No One Sleeps in Saigon

buổi sáng (morning)

When I wake, bewildered to say the least, he is still here. He sits upon the silky sheets, ruffled, holding two cups of steaming tea. The sun grasps the room in its clutches and sprinkles its fire over this man's face. Like sweet rain after a long year's drought. I glace up from his shirtless chest to peer at his face. A kind face, handsome even. He pushes his lips to mine with an innocence I haven't experienced in years. With no cast of unsettlement, I grasp my cup from his hand. "Thankyou." I say. My throat is hoarse, lips bruised and peeling. I take a much-needed sip of my tea. I say, "Please do not come back here." He is still. Droplets of salty water start to stain the bedsheets. More come, my breath pacing. "Hey, hey, it'll be alright." He says. I watch as his lips move and come apart to form honey syllables that trickle down my throat as we kiss again. Streams still flow from my eyes; tears being sipped like fine wine in our embrace. "What's your name, beautiful? I hesitate. Beautiful. "Mai".

"Sandy". He attempts to shake my hand with a chortle, but this time I choose to be still. I think back to our perfect night. He did not call me names like the soldiers do, his words were never sharp or abrasive. No crude American words that sting. "Would you like to stay, Sandy?" I shouldn't have, who knows the damage- "I would love to, Mai." Mai.

Weeks pass, and he somehow makes his way to Saigon almost every night. I dance for him like I do the others sometimes, show him skin, but he says he doesn't like that. Most nights he tells me about the war whilst I fix him drinks, about the Viet Cong. He calls them "Charlie", they all do. The harsh red of the lights, do nothing to take him away from his thoughts he says. Neither the sturdiness of the bar, the moon dancing over the sky until the sun wakes up once more. Sandy likes to talk. He finds life so fascinating, as if he will never get to experience it. I do not say much. He often tells me I am a good listener, even though the noise of the bar sometimes keeps me from understanding him. I recall a story about his friend...George. They were drafted on the same day, May 18th, they trained together. "We really connected, Mai, he was always there for me, never did once let me down." He frantically pulls something from his trouser pocket. "Look Mai, it's us, first day on the job, man, don't we look happy." The two smiling men, arms around each other in the photo are Sandy and whom I can assume is George, who I recognise from the bar. I did not tell Sandy this, but they didn't think they looked very happy in the photo. Their smiles hid some sort of secret, their eyes seemingly a million miles away, foreheads creased with worry. A sense of doom and despair clouded their conventionally joyful expressions. But I wouldn't tell Sandy that.

Another day he told me that the night before, Charlie had bombed the camp where he and George were staying. He described in detail that I didn't need about the way it went, losses they suffered. Punishment for no crime he says. He chokes on his words. He tells me what he saw. Men's bones protruding from the chests, limbs, the blood that wasn't his. Their screams, and the deafening tragic silence that follows. Phá hoại. 5 of them survived. He finishes his whiskey and breaks like a strong but overwhelmed dam. He was a broken, shaken boy. I took him to bed, a foolish attempt to kiss away his tears and heartache.

I begin to talk as well, words in my broken English spill out of me like an opened tap. Not even my own mother has heard me speak as I did to Sandy. I found safety is his attentive ear, as I told him about leaving my gia đình many years ago, the soldiers that have mistreated me, beaten, made pathetic empty love to me, using my body like một món đồ chơi. I talk about wanting to give up, my loneliness, despite being constantly surrounded by others. The black fog that fights inside of me. I cry with him and we drink our fears away. Maybe if we were unbroken, we would sort this out like Americans do, therapy, medicine, doing "vui mừng" things.

"I love you, Mai." He says the morning after. Yêu? He is in his uniform, the first time I've seen him in it, a molecule in the mass movement of the American troops. They kill any Vietnamese đàn ông, phụ nữ và trẻ em, in sight. They think they are heroes. I look up at his face and see a kind face, an American face, an enemy face. He knows nothing of love if he must kill, somehow, he believes he has done no crime. "What you mean? You no love me, that is silly, and I not love you." The words slip out of my mouth in a rage of fury and confusion. He leaves me only with regrets, as he hastily grabs his things and storms out the door.

He does not come back to the bar for weeks. The crowds look empty, unkind. Sorry is not an amicable word anymore. It is and will never be enough. It does not capture tidal waves of remorse of graves of sorrow or slings and arrows of regret. A man I recognise as George walks into Saigon. He looks with woe upon the bar. Traces the benchtop as if imagining something from a long time ago. He stops when he sees me. Anh ấy biết. "Our chopper was hit, Mai. 3 troops of VC coming straight for him."

A beat.

I let out wail that captures tidal waves of remorse, graves of sorrow and slings and arrows of regret.

I cry,

"tôi yêu anh ấy"