Hayes broke the silence. "The French like to say they don't colonize, they civilize. But this is not a civilized place, all you see now are the remnants of culture. It's changed, even, since I was here six months ago."
"The gas fumes are making my throat raw," May told him. "Is it always like this?"
"A lot of the vehicles use a mix of oil and gas, so you get a constant smell of burned hydrocarbons."
The taxi jolted to a halt at the Caravelle Hotel on Tu Do Street, in the middle of Saigon. Heat did not usually trouble May, but in combination with the gas fumes and the smoke that seemed to pervade the city, her head ached and her eyes burned.
When they were in their room, May sprawled across the bed, her arm over her eyes to shut out the light. Hayes rummaged in his shaving kit and came up with two aspirins which she took without waiting for the bottled water to be sent up. "Aggrrh," she said, trying to swallow. "I can't stand the taste of aspirin."
Hayes opened a bottle of bourbon he had brought as a gift or a bribe, and gave her a sip.
She lay back on the bed, feeling as exhausted as the city. "Why don't you take a nap while I go meet the Corsican?" he suggested, his hand pressed gently to her head. "I'll call you around six—it should be cooler then, we can meet for drinks if you feel up to it. If the guy turns out to be helpful, I could invite him to join us."
"The one who was in the French Army, and stayed on?"
"His name is Gerard Levasseur and he seems to be connected to most of the principals in this city. I'm hoping he knows Le Tien An's father, or someone who has influence with the family, who will intercede for us."
The two men sat at a table on the terrace of the Continental Palace Hotel and watched May approach. She could feel their eyes on her, could read the approval in their faces. She had showered and changed into a cool white two-piece dress that was loose against her body, and had pulled her hair back from her face and caught it up with lapis combs.
"My wife," Hayes said, rising to present her with the pride of possession, and the other, a man in his late fifties bent low over her hand, glancing briefly at Hayes in approval.
"Gin and tonics all around?" Hayes asked, as they rearranged themselves to accommodate May.
"Gerard was telling me about the changes he's seen in Saigon over the past ten years," Hayes said to May.
"Please go on," May prompted.
Gerard paused to looked around him at the scattering of people who had gathered on the terrace. "Once, you would have heard laughter and easy conversation in this place . . . people greeting each other as they met for an early evening drink. The sounds were soft, lyric—many of the people speak a mix of Vietnamese and French, a language we called matisse. Very soft and singing. The city still had a French character in those days, the whores were not so aggressive. They did not accost you on the street and demand, 'G.I. you buy me one Saigon tea.'"
"And tell you 'G.I. you number ten,' if you don't," Hayes put in.
"What does that mean, number ten?" May wanted to know.
"Very bad," Gerard answered. "It means you are very bad for not wanting to spend money on them." He went on, "I would say it was about 1965, when the Americans began to come in numbers, when the change began. Now the voices of the city are shrill, crass. If you will excuse me for saying so, I believe that the Vietnamese and the Americans have brought out the worst in each other. Saigon has become a cruel place, a city of buyers and sellers, and everything is for sale."
They sat for a time, looking out onto the street in the dimming light, and May fought to shake off the feeling of lethargy that had hovered over her since their arrival.
"How about dinner in Cholon?" Hayes asked.
"If you like steamed crab claws, there's a place called 'Diamond,' that attracts a mix of Westerners, Chinese, and Vietnamese," Gerard offered. "It is noisy, but the food is good." He shifted in his chair and leaned toward Hayes. "Do you happen to know the fellow over there, with the long dirty blond hair and the flowered shirt?"
Hayes glanced, shook his head.
"He came in soon after we arrived and he's been watching you ever since. I must be getting Saigon fever—all the time suspicious. It's a dreadful way to live, but there seems to be no alternative, not in these times." He sighed. "But this is my home, France would be foreign territory after all these years."
"What would happen," May began carefully, "If the North Vietnamese should take over . . ."
"My dear," the man laughed, "you mean, when they take over. The only ones who doubt it are the poor naive souls who also think you Yanks would never let it happen."
"An's father," Hayes broke in, "what does he believe?"
"Ah," the Corsican answered, "an interesting question. A linguist and a scholar, he is from an ancient family. I have known these men. They think they are above politics, living in their walled villas, certain they are immune. An's father believes he is Vietnam. Even now, with everything crumbling around him, he cannot accept the inevitable."
"Will he leave?"
"No."
"Will he allow An and the boy to leave?"
"I believe," he began, and stopped himself. "I cannot be certain, but I believe that it will be her decision."
"Then there is a chance?"
"It would be a terrible decision for a dutiful daughter to make, you understand that?"
May felt a long, slow ache gather in her chest. She did understand, and she wished that she and Hayes did not have to be the ones to force An to make that decision.
Hayes answered, "Yes, and I also understand that it is a hard decision for a dutiful mother, when the child's life could be at stake."
May closed her eyes, pressed the cold glass against her temple. The image of her mother, sitting under the mimosa, entered her mind. A difficult decision, oh yes.
"Are you all right?" Hayes asked.
She opened her eyes and smiled. "Actually, I'm hungry," she said, wanting to leave.
They walked over to Nguyen Hue Boulevard, passing hawker stalls that sold flowers and noodle soup and black market cigarettes, walking in the street because Hayes was too tall to fit under the hawkers' canopies.
"The Aussie with the dirty hair is following us" Gerard said.
May glanced back just as the man ducked into a stall. "How do you know he's Australian?" she asked.
"The way he walks, that loose-boned stride. Also" he said, grinning as if caught out, "I've heard about that one. Name's Galt. A bad hat, I'm afraid."
"A bad hat?" May laughed, and decided that she liked Gerard.
They crowded into one of the small, blue and yellow Renault taxis which took them into the Chinese section of the city, called Cholon. The streets were narrow, the movement more intense. Music blared from the shops on the street level, a mix of Chinese and popular. On the floors above, in the family quarters, children looked out from shuttered windows.
As she climbed out of the taxi, May glanced up and was tempted to wave at a small boy whose eyes met hers. A motorized rickshaw passed so closely it brushed her arm, scuffing the skin. Hayes pulled her close, rubbed her arm. "Evil goddamned place," he muttered.
They took a table in the back, away from the door, so they did not see the man called Galt enter. He waited until they were midway through their meal to make his way through the crowd to their table. He stood behind May.
Her stomach turned at the raw smell of him. She put down her chopsticks.
"You the bloke they call the Big Deal?" he asked.
Hayes shot May a don't-say-anything glance and answered, "Who wants to know?"
"Old mate of yours," the man said with a show of teeth.
"What's his name?" Hayes came back.
"Sam, his name is Sam," the Aussie answered, as if Hayes were a little slow, and handed him a piece of rumpled paper.
She watched Hayes's face. It didn't change in the slightest, but he shifted in his chair, leaning forward, so she knew he was on guard.
They had half expected the contac
t. Andy's son had become an obsession with Hayes's mother, and Mrs. Nakamura was her confidante. It was natural that Sam's mother would try to enlist the efforts of her son.
What she did not know, and Hayes would not tell her, was that her son hadn't worked as a photographer for more than a year, that the journalists in Saigon had nothing good to say about him, that nobody seemed to know or to care where he was, except for those who had loaned him money.
May did not want to find him, did not want to see him again after Bangkok. She could not think of Sam without remembering the smell of the jail on Mahachai Street.
The note, in Sam's distinctive hand, said: "I can help you get Andy's kid. Galt will show you the way."
Hayes stood, motioning May and Gerard to stay. "I don't know what Sam is up to, but I think I'd better find out."
"I'm going with you," May said.
"I believe," Gerard broke in, "that we should all go." They knew by the way he said it that it was more than a suggestion.
Galt led the way, on foot, through narrow alleys flanked by concrete apartment buildings streaked with black and mossy with mildew. They walked single file, Galt first, then Hayes followed by May, Gerard bringing up the rear. May stepped around piles of detritus pushed against the buildings, and began to feel the terror of Vietnam. It edged slowly up her spine, cold and dark. She felt as she had once felt around a campfire in a mountain wilderness, as if something wild were there, waiting, in the darkness just outside the circle of light. She watched a sweat spot spread on the back of Hayes's blue cotton shirt, and knew he was feeling it too.
"Careful, there," Gerard said, his arm quickly guiding her clear of a man without legs, sitting on a wheeled platform. "Too many of those boys around," the Corsican muttered, sad and angry.
Galt turned into a doorway that smelled of urine and rotting fish. Hayes held tight to her hand as they climbed the narrow stairs. Though they were going up, May had the sensation of entering a rat hole.
The air seemed to thicken with the sickly sweet smell of smoke. May strained to see. Slowly, the room came into focus. On his haunches in front of a low table was Sam, hair long, eyes dull. It was not the Sam she remembered, this Sam was emaciated, spent. She felt horror, bitter in her mouth, then the sour taste of revulsion. Hayes held hard to her hand. As he acknowledged Sam, his voice steady and remote, she managed to pull her eyes from Sam's face and look about the room.
A short, thin-thighed girl in a short skirt and grotesquely made-up face, her small breasts pushed together into a cleavage, stared back at her, fury in her eyes. The distinct, fetid smell of a dirty diaper wafted toward them, just as a baby's wail filled the air. No one seemed to notice. As May's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she noticed another young woman sitting on a mat in the far corner, staring into space.
Opium. The word formed full in her mind. Of course, that's what had happened to Sam. Another casualty of Vietnam, in spite of himself.
Hayes was speaking. "You said you had information about Andy's boy. Are you going to give it to me?"
Sam blinked up at him. "I've got what you want," he said. "Sit down."
"We didn't come for a social visit, Sam," Hayes told him. "If you have some information, give it to me."
Sam looked past them as if they did not exist, into the thick air, the face that had been beautiful, gaunt now and wasted. May looked at him and tried to remember the other Sam, before Bangkok, the Sam who had been her friend.
"It's not information he's got," the Aussie spoke out impatiently, "he's got the kid. And if you want him, all we need to do is establish a price, mate."
Hayes lunged at Sam, grabbed him by the throat, and the Aussie, caught off guard, hesitated just long enough to allow May and the Corsican to get between them. Hayes's face was dark with fury; she knew he wanted to strangle Sam. Galt flashed a long knife and snarled, "You want to see the kid alive, mate, you'd better ease off."
The woman in the miniskirt crouched, her teeth bared. Hayes had surprised them, thrown them off guard. May stepped toward Sam. She wanted to slap him hard across the face, she wanted to feel the sting of it on her hand, she wanted to hurt him. "How much?" she said.
"One million U.S. dollars," Sam told her, his eyes squinting shut.
"You always were full of shit," she spat out, disdain thick in her mouth for the Aussie's benefit. "What did you tell your friend here, that I was loaded with money? Well, he's wrong," she said, turning to Galt, ignoring Sam.
"I've got five thousand dollars with me, and you can have it right now. Sam was lying if he told you I had more. I might be able to get a couple thousand extra from my relatives in the States, but if you hold out for that you run a very large risk of being pulled in on kidnapping charges. You and your smart friend here," she finished.
"Eight thousand," Sam said, petulance creeping into his tone, but Galt made a motion that silenced him.
She caught Hayes's glance, and repeated, "All I have is five."
"If you push for more," Hayes put in, "it will mean having money telegraphed in. That will mean more risk than you can afford, I promise you, mate."
Sam closed his eyes.
"Done," Galt said. "Give me the dollars."
"The boy first," Hayes demanded.
The Aussie nodded to the girl, and she darted down a back stair. As they waited, the fetid smell of the room closed in on May. She pressed her face into Hayes's shirt. "Where is the money?" he whispered.
"Money belt," she whispered back.
He slipped his hands under her loose blouse and unbuckled it, whispering, "How did you know?"
"I didn't, I just felt . . ." It was not until that moment that she realized she had expected someone to ask for money. Gerard's words echoed in her ears—buyers and sellers, and everything is for sale. Even a small boy, half Vietnamese, half American. Sam could even sell Andy's son.
The girl led the child in, pushed him forward. He was small, his eyes were large and dark, but there was something about the shape of his mouth, the lift of his chin that was like his father. May looked at Hayes and remembered the night he had learned about Andy's death, and it was all she could do to stifle her tears. She dropped to her knees, her arms out to the child, and said in French, "Come to me, little one, and we will take you back to your mama."
His chin quivered, but he stepped forward and stood before her. She wanted to put her arms around him, to scoop him up and get him out of that dreadful place, but she knew it could frighten him. Instead, she said to the child, pointing to Hayes, "This big man will help us get to your mama's. You must trust him. He will not harm you."
The child looked from her face to Hayes's, and May followed his glance and saw tears filling her husband's eyes. In that instant, she understood why he had needed to find the child, Andy's son, now Hayes's to watch over.
Gerard spoke quietly, so the others could not hear. "Make a show of turning the money over to me. Then take the boy and leave quickly. A taxi should be waiting for you—I told the driver he would be paid double. Take the child to the French Embassy and wait for me. I'll hold off here long enough for you to get away, then I'll join you."
When May began to protest, he took her hand and pressed it to his belt. She felt the hard outlines of a pistol under his shirt.
The taxi was waiting. Quickly, they pushed into the back seat and were threading through the mean streets of Cholon with the child wedged safely between them.
May bent close to ask, "What is your name?"
"Le Minh Hao," he answered, with a small, catching sob that quickly escalated into hiccoughs.
"Don't be frightened, son," Hayes said in French, "You are safe now. You will be with your mama very soon." They could feel his sobs subsiding and soon his dark head fell against May's arm. He was sleeping.
"Poor little guy, he must be exhausted," Hayes said, his own voice weary.
"Thank God for Gerard," May answered.
"We needed a Gerard, right here and right now," Hayes answered, "It is
good to know there are a few decent men left in the world."
Hayes's credentials got them into the French Embassy, and they were left sitting in an anteroom until someone could be found, as an aide put it, "to address their problem."
Hao began to cry for his mother.
"We have to let her know he's all right," May said in English. "She must be frantic with worry."
"But if we call directly," Hayes answered, "we won't be allowed to speak to her, to explain what happened, and it is possible that she may think we had something to do with the kidnap. If she believes that, she will never let us help her. She has to understand that we had nothing to do with this."
May bent to place her cheek against the child's, and tried to reassure him. "Soon, little one," she murmured. "We have to talk to your mama on the telephone, and she will come here with your grandpapa, or maybe they will ask us to take you home, because we are your friends." She rummaged in her bag and found a pack of chewing gum, which she held out to him. His small hands carefully removed one stick from the pack, he put it in his mouth, and looked up at her, smiling.
"Ah," she said, beaming back at him, "what a nice smile you have, little Hao."
"And what a good wife you are. Wing Mei-jin," Hayes put in.
"Mei-jin," Hao said, looking at her timidly.
"And this is your uncle," she said, "Your Uncle Hayes."
"Hayes," the boy repeated, testing the word, then he pointed to himself, "Hao."
"Yes," Hayes said lifting the child to his lap, "our names sound alike, I've noticed too."
Gerard pushed through the door in a stream of rapidfire French aimed at the aide, who was following him. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "Our man Galt insisted on counting out the money, and his arithmetic is sadly lacking. Unfortunately, your acquaintance was in no condition to help, and the girls only know piastres. Follow me, please," he directed, almost without breaking stride.
Gift of the Golden Mountain Page 48
