They had been traveling for almost an hour when they came to the first military checkpoint. Jing Yo didn’t see the trucks across the road in time to turn off without arousing suspicion. The trucks were Chinese-made troop transports, and at first their boxy silhouettes confused him. He thought for a moment that he had stumbled onto a Chinese army unit, and while under orders to conduct his mission with complete secrecy, he decided he would have the soldiers take him immediately to their superior. He’d ask his help getting farther south. But Jing Yo’s first glimpse of the soldiers warned him that he had been wrong; these were Vietnamese units, ordered to hold the road to Cam Thuy against a possible advance.
Jing Yo throttled down, keeping the scooter in a low idle as he stopped before the soldiers. He could tell they were nervous. There were three men in the road, with others off the road nearby. Jing Yo knew from his own experience in the army that bored, nervous soldiers suddenly presented with excitement were apt to do many things, including killing innocent civilians.
“Why are you on this road?” demanded the first soldier.
“We are going to help my mother,” said Hyuen Bo behind him. “She is an old woman and needs our help.”
“I’m not talking to you,” said the soldier.
“It’s true,” said Jing Yo. He began to cough, a ruse in case his accent seemed unnatural.
“Where is your mother?”
“Saigon,” said Hyuen Bo.
“Saigon?”
“Where in Saigon?” asked another soldier. “You answer, not her.”
Jing Yo named a district at the southern end of the city where he had stayed during his last visit. The soldier asked if he knew of a restaurant at a certain address. Jing Yo said that he didn’t, but that the address itself seemed to be wrong. Perhaps it was in another city district — a common problem in Saigon, where the border of each small district meant the street numbering system was restarted.
The answer seemed to mollify the soldier. “You should look it up when you get there,” he said. “I recommend it.”
“I will.”
“Has the enemy broken through?” asked Hyuen Bo. “Will we be able to get there?”
“Since you ask, I would not advise driving any farther,” said the first soldier. “Where have you come from?”
“Hanoi,” said Hyuen Bo.
“You shouldn’t drive at night,” said the soldier who had asked about the restaurant. “The Chinese send their airplanes out to strike anything on the road. They don’t care if you are civilians or the army.”
“You’re in danger yourself,” said Hyuen Bo.
“It’s our job to be in danger,” said the first soldier. “And we’re not afraid of any Chinese bastards.”
“I hope I see one. I’d shoot the bastard in the face,” said the third soldier, speaking for the first time.
“Are they that close?” asked Hyuen Bo.
“Only their planes,” answered the first soldier. “Their army has been stopped at the reservoir. They’ll be kicked back to China soon. They are dogs. We have always beaten them, from ancient times.”
“What’s the safest way south?” asked Jing Yo. “If we have to go.”
“The Ho Chi Minh Highway,” said the third soldier. “It’s the only way.”
“That is for military use only,” said the first soldier. “It’s closed to civilians. And I would stay away from it — the Chinese will bomb it.”
“Could we drive it?” Hyuen Bo asked, addressing the soldier who had mentioned the Saigon restaurant. “Would it be fastest?”
“Why are you talking to him? I told you already it’s closed.” The first soldier practically shouted. Jing Yo was familiar with the type — a small-minded man, suddenly handed a little authority, who became completely unnerved at the slightest perceived threat to his position.
“We must stay away from the highway,” said Jing Yo before descending into a coughing fit.
“Go,” said the soldier, waving his hand. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
It took them nearly a half hour to go only ten miles south. The twists and turns jumbled Jing Yo’s sense of direction, and he was able to navigate only by catching occasional glimpses of dim lights and the sound of trucks close to the city, which lay to his west.
Finally, Jing Yo realized he had no choice but to go through the heavier populated areas that lay near Cam Thuy. And if he was going to do that, then he might as well lake the Ho Chi Minh Highway, military restriction or no. They drove into the city and, noticing that the gas tank was only about half full, found a block where several cars were parked and stole more fuel.
Hyuen Bo continued to be more helpful than he could have wished; she held the tube down into the other car’s tank, and when they heard someone coming, she managed to free the tube and hop on the scooter so calmly he would have sworn she was a guerrilla herself.
The city was under blackout restrictions, and in theory under a curfew. But people were gathered on the main streets in the business district, crowded together on the sidewalk, talking — or so Jing Yo imagined — about the war and their prospects for remaining safe. There were several tanks parked near the bridge over the M? River, but no soldiers made an effort to stop them as they crossed, even though they were technically on the Ho Chi Minh Highway. A pair of motorcycles and a small car passed them going the other way.
There were more vehicles moving in the southern suburbs. A Mercedes sped past them, so close that the wind almost threw them into a ditch.
A short while later, a pair of military jeeps, old Russian models, rushed past in the opposite direction. Jing Yo took this as a sign that others would follow. He found a side street that paralleled the main highway, and got off, swinging away from main road. But within a quarter mile the road came back to the highway, and Jing Yo had no choice but to follow.
Two more small trucks passed. These slowed as he approached. One flipped on a small searchlight mounted near the driver’s side. Jing Yo pushed his head down and revved the throttle, willing the small scooter forward. As they whizzed past, he tensed, expecting gunfire, but no one fired and the trucks didn’t stop.
The road began climbing a hill, negotiating a gentle curve. As they rounded it, Jing Yo caught sight of a line of shadows moving ahead.
A large gravel pit had been built into the side of the highway during its construction. Jing Yo drove into it, angling toward the steep slope where he could hide in the darkest of the shadows. But just as he reached it, the scooter hit a rock hidden in the weeds, and he and Hyuen Bo went flying off.
Jing Yo’s reaction was automatic. He entered a realm where thought and action, body and mind, are joined completely to each other. He felt himself flying, and without thought or other preparation, moved his elbows and tucked his shoulder to roll on the ground. The uneven gravel bit at his body, but Jing Yo had taken many such falls. His momentum brought him to his feet. He ran to the scooter and turned off the engine, then looked for Hyuen Bo.
She lay heaped on the ground. He scooped her up and ran with her into the shadows, collapsing into the brush as trucks approached. He sat with his lover in his arms, her head and upper body cradled in his lap. Never had a grown person seemed so small, or so fragile.
“Hyuen Bo?” he said softly. “Hyuen Bo?”
She didn’t respond. Jing Yo took a breath, steeling himself against her death.
No matter what one believed about the universe, whether it was a place filled with heavens and hells, or simply an empty consortium of atoms, there was no easy acceptance of death. Brave words about passing to a better place would be meaningless to Jing Yo, and all his training no consolation for Hyuen Bo’s loss.
He prepared himself.
But then she stirred, alive.
Jing Yo let go of the iron armor he’d bound himself in. “Ssssh,” he whispered. “You’ll be all right.”
