On the Streets of Saigon

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Madame von Hedwig scanned the street behind the administrative headquarters of the Armée Aeronautique. The grand façade opened to an expansive court surrounded by other imposing colonial government buildings. They had entered through the front, so she knew there would be no one of use to her there. The back door proved more fruitful.

There were no trolleys or steam cabs to be found in the colonial outpost, but all the pedicab operators nearby spoke French, and they all knew where the airmen went to drink. The boy pulling her chair was young, hardly older than Adolphus, yet he was working late into the night. Madame grossly overpaid him, and asked him to wait for her outside the bar. It was a dark hole in the wall, the first story in the middle of a row of cheaply constructed European-style buildings, elaborate iron railings overhanging the street.

Madame plunged in. She had not slept in over two days, but was fueled solely by desperation. At the sound of the door, all heads turned to examine the newcomer. She did not look around the room or meet any glances, but approached the bar.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” she said to the barman, “I am looking for someone.”

“I am most certainly someone!” declared a slurred voice at her left elbow. “I am the man you seek, cherie, c’est moi.”

Madame leaned over the bar. “I am looking for Capitaine Charette.”

The barkeep bore the delicate features of the Hmong people, and spoke flawless, if accented French. He studied Madame vonHedwig, from the top of her short-crowned broad-brimmed hat (trimmed with live growing ivy) to her green and cream striped walking skirt, then his eyes flickered again to the look on her face.  He shrugged.

“She’s not here.”

“I need to find her.”

“She’s not here.”

“Lives are at stake.”

The barkeep shrugged and turned away, then turned back with widening eyes as he tried to pull his wrist from her grip. She leaned further into him and spoke softly.

“My children’s lives.”

He looked deeply into her eyes, then pointed with his other hand. “In the back corner. The sad man, he might know.”

“Thank you.” She released him and headed for the back. Her slurring admirer blocked her way.

“Well done, cherie. What can I get you to drink?”

She pushed him gently back on to his barstool.

“Coffee.”

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This story began with On Grandmothers. The previous episode is Flight to Saigon and the next is The Sad Man.