During the first week of May, phase 2 of the Tết Offensive, what came to be called “Mini-Tết,” began. Strategically, the North Vietnamese shifted the battlefield from the countryside to urban areas, in an effort to “bring the war to the enemy’s own lair.” Saigon became one of the primary targets. VC units wearing stolen U.S. Marine uniforms attacked Marine positions in the city center. They also attacked the Newport Bridge above the Saigon River, the Phu Tho Racetrack, and the Tan Son Nhut Air Base outside Saigon, a major installation for the Americans.
But again, the Viet Cong could not withstand the barrage of American airstrikes and heavy artillery, and a week later, the battles were over. The Americans, who measured progress by counting the number of enemy killed, claimed more than 3,000 North Vietnamese bodies, compared to a loss of less than 100 for ARVN and American forces.
There were still skirmishes. Late at night in the refugee camp Tâm could hear the spit of rifles and the whistle of mortar shells before they hit. On her way to work, she now bought a newspaper and discovered some of the skirmishes occurred in Cholon near the camp. No wonder she could hear the firefights.
She gazed around her damp, moldy tent. Mai had been right. This was no place to live. She had replaced a few necessary items: soap, toothbrush, hairbrush. She didn’t need pots and pans, or even new bedding. Her bike was her only possession that hadn’t been stolen—it was at the restaurant when the thieves pounced. Now she rode it to the public baths. She knew she was living a makeshift life. It wouldn’t last. The fighting was moving closer.
At Cô Cúc’s insistence, she’d written down Dr. Hằng’s phone number and slipped it into her pocket, where it remained for a week. Tâm was intimidated by the doctor’s elegance, grace, and self-confidence. She felt awkward and tongue-tied around the woman. However, after one particularly sleepless night, when the fighting sounded so close that she’d asked Buddha to protect her, Tâm knew what she had to do.
The French Quarter in District 1 was the most exclusive neighborhood in Saigon, quieter than the rest of the city. Chauffeured Citroën sedans and limousines glided down wide boulevards flanked by leafy trees. Also known also as the Colonial District, it was home to several historic landmarks built by the French, including a cathedral in the style of Notre-Dame; the architecturally elaborate post office with a yellow exterior that Mai mistook for a hotel; and a city hall in gingerbread beige with white trim, designed to resemble the city hall of Paris. In between were graceful mansions and apartment buildings in pastel shades of blue, lemon, pink, and green.
Except for her brief walk past the cathedral and post office on her way to the Saigon Café, Tâm had not visited this part of the city. Her only association with the French, Vietnam’s former colonial rulers, was a few photos in a library book at her Catholic school in which mustached men in military uniforms decorated with medals wore stiff expressions that radiated power and confidence.
Dr. Hằng lived in an apartment on the third floor of an elegant pastel yellow stucco building with decorative white trim. Rainwater gushed through the wide boulevards, but traffic was light. Tâm rode her bicycle to the building. It was raining hard and water splashed her pants. By the time she arrived, she was soaked. She locked the bike to a tree.
A doorman in a navy blue uniform with gold buttons opened the door. He wore white gloves and a tall hat. Although dressed in Western garb, he was Vietnamese, and his expression was as haughty as the French officials’. Tâm had seen that before. At her Catholic school the Vietnamese janitor put on a sanctimonious air of piety worthy of a priest.
Now the doorman studied her through condescending eyes, as if she wasn’t quite human. “May I help you?”
“Dr.—Dr. Đường Châu Hằng,” she stammered.
“Do you have an appointment?” He stared at her wet pants.
She nodded, unsettled. Her tunic and black pants had been clean. Her long hair was swept back, and while she never wore makeup, she had washed up at the kitchen sink in the café when no one was around.
The doorman sniffed, then led her to what looked like a small metal cage in the lobby. He slid the front side open and gestured impatiently. Tâm hesitated. She had never been in an elevator before and wasn’t sure she should enter. Did he plan to lock her inside? Her heart thumped in her chest. She took a breath and stepped in. He followed her, grabbed a handle, and closed the door. Then he yanked a large stick from left to right. She felt a horrifying lurch—she was sure they would drop to their deaths. But the cage slowly rose. There were no walls, and Tâm could see floors and ceilings as they crawled upward. Fascinated by the mechanics of the machine, Tâm felt her fear melt away. At the third floor they lurched to a stop, and the metal gate once again slid open.
“Left to the end of the hall,” he barked.
Tâm exited and walked in the direction he indicated. When she glanced back, he was still watching her. She hurried to the end of the hall and knocked on a heavy steel door.
A moment later another Vietnamese woman who couldn’t have been older than Tâm opened it. She was dressed in a black dress with ruffles at the neck and sleeves. A small white apron was tied at her waist, and more ruffles lined its edges. Her hair was tied back in a complicated knot, and a white cap sat on top of her crown. She wore makeup and was quite attractive. She eyed Tâm curiously, then, as if she was either embarrassed or ashamed, refused to make further eye contact.
Tâm, for her part, was so surprised she couldn’t speak. What was the woman wearing? Was this a costume of some sort? She wore silk stockings on her legs, and black shoes with heels. That was modern dress in Vietnam. The girl ushered her down the hall into a large room.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” she said in Vietnamese. “You may sit there.” She gestured to a plush sofa covered in a blue brocade material. Tâm nodded and lowered herself tentatively onto the sofa.
The girl disappeared but returned a moment later with a tea towel and handed it to Tâm. Tâm offered a grateful smile and tried to blot her clothes dry.