to a better hotel than the Trung Mai. But what could he do? If he tried to sneak into the Continental it would be all over the city by morning. If his wife found out he had been with a western woman she would cut it off with scissors and if Rocco knew ... well, that would be even worse.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
Noelle pulled her dress over her head. Her body was oily slick with sweat, and gleamed like burnished bronze. She stripped off her underwear and stood in front of him, naked, except for a few bands of gold at her wrist and her throat, and her Cartier wrist-watch.
Ky's mouth was dry, he couldn't swallow. “Lie on the bed,” he said.
He smiled to himself. What was it the French believed in? Liberté, egalité, fraternité. Liberty, equality, brotherhood. Well, what could be more equal and brotherly than a cultured Vietnamese gentleman like himself taking liberties with a beautiful French girl?
He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. “Put your hands above your head,” he said.
Noelle hesitated then obeyed. Ky ran his hand over her body, from her shoulder to her thigh. His hand came away oily with the damp-warm of her perspiration. It was hard to breathe.
He would be gentle with her, of course. Perhaps she thought that because he was a soldier he had no sensitivity, no skill. But his father had been a highly respected businessman in Dalat, his mother educated in France. How the world turns.
He took off his clothes and got into bed. Some of his own family despised him for the choices he had made in his career, but if they could see him now they would realise that public office had many more compensations than they had ever realised.
Chapter 13
A CROWD had gathered around the charred corpse lying in the middle of the street. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air, a sweet and nauseating stench that wrinkled Baptiste's nostrils. A journalist was taking pictures. Saffron robed monks stood to one side, their faces unreadable.
“What's going on?' Baptiste said.
“A monk barbecue,” Ky said as they drove past.
“Why?'
“The Buddhists are making trouble for President Diem. They are protesting government policies by setting light to themselves.” Ky giggled. “It is very obliging of them. Why should we get rid of them while they do it for us?'
“They do it to themselves?' Baptiste could not imagine the balls it would take to do such a thing.
“Difficult job being a monk. You burn out very young.” Ky giggled again.
They were in the back of a green M.S.S. jeep. It had all happened so quickly. This morning two guards had dragged him out of the prison while he was barely awake. He was convinced they were taking him out to shoot him. Instead they threw him in the jeep with this Vietnamese Colonel. Baptiste had recognised from the day of his arrest at Ban Me Thuot.
Colonel Ky turned his head and hawked into the street. “Very sorry, but I don't know which smells worse. You, or that monk.”
“D esolé , Colonel. Normally I bathe in asses' milk, but your boys interrupted my toilet this morning.”
Ky prodded him with his swagger stick. “Sit a little further over that way.”
“May I ask where we're going?'
Ky ignored him. “I hope you have learned your lesson, Monsieur Crocé.”
“I learned a big lesson. Next time I won't get caught.”
“Next time you don't come back to Vietnam again. Ever.”
They left Saigon and crossed into Cholon. The streets became narrower and life moved from the offices and the shop houses out into the streets. Baptiste smelled the sacks of dried fish down at the wharves. The streets clamoured with the squawking of ducks at the open air markets and the din of motorcycles and cyclo bells.
“Where are you taking me?'
Ky ignored him. He pointed to the red, white and blue bumper sticker on the big-finned Cadillac in front of them. “So many Americans coming here now, Mister Crocé. I think I liked it better in the old days, liked
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
Noelle pulled her dress over her head. Her body was oily slick with sweat, and gleamed like burnished bronze. She stripped off her underwear and stood in front of him, naked, except for a few bands of gold at her wrist and her throat, and her Cartier wrist-watch.
Ky's mouth was dry, he couldn't swallow. “Lie on the bed,” he said.
He smiled to himself. What was it the French believed in? Liberté, egalité, fraternité. Liberty, equality, brotherhood. Well, what could be more equal and brotherly than a cultured Vietnamese gentleman like himself taking liberties with a beautiful French girl?
He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. “Put your hands above your head,” he said.
Noelle hesitated then obeyed. Ky ran his hand over her body, from her shoulder to her thigh. His hand came away oily with the damp-warm of her perspiration. It was hard to breathe.
He would be gentle with her, of course. Perhaps she thought that because he was a soldier he had no sensitivity, no skill. But his father had been a highly respected businessman in Dalat, his mother educated in France. How the world turns.
He took off his clothes and got into bed. Some of his own family despised him for the choices he had made in his career, but if they could see him now they would realise that public office had many more compensations than they had ever realised.
Chapter 13
A CROWD had gathered around the charred corpse lying in the middle of the street. The smell of burned flesh hung in the air, a sweet and nauseating stench that wrinkled Baptiste's nostrils. A journalist was taking pictures. Saffron robed monks stood to one side, their faces unreadable.
“What's going on?' Baptiste said.
“A monk barbecue,” Ky said as they drove past.
“Why?'
“The Buddhists are making trouble for President Diem. They are protesting government policies by setting light to themselves.” Ky giggled. “It is very obliging of them. Why should we get rid of them while they do it for us?'
“They do it to themselves?' Baptiste could not imagine the balls it would take to do such a thing.
“Difficult job being a monk. You burn out very young.” Ky giggled again.
They were in the back of a green M.S.S. jeep. It had all happened so quickly. This morning two guards had dragged him out of the prison while he was barely awake. He was convinced they were taking him out to shoot him. Instead they threw him in the jeep with this Vietnamese Colonel. Baptiste had recognised from the day of his arrest at Ban Me Thuot.
Colonel Ky turned his head and hawked into the street. “Very sorry, but I don't know which smells worse. You, or that monk.”
“D esolé , Colonel. Normally I bathe in asses' milk, but your boys interrupted my toilet this morning.”
Ky prodded him with his swagger stick. “Sit a little further over that way.”
“May I ask where we're going?'
Ky ignored him. “I hope you have learned your lesson, Monsieur Crocé.”
“I learned a big lesson. Next time I won't get caught.”
“Next time you don't come back to Vietnam again. Ever.”
They left Saigon and crossed into Cholon. The streets became narrower and life moved from the offices and the shop houses out into the streets. Baptiste smelled the sacks of dried fish down at the wharves. The streets clamoured with the squawking of ducks at the open air markets and the din of motorcycles and cyclo bells.
“Where are you taking me?'
Ky ignored him. He pointed to the red, white and blue bumper sticker on the big-finned Cadillac in front of them. “So many Americans coming here now, Mister Crocé. I think I liked it better in the old days, liked
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