Page 107 of Cry Havoc
“Sometimes it feels that way.”
“Have you readTruyen Kieu?”
“No. What is it?”
“It is our national poem by Nguyen Du. I doubt any Americans have read it. They really should.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it gives insights into the national psyche. One stanza reads, ‘It is better that I should sacrifice myself alone, It matters little if a flower falls if the tree can keep its leaves green.’ Sacrifice and fate. The North will win this war, Tom.”
“Does that mean you will move your company to Bangkok as soon as you can?”
“My father is a wise man. He thinks strategically. This is his home. I am caught between East and West, just as he was, but he embraced Vietnam. I feel as much French as I do Vietnamese. My father wants to stay on the plantation as long as he can. When I am running the company, we will move to Thailand. I can run operations in Vietnam remotely so long as it makes financial sense.”
“When will you take over?”
“That, I don’t know. It could be months. It could be years. Whenever my time comes, I will be ready.”
“I can tell.”
“And you, Tom. Why have you not gone back north?”
“I don’t know. They have me on a hold here.”
“You would make a terrible spy.”
“I know.”
“Your honesty intrigues me.”
“I don’t know another way to be.”
“Then you would make a bad businessman in this part of the world.”
“Well, I won’t quit my day job.”
“Thank you for today, Tom.”
Her dark eyes had a soft glow from the candles that lit their table. She seemed to be studying him.
“You know,” she said cautiously. “If I were to die tonight, I think I’d die happy.”
“I’d rather live happy.”
“Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?”
Even though he knew he should be scanning the street for threats, he couldn’t break away if he wanted to.
“Let’s go,” she said abruptly.
“Where does this evening take us next?”
“To your room.”
“That, I can do.”
The Vietnamese man who sold the papers didn’t like being out this late, but he had his orders. He had very little trouble keeping up on his agile scooter.
