On Blood Road

by Steve Watkins

  “It would be nice to have my dad here to at least greet us,” I say. “Maybe you can give him the message?”

  “Enough with the sarcasm,” Mom says. “I’m sure your father is very busy.”

  “He’s always very busy,” I say.

  Hanh just keeps smiling.

  Dad and I get into it about the war half an hour after he shows up at the villa that night—so late that Mom has long since gone to bed. She must be too jet-lagged and out of it to rouse herself when he pulls up with a convoy of military escort vehicles that goes zooming away into the Saigon night once he’s inside. He barely says a word to me, just pours himself a nightcap and announces that we’re going to have ourselves a little talk, man to man. Since we just saw each other in New York the month before over Christmas, I guess he figures he can skip the part where the absent parent tells his kid how much he missed him and just get right to the lecturing.

  With no choice, I follow Dad into his study, which is a mess of papers and files and books and magazines and documents and a desk buried under there somewhere. A ceiling fan turns in slow motion, hardly moving the stagnant air. He kicks back in a recliner. I’m left with a straight-back chair against the wall.

  “Your mother tells me you’ve been sneaking out, going to clubs, thinking you’re some kind of hotshot,” he says, pulling a cigar out of a silver box on a lamp stand next to his chair. He rolls the cigar between his fingers, sniffs it, then clips off the end. He fires up the cigar and lets out a stream of smoke. I cough for what seems like five minutes and feel dizzy afterward. He tilts his head back and blows smoke rings up at the ceiling fan.

  “So what about it, hotshot?” he asks. “Got anything to say for yourself ?”

  “What’s there to say?” I respond. “Mom already pulled me out of school. Said you guys might not send me back. That’s about it.”

  I think he’ll get angry about me being so flip, but he lets it go. Just keeps blowing those smoke rings, some of which manage to shoot between the fan blades. He sips his drink, looks at it, then downs the rest in one gulp.

  “So how about the war, Dad?” I say, angry that he doesn’t even seem to care enough to respond. “How’s that going lately? You got this thing won yet? Just about ready to wrap things up? Turn off the light at the end of the tunnel and send everybody home?”

  Dad fixes his gaze on me and holds it there, jaw clenched, until I look away, already regretting the sarcasm. Why do I have to be such an idiot all the time? Most people are afraid of my dad—because of his size and his temper, and because he’s always right and wants to make sure everybody knows it.

  He crosses one leg over the other, stubs out the cigar on the bottom of his shoe, lets the ashes drop on the floor.

  Then he proceeds to lecture me for the next hour, until past midnight, pausing only long enough to refill his glass. Tonight’s inspiring Frank Sorenson lecture covers everything: the dangers of international communism, the brutality and depravity of the North Vietnamese who love nothing better than to torture and maim, the soulless assassinations of innocent village leaders by the Viet Cong guerrilla fighters, the gutless hippies and traitorous peaceniks back in the States who are undermining support for the troops, the ungrateful punks like me who have everything handed to them on a silver platter and take for granted the freedoms and prosperity as Americans that people like him spend their lives defending and insuring will continue by taking on—and taking out—the dark forces in the world that those same ungrateful punks can’t even begin to imagine exist, but that are all too real.

  By that point, he’s really on a roll, and, driving his lecture home, he says he just wishes he could send me out into the field for a day with an army patrol on a search and destroy mission, because then I’d know what real fear is, and real courage, and true patriotism, and understand that in the real world—the world he lives in and that I do, too, I just don’t know it yet (but one day I am sure going to find out)—it comes down to just this: kill or be killed.

  He stops and looks at me expectantly, like, Well? What have you got to say for yourself now?

  It’s been an impressive verbal vomit, that’s for sure. But I have nothing, and even if I did, what’s the point?

  So instead I just say, “Happy birthday, Dad,” which isn’t much of a comeback—isn’t a comeback at all—but at least it’s true.

  Khe Sanh, Khe Sanh, Khe Sanh. That’s all anybody is talking about at the embassy the next day when Mom and I go in at noon so Dad can show us around. It’s officially his fiftieth birthday, not that he seems to care, as distracted as he is by the latest developments in the war. He tells us the North Vietnamese Army—Dad just calls them the NVA—has surrounded a US Marine base at a place called Khe Sanh in the demilitarized zone between North and South Vietnam. That was a week ago, but the marines still haven’t been able to break the siege. And there are indications that there might be more coordinated attacks by the NVA and their guerrilla units—the Viet Cong—on some major cities and other military bases north of Saigon. Dad’s clearly concerned, but at the same time kind of excited. Not like he’s giddy and clapping his hands and stuff, but it’s obvious that his adrenaline is pumping since he can’t sit still and jumps every time his phone rings.

  When he sees the worried look on Mom’s face, though, he goes into protector mode and assures her that Saigon is hundreds of miles south of all that business and crawling with US and South Vietnamese military, so he doesn’t see that there’s anything to worry about down where we are. She smiles and kisses him, then says, “I’m sure you can handle whatever comes up.”

  What I think is: So much for the light at the end of the tunnel. If the North Vietnamese Army can lay siege to a thousand marines in their heavily fortified camp, trap them there, and attack cities around South Vietnam, it sure doesn’t sound like the war is wrapping up any time soon, no matter what President Johnson—and my dad—have to say about it.

  Dad takes us out to dinner that night at what’s supposed to be a fancy Vietnamese restaurant, but it’s a disaster—at least it is for Mom, who freaks out about the food. I think it’s cool—stuff like tripe, which is, like, the stomach lining of a cow, and fish eyeballs, which Dad says are supposed to be a delicacy, and squid teeth.

  “Isn’t there someplace else we can go?” Mom says. She avoids even looking at the food. “A nice French restaurant?”

  I’m chewing on a mouthful of fried frog, which is rubbery and kind of tastes like chicken. Dad winks at me, and for a minute it’s like old times with him and me, like partners in crime, co-conspirators. I make a big show of trying everything—the tripe, the eyeballs, even the squid teeth. Dad actually says, “That’s my boy.”

  Mom asks for coffee, but when they bring it out, Dad stops her. “You might not want to drink that,” he says. “It’s not what you think.”

  Mom dips her spoon in the black liquid and lifts it out, as if she expects to find something disgusting floating around in there. “What is it?” she asks.

  Dad laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him do that since I can’t even remember when. “It’s weasel dung coffee,” he says. “They feed coffee beans to weasels. The beans come out partly digested, but with a distinctive flavor. It’s an acquired taste.”

  I laugh so hard it makes me spit out an eyeball, which only makes me laugh even harder.

  Mom storms out of the restaurant. Dad shrugs and says, “Better follow her,” and off we go. I’m secretly glad to get away from all the food—it was getting to be a bit much—and relieved when we end up in a French restaurant at the Hotel Continental. But the mood changes there. From the minute we step inside, Dad quits being the Dad he was when it was me and him versus Mom at the Vietnamese place, and turns back into his war self—nodding to a table full of generals, who invite us to join them, stopping to talk to more tables full of men in suits, holding court through dinner as a steady stream of people make their way over to our table to talk shop. He eventually disappears into the bar,
saying he’ll be right back. He’s gone for the rest of dinner.

  Mom and I finish eating alone. She doesn’t speak to me, just sits there fuming, and she won’t speak to Dad, either, when he finally comes back, except to shove his birthday present at him. “Here,” she says, as we’re leaving the restaurant. “It’s a tie.”

  I forgot to get him a gift and tell myself he doesn’t deserve anything anyway.

  I spend the next day with Hanh checking out Saigon, though he’s under strict orders from Mom not to let me out of his sight and to make sure we’re back in time for this big formal embassy dinner that evening to celebrate the first night of Tet. He might be under strict orders not to say much about the war, too, judging by the non-answers he gives when I ask him about it. I do find out that he was a captain in the South Vietnamese Army—the ARVN—and assigned to the American embassy. He learned English at the Defense Language Institute in California, where he lived when he was sent there for three months and served as a translator for American officers in the field interrogating NVA prisoners and suspected spies.

  “So why drive a car for my father?” I ask. “And why no uniform?”

  “I am your father’s personal translator when he goes into the field,” Hanh says. “For that, I have the highest security clearance. I offered to also serve as his driver so I could be close by whenever I am needed. It was decided that I should wear street clothes on the job to be less of a target,” he added. “The Viet Cong may be anywhere, even in Saigon. If I appear to be nothing more than a hired driver, with an American businessman, it will be safer.”

  “What about the military escort we had yesterday?” I ask. “And last night when we went out to dinner?”

  Hanh had waited in the car while we were in the two restaurants. I noticed Dad didn’t bother to invite him to join us.

  He shrugs. “Only sometimes.” He gestures behind us. “No one is with us now, as you can see.”

  Hanh pretty much keeps to the tourist spots on our tour of the city—Saigon City Hall, back by the Hotel Continental, through the Saigon market, though he won’t let me get out of the car because he says he’s worried about pickpockets. He takes me by the Saigon Opera House of all places and the Notre Dame Cathedral. We could be in the real Paris, where we lived when I was a little kid, except for all the Vietnamese people walking in the streets. Hanh drives us to the ancient palace where the old Vietnamese emperors used to live, and then to the Saigon Zoo. He must think I’m in elementary school. The only cool thing at the pathetic zoo is more banyan trees. I climb one way above Hanh and everybody else, except for some kids who see me and climb that high, too. And, of course, there are the monkeys, who chatter wildly, as if they own the place and want us to leave already, because they’re not about to share any of their figs. I’m dripping with sweat but happy being up in the banyan tree. I think about that girl Beth and how cool it would be to climb up here with her.

  Geoff would love being here, too. Though knowing him, he’d bring water balloons for us to throw at people walking past down on the ground. Which probably wouldn’t be such a good idea in Saigon. There’s a lot of military around here that looks a little trigger-happy.

  If Geoff were here, we’d be out turning Saigon upside down already. He wouldn’t be stuck like I am, being babysat by my dad’s driver. Ever since Geoff and I met at Dalton—the slowest guys in the slowest lane on the swim team—he’s been getting me into the kinds of trouble that make life a lot more interesting than following the rules. “It doesn’t matter what happens,” he’s always saying. “As long as you get a good story out of it.”

  When I climb down, Hanh is talking to another Vietnamese man. The man leaves as soon as he sees me, disappearing down a dusty path and into a thicket of thirsty bougainvillea.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Just a friend.”

  He doesn’t say anything more, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just being polite. What I really want to know is where somebody might go in Saigon if they want to kick off the Vietnamese New Year right. A club or something. It’s the sort of thing Geoff would have already found out and come up with a plan for sneaking off and getting there.

  Hanh shakes his head. “It isn’t safe to venture into Saigon at night without an escort,” he says.

  “Oh sure, of course not,” I say. “I was just wondering.”

  Hanh hesitates, then says, “There’s always a big Tet celebration in Cholon, the Chinese section of town, down next to the Saigon River. Music halls and fireworks and street parties.” He taps his chin and smiles, adding, “Bunny Bunny Go Go is a dance club with strobe lights and B-Girls and Vietnamese bands playing covers of American Top Forty. Very popular with Western visitors. But of course you are much too young.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking that sounds a lot more interesting—and will make for a much better story—than sticking around for my dad’s work party.

  I manage to cut out of the embassy party that night around eleven, though it’s still going strong—or at least strong in a boring, fancy dress, diplomatic sort of way. “Sayonara, suckers,” I mutter as I slip out a side door. I doubt Mom will notice. She’s been busy all night establishing herself as the queen of embassy society, flaunting her furs and pearls, doing the Jackie Kennedy thing with a pillbox hat and elbow-length gloves. She probably wishes she could trade in the hat for a tiara. Dad, meanwhile, has positioned himself in a back corner of the room, where a steady stream of diplomats in tuxedos and generals in their dress uniforms keep sidling up to him and holding whispered conversations, kind of like the night before at the French restaurant. It’s like the real ambassador, Ellsworth Bunker, is the master of ceremonies, but Special Attaché Frank Sorenson is one of those old mafia dons, the dark figure in the shadows with all the real power, the one who is running the show.

  I have big plans with a girl named Cindy I met earlier that evening. Her parents also pulled her out of school somewhere else back in the States. She says she’s been bored since they got to Vietnam and is up for anything. We sat next to each other during dinner, danced a couple of times to the corny big band playing old-people music. She kept putting her hand on my arm and leaving it there, like we were already a couple or something.

  As soon as we get outside she does even more than that, pulling me close and kissing me. She apparently thinks I’m cool because I’m from New York, and I’m more than happy to let her think that.

  We make out for a few minutes, until she gently pushes me away. “Wow,” she says. “You’re a good kisser.”

  I doubt it—I haven’t had a lot of practice—but I say, “You too,” anyway.

  “So I was thinking,” Cindy says. “Instead of going out, why don’t we stay here and get to know each other, you know, better?” She presses her lips together. “And we can do that some more, too.”

  “You’re chickening out?” I say. “I thought we were going to hit the town? You said you wanted to go.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “About that. I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea, but look around.” She gestures to the dark night sky that surrounds us, everything disappearing into the shadows. “And my dad said they were attacking cities and stuff. So it’s possible they could even attack here …” She trails off.

  “Girls in New York wouldn’t chicken out,” I say, annoyed that she’s bailing because I don’t really want to go alone.

  She looks down, embarrassed.

  “Fine,” I say. “Whatever. Stay here if you want. But I’m taking off.” I turn to leave.

  “You really shouldn’t,” she says. “Really. It’s not safe.”

  I stop. A part of me wants to stay, and maybe fool around with Cindy in the bushes or wherever we can get a little privacy. There are embassy guards patrolling the grounds.

  But when am I ever going to have an opportunity like this again—to sneak out at midnight in Vietnam? I can practically hear Geoff telling me I have to do it: the coolest, most wretched place on Earth.
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  “Catch you later,” I say to Cindy, heading for the embassy gate.

  It’s almost midnight in Saigon. It’s Tet. Let the Year of the Monkey begin.

  Time to hit Bunny Bunny Go Go and party like there’s no tomorrow.

  The tuk-tuk driver is playing that singsong wailing they call pop music here, but as soon as I get in and tell him where I’m going, he switches channels on his little transistor radio to the armed forces station. It must be psychedelic hour because they’re playing Jefferson Airplane, the Doors, the Rolling Stones. The closer we get to Cholon, the more congested the streets, with fireworks blasting, fires blazing in oil drums, people staggering around, stumbling into traffic, old men and women so stooped over from age they look like hunchbacks, street vendors selling everything from meat on sticks to guns. The night air is warm but still feels cooler than the crippling ninety-plus heat of daytime. I’m wearing this stupid black suit that Mom insisted I put on for the embassy dinner, with a wide paisley tie that she nearly died when she saw but that I refused to take off. I also have on a pair of Dad’s wing tip shoes that are two sizes too big, but she said would have to do since I didn’t bring any dress shoes of my own, and there was no way she was going to let me wear my Chuck Taylors or desert boots.

  The tuk-tuk driver tries to make conversation in his broken English, asking if I’m a big American, whatever that means, and if I’m going out to party. He leers at me in his cracked rearview mirror. “Make big fun with Vietnam girls?”

  “Sure,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Earlier, I was all about breaking out and joining the party, impressing Geoff, but now that I’m on my own, heading for Cholon, nervousness sets in. What am I thinking? I can’t be doing something like this. Sure, I snuck out in New York, but that was with Geoff. Never just me, alone. Like now, zipping past tin-roof shacks and concrete block houses with torn awnings and teetering high-rises that look like they’re held up by matchsticks and mud. And wild chickens and scrawny dogs and bats and bugs so big they can probably carry off a small kid.