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.

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Farewell, Uncle Ho

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Chapter 91 (Saturday, July 15, 1967)

This Saturday afternoon was being devoted to having fun, which experience had always told me to enjoy with a good measure of skepticism. So, we had our swimming gear in tow and were hoping that there would be enough shade, so that Gerry's fair skin wouldn't burn.

According to Yvette, who was trying to orient us, Wade had driven his highly-polished, black 1954 Ford Vendôme west on Bonnard. Then he'd turned right onto Général de Gaulle, past Norodom Palace, then left onto Chasseloup-Laubat, past the north end of the Palace and its nicely appointed gardens. Apparently it didn't matter much to her how the French-inspired, white-on-blue street signs all contradicted, what she'd told us.

At the back of the presidential palace, where we, again according to Yvette, turned left onto the mahogany-tree-lined rue Miss Cavell, the gardens to the right were elaborately maintained, and the driveway of le Cercle Sportif reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Beverly Hills. And not unlike Beverly Hills, we'd arrived on le Plateau.

Le Cercle Sportif Saïgonnais was ostensibly an athletic club, situated on a huge acreage behind Independence Palace. And if billiards, bridge tournaments, despite the ban on playing cards, and sitting around in the shade drinking were to be considered sports, I suppose it was. A country club would probably be a more accurate term. Wade told us that the extensive club house, which resembled the manor of an old Louisianan plantation, housed restaurants, a bar, a billiard room, conference facilities, a library cum reading room, for which newspapers were flown in daily from Metropolitan France, and the administrative offices.

Of particular interest to the retired and war-weary French and francophone Eurasian community of retired military and functionaries was the expansive, shaded veranda, overlooking the tennis courts, beyond which was the swimming complex, with its own shaded veranda and bar service. The water in the pools appeared to be dark green. According to Yvette, this was due to jade-colored tiles. Ochre trim surrounded the pools, which offset the color of bougainvilleas in planters between the columns of the vast, enclosing pergola.

Further south of the pool area, and mainly of interest to the much younger set of French and francophone Eurasians, who were also interested in listening to Elvis Presley and Johnny Hallyday, was a soccer and rugby pitch next to a sports stadium, seating 12,000, all of which was enclosed by a dense forest-like park.

We got out of the car and locked the doors. "Let Yvette take care of introductions." Wade was using his private voice, which was much softer than his normal business voice. "They can be snotty with Americans, no matter how good your French is."

Gerry chuckled. "My French is non-existent."

Linh giggled, "But I you comprends." taking Gerry's hand for a second.

Gerry squeezed it, and released it. "And I'm definitely not an American." At that, Linh smiled approvingly.

But Wade stopped in his tracks with his mouth gaping, when I added my two bits. "I'm not an American, either, but my French is excellent."

"You're not Americans?" He looked first at me, then at Gerry.

"Oh, for Shit's sake, who'd wanna be, these days?" I laughed along with Gerry. Yvette, wide eyed, had thrown a slender hand over her mouth, and Wade looked as if I'd slugged him in the gut. "Don't tell me that you still are."

"Didn't have much of a choice, Ben." Wade looked wounded. "Didn't really wanna end up as a coolie on some rubber plantation. Besides, I get a shit-load of legal work from the Americans."

My picture of Wade changed drastically in an instant. Looked like he could be worthy of investigation by the new, improved House Committee on Un-American Activities. And precisely because of that, I gave him the thumbs up.

***

Madame was on the phone, when we arrived in the administrations' office. We waited. Madame was talking to a friend. We could hear that because she was using the familiar form of 'you'. And she let us wait. Yvette politely tried to make our presence known. Madame shushed us.

Madame was possibly in her mid-fifties, jet-black hair, too much makeup, and wore an expression of condescending bourgeois irritability. She reminded me of the woman at my draft board, who also wore rhinestone-studded, wing-tip glasses. Madame was her Eurasian counterpart. The only possible marked difference would probably be that this one would have known that they speak Cantonese in China rather than in Ohio.

Eventually, anyone watching could tell that Wade was from New York. When she didn't react to his clearing his throat, he went to her desk and placed his finger on the receiver's cradle and disconnected her call. She scowled; he glared back much more menacingly.

Then in an attempt to save face, she addressed Jules. "Terribly sorry, monsieur Landry, I didn't see you." Now, she'd even pissed off Yvette.

"We have two new members for the Cercle." Jules placed a hand each on Gerry's and my shoulder. The look on Gerry's face verified that he didn't understand what was going on.

Had her look gone anymore sour, she would have needed a barf bag. "Americans?"

That trashed my let's-get-along smile. But Yvette was willing to put in some effort still to save the situation. So, I handed her our passports and pictures. She glanced at them and did a double take at Gerry's. She opened it and read the French part, then smiled. "Dr. Loughery," She gestured at me. "is French, and Mr. Helmstedter," She pointed at Gerry. "is, uh, German."

Madame took the passports and opened them disapprovingly. "Where are their entry stamps and visas for the Republic of Vietnam?"

"We entered your country under the SEATO status of forces agreement." That was my being truthful. And I should have known better.

"Then you have military identification." Madame maintained.

I told Gerry that she needed his Army ID, and I handed her his and mine.

"You're not officers." She gave us scolding clicks of her tongue, as she would an unruly child. "We do not allow simple soldiers to join. That would upset things." She tossed our passports, military IDs, and pictures onto the edge of her desk, rather than handing them to either of us. When I leaned over to retrieve them, the photos fell to the floor.

Jules was quick to pick them up. Then he threw his laminated white photo ID with its red rubber stamps onto her desk. Then came a rash of rapidly spoken Vietnamese, which made Yvette's slender hand rush to cover her mouth, once again. Wade's eyebrows were at their highest peak. Jules grinned at Gerry and me. "Come on. Let's get the Fuck out of here."

We left, most of us in a huff. Gerry had the best mood of any of us. But then again, he hadn't understood what had been going on. "What did you tell her?"

Jules smiled humorlessly. "That I quit the Board of Directors. And I properly turned in my membership card, according to the directions on the back."

We'd just reached the parking lot, when Yvette took her hand away from her mouth. "That's not all he told her."

I just knew that it was going to be good, if Wade and Yvette were this scandalized. "Okay, Jules, out with it. What else did you say?" He shrugged.

Wade coughed. "That he hopes Uncle Ho wins, and that they put her into a forced-labor camp for reactionary, bourgeois cunts ."

***

Of course, it was back to our place for drinks and dinner. I asked Gerry to get the drinks. And since Linh still had to do some shopping to accommodate everyone, I volunteered to go with him. I ignored his surprised look; I still needed to come down off my aggression high. My instant hypnosis seemed to be losing its effect.

"You do know, that I can take care of this by myself." Linh stated almost uncomfortably.

"I know that." I squeezed his shoulder for reassurance. "I just had to get some fresh air."

Linh giggled and shook his head. When he did that, I realized that it was getting to be rush hour. And the traffic in Saigon made evening traffic in New York or even Paris look harmless in comparison. The ochre-rose layer of leaded air was definitely anything other than fresh.

When I stopped to make this evaluation, Linh took my hand. And he didn't let go.

I might have been half Chinese and half Celtic French, ethnically speaking, but I did grow up in America, where men, most emphatically, did not hold hands. At first, it was uncomfortable. My conditioning had been complete. Someone, I didn't know, could be offended that I was Queer. But then again, I didn't see anyone gawking aggressively.

The proof of the pudding came when we passed four white mice, standing on the corner of Lê Loi and Hai Bà Trung. I was observing them out of the corners of my eyes, hoping that they would ignore us. And as Linh had predicted, they didn't bat an eye nor miss a beat in their conversation. As a matter of fact, I noticed that two of them were holding hands, as well.

I had to laugh out loud at the thought of two men in blue of New York's finest, holding hands under the arch at Washington Square park. I liked the idea but knew that it would just never happen.

***

"It was the end of February, this year," Wade looked at Jules for conformation. He nodded. "when the supposed students stormed the French Consulate General, just to let the French know that they are still hated."

Jules pulled out his tin of Turkish cigarettes and offer them round. He lit up and broke the silence. "Of course, this has the prints of Count Dracula all over it. "

I translated for Linh, while Gerry and I still didn't have the slightest clue, who Count Dracula was supposed to be. "He's talking about Colonel Lansdale." Yvette let her smoke out slowly. "Purportedly, he would silently pick off the last man in an enemy patrol, puncture his external carotid artery, let him bleed out, and the superstitious natives would think that vampires were about."

Gerry articulated what I was thinking. "That sounds like total propaganda bullshit. Sort of like the so-called riots in Newark.”"

And while we were chuckling, Jules interjected. "And Lansdale was rabidly Francophobe. He's the reason that this country broke off diplomatic relations with France in the beginning of '64."

"He was the one," Wade added sarcastically. "who put that little French-hating shit Diem into power. And got the police and military to learn English as their second language. He has done his best to influence the Vietnamese politicians to eradicate everything French. Then, when everything French was gone, he deserted the Ngo brothers, Diem and Nhu, as if he had never heard of them." Wade snorted sarcastically. "So, that's what Jules means with 'the prints of Count Dracula'."

"Not to mention that Lansdale backed Diem's replacement of the Binh-Xuyen police, who all spoke a little French," Jules growled. "and then the bastard demanded that Diem get an all new force that was willing to learn English." Jules switched to French, probably to include Linh again, so I translated for Gerry. "Happily, the Anglophones haven't reached Dalat."

"Ah," Linh sighed and tears started to well. "My father used to take us up to the mountains for July and August." He choked back tears. "That is before he was forced to throw us out because the Dragon Lady had us classified as bastards."

Jules attitude mellowed. "Then we'll just have to drive up to Dalat for a week. We'll leave Friday." Everyone nodded enthusiastically, even though neither Gerry nor I had the foggiest what and where Dalat was, we were agreeing. But at the mention of Dalat, Linh broke down in tears, heavy sobs, and he let his head sink to his knees.

Virtually at the same time, everyone jumped up from their seats to cuddle Linh. Of course, he had become much more to all of us than a servant in the four days, since our arrival. He was part of our family.

And since he was Chinese and Vietnamese rolled into one, he proved the BOOKLET OF HELPFUL INFORMATION FOR AMERICANS IN VIETNAM, by the American Women's Association of Saigon, in its revised version of 1958, which stated that only in rare instances should one employ Chinese and Vietnamese servants in one household at the same time, to be total political propaganda bullshit, of the most grievous kind.