This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.
Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments. And last but not least, Nifty would like your donations.
Farewell, Uncle Ho
by Dennis Milholland
questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu
Chapter 97 (Sunday, July 23, 1967)
Jules' acquaintance, who was one of those in charge of Bao Dai's summer palace, Specialist Officer Urs Koernli from the Swiss army, was how he'd introduced himself. He led us through the dimly lighted, dank and cold, concrete tunnel, which we'd entered through a steel door in the basement of the hotel. There were several doors to tunnels. And there was one tunnel, which had no door and led to the kitchen building, under the street, halfway between the Dalat Palace and Hôtel du Parc, which shared kitchen facilities, as Jules pointed out. We proceeded in the opposite direction.
Since Specialist Officers didn't wear any rank insignia, but were given the status as Specialist Officer to show a highly specialised professional expert, who was being used by the Swiss military, we couldn't tell his pay grade. "They do this so high ranking know-it-alls can't pull rank to fuck things up."
As soon as I'd translated the lilted Swiss French, Gerry laughed. "That sounds so practical, that the Americans would actively go out of their way to avoid it."
Everyone snickered and tittered. "Give us an example." Urs said in barely accented, very understandable English, as he led us to the right at the fork in the tunnel.
"I have two, more or less, native languages, German and English." Gerry could still laugh at the irony. "So, the US Army sent me to Vietnam rather than Germany."
"Du sprichst also deutsch?" Urs sounded to me to be speaking a Scandinavian language, rather than German.
"Na, selbstverständlich." Gerry retorted in his normal, level voice, that even I could identify as German.
Then Urs switched to English. "You sound like a television announcer." Then for the rest of us in French. "He doesn't have any regional accent. He speaks pure High German."
I don't know why, but that statement made me swell with pride to know that my Gerry didn't have any hillbilly impurities in his German. I should have surmised as much; he didn't sound like he was from 'Nu Yoark', either.
***
The stairs of the tunnel ended in a built-in wardrobe behind a heavy drape at the head of the bed in Bao Dai's bedroom. I didn't think that many New-York Queens could ever claim to have come out of an actual imperial closet. I giggled, just short of camp. "Now, that's what I call a royal coming out."
Gerry looked at me somewhat puzzled, then started to chuckle, and finally broke out in lewd laughter, causing him to gasp for breath, while the rest only looked bewildered. That was, except for Urs, who went scarlet, contrasting nicely to his field-grey uniform.
Apparently, this bit of Greenwich-Village slang had made it across the Atlantic, and he knew what it meant. He tried for a grin. "Let's go this way."
Urs led us past the empress' chambers, through the large lounge space and down the main stairs to the landing of the mezzanine. Since the curtained door was closed, we had no idea of what was behind it. I did discover, however, that Urs' accent increased proportionately to his degree of embarrassment. Sort of like Gerry's did, when he'd had too much to drink or smoke.
***
"I thought Switzerland was neutral." Wade was standing erect and tense, which made him look like he was about ready to pounce Urs.
"It is." He smiled at Wade, recognizing the confusion.
"Then, why the Hell is the Swiss Army guarding this palace?" Wade took another long swig from his vodka martini.
"We're not guarding anything. We are armed, but only for self-defense."
He smirked at Wade. "The bank," I translated for Gerry. "Richet Bank & Cie, located in Geneva, is looking after the estate of Marie-Thérèse Nguyễn Hữu Thị Lan, the late empress consort, Nam Phương, who passed in December of '63." Urs toasted the round; Jules passed out cigarettes. Ashtrays were everywhere. Apparently, no one had any objections to our smoking.
"And," Urs cleared his throat. "the Republic of Vietnam confiscated all royal properties in 1955, with the exclusion of any real estate, which belonged to the late empress before 1949." He took another gulp of his drink, and puffed on the cigarette like somebody, who does not smoke. "And that includes this palace and grounds. It was a wedding present from her mother and father, which reverted to her sole ownership, in '55, when the royal couple divorced. This also applies to the villa, which she inherited when her father passed. So, the bank has hired us to represent them, until the estate has been settled."
"And what is your specialty?" Wade sounded less aggressive, having finished the drink and having seated himself on one of the salmon-colored easy chairs in the large reception room.
Urs swooped up his glass and went through the doorway of the opened, dark-framed, double doors with sheers, gathered at the top and bottom, covering the glass, to the bar cabinet in the private reception room, which was between where we were wandering around aimlessly, afraid to sit, and the state dining cum conference room. "I negotiate the sale and disposal of high-end real-estate."
"I'd guess, high-end." Gerry whispered to me, which set us off giggling.
Linh, not interested in my translation, and Yvette, not interested in the topic of real-estate, gravitated toward the grand piano, standing in the corner nearest the curtained bay windows. Because of the afternoon sun, coming from the west through the opened drapes and sheers, I couldn't tell immediately that it was Linh, who'd opened the lid on the keyboard and had played an octave. Surprisingly, the piano was well tuned. Linh, whom I could now recognize, took a seat on the upholstered bench, color of which seemed to match the easy chairs, couch, and drapes, and, equally surprisingly, played the introduction to Lili Marleen.
Yvette held her hand up to her mouth, obviously too shocked to stop him. Urs froze in the doorway with Wade's drink, staring at Gerry. Wade watched open mouthed. And my chest swelled with pride, as Gerry's crystal clear baritone sang: "Vor der Kaserne, vor dem grossen Tor, stand eine Laterne…"
When Gerry stumbled on the third verse, Urs joined in with the French version. We were just finishing up the English version, when Linh got an unusual look of sadness, mixed with spite on his face and started with the introduction of 'Le Déserteur' by Boris Vian.
In 1954 the French government had banned it because of the lead-up to war in Algeria, since they were ignoring their defeat at Dien Bien Phu, altogether, the day the song was released. Things had not been going well for President Coty. Not only politically, he was the last president of the Fourth Republic and had gone through eight prime ministers in five years, not to mention the fact that he had a strong physical resemblance to Herrmann Goering, but anti-war protestors had been cropping up all over, and this song was aimed at him, personally.
Having to chuckle at the irony of the song's being sung in the French-friendly ex-empress-consort's palace, to an audience, half of whom were soldiers, and two of whom were planning to desert. I translated Linh's uncensored, underground, and in France totally illegal rendition for Gerry.
"Mister
President, Sir
I'm writing you a letter,
which possibly you'll
read
If you should find the time.
"I have just
received
my active-duty orders
to ship out to the war
before
Wednesday night.
"Dear Commander-in-Chief
I don't
want to comply
I am not here on earth
to kill my fellow man.
"This isn't to provoke
but I do have to tell
you
I've come to my conclusion
I've decided to desert.
"Ever
since I was born
I've watched my father die,
my brothers go off
to fight
and watched my children cry.
"My mother
suffered so much,
that she now lies in her grave.
She makes fun
of the bombs
and she ridicules the worms.
"After they
captured me
they took away my wife
they took away my soul
and
everything I've loved.
"Tomorrow, before dawn
I'm
going to close the door
on all the years gone by
I'm taking off
on the road.
"I'll live off what I find
along the
roads of France
from Brittany to Provence,
and I'll be telling
all:
"To refuse to obey,
refuse to carry it
out.
Don't go off to war
refuse to go along.
"If
blood has to flow
let it be your own
you support the war
Commander-in-Chief, Sir.
"So, when you come after
me
make sure your police all know
that I shall be unarmed
and
they're at liberty to shoot."
***
"Where did you learn to play so well?" Although I tried to sound sensitive, at the end of the day, I was grilling Linh, as he gently closed the lid of the keyboard.
"in my previous life, I once studied music." Linh avoided looking at me. "Before I was not allowed to work, anymore." He smiled at me sadly. "I worked as an entertainer at Maxim's restaurant and nightclub, across from Jules' shop at the bottom of rue Catinat."
"And?" I demanded to know, sounding more aggressive than intended.
In response, Linh also became aggressive. "Diem's cunt sister-in-law, Madame Nhu, got her shit-eating Catholic way and dissolved the marriages of all second and third wives, which, overnight, made all the children of these marriages illegitimate." Hatred was seething in his eyes. "Of course, the reactionary Christians in your country--"
"As you well know, my country is the French Republic." I growled, not really intending to do so.
"Alright, the country you work for supported this type of discrimination, without knowing anything about the customs of this country and particularly not of the Hoa community." He ran the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed back emotions. "And all of us bastards, particularly bastards of mixed races, like me, can no longer get the papers, required to work as an artist."
"Was that why you were working as the chef at the French embassy?" I made more of a statement than asked a question. He nodded sadly.
Gerry came over, not knowing what Linh and I were talking about, pulled him into a tight hug. Having only read his body language, Gerry gave me a disapproving glare, and I felt an immediate emotional distance. Hesitantly, I put my arms around them both, sensing that neither wanted me there.
***
The sun was starting to set, during our drive back to Jules' villa. Urs was coming along for dinner and was being driven by a limousine from Hôtel du Parc, where all of the Swiss military lived.. Wade and Yvette were bringing up the rear. And since Linh had beaten me to the backseat with Gerry, I was in the front, riding shotgun, quite literally.
As far as I was concerned, there was no reason for the tension in the car. Maybe it was just me, having to release my control of things. My attempt to control things was virtually always something, I failed to recognize. And when I failed to get control, at least according to my two Moroccan buddies, I would get prissy, which, in turn, would cause me to slide into depression.
"Would you like to talk about it?" Jules asked me in Cantonese.
"Maybe later." I forced a smile and readjusted the assault rifle between my legs, enjoying the smell of gun oil.