But, nothing had prepared him for Sunday. It was, without doubt, for Saigon that the expression “Sunday best” had been invented. Given the effort that went into their grooming, he couldn’t imagine how any woman ever got to sleep from Saturday through Sunday morning . The maids and menials were dressed in their sparkly pajamas and walking arm in arm with their best friends. They dared to peak from the shadows of their coolie hats at the peculiar red devil in the café. Even their lips confessed a dab of lipstick.
The girls of the middle and upper classes weren’t able to wear their sensible hats no matter how cruelly the sun beat on them. For how could they show off their hairstyles beneath a straw bonnet? And what a parade of hairstyles it was. Even on the boardwalk at Coney Island, Bodge had never seen so many curls, licks, bangs, sweeps, buns, or strategically placed blooms. As one church released its flock, and another opened its doors, Christian fashion models mingled with Buddhists, Cao-Daists and atheists and it was impossible to tell one from the other. Each sect had as many brightly twinkling stars.
Bodge was in seventh day heaven. He nursed his ice tea until the paper straw had almost dissolved and would have stayed till evening if the elderly man hadn’t called him away. He’d run to the café, pointed at Bodge, gestured urgently for him to follow and headed off. He looked back over his shoulder several times to be sure Bodge was following. When the big American rose and headed after him the man stopped and put his hands on his knees panting heavily.
Bodge was no more than ten paces from the roadside café when it split in two. What had been inside blew out. Bodge was thrown five yards onto the street. The glass from the window, splinters of table, crockery shards, fingers and hair blasted past him. His senses froze for several seconds. He was deaf and dumb. He could smell and taste nothing. Only his eyes continued to function. They held his last vision like a still camera. He saw the Sunday parade as in a photograph, heads all turned to the café, mouths all rounded into neat zeros.
Then, at a click, all his senses returned like beasts. The screams deafened him. The stench of smoke and burned flesh choked him. The taste of his own blood was sickeningly sweet. He’d had the wind knocked out of him but he couldn’t see any wounds on his body. He turned his head towards the carnage: legs, half-heads, rags of skin. And, before he lost consciousness, his mind deliberately painted over the whole scene. What had been color was converted to black and white, unemotional black and white. The blood that lay in pools now clumsily spilt coffee and it was all right. He smiled and drifted away.
28.
At the silent man hotel, neither the powdered girls nor the old manager seemed surprised at Bodge’s condition. He’d slept off a concussion at the military hospital. His head was bandaged from its thump on the street and a peel of skin was missing from his nose, but he’d been let off more lightly than most. If the old man hadn’t called him, his parts would have been loaded into the army truck with those of the other restaurant patrons — the old man who was nowhere to be seen when Bodge came around. It was no coincidence. His life had been saved by the stranger and he had no way to thank him or find out why.
The silent man put the key in front of Bodge and went back to his newspaper. Bodge was in his room long enough to change his clothes, and retrieve his papers from beneath the loose tile under the bed. He took a rickshaw to the US Embassy compound, showed his passport to a lone marine at the gate, and went round to the consular section. He was the only customer so he had to ring a bell on the counter to get attention.
The girl who eventually arrived looked to Bodge not much older than thirteen. She was flat-chested and pimply.
“Gee,” she said with a big bright Lana Turner smile. “What ran over you?”
“About two pounds of TNT.”
“The café bomb? You’re crazy to be out in public. Coffee drinking’s getting to be a dangerous pastime these days. What can we do for you?”
“I’d like to, I don’t know, report in or something. Let the Embassy know I’m here in Saigon.”
“Are you on Embassy business?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is that like ‘no’?”
“Yes.”
“Then why should we want to know you’re in town?”
“I’m here as a missionary.”
She seemed disappointed. “Oh, well this is the Embassy.”
He tried to match her smile, “I’m aware of that. I saw the sign outside.”
“What you need is the Evangelical Missions Bureau.”
“There’s such a place?”
“Didn’t they give you orientation?”
“I skipped the last week.”
“You don’t strike me as being serious enough to be a missionary.”
“You don’t strike me as being old or polite enough to be a diplomat. So I guess first impressions aren’t really worth a damn.” He was sure she’d be offended but she seemed to like him more after that.
“Here. I’ll show you where it is.” She pulled a hand-drawn freebee map from a drawer and put a cross out by Vuon Chuoi market.
“Thanks. So, there isn’t some way I can get my name on record here at the Embassy? In case someone comes looking for me?”
“I guess you could rob a bank or shoot the Prime Minister.”
“Right. You’ve been too kind. Have a good day now.”
“You too.”
The cyclo was still waiting outside in the noonday heat. Bodge pointed to the cross on his map but he might as well have been showing him spaghetti stains on a napkin. Map reading wasn’t a prerequisite for peddling a trishaw in Vietnam. So, Bodge navigated with “left’s” and “right’s” and somehow got them to an old French villa in the Vuon Chuoi district. The sign on the front gate was so small he wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been searching; Evangelical Missions Bureau.
He paced up the three main steps and into an empty foyer. There were padlocked doors to either side of him and a staircase ahead.
“Hello,” he called. “Hello, anyone there?”
He heard mumbling from above and the sound of a door opening. A middle-aged and extremely white woman in pince-nez poked her head down from the top of the staircase. Bodge was astonished to see what she had on. Ninety degrees Fahrenheit and she wore a fluffy pink cardigan.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Ehrr. They told me at the embassy I might want to come and see you.”
“And why’s that, honey?”
“I’m on your program.”
“You don’t say? Heck, you wouldn’t be the Reverend Rogers now, would you?” She had that down home southern music on her voice that made Bodge suddenly miss his family.
“I sure would.” It was contagious.
“The Lord be praised. You get yourself up here.”
Her spectacles must have been for reading, because he was three yards away before she noticed the bandage on his head. “Heaven help us, what happened to you?”
“Little old bomb,” he smiled.
“Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.” She fussed around him like a fly round cotton candy. “But that’s just awful. What an introduction God has given you to this beautiful country.”
“It really isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said.
He finally reached the top landing and she threw open the door to the office. He was hit by a burst of air as cold as an Alaskan southerly. Bodge stood in the doorway. “Ma’am, this I would never have expected in Indochina.”
“It’s a wicked and sinful luxury but we’d better close the door before it all gets away. Come on in and take a seat.” She closed the door. Two large air conditioners stood by the wall. Bodge had been to expensive stores that had these wonders of modern technology, but not even the head of the CIA boasted one. He sat on a rattan couch that creaked under his weight.
“You must be just dying for a cup of iced tea.”
“Now you mention it, I guess I am dying at that.”
There were several desks up here in the ch
illy room all giving the appearance of having owners. But there were just the two of them in the room.
“How many of you work here?” he asked.
“Five, full-time,” she said, pouring tea from what looked like a New England antique teapot into a tall glass of ice.
“I thought I heard voices before.”
“You probably did.” She pointed to the closed door at the end of the office. “There’s yet another meeting. You rescued me from it.”
“Do they have snow in there as well?” His sweat was crystallizing.
“Reverend, I tell you, you never know what’s going to arrive next from this church group or that. I swear we’ve even got air planes and a helicopter waiting for customs clearance. The soldiers of Christ are digging deep for this mission. I guess the devil must have been a communist.”
“I guess so.
“Here’s your tea, Reverend.”
“Thank you…”
“Goodness, how rude of me. Margaret Johnston. I’m the all round dog’s body in these parts. They kick me this way and that and I never howl. You want anything done, just call Maggy J.”
“I’ll remember that, thanks.”
She joined him on the couch. “You’re much younger than I expected.”
“There are times I’m amazed I’ve made it to this age.”
“Alleluia to that. But I imagine you’re anxious to get yourself off into the jungle. You strike me as a man hungry for souls.”
“Well, yes I am, Maggy. Famished. But I’m afraid I’m going to need a few weeks of attending the hospital until my head’s healed.”
“I’m sure poor Mrs. Rogers is worried half to death. Why don’t I see if I can get word to her? Tell her you’re all right.”
“Mrs…?” Obviously news of the mission’s cancellation hadn’t made it to the Bureau. Here was a difficult moment. As he’d missed the larger part of his orientation, he wasn’t to know whether this office was an out-and-out CIA set up, or whether it was an actual missions bureau that, unbeknownst to itself, hosted the occasional spy. He hit center field.
“That’s very kind of you. But I think I can manage. I was planning to talk to her myself. I was actually wondering whether anyone had been asking after me.”
“The Cornfelts had been keen to meet you, of course.”
“The Cornfelts?”
“Sure. The couple you’re replacing in Ban Methuot.”
“Ah, yes. The Cornfelts. And where are they right now?”
“I’m afraid they left the country just yesterday. Lovely couple, and such caring people. Would you believe they went to all the trouble of taking a couple of girls back with them. Arranged scholarships and everything. I tell you, a person would have to be totally selfless to take on a responsibility like that. Don’t you agree?”
“The Cornfelts are saints indeed. They’ve set an admirable precedent. Maybe I’ll even take a couple of girls back when I go.”
“Well, praise the Lord for this new generation of big-hearted revivalists.”
“And, apart from the Cornfelts?”
“How do you mean, Reverend?”
“Asking after me?”
“No-one else I can recall. But your allowance has come through.”
“My allowance has…Oh, thank God.”
“I could wire down a note to the French Administrator’s office and you can withdraw it through, what they call a banque.” She made the word sound like a bedspring coming loose. “Unless you want some of it here. For your hospital expenses and all.”
“I don’t suppose I could get all of it now, Maggy J?”
The roll of greenbacks he’d been given in Delaware was down to a cheroot of twenties. He’d resorted to luxury in his Hong Kong layover. He realized he’d need spending money if he had to stick around in Saigon much longer.
“All of it? Heavens to Betsy. That’s three months of allowance.”
“I have a lot of supplies to buy. And The Lord knows how long I’ll have to stick around here in Saigon until my wife gets here.”
“Mrs. Rogers is coming back? Whatever for?”
“Coming back?”
“She only left four weeks ago. Surely she wouldn’t want to make that journey again so soon.” She noticed the Reverend’s jowls droop suddenly. “Why, whatever’s wrong?”
“Are you telling me my wife’s in Ban Methuot?”
“Of course, silly. Just what type of painkillers are they giving you for that head wound, Reverend?”
29.
Lac Lake
“You want to play cards, Ugly?”
Eleven of the morning and already Lan was slurring. So, now was as good a time as any. Hong put aside her letter and sat on the cushions on the floor.
“Why not?”
“You bring your gold and silver, my princess?” Hong rattled her cloth pouch of French Francs and Lan fished into her pocket for her own. They were Vietnamese and the thought of playing cards merely for the fun of it would have made no more sense to them than shooting themselves in the ear because they liked the sound of bullets. Theirs was a gambling race and Hong enjoyed to bet as much as anyone. Today she’d be making one of the biggest gambles of her life.
Gin rummy was the game of the season and Lan had once been a tough adversary. But the opium had slowed her mind and the alcohol was making her clumsy. In spite of that, today, Lan was sure to win. They played for an hour before the topic turned to politics. Hong had waited for Lan to bring it up as she often did. She was scooping her latest winnings toward her lap.
“I am a tornado today,” Lan boasted. “I sweep up all the money in my path and leave little consorts shivering in my wake.”
“I think you must have put something in my rice porridge this morning. I’m playing like a fool,” Hong lamented.
“Don’t berate yourself, my darling. Even Uncle Ho himself wouldn’t beat me on today’s showing.”
Hong laughed. “You don’t for one minute think Uncle Ho plays rummy?”
“Why not? He’s Vietnamese, isn’t he?”
“It’s a decadent bourgeois pastime. The first thing he’ll do is close down all the gambling dens. He’ll burn every playing card in the country and arrest all the players.”
“You’re scaring me again. I can’t imagine how depressing life would be if he ever took over.”
“Does it really worry you?”
“It’s too horrid to imagine, especially with us in the Royal household. It’s the upper classes they’ll wipe out first, you know? Our names are probably already on some list.”
Hong put down her cards. “Lan, if I tell you something, do you promise to keep it to yourself?”
“Why would you even need to ask?” She took on a visage of wounded indignation.
“This is very important, but I’ll tell you because it might just save your life.” Lan’s eyes grew wide. Hong came to sit beside her and pulled her close enough to whisper in her ear.
“What is it?”
“If it happens. If the communists do take over, you should go to see my father.”
“Why?”
“Lan, nobody outside my family knows this, but my father heads a nationalist movement in Saigon.”
Lan laughed. She knew the skinny bumbling little man. He certainly wasn’t the archetypal freedom fighter. “He makes ice cream.”
“Yes. And who would ever suspect someone like him? You certainly didn’t. His factory would be the last place the authorities would look for sympathizers. Am I right?”
“But…but he’s not even a communist.”
“If you were a communist in the South, would you tell anyone?”
Lan pulled away from her and looked in her unblinking eyes. “Hong, you’re serious.”
“As the sun is hot. If you go to him, he can protect you.”
“How?”
“He’s very close to…certain people.”
“Ho?”
“I can’t say.”
“No?”
&n
bsp; Hong took hold of her hand. “Lan, I’m breaking my vow to my father by telling you this. But I want you to be safe if it ever happens.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I swear on my life.”
“I need a drink.”
“What you need is a strong coffee.” Hong stood and looked down at her best traitor. “You stay here. I’ll make you one of my specials.” She walked across the room to the door with her fists clenched. She prayed to the Virgin Mother that what she’d just done hadn’t committed her father to a firing squad. But she had to trust her instincts. Everybody’s secret fear of the communists might keep him safe from government retribution when…She’d weighed everything as carefully as she could. It was all in the hands of the gods, now. Her sisters were safely out of the country with the missionaries. There was just one final stage and she’d be free.
30.
A week had passed. The stitches were out and Bodge was off the medication. He had regular headaches and his hearing came and went. They expected him to take morphine to forget about it. An addiction on top of everything else was more than he needed.
His stay in Saigon had become one long series of routines. From the hospital he’d take a cyclo to the Post and Telecommunication Office trying to get a call through to Ban Methuot. But, as the clerk explained, as soon as they went to the trouble of repairing the phone lines, communist sympathizers would cut them down again. There was a wireless telegraph at the office of the French Administrator. The relay stations were all at protected army bases so they were less likely to be destroyed but Bodge had sent three telegrams and had received no reply. That, the clerk was at a loss to explain.
Bodge had become certain that Stephanie was alive. As there was a wife waiting for him in Ban Methuot, the odds were looking pretty good that she was there. She’d escaped the car blast and for some reason, she’d been allowed to leave while he was in seclusion. He hadn’t thought it prudent to ask Maggy J for a description of his own wife. “A friendly enough person,” was the best he could get out of her.
Bleeding in Black and White Page 16
