Free Naked in Saigon by Colin Falconer Page B

you.”
    My eyes went back to the calendar on the wall. Eleven years ago! It was another lifetime. If I closed my eyes I could still hear Inocencia rasping out the final words of her favourite bolero, see the sweat running down her face, the white monogrammed handkerchief clenched in her right fist.
     
    When I look in your eyes
    I see how I used to be
    When I look in the mirror
    I see what’s become of me
    I can’t stay here with you
    I know you’ll break my heart
    It’s love that bring us together
    It’s love that tears me apart
     
    “Beautiful,” he said. “I didn’t know you could sing.”
    “You loved her, didn’t you?”
    “Inocencia? Yes, I did. Not the way I loved you though.”
    I finished my tea, staring at the leaves in the bottom of the tiny cup. I wondered what one of those fortune tellers out in the street would say if she saw them.
    “I’d better go.”
    “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve found out something.”
    He got up and stood there with his hands in his pockets. I badly wanted to kiss him.
    “I never stopped loving you,” I said. “But it was a long time ago, Reyes, and we have to move on. Please find Connor for me.”
     

     
    A convoy of Army trucks rumbled through the square, belching blue clouds of exhaust smoke. I covered my face with a silk scarf and hurried into the cool of the Caravelle.
    I stopped at the desk and asked the clerk if there were any messages for me.
    “So sorry,” he said, checking the cubbyhole. “Nothing for you, madame .”
    I went back to my room. I got off the elevator at the wrong floor then when I found the right floor I couldn’t find my key. I was a mess. There was a part of me silently praying for my husband, another part of me thinking about the last time I made love to Reyes.
     
     
     

Chapter 18

    Much of the old colonial town had gone, bulldozed to make way for new apartment blocks and bars. Angel had disdained the faded elegance of the Continental and the kitschy comforts of the Caravelle and had instead afforded himself of one of the few remaining colonial villas on Cong Ly Boulevard. I supposed his family’s unique relationship with the Thieu government might have helped with such a privileged arrangement.
    There was a uniformed guard on the gate, a high wall topped with razor wire. A long driveway led through the flower gardens and banana palms to a massive white porte-cochère , shaded by a giant tamarind tree. Purple bougainvillea climbed the cream stucco walls.
    A white-jacketed servant met me at the door and led the way. It was cool and quiet inside after the bedlam of the street, and there were silk carpets and antique furniture made from Burmese teak and walnut. The house smelled of must and the heavy night scents of the garden. I looked at the faded red damask and the cracked chandeliers and I could imagine a French fonctionnaire , dressed in a formal white frockcoat, calling for his bep to bring him his dinner.
    Angel was sitting on the terrace in a white shirt and linen trousers, his jacket thrown carelessly over one of the cane chairs. He was drinking cognac.
    I thought about him as a twenty-year-old callow Cuban kid. He was so eager to please back then and it had paid off, for he had pleased his father, and his father-in-law, and been duly rewarded for putting conscience aside.
    Or perhaps some men never had one to start with. I supposed it was possible.
    His two goons sat at another table, playing cards on a foldout table, smoking, watching me with mean black eyes.
    He stood up to greet me with a cocky grin, and kissed me on both cheeks, lingering longer than was necessary. He invited me to sit, had his houseboy fetch me a vermouth. Vermouth? It seemed he was getting used to the way of life already.
    “Baby! Can’t believe you’re here. Good to see you, guapa .”
    “This isn’t a social call, Angel.”
    He raised his hands in mock horror. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
    “Where’s my husband?”
    He decided to make a