The Corsican (36 page)

When Peter had first been exposed to the military, he had wondered about his grandfather's intense interest in its history. Then he had realized that what intrigued the old man was not the military, but the tactics of war. For those who lived among the anonymous uniformed ranks, the game was all-important, and war and its tactics were only an extension of the game, one that provided greater opportunities.

When a Bluebird taxi finally pulled to a jolting halt beside him, Peter entered the rear of the filthy, scarred, threadbare blue Renault and immediately began haggling with the driver over the fare to the Room of a Thousand Mirrors. Initially, the driver insisted on a hundred piasters, and only after several minutes of debate did he lower the price to fifty. A pre-departure orientation briefing had warned that cab drivers routinely demanded four or five times the civilian fare from Americans, but would usually settle for double the price under pressure.

Peter had undertaken the debate in English, wanting the full force of the driver's argument, along with the muttered curses he would utter in his own tongue. It was not a question of money—one hundred piasters amounted to roughly eighty-five cents, American—but a chance to recapture childhood memories of shopping with his mother, of reliving the oriental need to haggle over every sale, amid claims that their children would face starvation if merchandise was sold at the price demanded, was irresistible. The driver had not disappointed, and Peter sat back satisfied, determined to give the man an outlandish tip, thereby reaffirming his belief that all white men were truly mad.

The taxi barreled along Truong Minh Giang, across Cach Mang and into Le Loi Boulevard, past the Senate Building and the Vietnamese Marine Memorial. The driver, like the other Vietnamese who raced beside him, seemed oblivious to any notion of safety, and for his own peace of mind, Peter found himself concentrating on the sidewalks, where a mass of humanity hurried past the singsong shouts of street vendors, who sold everything from food to clothing to household utensils. It too was as he remembered. The sights, the sounds, and especially the smells all provoked memories of the past. He had been a child when they left Vientiane and moved to the house on the Mekong. But even now he remembered the smells of that city, the underlying odor of mass rot, mingling with the pungent aromas of the food merchants who lined the streets.

The taxi screeched to a halt outside a walled building, and Peter pried himself out of the cramped passenger seat, then handed the driver fifty piasters, plus a fifty-piaster tip. The driver stared at the money, then back at Peter again, as if trying to decide whether he was dealing with insanity or the simple inability to understand Vietnamese currency. The driver resolved the question with a simple grin, bobbed his head up and down, and repeated, “Thank you,
du ma
,” several times before lurching back into traffic.

Peter watched him race away, barely able to restrain laughter. It was the perfect ending to the entire debate, both for himself and the driver.
Du ma
was the Vietnamese equivalent of “motherfucker.”

The Room of a Thousand Mirrors was located just close enough to the center of the city to escape the battered slums that dominated most of the outer reaches of Plantation Road. It was a sprawling old colonial mansion, with screened terraces that overlooked a rear garden. It was French opulence at its best, with tasteful sandstone carvings set above the doors and windows.

Inside the carved teak door, Peter found himself facing a floating garden of water hyacinth, the delicate blue blossoms reflecting against the shallow water of the pool in which they floated. An elderly woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a white-and-gold
ao dai
, came from a side room, stopped a few feet away and bowed.

“I am Ba Hai, the official greeter,” she explained.

Peter introduced himself and bowed. The bow was lower than necessary, and Ba Hai raised one hand to her mouth, in the accepted manner for a Vietnamese woman about to laugh.

“
Choc vay, Anh Hai
,” she said, using the term “Brother Two,” to honor him. “We were told of your coming.”

Peter bowed again, properly this time. “You honor me with your kindness, Ba Hai,” he said.

Ba Hai extended one hand toward the stone staircase to their left. “You would like interview now?” she asked.

“
Toi kheong biet
,” Peter said—I don't understand.

“This a club,” she explained, seeming to prefer English. “You first have interview for membership.”

Peter nodded to the elderly woman, who immediately started for the stairs. Watching her, he marveled at the youthfulness of her movements. Certainly she was well past seventy, but, as with many oriental women, her true age was impossible to ascertain. Yet she moved with the ease and grace of someone far younger.

He was led to a large, sparsely furnished office. There, seated behind a delicately carved teak desk, a small, silken-haired woman in her mid-twenties stared at him with jade-green eyes. Peter was instantly in awe of her beauty, her finely chiseled features and round, full lips.

Slowly she stood, revealing the added beauty of her scarlet
ao dai
, and smiled at him. It was a wry, knowing smile, but not unfriendly.

“Welcome,” she said, bowing to Peter.

Peter repeated the introduction he had given Ba Hai downstairs.

The woman gestured for him to be seated, then returned to her own chair behind the desk. Behind her, an unusual long, low Japanese ceramic vase, filled with water, held another collection of water hyacinths, the blue blossoms seeming to add a subtle contrast to her scarlet
ao dai
. It made Peter wonder if it was planned to do so.

“You have come to this beautiful country at a very dangerous time,” she said. “I hope your visit here is both safe and interesting.” She paused to smile. “My name is Molly Bloom, and our club here is available to that end if it pleases you, and if you agree to certain minor rules of membership.”

She watched him closely, then laughed softly. “I take it Colonel Wallace did not tell you my name earlier. Like most members, he too enjoys the reaction people have when they first hear it.”

“I didn't mean to be rude,” Peter said. “I just anticipated a Korean name.”

“Most people do. The Vietnamese who work for me here call me Luc-binh. You may also if it makes you more comfortable.”

“That's even more intriguing,” Peter said. “Do they name you after the water hyacinth because of your obvious affection for it, or because you rival it in your beauty?”

“You speak Vietnamese, I see. That's very unusual and pleasing.” She ignored his compliment, not out of annoyance, but almost as if it was expected, and therefore of no importance. She traced the line of her jaw with the index finger of her right hand, almost as if drawing attention to her fine bone structure, then allowed the finger to remain under her chin for what seemed a long time, but was only a matter of seconds. Her striking green eyes never left Peter. It was as if she was memorizing his face. “Tell me about yourself, captain,” she said after a long pause.

“Peter, please.” He smiled at her. He had met few people in his life who he felt were a match for his own sense of cool detachment. This woman obviously was. He liked the idea. There was something challenging about her.

She nodded at his request that she use his first name, almost as though that too was to be expected. “Please call me Molly, or Luc-binh, whichever you prefer.”

“Which do you prefer?”

“Molly. Luc-binh is beautiful, but too ostentatious. The people who work here intend it as an expression of respect, so I allow it. Now, please, Peter. Tell about yourself.”

Peter's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, then he smiled at the woman. “Nothing much to tell,” he said. “Just another American far away from home.”

Molly smiled. “Obviously, if Colonel Wallace sent you here, you too must work for SEACON.”

He smiled at the woman. “Perhaps we're just friends.” There was no harshness in his voice, but his eyes had grown hard.

“Ah, you think it presumptuous of me to ask,” Molly said. “But you see, I make it my business to always know enough, Peter. But it's not very difficult. The military men who come here enjoy gossiping about each other.” She paused, took a cigarette from a jade cigarette case on her desk, fitted it into a four-inch ivory holder, then allowed Peter to light it.

After exhaling the smoke she looked at him with a touch of sternness. “The rules here, Peter, are few and simple. We allow no abusiveness to any guests or employees, and we expect people to act in a civilized manner. The club has its own restaurant, bar, baths, steam room and billiard room. In addition, there are rooms where one can simply read or be alone. There is also the Room of a Thousand Mirrors, where very beautiful and knowledgeable women can attend to more carnal pleasures. This is not a bordello, however, and guests are not permitted to treat it as one. It is also not a bar where loud, abusive evenings can be spent. There are many of those in Saigon, if one has need.” She paused again, then smiled. “I don't mean to mislead you. This is by no means a convent. I simply prefer to run it as a place where
gentlemen
can come, relax, and be entertained if they wish.”

“Have you been forced to …” Peter hesitated, searching for the right word. “To cancel the membership of many?”

“No, not at all. Most have found it so pleasurable here, they avoid that possibility.” She drew on her cigarette again, then exhaled the smoke in a long, sensuous stream. “I don't believe you will cause us difficulty, Peter. Now, do you have any questions I may answer?”

“Just one, Molly. I dislike being predictable. But is there really a Room of a Thousand Mirrors?”

“That's not at all predictable. Those who come here have usually heard of it.”

She reached for the ornate French telephone on her desk and spoke softly in Korean, a language Peter did not understand.

“I'm told the room is not in use now, so if you like, I'll show it to you.” She stood and smiled at him. “It's only a tour, however,” she said. “The Room of a Thousand Mirrors is where our more carnal pleasures are enjoyed, and it is well known that I do not work there.”

They walked down a long hallway that overlooked the entrance courtyard below. The lone wall along the hall held what Peter recognized as excellent copies of French impressionist paintings, intermingled with occasional tables holding fine Japanese ceramics of the Momoyama period.

Walking beside her now, Peter realized Molly was taller than he had first thought—at least five-five, unusually tall for an oriental woman. It was the delicateness of her bone structure that made her appear smaller. Yet her figure, beneath the smooth sheath of her
ao dai
, held both a sense of the delicate and the full. The woman seemed to be composed of one imposing contradiction about another.

“Your art collection, the paintings and the Japanese ceramics—were they part of the house when you purchased it?”

“The paintings were,” she said. “But they're only well-executed copies. Some of the ceramics were here, and some were my own. Most of them are the work of Korean masters, however, not Japanese. But technically all Japanese ceramics should be considered Korean, at least in origin.”

“You're speaking of the ceramic war,” Peter said.

Molly stopped and stared up at him. “You're aware of the war lords who sent armies to Korea to kidnap artisans?”

“The Japenese tea ceremony developed out of that, if I'm not mistaken,” Peter said.

“You're an interesting man, Peter. One of the few American men I've met who doesn't pride himself on being a barbarian.”

“You seem to know a great deal about us. And you speak the language so well. It makes me curious, to the point of being rude enough to ask.”

Molly smiled. “Rudeness with diplomacy. Very interesting, Peter. Not quite subtle, but interesting. But to answer your indirect question, as they say in the old war movies, I was educated in your country.”

“On the West Coast?” Peter asked.

Molly repressed a smile. “Actually, it was Vassar,” she said, turned and continued down the hall. Peter thought he had noted a flicker of pleasure in her eyes, but couldn't be certain.

“The room, I think, will interest you,” Molly said, as they stopped before a set of double doors of carved teak. “It was here, almost exactly as you will see it, when I bought the house several years ago.”

She opened both doors and allowed them to swing apart, then led Peter inside. They stood in a medium-sized sitting room, decorated sparsely with French Provincial furnishings. All about them, the walls, the ceiling, the room's center, were mirrors set at varying angles, and with each step, each movement, the mirrors seemed to offer a glimpse of another portion of some unseen room—a part of a Vietnamese sleeping mat, the leg of a chair or table. He moved slightly again and parts of other invisible rooms came into view, each fragmented, each appearing and disappearing with the slightest movement.

Peter turned to her, his eyes questioning.

“It's a labyrinth of mirrors,” she explained. “There are ten rooms within this larger room, and the mirrors are arranged so one sees a small portion of each with the slightest movement. Yet there is privacy of the whole. One might see the leg or arm of what one thinks to be someone else, only to find it is one's own reflected back a thousand times. Or you could be standing a few feet away from someone else and never truly know. When all the rooms are occupied, there is total privacy and, at the same time, the eroticism of the secret voyeur. I am told it is most sensual.”

“But how do you find your way through to reach the rooms?” Peter asked.

“It can be done if one knows how,” Molly said. “But it is not allowed. There is an entrance chamber, like the one we're standing in, for each of the rooms. Guests are not permitted to wander through the labyrinth. There are also screens that can be lowered electrically from the ceiling, for those who feel inhibited.”