thatch-roofed village on stilts populated by little people with thatched saucers on their heads. I mean, if you let your imagination roam, you could almost feel the sweat form on the back of your neck.
The woman apparently spoke little English. "You sit . . . you sit . . . you sit . . ." she said, looking at me.
I sat, I sat, I sat.
Bian mentioned to me, "She's the owner," then said something to her and the woman laughed. The owner was basically mid- to late sixties, wore a scarlet silk ao dai--the traditional female garb--and had at one time been what Grandpa Erasmus would call a real looker. She was still slender and very attractive, but she had hard years on her, evidenced by her tired eyes, her deeply creased face, and a pronounced stoop in her shoulders. Bian informed me, "I told her you don't like fish."
"Whatever. I hate fish."
"She called you a typical American. No taste buds."
I smiled at the older woman and informed her, "My ancestors are Irish." This, of course, excuses a wide range of human flaws and abnormalities.
Bian translated this, the woman nodded knowingly and mentioned something in reply. Bian laughed and said something back.
Bian informed me, "She said she knows about the Irish. Bloodthirsty savages, sloppy drunks, and weepy poets."
"What did you tell her?"
"You're no poet."
They exchanged more words, and Bian chuckled. The lady poured water in our glasses while Bian informed me, "She says you are very handsome in a very Caucasian way." She added, "She wonders if you have a wife."
"Oh . . ."
"I told her you had asked many women to marry. They all said no."
The two of them erupted in laughter. Women have a weird sense of humor.
Bian then explained something to the woman, who looked at me, and said, "Can do . . . can do." She then said something to Bian, who nodded. The woman rushed off and disappeared into what I presumed was the kitchen where all the poor dead fish went to be squashed into putrid oils.
I looked at Bian. "Where did you learn Vietnamese?"
"Where it's best learned."
"Berlitz?"
She smiled, sort of. "Saigon. I was born there." She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. "Have you been to Vietnam?"
I shook my head. "My father vacationed there. Twice. He came back with wild and not wonderful stories about people shooting at one another, mines, bombs." I added, "He returned the second time with a story about somebody who shot him."
"I see."
"How did you get here?"
"That's a long and very boring story."
"Nothing about you is boring."
She looked at me. "Is that a compliment?"
"Consider it an observation."
"Well . . . my father was an officer in the South Vietnamese Army. A major, in the Rangers. It was different for him than for American officers who rotated in and out on twelve-month tours. He fought the entire war. Twelve straight years."
"It was his country."
She gave me a knowing nod. "I'll bet that had something to do with it."
"You don't look old enough to remember that."
"I wasn't, and I don't. He and my mother were married in 1967. They waited and waited . . . they didn't want to bring a child into such a miserable existence. I was born in 1973."
"The year before the war ended."
"You mean for America it ended. Not for us. And I think he knew the final ending wasn't going to be satisfying. But I suppose he decided he'd waited long enough for a child . . . that . . . if he kept putting it off . . ." She played with her chopsticks. "It's a strange thought. I've always harbored the sense I was conceived as an act of fatalism."
I said nothing.
"My family is Catholic. Worse, my mother's family were rich, decadent landowners. By physical necessity and political conviction, they were staunchly anticommunist, and they knew what defeat would mean. My father fought until the very end, until 1975."
"Then he left?"
"That . . . No, that proved impossible."
"Why not? A lot of Vietnamese came here. Go to San Diego. They're thinking of renaming it Nha Diego."
"Those were the lucky ones."
"What happened to the unlucky ones?"
"The northerners had a lot of time to prepare for their conquest. During the war years, with the help of their southern spies, they compiled long lists of South Vietnamese officers and politicians who were, in their view, corrupted. My father was on a list of people who would benefit from . . .