Lam seemed relaxed and diplomatic. His duties have included welcoming former Saigon dictator Nguyen Cao Ky, who has visited Hanoi frequently in recent years, against vociferous complaints from Vietnamese exiles in America. “Ky said that he always wanted to unify Vietnam, so I have to salute him,” Lam says wryly. On the question of his country’s deepening inequalities, however, Lam parted from the optimistic party line. “The government is trying to reduce poverty, but it’s already a reality. The rich are getting richer because they have the means. And the poor don’t. We are better off materially, but not mentally, ethically,” he said, brushing his forehead.
The world had changed all around him, from the caves of resistance to welcomes in the Rose Garden, from Dien Bien Phu to the global media stage. The geopolitical balance was altered forever with no more Soviet Union or “socialist camp” and tensions simmering beneath the “fraternal relations” with China. “We and the Chinese used to call each other comrade; now it’s mister,” he reflected wryly. The most ironic piece of the puzzle before me was falling into place. While it could not be said explicitly–and while Vietnam inevitably would strive to maintain close relations with China, its giant northern neighbor–the United States could serve as a strategic balance in Asia for Hanoi, while Vietnam serves as a silent check on the expanding Chinese power Washington fears most. Ironically, it’s becoming the domino theory in reverse.
Finally, there was a visit to my oldest friend, Do Xuan Oanh, who first greeted me at Hanoi’s airport on a December day forty-two years before. He went through a “bitter period” after retirement, someone told me, but was feeling better, having recently translated into English an edition of Vietnamese women’s poetry. He lived alone, his wife having died after many years of illness, his three sons all abroad. As I remembered him, Oanh loved America in unique ways. For example, after learning English from the BBC, he translated Huckleberry Finn into Vietnamese, a massive challenge. A musician, he could sing many American protest songs. A romantic, he wept easily and became close to many Americans.
Now, in a carload of old revolutionaries, I traveled along a narrow cement path past houses, until we came to the gate of Oanh’s home of fifty years. He was standing in the door, a thin shadow of the Oanh I remembered. Taking my hand, he led me into a windowless room where a couch and piano were the most prominent fixtures. There were alcoves for painting and a kitchen. We sat and looked at each other. He held my hand on his knee, while the others sat in a quiet circle. It was more a last visit than a time to renew an old conversation.
“Do you want some booze?” Oanh asked with a low chuckle, pointing to a half-bottle of Jim Beam. I deferred, worried what might happen after a few drinks. My wife said Oanh seemed fit and energetic for an 85-year-old. She asked if he would play the piano, and he performed an original piece in a classic European style. He gave me a copy of the song, signed to his “precious friend,” and a small carving of a beautiful Vietnamese woman carrying a student briefcase, which he said reminded him of his wife “before the revolution.” He repeated the phrase, then relaxed. Gradually, the others began to reminisce about the old days. I wondered if we would ever meet again. I remembered an e-mail from Oanh’s son in San Francisco: “I believe God assigned my father and myself to serve the American people.” His son would come for a visit in the summer, Oanh said.
We walked back along the dark path to the street filled with motorbikes and strolling couples out for a coffee. Oanh looked at me intently, pointing a finger for emphasis. “Nothing can be predicted,” were his last words before we said goodbye. Posted by Bulatlat
