bao chi
—in Vietnamese, a correspondent. But she didn’t yet dare to try the unfamiliar language. He shook his head. He refused to understand, as he slipped behind the wheel and turned to look at her, wondering what she was
really.

“You military?” Shit. It was obvious she was never going to get to Saigon.

“Newspaper,” she tried again. And this time the light dawned.

“Oh. Very good!” He was almost shouting at her, and as they left the base, he kept his hand continually on the horn. The noise was almost deafening, but all around them, despite the hour, there seemed to be a cacophony of horns. “You buy drugs from me?” he asked chattily as they headed toward Saigon. It was all so simple here. You prostitute? You buy drugs from me? It must have been overwhelming for the young boys she’d seen who’d never left home before.

“No drugs. Hotel Caravelle.” She repeated again just to be sure he understood. “On Tu Do.” It was supposedly the main drag, or so the man in charge of foreign correspondents at the
Sun
had said. And Ed Wilson had insisted that they book her there because it was one of the best in town, and the cleanest. The CBS office was there, and he thought she might be safer there than at some of the other hotels in Saigon.

“Cigarette?” he offered as she prayed he wouldn’t offer her anything else on the four-mile ride to town. “Ruby Queen,” he identified Viet Nam’s favorite smoke.

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke,” she explained as several motor scooters and an ancient Citroen seemed to sideswipe them all at once. He responded by putting both hands on the horn, as did everyone else. And as she sat back against the seat she tried to take a deep breath again, but the continuing smell of fumes almost choked her.

But as she watched their route into Saigon, she saw the buildings around them become more beautiful, and there was a look of Paris as they came closer to the center of Saigon. There seemed to be foot traffic everywhere despite the early hour, and the curfew, but people were scurrying along. There were some on bicycles, people in pedicabs, and everywhere the sounds of voices and horns all around her.

Some of the buildings were colored in washed pastels, others were in solemn stone. And as they reached Saigon, he drove her past the Presidential Palace and the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace, and then onto Nguyen Hue Boulevard, bordered by lovely trees, until they passed City Hall. And then they went past the Salem Building on the square, and she suddenly recognized the famous Marines Statue. And as soon as she saw it, Paxton had a better idea of where she was. She knew that there on the square, in the Eden Building, she would find the Associated Press and the NBC offices. And a few minutes later, she identified the Continental Palace, as they turned onto the Tu Do and she knew from the man at the
Sun
that there was an interesting bar there called the Terrasse, and the
Time
magazine office. And as they drove past the National Assembly building, the driver slowed and turned to her with a half-toothless smile. It was impossible to determine how old he was. He could have been anywhere between twenty-five and sixty.

“You wanna see Pink Nightclub in Hotel Catinat tonight? I pick you up for dinner.”

“No, thank you.” She tried to take a firm tone with him. “Caravelle Hotel. Now, please. Tonight I must work for my newspaper.” She tried to sound firm and uninviting.

“Not prostitute?” he continued to ask hopefully, as she prayed he would take her to her hotel and never come back to find her.

And then suddenly, they were there, at the Caravelle, and all she wanted was to get out and run away from him, check in, and go to bed. She was exhausted but exhilarated just being there. He told her how much she owed and she knew that he was cheating her, but this time she was too tired to care. She walked into the lobby of the Caravelle, carrying her own bags, and it was slowly coming to life as a few young Vietnamese girls began to clean the lobby. It was still early morning, but soon the sun would be up and the hotel would be busy. The lobby would be full of high-ranking uniforms, visitors from abroad, mostly from Europe, and the pretty Vietnamese girls who came to meet them.

“Andrews,” she gave her name to the pretty female desk clerk in a white
ao dai
, the traditional Vietnamese costume of trousers and a slim-fitting long tunic. Most were white, but some were prints or brightly colored.

“Andrew?” She looked blankly at Paxton for a moment.

“Paxton Andrews. From the
Morning Sun
in San Francisco.” Paxton was too tired to be either patient or charming. All she wanted was a shower and her bed. Even at that hour of the morning, the air was stifling. She hadn’t been prepared for the suffocating heat, and the ceiling fans seemed to do nothing, as the girl checked the register and shook her head at Paxton.

“Mr. Andrews not here yet. You his wife? His lady?”

Shit, she muttered to herself. “No,” she explained. “I
am
Paxton Andrews.” She noticed two young Vietnamese boys listening to her, smiling, as two men met in the lobby. One had come from the plane. The other from the street outside. They were off to an early start and both men gave Paxton a careful look of intense appraisal. One was rugged and dark-haired and somewhere in his middle thirties, the other one was considerably older with a lined face that looked worried. She noticed them but she wasn’t interested in talking to them or knowing who they were. All she wanted was her room, and shower, and her bed, for the moment. And meanwhile, the girl at the desk still appeared not to understand her. “I
am
Paxton Andrews.”

“You Mr. Andrews?” The girl giggled, and even Paxton had to laugh. In the two hours she’d been in Viet Nam, she’d been called a man, a Doughnut Dollie, and a prostitute. It was certainly an interesting beginning.

“Yes,” she explained again. “I am Paxton Andrews. Do you have my room?” The girl finally nodded agreement, and as the two men watched, while trying to appear not to, the girl at the desk signaled for a boy who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, and handed him a key to a room on the third floor, well below the well-known bar in the penthouse.

Paxton followed him up the stairs, and he struggled with her single bag while she managed her tote bag, and when they reached her room, she gave him twenty-five piasters, and he grinned and bowed and ran away downstairs. He was a cute child, and it was hard to believe these were the children she’d been warned against. She’d been told that the children in Viet Nam were either thieves or beggars or VC, or all three. But this one looked innocent as he ran back to the lobby. And she walked into her room in time to see a horde of cockroaches dash across the carpet. She let out a small scream, and then forced herself to walk into the room, kill those she could, and look into the bathroom. It was clean, and done in old white tile, and still seemed reminiscent of the French influence in the city. Nothing had changed much since they’d left it. Certainly not the heat, the war, or the roaches. The only things that had changed were the battered, trembling air conditioners in constant use in all the rooms now. It was a touch of home she was grateful for. Her clothes stuck to her skin from her journey from the airport to the hotel in the torrid, humid heat that had left her looking and feeling like a dishrag.

She washed her face, and ran the tub, and it was eight in the morning local time when she got to bed, and when she opened the windows she could still smell the gas fumes below them and hear the noises as Saigon sprang to life below her. The smell of fuel seemed to be pervasive everywhere in the city. And as she lay there, she wondered what it had been like for Peter when he’d arrived, but he probably hadn’t seen much. He had been one of the boys loaded on trucks and whisked off into the night to places like Long Binh, or Nha Trang, Pleiku, Da Nang, Vinh Long, Chu Lai, the places she had come to see, and now could only dream of.

She closed her eyes but slept fitfully, there was too much on her mind, too much to think about, and see, and discover. And as the sun settled high in the sky over Saigon, she stirred and opened her eyes and stretched. And she smiled as she looked up, there was a bird sitting on her windowsill, chirping loudly.

“Welcome to Viet Nam.” She rolled over slowly and as she said the words, she heard a sound, and sensed a presence in the room, and sat bolt upright, covering herself with the sheet as a tall, good-looking blond man walked into her bedroom. He was wearing fatigues, but he wore no name, and his fatigues did not say “U.S. Army.” “What are you doing here?” She wanted to scream, but she wasn’t sure if she should or not, as she backed out of the bed, still carrying the sheet around her.

“You left your key in the door last night. I wouldn’t do that here if I were you.” He was looking at how beautiful she was, but nothing on his face showed that he had noticed. He had been told by one of the bellboys that there was a new arrival in that room, a very pretty girl, the boy had said. And Nigel had tipped him twenty piasters. He had also heard about her from his two colleagues who had seen her early that morning in the lobby. And now he reached across the bed and handed her the key with a solemn expression. “I was just going to leave it on the nightstand beside you.” She noticed that he had an accent, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if he was British or Australian.

“I … uh.…” She was blushing furiously, wondering if he could see through the sheet as she stood there. “I … thank you …”

He smiled, mildly amused at her distress. “No problem. I’m Nigel Aucliffe, by the way. United Press. From Australia.” A twinkle in his eye told her that he was something less than innocent or wholesome.

“Paxton Andrews, from the
Morning Sun
, in San Francisco.” But she didn’t attempt to shake his hand, for fear of losing the sheet she was holding.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you.” His double entendre made her even more uncomfortable and with a brief bow, he left the room as swiftly as he had entered it, and she sat down on the bed, still wrapped in the sheet, with her heart pounding after the encounter. This was definitely not going to be an ordinary experience. And how could she be so stupid as to leave her key in the door in a war zone?

“Christ,” she muttered to herself, “talk about stupid.” She locked the door from the inside this time, and looked out the window, down the Tu Do, and if you squinted, you could almost tell yourself you were in Paris.

She had to report to the AP office that afternoon at two o’clock in the Eden Building in the square, and she bathed and dressed in a light cotton pale blue dress that seemed more appropriate than blue jeans in the weather. And she hurried downstairs to the main restaurant for lunch. There were quite a few people dining there when she arrived, most of them men, several in fatigues or comparable outfits, others in lightweight shirts, and two Vietnamese women in lovely white
ao dais
, the traditional white dresses worn over balloon trousers that seemed so airy and yet molded their figures so gracefully. For the moment, Paxton seemed to be the only Western woman in the room, and in the far corner she saw Nigel Aucliffe laughing about something with a stranger and the two men she’d seen early that morning, and she wondered if they weren’t laughing about her. She felt extremely green and new to it all, as she ordered consommé and an omelet. The touch of France was still visible here in the decor, the food, and the menu.

And as she finished her omelet and sipped a cup of coffee, while making a few notes to herself, Nigel Aucliffe and his group stopped at her table.