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By Root 655 0

there any more beautiful women? They drive by on their motorbikes in tight white silk ao dais, slit to the tops of their thighs, black silk pants underneath, driving gloves that reach beyond their elbows, white surgical masks covering their faces, bug-eyed dark sunglasses, and conical straw hats. Not an inch of flesh is visible, and I’m totally enamored with them. Sitting on my stool drinking iced coffee and watching them, I feel a twinge of pain for Greene’s hero in The Quiet American, so hopelessly in love with a young Vietnamese girl who can never and will never return his affections in kind. It’s a paradigm for the whole American experience here in some ways. Poor LBJ, shaking his head, unable to understand that that little Uncle Ho fella over there, offered a badly needed dam and hydroelectric system for the Red River Delta – in return for selling out his dream of a united country – turned him down flat. All those well-meaning Green Beanies in the early days of the war, the would-be Lord Jims, warrior priests, idealistic CIA officers, AID specialists, medics and mercenaries, hurt, wounded, confused that these people just wouldn’t love them back the way they thought they deserved to be. We took out our lover’s pique later, by sending in the marines.

I sit there for a long time, sipping iced coffee, smelling motorbike exhaust, freshly baked baguettes (they’re really good here), burning joss, the occasional waft from the Saigon River, thinking back to Madame Dai and my first night in town.

‘Les Français,’ she began, listing all the regimes she’s lived through, ‘les Japonais, les Français – encore! – puis les Américains, le Président Diem, les Américains, Thieu, les communistes.’ She smiled, shrugged, casting a skeptical glance at my translator, Linh, who, as Madame Dai was well aware, would later have to report this conversation to the ominously named People’s Committee.

‘Le Président Thieu wanted to put me in jail,’ she said, ‘but he . . . could not. I was too . . . populaire. His cabal said I would become a hero in jail.’ The first female lawyer in Vietnam under the South Vietnamese government (now referred to as the ‘Puppet Regime’), she saw her law practice shut down when the North Vietnamese rolled into town. Eventually, she was allowed to reopen – as a café, still operating, as she does today, out of her musty law offices, the walls lined with law books, memorabilia, and photographs of better days. She’s on some kind of governmental advisory committee, she explained, which was perhaps why it was okay for me to visit. She still entertains visiting dignitaries from the West.

‘I love to flirt with communism,’ she said, giggling and goosing Linh. ‘The “Government of National Reconciliation,” ’ she scoffed. ‘Reconcile what? I was never angry!’

She served a choice of two menus to guests – most of them visiting Westerners: French or Vietnamese. I hadn’t come here to eat escargots bourguignonne, so I chose Vietnamese. Madame Dai floated back into a rear kitchen, where a few loyal retainers were preparing a spread of ban phong tom (shrimp crackers), goi sen (lotus salad with chicken and shrimp), cha goi zoua (fried spring rolls), ba la lop (beef wrapped in mint leaves), com duoung chau (Saigonese rice with pork, egg, and green beans), mang cua (asparagus soup), a mint, pineapple and cucumber salad, and pork grilled over charcoal. The meal ended with crème caramel, an innocuous but delicious reminder of colonial days. Madame Dai was educated in France, and she led the conversation toward fond memories of cassoulets, choucroutes, confit de canard, clearly enjoying simply pronouncing the words after so long. Occasionally, she paused to put a finger to her lips, then delivered a tap on the table. ‘Les meecrophones,’ she stage-whispered, making sure that poor squirming Linh – who does not speak French and was not enjoying when we did – heard every word. ‘I am CIA?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘Non, I tell zem. I am KGB!’ Both acronyms made Linh sit upright with barely concealed alarm. If there’s anyone the Vietnamese hate, it