by Di Morrissey
He gave a wry smile. ‘Seafood. My father has a processing factory in Boulogne. So we have a long history connected to seafood. I originally came here looking for export opportunities but have temporarily switched to improving the Vietnamese aquaculture industry because it’s been overexploited.’
‘So you’re working for your family’s company?’ asked Sandy.
‘Yes, but I’m taking it in new directions.’
Anna stood up and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. The reality was she felt uncomfortable and couldn’t quite explain why. Maybe it was a sense of guilt because she had no deep knowledge of a country with which she had very close links. Unlike Jean-Claude’s family, she had grown up with no meaningful acknowledgment of her Vietnamese heritage. For Jean-Claude the link was cultural, for her biological and yet he knew more and felt more connected to Vietnam than she did.
The soft lights, perfumed candles and fresh flowers were calming as Anna stared at her reflection in the mirror in the elegant ladies’ room. She looked at her image, taking in the features that made her different from most Australians. The slanting almond-brown eyes, the high cheek bones, the sleek dark hair all combined to give her an exotic Eurasian appearance. The outline of her mouth, the curve of her eyebrows, the shape of her head she saw all the time in Vietnamese women here.
She recalled how often Kevin Fine, her father, told her that Thu, her mother, had been very beautiful, and her genes had produced another beauty. Anna wiped her eyes with a tissue to dry her tears. She suddenly felt there was a stranger lurking there within the image, a woman she’d never known but who lived with her day and night. Where and who was the real Anna? It was an issue that had scarcely raised its head while she was growing up in Australia. Only a few instances stuck in her memory, an argument at a beach, a taunt or two at school.
Now she was becoming curious about her mother, long dead. The few memories Anna held of Thu were warm and loving – a small child embraced by her mother’s arms, comforted by a soft voice, songs and smiles. For the first time Anna thought deeply of her mother as someone who had grown up in this country, who had relatives and friends and a whole life here before she had fled as a teenager with Uncle Quoc. Anna wasn’t even sure where Thu had lived. What markets, what temple, what places had she visited? Anna was finding this all very unsettling. Something inside was telling her that she had to know more.
When she returned to the table Sandy and Jean-Claude were still talking about Jean-Claude’s family.
‘My grandfather was an administrator in Hue. But when he returned to France after the French left he missed this country very much. Perhaps when you get to Hue you might like to see the house where he lived?’
As he was writing on the back of his business card, Sandy looked up. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked Anna, who had an odd expression.
‘I just went past that antiques boutique in the lobby. They’ve got a plate like the one we saw at the potter’s in Bat Trung. Mr Thinh’s old platter.’
‘What, the genuine one? The one with the fighting cocks?’ asked Sandy.
‘This one has a fish on it but looks old and has the same glaze.’
‘Surely someone isn’t copying them and hoodwinking the tourists,’ said Sandy, looking puzzled.
Jean-Claude looked at them. ‘Are you interested in ceramics?’
‘I am. Along with other old objects. We visited a famous potter the other day and he had one lovely genuine piece. It seems odd there could be another one similar,’ said Sandy.
‘There are some expert forgers around. And one hears rumours,’ said Jean-Claude.
‘What kind of rumours?’ asked Anna.
‘Ah, fakes, stolen stuff, secret caches, shipwrecks. I’ve heard of fishermen pulling up things in their nets. But there’s money to be made with fakes as well as genuine pieces.’
‘Really? Sounds like a movie,’ said Anna.
‘Let’s have a look at it when we’ve finished our coffee.’ Sandy smiled at Jean-Claude. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening.’
‘Superb food,’ agreed Anna.
‘I suggest a walk along the beachfront another time as it’s very pretty. Early in the evening they light flame torches and sell trinkets. Or you can sit out the front of the hotel and have them bring cocktails to your lounge chairs, if you’re feeling decadent.’ Jean-Claude smiled. ‘I rough it round the country a bit, so I enjoy a little luxury now and then.’
‘We’re definitely coming back,’ said Sandy, standing up.
There was one American man browsing in the antiques shop in the hotel lobby as Anna pointed out the plate to Sandy while Jean-Claude went to arrange a car to drive them the short distance to their resort. The shop assistant was careful about handling the plate when the girls asked her to lift it down onto the counter. She shook her head when Sandy peppered her with questions and finally retreated to the rear of the shop to get the owner.
They were surprised as Madame Nguyen appeared and, recognising the girls, gave them a charming smile.
‘So you have been dining here? A beautiful hotel, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Sandy. ‘Madame Nguyen, is this your shop?’
The elegant Vietnamese businesswoman lifted her shoulders and spread her hands in a very French gesture. ‘I have several businesses. My family come from here and we have an old house by the river. We have lived in it for many generations. My family are collectors so it is full of antique furniture, paintings and photographs. It gives me an interest. You are enjoying Hoi An?’
‘Yes. Very much.’ Sandy indicated the old plate. ‘Is this a real antique? It must be very valuable, and very expensive if it is.’
‘It certainly is genuine.’ She lowered her voice, flicking her eyes towards the American. ‘A lot of very rich people come here. We also have a shop in Hue.’
‘With more plates like this?’ asked Anna.
She gave a tight smile. ‘There are still rare objects to be acquired in a place like Vietnam.’ She lifted her voice a little as the American came closer. ‘This you would only find in a museum in America.’
Curiosity got the better of the American man listening to their conversation. ‘That plate is museum quality? How much?’ he asked without any preamble.
Madame Nguyen turned away from the girls and gave him her full attention. ‘This is over four hundred years old . . . very special. See here: the mythical winged fish . . . very special story in our country. This is best Vietnamese pottery, not Chinese . . .’ She launched into her spiel as the girls excused themselves and left.
Jean-Claude was waiting at the entrance. ‘I have a hotel car to drive you back.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anna.
‘The pleasure is mine. So did you buy the plate?’
Sandy laughed. ‘Not likely. It’s worth a lot more than I can afford. I’d like to know its provenance and where she got it.’
‘Yes, it could be interesting,’ smiled Jean-Claude. ‘Enjoy Hue. When are you leaving?’
‘Two days’ time,’ said Sandy, making an executive decision. ‘As soon as we pick up some new clothes from Madame Nguyen’s silk shop.’
‘Get a good driver. Storms, high winds and rain are predicted. Be a good thing to leave the coast.’
‘Unfortunately we have to come back to the coast near Danang to see the orphanage HOPE supports. When do you leave, Jean-Claude?’ asked Sandy.
‘Depends on the farmers, an aquaculture specialist and the weather. You have my card if you need to contact me.’ He kissed both of them on each cheek and watched them go down the flight of steps to the waiting car.
As the car turned out of the circular driveway, Sandy looked back and saw Madame Nguyen walk from the hotel lobby past Jean-Claude at the entrance, acknowledging him with a smile and a slight nod of her head. Then their car swept around the corner and the elegant white hotel was out of sight.
Anna leaned her head back against the seat. ‘Man, this country is one of contrasts. He�
��s nice, eh? Will you contact him again, do you think?’
Sandy didn’t answer for a moment. ‘I’m sure we’ll run into him somewhere. It’s how it is here.’
‘Seems so. Creepy seeing Madame Nguyen again tonight.’ Anna said it lightly but she was thinking that perhaps, when they returned to Hanoi, she’d call her father and ask him some questions. Or maybe she’d wait until they went to Saigon. They planned to catch up with Tom Ahearn in the south and she felt sure he’d be willing to help her should she decide to do a little investigating.
Saigon, 1965
It wasn’t a restful first night in the South Vietnamese capital for Tom Ahearn, despite a solid round of pre-dinner drinks and a long meal enriched by some good French wines with a group of foreign journalists and photographers he’d met at the bar of the Caravelle Hotel. They worked for Reuters and Associated Press of America which, like news agencies from all over the non-communist world, were expanding their bureaus in Saigon. A ‘real war’ made good copy, and the folks back home wanted to know how ‘our boys’ were going.
The conflict was no longer a low-key backblock shootout involving those holding rival political ideologies. Following the departure of the French, the former colony was divided into the communist-dominated North and the Democratic Republic of South Vietnam. It was getting serious now that the Americans and their allies were committing significant front-line units in a desperate effort to put some real steel into the defence of South Vietnam. The years of military advisors trying to lift the combat quality of the South Vietnamese government’s regular forces just hadn’t been good enough. To make that really clear, communist guerrilla units in the south were already active on the outskirts of Saigon and Tom could see that without even leaving the hotel. It was a sort of after-dinner treat, a standard offering to newcomers, to glimpse some action from the hotel roof while enjoying a nightcap or two.
Led by a small group of journalists and hangers-on employed or freelancing to make their names and dollars from the war, they filed up to the rooftop, and, as usual, the Viet Cong guerrillas obliged with their nightly show. A few mortar shells fired into distant defences lit up the sky with bright flashes and drew an equally bright artillery retaliation that lasted for only a few rounds. Then everyone on the roof applauded and the city went quiet again . . . apart from the late hum of scooters and motorbikes from the nearby streets.
After another round of drinks Tom fell into bed in his underpants and slept uneasily, waking frequently to fresh echoes, real and dreamed, of the war on the horizon.
He rose early, showered, made a cup of instant coffee, then, wrapped in a towel, stood at the window looking out at the sprawling roads already busy with thousands of scootering locals going about their normal lives.
‘Normal lives!’ mused Tom to himself. ‘Jesus, I don’t think anything is normal here any more.’ He recalled that when the counterinsurgency campaign had begun several years back, ‘Win the war by ’64’ had been a wonderful slogan in true Yankee advertising style. Now it was a joke line among journalists who attended the daily military briefings, the five o’clock follies. Ah yes, the follies. Must get cracking, he resolved. He dressed quickly and headed to the dining room for breakfast.
His first call was to the Continental Hotel, where he sought out the old head waiter he had met the day before whom he hoped would become a useful ally in this strange city.
‘I need to change some American dollars for local cash. You know, unofficially. Perhaps you can help? For a fee, naturally,’ said Tom with a smile.
‘Of course, Mr Tom. I know an Indian gentleman with excellent connections.’ He quickly wrote an address on a drink order pad and tore off the sheet. ‘Mr Dema also helps your friend Mr Davis, who you mentioned to me yesterday. Any time during the day.’
Tom slipped him a five-dollar note, then went to the hotel lobby and consulted a street map. The address was only a ten-minute walk from the city square and Tom strode out, telling himself that the brisk walk was good exercise. But he was sweating from the humidity when he arrived.
A rather nervous small Indian man opened the door. There was a quick exchange of names and, in a bedroom that also served as an office of sorts, money changed hands. Dollars for dong. It was illegal, of course, but the blackmarket rate of exchange for US dollars was more profitable, so practical Tom had decided that the method was necessary.
He then took a taxi to Cholon, the predominantly Chinese area of Saigon, to a shop that his drinking mates of last night had recommended as a good place to pick up military gear for field operations. He bought an American field uniform, from boots to helmet, several shirts, shorts and webbing, all fitting nicely and costing little.
‘You want some Australian uniform?’ the bustling Chinese dealer asked as he listed the prices. ‘And I have very good medical kit, very new, just in from Yankee stores.’
Tom was astonished. ‘Give me the medical kit. And where did you get Australian military gear?’
‘Relative in Singapore. Relative in Australia. Very easy to buy and ship.’
Tom bought a couple of Australian kits, wondering whether the Viet Cong used mail order too, or simply sent someone into Cholon to buy what they wanted.
Later he called at the Australian Embassy to register his presence in the country and to get the address of the Australian military task force HQ, which was being cobbled together in a hurry to cope with the build-up of forces.
In a nondescript part of town, behind solid brick walls topped with barbed wire he found a sweating, mustachioed Australian Army major settling in at a broad wooden desk adorned with a cluster of family pictures and a little display of Australian, American and South Vietnamese flags.
The officer beamed when Tom was escorted in to the office. ‘Welcome to Saigon. You’re my first customer. Major Harry Brown . . . Call me Harry. Now, how can I help?’
‘Accreditation for the Australian base is at the top of my shopping list. Picking up the Viet and Yank tickets from the bureaucracy later today.’
Major Brown shrugged. ‘No can do, mate. We’re not issuing accreditation cards. The others you mentioned will get you through most of the barricades you’ll run into.’
Tom was taken aback. ‘You’re not accrediting journos? Why not? It’s a bureaucrat’s dream scene for controlling who goes where, and when.’
‘Well, mate, it’s like this, but don’t quote me. According to the brass, who listen to the pollies back home, we aren’t at war so we don’t have war correspondents.’
‘We’re not at war? Hell, I saw it last night.’
Major Brown was unperturbed. ‘Care for a cuppa? The pot boiled just before you arrived. Bushells tea from back home. And some Scotch Fingers.’ He went to the sideboard and busied himself. ‘No, you see, we’re involved in a pacification campaign, not a war. We’re helping the local lads maintain the peace. Guerrillas don’t represent an invading army, if you get my drift.’
Tom groaned. ‘I’d love that cup of tea. Hope it’s a strong brew.’
‘Yes, just give me a bell or drop in whenever you want to get down to where our boys are in action or holding the fort. Working alongside the American airborne lads at the moment, as you know, but we’ll soon have our own little pad of operations. Can’t say more. Sugar?’
At the five o’clock follies a couple of hours later Tom waved his new American and Vietnamese accreditation passes at the guards standing by the door to the hotel auditorium. There were a couple of hundred correspondents gathered for the daily briefing by officers on what had been happening across the country. It was a controlled and sanitised briefing, as one of his dinner pals had described it the previous night, with emphasis on wins and limited information about setbacks. A young Australian from Reuters at the table had added that the fun started when Question Time gave the reporters a chance to get behind the glossy façade and barrage of ‘utter bullshit’.
Before Tom could get inside, one of the American guards tapped him on the shoul
der. ‘That pack you’re carrying, can I please have a look inside? Can’t be too careful, sir.’
Tom nodded agreement and plonked it on a desk by the door. The Marine sergeant unlaced the flap and did a double-take. With raised eyebrows he tried to make sense of the weird collection of ammunition.
‘I’d like to donate it to the war effort,’ said Tom, straightfaced, when their eyes met.
The guard picked up a handful of bullets and there was a pregnant pause. ‘Could you please explain, sir?’ Another Marine guard moved towards them to see what was going on.
‘Look, I’m sorry, I was just making a joke. I found them in the wardrobe at my room in the Caravelle. Seems the last occupant, another correspondent, liked to go into the field well armed. He’s been given another assignment and moved on . . . left this behind and, well, it’s just not me.’
‘You’re not going to carry a weapon, sir?’
‘Oh yes . . . a pen and pencil or two.’
There was another blank look from the guard, who did not look amused.
‘I thought it’d be best if I turned it all in here. You’d know what to do with it,’ Tom said affably.
‘Thank you, sir, we’ll look after it. Do you want the bag?’
‘No, thanks.’
The follies lived up to their reputation. Poker-faced American officers read out summaries of briefing papers distributed to the newsmen as they arrived, sometimes adding details of updated enemy casualty figures, or giving a verbal report of a recent engagement. It was an overwhelmingly ‘good news’ scene. It demonstrated to Tom that the only way to get a realistic picture of what was happening was to get out in the field, get around the country, and see first hand just what was being achieved in the conflict, which was unlike any war he’d read about. There just wasn’t a defined front line. The ‘front’ could be anywhere in the city, or the country . . . and the insurgents called the tune.
The highlight of the follies show came at the end of Question Time, when a reporter from a New York paper rose to a little round of applause and chuckles. The correspondent beside Tom explained, ‘Joe is a star act every day. Always fires a good shot to end the show.’
