A Jordan To Cross.

[MANICHAEAN]

A Jordan to Cross."

Chapt 1: Place in Time.

He passed one small bar to his left but did not enter. Inside he noted what appeared to be the owner leaning on the chrome counter and a balding middle aged waiter holding a tray with one drink. Perhaps it was the bright light aspect of the place that left one exposed, compared to the dark anonymity of the narrow lane outside. That, and the potential loneliness of being the only customer. So he moved on further into the pentralia of this collection of tenements and it seemed as if the lane had reduced to an alley, which in it's turn had diminished to but a passage way.

Around him blue painted walls of crude block construction gave indications of some kind of deserted night club. But then, various slumbering figures were discerned in the corners and alcoves of a courtyard. They were mainly women and hastily adjusted their recumbent postures, and even their dress, as his eyes became used to the gloom, and he picked out, first one figure, then another. A hawker with a small mobile stand of bric brac approached and muttered something in Vietnamese. Shaking his head he declined whatever was being offered and looking out over the compound wall, saw the lights and bustle and life of a more vibrant part of the city.

Then he awoke and knew he was still in South East Asia as the backwater smell of his own body reached his nostrils. Why the distinction between the dream and the reality you might ask? There is none, for both in their unfathomable ways are reflections of the other. Enough it was that he knew he was, after a fashion, alive and functioning, even if his lower back still pained him and he was obliged to undertake all movement in a slow and considered manner.

He had chosen the place well; an upstairs room in a hotel down a long narrow alley that became nothing more than a warren at the end smelling of campor smoke and fish. Devoid of all but the basics of furniture, there was no noise of heavy traffic from outside the balcony, and in the corner by the armchair his bag of books. It was akin a nut inside a husk, within an urban forest and he felt secure. Outside in the immediate area small businesses competed for space; tailors that would patch worn clothes, pavement vendors of soft drinks and single cigarettes, flop house lodgings for students and itinerant poor, while in dingy bars with aluminium and plate glass exteriors, inbred local gossip and human intercourse was the order of the day.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 2: Saigon.

Two weeks ago, having technically retired from active employment, he had ended up in Saigon, a city of past associations whose renaming he could not adapt to. There had been nothing really to have gone home to, except a kind of comfortable but meaningless existence in a provincial suburb. There would have been nothing happening there that hadn't already existed here, coiled up and waiting. He had vague ideas of reinventing himself with new untried pursuits, but as of yet was unable to to determine what they were.

He dressed without washing and taking his walking stick went downstairs. In what
constituted the hotel lobby an old lady chewing her gums at the reception desk merely glanced at him and returned to checking her lottery numbers.

On the corner of Le Loi and Tu Do, across from the Continental Hotel and the old opera house was a little air-conditioned restaurant he went to for breakfast. He'd read somewhere that a scene from Graham Greene's " The Quiet American" had taken place there. Every morning they baked their own baguettes and croissants, and the coffee wasn't bad either.

As he sat, a small girl, almost a child entered and started begging. When she reached his table she view his bulk and the taut weathered face. There was something sly and
amused in his smile, a lurking wit in the gaze. With a element of defiance and independence in the eyes she held out her hand . The owner, Dong came noisily around from the counter obviously annoyed but was stopped by the quietly raised hand of the American. He had given no indication of giving money, but bade her by gesture to sit with him and eat. Warily she took a place opposite and curtly ordered some kind of noodle stew, which with head down and bowl raised to narrow lips she shovelled into her mouth with chopsticks.

She reminded him somehow of his daughter back in Chicago that, as a father he had neglected all the years working overseas, and recognised therein a common toughness redolent of a determination not to be crushed by life.

Ensuing weeks saw them as an odd couple around the district as they migrated daily from his room, either to the shops or the cafe, or occasionally for him to be shaved, lying flat back in the chair, a blanket of foam on his chin and an open razor poised deftly above by a diminutive barber in ragged shorts. They seemed never to actually converse as they moved about, her attenuated Oriental form not far from and shadowed by his height. Whereas she scowled at the world, he gave the impression of a man not given to thinking, but that if he did, he was not prepared to share it with anyone, anyway.

At night he sat by the balcony window and read different books in an irregular fashion. When eventually he came to bed, her bony body approached tentatively close, more for contact, warmth and protectiveness than sex, and if you looked closely enough in the gloom, what light there was told the story on their features. It was time outside of time. Asian time, but very much American space.

Of course the comments in the district were to be as expected.

"Shameless little whore, just feeding off his goodwill, and he very polite and never asks for credit."

"God knows what he sees in her. Never smiles and a body like a skinny chicken."

[108 fountains]

Looking forward to more of this. Chapter One moves awfully slowly, and perhaps could be shortened and combined with Chapter Two. It does have some good moments. His hotel "... akin a nut inside a husk, within an urban forest..." is a great image. In Chapter Two, the image that came to my mind with "a small girl, almost a child, entered and started begging" was a girl somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 to 14 years old, but from later context, it appears you intend her to be older. Unless you intentionally want to maintain the possibility that she is very young, you might want to to be a little more specific about her age when you first introduce her.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 3: The Parting.

It must have been about Sunday when he received a call, though nobody, not even the skinny girl, was actually present, but it could be sensed that things were about to change. When first coming to Saigon he had expected that his past would have primed him for the lame years, but the call seemed to make him realise that whatever it was he was missing, it had been before it had really been played out. He hadn't been anywhere and he'd performed only half an act.

"I will be leaving next week," he said, more like a whispering prayer than an assertion. Outwardly she took it well and though not that important she also sensed that in material terms she would not be abandoned. Still, his imminent going came and took her under
like a lover.

The remaining days that passed were mechanical enough. Little was said in words that had no currency left as words and sentences with no hope of meaning. Reality had intervened and he still had that priceless option that the choice to leave was there, still
his own. But there was a realisation that he wasn't just growing older, he was leaking time. On her part, though unable to express it as such, it was confusing. Why for a period this sweet feeling of hope, why this reassuring sense of some lasting refuge, of some safe stronghold, of some immortal guardianship?

The day he gathered up his sparse belongings and the sack of books, he pressed a bundle of notes into her hand along with the address of a local Western Union outlet he had sourced and there was embarrassment behind the restrained smile.

The taxi came and he left for the airport; to all appearances a lonely individual that didn't really live, but had simply looked on and allowed himself to be overcome by his emotions.

If the truth be known though, as he lowered his frame into the aircraft seat, he was more akin a Corsican, more concerned with the vendetta ahead than the art of living.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 4: Settling Scores.

It all went back to the dawn of the 31st January 1968 when everyone in the walled city of Hue had woken that holiday morning to see clearly the flag atop the 120 foot high Citadel on the north bank of the old walled city. It was gold-starred, blue and red. The banner of the National Liberation Front.

When the residents of this elegant former capital city of Vietnam had gone to bed; in many cases early in anticipation of the eve of Tet's festivities and celebrations, it had been with a semblance of relative peace. But now they awoke to a blanket of uncertainty and fear as the prospect and of war in their streets took it's hold.

Seemingly, overnight the Communists were now masters of the city on both sides of the Perfumed River. Months of meticulous planning and training had made this moment possible. Because of Tet the Communists knew the city's defenders would be at reduced strength, and the typically bad weather of the north east monsoon season would hamper any allied aerial re-supply operations and impede close air support.

That morning reality held sway as PAVN and VC troops roamed the city freely to consolidate their gains and political officers set about rounding up South Vietnamese and foreigners unfortunate enough to be on their "special lists."


As his plane attained cruising height and the seat belt sign was switched off the American eased back his chair. He had been there in Hue all those years ago and had lost many to whom he was close. Friends in the US Information Service, foreign aid workers, French priests had all been taken,many informed on by those who had previously posed as reliable.

The fighting had lasted for 28 days, nearly to the end of February 1968 and at the end over 2,800 non-combatant bodies had been discovered in mass graves, hastily dug and
inefficiently concealed. He had seen the one at Da Mai Creek ten miles south of Hue. Hands tied behind backs with wire and bodies contorted without wounds indicating burial alive. He recognised none on that occasion, neither friends or associates nor the woman he had loved, the latter snatched so quickly and brutally from his very being.

It was time now to settle what scores must be held to account.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 5: The Target.

He sat with his coffee in the living room watching through drawn drapes, the clearness and quietness of early dawn. There was a tentative early flight of two birds migrating across the sky to signal the arrival of Ash Wednesday. Like Lent itself he knew he would soon be obliged to enter a period in the wilderness. The chalice he had chosen was not so much one of redemption with the blood of Christ as retribution of a more material aspect.

He had been in this house north of London for two weeks now. Nothing had really changed. There had been a quiet acknowledgement by a few neighbours and the weather had been cold and damp; a fact his body generally acknowledged by the hands and soles
of his feet cracking, making it even more difficult to walk. News was in another world, as Putin threw one of his tantrums over the Ukraine situation and every alternate world politician postured and analysed and talked.

As he sat, he knew that certain actions and consequences from his past remained undone and needed addressing. A lot of it related to, or was a consequence of, the closing days of the Vietnam War in 1975 when about 130,000 Vietnamese who feared reprisals for their close ties to the Americans were air-lifted to bases in the Philippines, Wake Island and Guam. Many were high-skilled and educated and they were later transferred to refuge centres in California, Arkansas, Florida & Pennsylvania for up to six months of education and cultural training to facilitate their assimilation into a new society. Although
a deliberate scattering of the first wave had been executed to prevent "ghettoism" it had failed, as most eventually moved to California or Texas.

Then there was another breed of war refugee; the politicians and their cohorts.The man he was after was in the later class, a close associate of Ngo Dinh Nhu, younger brother and main henchman of the ex-president Ngo Dinh Diem, and responsible at that time, amongst other things for the private militias, the secret police forces and later, the Buddhist persecutions. Playing both ends against the middle this individual had sought without scruple, friends on both sides of the divide whether for financial gain or future favours. At the fall of Saigon he had taken his considerable wealth and person, initially to the States but with a known history that resulted in many enemies, even among the
refugee community, had taken the bold step of settling in a totally non Vietnamese society in Northern Spain. He still kept however in close touch with the wife of his ex-mentor, Madame Nhu; who as sister-in-law to the batchelor president, had lived lavishly as the de facto South Vietnams' first lady and who now resided in Rome.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 6: The Preparation.

The problem was getting the gun safely into Spain.

That evening he rang the Hotel Gran Bahia Bernardo in San Sebastian, and booked two single rooms for one night only, a fortnight hence, in the name of Mr Monk and the name on his own passport. Despite its illustrious name, the hotel chosen was neither grand nor expensive, but suited his purpose well. Situated near the Zurriola Beach, it was two star and, he noted more importantly, had a safe deposit box at the front desk. It was also within walking distance of the villa he was to visit.

That afternoon in one of the local charity shops he had brought a book. It was one of those large, nondescript tomes on vegetarian cooking that had long since passed its brief and limited novelity publication.

Going to work in the kitchen he bent back one cover with an elastic band. The intervening pages and second cover he secured to the edge of the kitchen table with two carpenter's clamps. It was the centre of this block of paper he went to work on with a Stanley knife, cutting carefully out a rectangular void 7 inches by 6 inches and 3 inches deep. The insides of this hollow square he daubed thickly with glue, and waited for it to harden.

A cushion of foam rubber, cut to size, went into the hollow to replace the paper which had been cut out. He disassembled the Browning 9-mm automatic he had acquired. It had had the tip of its barrel exposed to half an inch, and the barrel's end machine threaded to take a silencer. He inserted the magazine into the handle and laying out the four distinctive components marked out their respective sizes in the foam, prior to fresh cutting.

By the evening, the parts of the gun lay in their foam beds, the long silencer vertical, parallel to the book's spine, the barrel, butt, and jacket breech in three horizontal rows from top to bottom of the page.

He covered the assembly with a thin sheet of foam rubber, daubed the insides of the front and back cover with more glue and closed the book.After an hour pressed together the book was a solid block that would need a knife to prise it open. Finally he slid the book inside a large padded envelope of the kind that bulky items are sent in. He then typed a label in the name of a well-known book store, and the name and address of the consignee—Signor Jose Monk, Hotel Gran Bahia Bernardo Hotel, San Sebastian Espagne.

The following morning he mailed the package by surface post where in his experience x-ray security scans were less stringent.He rang the hotel later in the week, and posing as the non-existent Mr Monk enquired if a parcel had arrived for him. There appeared to be no hesitancy in the receptionists affirmation, and thanking her requested it be kept in the hotel safe deposit till their arrival.

[Steven Hunley]

Chapt 3: The Parting.

It must have been about Sunday when he received a call, though nobody, not even the skinny girl, was actually present, but it could be sensed that things were about to change. When first coming to Saigon he had expected that his past would have primed him for the lame years, but the call seemed to make him realise that whatever it was he was missing, it had been before it had really been played out. He hadn't been anywhere and he'd performed only half an act.

"I will be leaving next week," he said, more like a whispering prayer than an assertion. Outwardly she took it well and though not that important she also sensed that in material terms she would not be abandoned. Still, his imminent going came and took her under
like a lover.

The remaining days that passed were mechanical enough. Little was said in words that had no currency left as words and sentences with no hope of meaning. Reality had intervened and he still had that priceless option that the choice to leave was there, still
his own. But there was a realisation that he wasn't just growing older, he was leaking time. On her part, though unable to express it as such, it was confusing. Why for a period this sweet feeling of hope, why this reassuring sense of some lasting refuge, of some safe stronghold, of some immortal guardianship?

The day he gathered up his sparse belongings and the sack of books, he pressed a bundle of notes into her hand along with the address of a local Western Union outlet he had sourced and there was embarrassment behind the restrained smile.

The taxi came and he left for the airport; to all appearances a lonely individual that didn't really live, but had simply looked on and allowed himself to be overcome by his emotions.

If the truth be known though, as he lowered his frame into the aircraft seat, he was more akin a Corsican, more concerned with the vendetta ahead than the art of living.

I'm so pleased with the depth and qualities of this writing. I could read, eat, and sleep this stuff 24-seven, seriously. No kiddin'.

[Steven Hunley]

Oh gee, is this good. It's fun, it's action-packed-it's blinkin' multi-national!

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 7: Vengeance is a dish best served cold:

He felt that he had prepared as well as he could have, that he had covered all the bases but was realistic enough to understand that fate is fickle and that destiny is but a word without material substance.

Arriving in Spain as planned, he had explained at the hotel that Mr Monk would be joining later in the week, and had been informed that there was a parcel for said gentleman.

"Would he like to take it on Mr Monk's behalf?" to which he agreed.

Returning to his room with the parcel and drawing the shutters he retrieved the gun from it's bookish encasement.

Later that evening he took a stroll along the shoreline, ostensibly taking the air prior to settling down for the evening. The villa was on his route, nestled back from the shoreline itself and largely hidden by fairly extensive foliage. To his mind this was another advantage in providing the cover he might need from being observed by neighbours, although adjoining villas were some way back. All seemed hot and hazy in the building with no movement observed, but he determined that the place was too neat, too maintained to be uninhabited.

The next day was when he made his move, at about one o'clock when the heat was at it's most intense and when it was the social norm for most Spanish inhabitants to take the siesta. He repeated the walk of the previous day dressed in fawn slacks and a blazer. To any passerby of a sharp disposition the blazer would have seemed incongruous in the heat, but there was no one around and the gun was concealed in the front waist band of his slacks.

He approached the low fence around the villa. No sound.

Swinging his legs over the fence he moved swiftly, and treading lightly he traversed the garden working his way around to the side of the villa facing the sea. Two patio doors lay open with likewise, no sound from inside.

He felt his pulse racing in the temples of his forehead as the moment of action became imminent, and drawing the gun from his waist and extending it forward he moved to the open doors.

A small bell like sound caught his ear as he stepped through the entrance. Looking briefly up, he saw above the door to one side, a small ornamental set of hanging tubes that tinkle when disturbed. The oriental deep red tassel hanging from it was still moving slightly. Had it been the breeze from the sea, or had he involuntarily brushed it with his shoulder?

From there, it all happened so fast. One moment he was moving silently forward into the room, the next, a large black Doberman had equally silently taken him by the gun arm and was pulling him down.

In the melee of the immediate struggle he saw, though only through his side vision, a figure hastily exiting through an interior door. But he was too engaged by the ferociousness of the attack he was sustaining to more than just register it in his mind.

The dog was hanging on to the arm, just above the wrist. He felt the teeth and the intensity of its grip but was unable to dislodge it. Though off balance from the weight of his assailant, he managed with his free hand to transfer the gun. Awkwardly he placed the silencer beside the Dobermans ear and squeezed the trigger.

There was a sound, almost like a "plop," a slight recoil, and the dog fell away dead.

Outside a car had started up and the quarry he surmised was successfully escaping.

He knew that this time he had been thwarted and removing his mauled jacket, placed it over both the gun and his injuries and left the villa. There was still no one about and as he walked back to the hotel, he somehow recalled the lines from Othello;

"Murder's out of tune,"
"And sweet revenge grows harsh."

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt 8: "Blood will have blood." Macbeth.

It was the final leg of a journey to the spiritual fulfilment of Easter, but on that Friday evening as the small gathering in the church faced the priest at the Sixth Station of the Cross, the tall American had latent emotional associations, both pertinent and deep felt to the service he was attending.

Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. He has fallen one time and has yet to fall again. Blood laid upon sweat, with garments stained red from the flogging. Caked linen adhering to the skin of a weakened mortal form, and then an expression of compassion, perhaps that only of which women are capable. Instinctively, almost dutifully undertaken despite the formal constraints of circumstance.

Did not those of his friends back in Hue all those years ago deserve at least a similar expression of sympathy, as they were summarily beaten, bound, marched and executed? Or were they on that occasion, but gilt-pasted caryatides in a far off Asian edifice?

He needed a drink and the service concluded he proceeded back into the centre of town where he sat at a bar by his own. There was an urgency that perhaps only writers and alcoholics can appreciate to quickly submerge into that comforting bath of numbness, combined with the unrestrained stimulus to the imagination that drink brings.

England was cold and damp, and the rum he drank evoked for him memories of sugar cane plantations and the sunshine of a Jamaican existence.

The mind wandered carelessly along broad empty moonlit roads that crossed deserts of noiseless eternity and it was then, but a short, almost logical hop to the alternate dark navy rum he had been introduced to in Qatar by Maurice Smith, the then company camp boss of the project he had been working on.

"Try this," Maurice had urged.

"It's called "Pussers Rum," but by those in the know as " Nelsons Blood."

"How's that?" he had asked.

"When Nelson was killed at Trafalger, his body was preserved in a cask of rum to be shipped to Gibralter. When the body was transferred upon docking, the sailors drank the marinated rum of their heroes cadaver."

The American looked at the drink in front of him. The blood of the Son of Man on
Veronicas Veil, the blood of the mortal Nelson, the blood of the guilty and the innocent in Vietnam and then, finally he remembered the Camp Bosses demise. Maurice had subsequently retired, albeit an inoffensive likeable old guy, to Devon where he had one day been murdered for the money he had accumulated working overseas.

Fortune is ever accounted inconstant in the conflux of Eternities, almost as if the foundations of the world are recorded on mere humble heraldic parchment, under which smoulders a lake of fire and through the smoke, the voice of suffering ascends inarticulate.

He returned back to the house and as the door was being closed, the phone in the living
room rang. The news was that the prey had been recently spotted in a community of shrimp fishermen in South Carolina. His disposition was such that in his experience, doubt is invariably but half a magician, evoking spectres which she cannot quell and that by a succession of evoking prismatic tints, flush after flush suffusing upon tomorrow's horizon, he was entering the fulfilment to which he had so far striven.

[108 fountains]

You are keeping my attention with each chapter. You have it all here - history, intrigue, action, and some really good writing.
Some ideas in terms of constructive criticism:

- you can continue with identifying the main character as "he," but for a longer piece like this, you might want to go ahead and give him a name. It works if the purpose is to make him a bit mysterious, but I think readers would tend you identify more with or have more sympathy for someone who has a name.

- same thing with the main character's nemesis, the associate of Ngo Dinh Nhu. Giving him a name, I think, and maybe something of a physical description, would be helpful.

- you hint that the main character's nemesis has something to do with the murder of civilians at Hue and possibly with the disappearance (death?) of the main character's girlfriend. Maybe you should make the connection more explicit, and show how this guy was responsible. (Especially since Ngo was killed in 1963, I think you should give some idea of what this guy was up to in the intervening five years.)

There is a lot going on already, and many directions you can take this. I'm looking forward to more installments.

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear 108 fountains
Thanks for reading it through and the feedback is always appreciated. If I might respond to some of the points you make.

1. Well picked up on the demise of Ngo. I was taking a liberty in using this individual in the story, for when I came across him initially, I found him to be, both in appearance and character, a fascinating subject for inclusion.

2. Regards naming, I find advantage in leaving it more abstract and less formal. I've been lucky enough in all my years overseas to have come across many, what I term "frontier Americans" that crop up in the most obscure parts of the globe. Invariably the travelling and existing overseas brings out the best in them, as they adapt to circumstances, sometimes quite adverse in foreign climes. This type of Quiet American,(albeit in some instances with questionable pasts), are so much more endearing to a writer than say a Earl Hawkins the Third from Texas who has never travelled further than Austin or Acapulco. So in this instance I lay more emphasis on what makes these people tick, than on personal dressage or how they like their grits.

3. Don't necessarily expect an ending from me. I write many pot boilers that are more about the pleasure of writing at the time, than any well defined plot. My short story "The Last Paradise" was neither short, nor a flowing story as such, but a collection of bits written over a two year period of working in Papua New Guinea.

4. Likewise, as noted above, I take liberties with the facts of history. In the Vietnam conflict especially, there were a number of very complicated layers, but then I suspect that you having been there are more qualified than myself to judge. From my own outsiders perspective, one could look initially at the front line reality of the conflict, (the fighting, the casualties etc). Then there were the emotions of those involved; fear, survival, comradeship, loss. Perhaps finally there is an almost spiritual aspect, private to each man, to be chewed over in reflection or even dark nights of the soul. Read Gimpy Fac's thread for example. There is a lot going on there, not just the explicit scenarios he writes about and each reader is given the privilege to put his own interpretations and feelings on his work.

Once again, thanks for reading it all. Have a good Easter.

Best regards
M.

[MANICHAEAN]

Chapt:9 The Dragon Lady.

It was a somewhat secluded villa just east of Rome, in which on that May morning the phone rang softly like a cat purring. A diminutive figure, just under five feet tall picked up the receiver. She wore the traditional ao dai Vietnamese dress, the hair was buffont, the finger-nails scarlet, whilst the face encapsulated heavily kohl-rimmed eyes. Fashionable, expensive stilettos raised her from a physical perspective and extended an element of lean muscle and grace into the sections of her legs that could be discerned.

Lyndon Johnson had flirted with her. JFK had hated her and there were many, even leaving aside eminent historians and military men, who had blamed her for South Vietnam's downfall.

The name under which she was registered in Italy, was "Tran Le Xuan", the original Vietnamese name, meaning "Beautiful Spring." But to those who knew her at the height of her powers, she was also know as "Madame Nhu," or "the Dragon Lady." In the realm of Asian politics at an extremely formative time, this svelte and sinister woman had wielded immense power in the South Vietnamese regime of president Ngo Dinh Diem , her brother-in-law, until his assassination, along with that of her husband, in 1963.


She answered the phone in a soft voice. Outside the window could be glimpsed a chapel
that housed a statue of the Virgin Mary. It had been recently blessed by her brother-in-law, the archbishop of Hue, Ngo Dinh Thuc, who had also found asylum in Italy.

"Pronto," she said into the receiver, but quickly switched to her preferred childhood French tongue once she recognised the caller.

Her elegance had its sinister side, once described as being "moulded into her dress like a dagger in its sheath". Even her carved ivory fan, used mostly for coquettish effect, could when occasion arose, clack shut like a gunshot and be used to rap home a point.

At the other end of the phone a far-sounding male voice spoke rapidly. It was that of a
frightened man, echoing the depths of his far-sounding soul in a flight from the face of retribution.

"I understand," she said in a measured tone, devoid of emotion.

" You have every reason to be worried, if they had traced you to Spain."

" They very likely have an informer on the inside."

She remembered the caller as one of the roughest lion's whelps that had ever been
littered of that rough breed, but then his talents had been such that he had served her husband well in the Vietnamese secret police. With the execution of the president and her husband in an army coup, the obligation to help had passed to her.

"I still have people who can take care of this," she said.

"Give me details of your current movements."

A few minutes later, she replaced the phone on it's cradle and looked out at the chapel. Though born a Buddhist, she had converted to Catholicism upon her marriage to Ngo Dinh Nhu. She recalled then, how she had been an eighteen year old bride and that she had
worn a red silk robe embroidered with the xanthous royal trim. They had been days of hope and love and excitement for what lay ahead.

She was also realistic enough to recognise that she was like her mother in so many ways. Madame Nhu's mother may have envied or even despised her second daughter, but the two certainly shared certain similarities. Madame Chuong was likewise renowned for her good looks—the French called her the “Pearl of Asia”—and for her sense of superiority: at her champagne-filled soirées, she forbade other guests from wearing yellow, the imperial colour. She also had a keen sense of political trends—her Tuesday salons in Hanoi became famous for hosting the city’s most illustrious Vietnamese and French patrons. In 1939, when the Vichy regime allowed Japan to set up shop in the colony, the Chuongs
began cultivating influential relationships with Tokyo diplomats. Here, Madame Chuong’s beauty came in quite handy; according to the French Sûreté; she was as “famous throughout Indochina” for her “dogged ambition as for her coucheries utilitaires—sleeping around with people of influence from any and all nationalities,” including the new influential one's from Japan. Thanks to his wife’s talents, Chuong père landed a plum job in Japan’s puppet government. “In Annamite circles,” the police added, using the derogatory term for native inhabitants, the “beautiful and very intriguing” Madame Chuong was “the one in charge; she directs her husband.”

Thus later, the daughter had become the mother. But, even now, despite having inflamed the imagination and provoked the hatred of the West and the Vietnamese alike, being
described as “proud and vain,” an “Ian Fleming character come to life,” “as innocent as a cobra,” she still felt more sinned against than sinning.

"Let those that are weak, beg with their crusts moistened in tears. She had rent webs for men, or fractional parts of men before, and in her experience with both death-throes and birth-throes, a new one of hope is invariably to be born."

Before retiring she made a last call. It was to one of her late husbands operatives. He was of that breed that walks in formless immeasurability and to those that had ever been associated with him, there was an intensity and activity that sometimes verged towards madness, yet did not quite reach it.

He was no man of system; only a man of instincts and insights, but that was what others feared him for.

[108 fountains]

Glad to see this chronicle continue. I was wondering if/when we might see more of Madame Nhu, among the most fascinating of many fascinating figures of the era. I am surprised, in some ways, to learn how little involved she was in the grand fiasco after the death of her husband. If nothing else, she was fearless, and one would have thought she would try to retain some power or influence even in exile. But apparently she did not, although who knows what private correspondences she kept? Bringing her into your story as you have, I think, helps keep it credible and ties it closer to the intrigues (some that we know about and many that we don't) that were taking place in Vietnam and in other places around the world both during and after the war.

I'm curious - since it's not given explicitly - what is the timeframe for the main action in your story? 1990s? 2000s? Or does it matter?

[MANICHAEAN]

No time frame. I researched the character, and like yourself found her fascinating. At the height of her powers, she wore the trousers in that family and gave those that wavered either a bit of backbone as she saw it, and even lashed out at her own parents.

The end of her life was sad in the misfortunes she experienced; a daughter ( I think ) killed, her parents strangled by a mentally disturbed brother. There are some old videos out there on U-Tube which are interesting as well and she comes across as; intelligent, charming, articulate, strong minded and manipulative.

I just tried to weave her into the plot, as she is a writers dream.