The Improbable Journeys of Billy Battles

Chapter 12-2

Well, this sure isn’t Dodge City, I

thought to myself as I passed one corner street vendor after

another.

After an hour of wandering around, I

returned to my hotel, ordered a cognac in the veranda bar, and

settled into a chair with my journal. I spent the next hour or so

recording what I had experienced during the past few days. I gave

my journal to the desk clerk for safekeeping and then settled in

the lobby and leafed through Le Courrier de Saigon, one of

the city’s French language newspapers. Moments later, I heard a

familiar voice.

“Why, Monsieur Battles, I had no idea you

could read French.” It was DDe Cotte.

“I can’t, not really.”

“Never mind, there is nothing in it of

interest anyway… Are you ready?”

We walked out of the hotel and crossed the

Rue Catinat. A few minutes later, we were standing in front of a

two-story building on the corner of Rue Bonnard and Rue Charner.

The name Cafe De La Musique was printed in large black

letters on its wrap around awnings. On the wide sidewalk were at

least three dozen tables and chairs. We settled at a table for four

and ordered two cognacs from one of the slender white-jacketed

French-speaking native waiters. A few minutes later Major Friant

arrived and ordered a bottle of locally brewed beer.

“Ahhh, this is much better than life aboard

such an old tub as the Trave, eh?” he said, wiping his mouth

with the sleeve of his white army jacket.

After a few minutes, I explained that I

wanted to locate Signore Difranco and asked how I might go about

that.

“Do you have an address?” De Cotte

asked.

“Only this,” I said, showing him the old

piece of paper Difranco had given me that day more than twelve

years ago in Tucson, Arizona.

De Cotte looked it over. “Why, this is the

Continental.”

“I know, but apparently, he hasn’t lived

there for more than ten years.”

“I don’t think this should be difficult…

if he is still in Saigon,” Major Friant said. “Let me see

what I can do tomorrow. All French citizens and foreigners are

registered with the colonial government of Cochinchina.”

After a dinner, which lasted almost two

hours, I excused myself and walked back to my hotel. I was tired

and eager to sleep in a bed that didn’t move with the ocean.

The next morning, I awoke to a tremendous

downpour, the likes of which I had never before experienced. When I

looked out my hotel window, it was as though I was standing behind

a waterfall. This went on for at least an hour, and then it let up.

Not long after that, a blistering sun appeared; and within minutes,

the hot, humid weather was back. Wisps of warm vapor ascended into

the clammy air from wet roads and sidewalks. In a half hour, the

streets and sidewalks were bone dry. It was as if we had not had

any rain at all.

I was having breakfast in the hotel cafe

when Monsieur Grosstephan saw me and scuttled over to my table.

“Ah, Monsieur Battles, I hope you slept

well?”

“Very well… until that downpour this

morning…”

“Oui… it is the beginning of the rainy

season in Cochinchina… and these torrents come quite often… but you

get used to them.”

Grosstephan was still standing at my table,

and I invited him to join me.

“Non, but I do have something for you… It

was dropped off by one of Major Friant’s men.” He handed me a small

envelope.

“Thank you.” Grosstephan then excused

himself and scurried off.

I opened the envelope and found the

following written on a piece of French Army stationery:

Monsieur Antonio Difranco

239 rue Lucien Mossard

Ville Haute, Saigon

This is much easier than I had

imagined, I thought to myself. I wolfed down the remainder of

my breakfast along with a cup of robust but tasty locally grown

coffee.

I walked out of the hotel and stood on Rue

Catinat. I looked at my pocket watch. It was about nine thirty. I

flagged down a pousse-pousse and showed him the address. He shook

his head knowingly, and we were off.

The Rue Lucien Mossard was a broad

tree-lined, hard-packed dirt street with large villas ensconced

behind high stone walls topped by wrought iron spikes. My

pousse-pousse stopped in front of a cream-colored two-story villa

replete with intricate bas reliefs of tigers, dragons, elephants,

and water buffalo. I paid the pousse-pousse man and watched him

move away back down the road. Then I took in the house at 239 Rue

Lucien Mossard through the massive wrought-iron gate.

It was an impressive abode. A broad

second-story veranda hidden behind multiple ten-foot tall arches

wrapped around the entire house. Below a large covered portico

jutted out from a fifteen-foot archway leading into the house. A

vast green garden interspersed with tall tamarind, almond, and

traveler palms surrounded the villa..

I rang the bell situated just outside the

gate. Moments later, a man in a white coat and black pants scurried

out of the house. When he arrived at the gate, he looked me up and

down suspiciously.

“Oui?” he said through the iron bars.

“I am William Battles from the United States

here to see Monsieur Difranco,” I said slowly.

“Monsieur Battles?” he repeated. “Des

Etats-Unis?”

“Qui, des Etats-Unis… I am an old

friend.”

The man looked at me quizzically.

“Uh… Je Suis un vieil ami,” I said, trying

to explain in poor French that I was an old friend of

Difranco’s.

“Un vieil ami?” he repeated. “Attendez un

moment.” He then scurried back to the house. As I waited, I

wondered if Signore Difranco would even recognize me after all

these years. I wondered what he looked like. He was in his

midforties when I last saw him in Tucson, and now he had to be in

his mid to late fifties.

I was still running all of that through my

head when a woman appeared from the house and walked toward the

gate followed by the man with whom I had just conversed.

She was stunning, perhaps in her

midthirties, with thick shoulder-length black hair. She was wearing

an ensemble of black silk trousers under a high-collared gown with

slits on both sides that buttoned down the front. I learned later

that this traditional woman’s dress was called an áo ng?

thân.

When she arrived at the gate, I tried my

French again.

“Je suis William Battles des États-Unis,” I

said. I was about to say I was an old friend of Signore Difranco’s

when she held up her hand.

“You are Antonio’s good friend from America,

yes?” she said.

“Why, yes…”

“Please, come in.” With that, she unlatched

the gate. She said something in the Nam K? language to the man and

ushered me toward the house through the portico and into a large

reception area flanked by large rooms on either side. She led me

into a living room with twenty-foot ceilings and ubiquitous couches

and chairs.

“Please,” she said, motioning toward a large

couch. She sat opposite me on another couch. A large rosewood

coffee table separated us.

“Antonio will be so pleased,” she said. “He

has often spoken of you and the adventures you shared in… Where was

it… Kansas?”

“Yes, Kansas and Colorado and a few other

places.”

“Yes, Antonio has told me… but please

forgive me. I should introduce myself. I am Linh Thi, Antonio’s

wife.”

“I had no idea Signore Difranco had married…

but I must say he did very well.”

Linh Thi’s dark brown eyes looked at the

floor. I had embarrassed her.

“Sorry… I mean to say that he is a fortunate

man.”

“Linh Thi cleared her throat. I am the

fortunate one. We were married almost ten years ago… I had just

returned from France and England where I was sent for my

education.”

“So that is where you learned English and

French?”

“I learned French growing up here… It is the

language of administration, after all. I learned English at school

in London.”

“You said you were the fortunate one in the

marriage… What did you mean?”

Before she could answer, a woman appeared

carrying a tray with a pot of jasmine tea and two handleless

teacups. The woman poured tea for both of us.

“When I returned to Saigon, I discovered my

father had been arrested by the French. They had accused him of

smuggling, which was not true. He owns a trading company and does

business with companies all over the world. Antonio interceded on

my father’s behalf, and he was exonerated. After that, they became

good friends, and after Antonio failed in an attempt to grow

coffee, my father encouraged him to become a black pepper grower.

Now my father’s company exports his pepper to Europe and America

for him.”

Linh Thi stopped and took a sip of tea. “But

perhaps I should let Antonio tell you all of this.”

“Is he in Saigon?”

“I am afraid not… He is in Tay Ninh province

where one of his pepper plantations is located. You just missed

him. He left early this morning, but he will return in about five

days.”

Linh Thi noticed my disappointment.

“Well, I will just have to wait then… I am

staying at the Continental… When he returns, could you let him

know?”

“Yes, of course… but I am sure he will want

you to stay with us.”

She walked me to the gate where we

stopped.

“Have you had an opportunity to tour Saigon

yet?”

“Not really… I only got in yesterday.”

“I have a friend who can take you on a tour…

He has a touring company and arranges trips throughout Saigon and

to places like Phnom Penh, Vientiane, Hanoi, and Hue. I will have

him contact you.”

I thanked her and walked back to the

Continental. I felt self-conscious about hailing a pousse-pousse.

Riding while a fellow human being who looked about ready to

collapse pulled me through the streets like some draft animal

seemed callous and even cruel.

When I arrived at the front desk to get my

key, there was a message for me from Dr. Son. He had information

about Giang Văn Ba.

The next morning, as I was having breakfast

in the hotel cafe, Dr. Son joined me at my table. His expression

was doleful, and as he pulled his chair up to the table, he

produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked as the

waiter appeared. “Can I get you anything?”

“Trà vui lòng,” Dr. Son said to the waiter,

who bowed slightly. Then, looking at me, Dr. Son said, “I’ll just

have a cup of tea.”

“So I got your note yesterday, and it said

the news about Ba was not good.”

“I am afraid that is so.”

“Is he not in Saigon?”

Dr. Son looked at the paper he held in his

hand. “Do you read French?”

“Not well.”

“Well, this is a paper from the French

military authorities. It seems your friend is a wanted man.”

I knew that. Ba had told me about his

problems with the French authorities six years before when the

posse I was part of found him wandering alone in the New Mexico

wilderness. The ranch he had been working at was attacked by

marauding outlaws who proceeded to kill everybody in sight, and Ba

was lucky to escape. I explained as much to Dr. Son.

“No, this has nothing to do with what

happened years ago,” he said. “I met his family… His father is

quite old now and very ill, and the oldest brother is the head of

the household. Ba is the second son.”

I nodded.

“When Ba returned to Nam K? some five years

ago, he did so successfully. His family, which has considerable

influence with the French authorities, managed to get his previous,

shall we say, misdeeds expunged… and for about three years, Ba

worked in the family business.”

Dr. Son paused and took a sip of tea.

“What do you know of Ba’s life here and in

the United States?” he asked.

I recounted the story Ba had told me about

how he fled Cochinchina to avoid being arrested by the French

Protectorate. Like many of his fellow countrymen, Ba had chosen to

resist French colonial rule. As the second son of a powerful family

of merchants, he would not inherit the family businesses.

Therefore, he decided on a military career instead—one that had him

working closely with the French whom he came to despise for their

coldness and cruelty to the people they oversaw. Ba was trained for

two years at a French military installation and entered service as

a lieutenant.

After a few years of military service, Ba

deserted and joined the resistance forces that fought off and on

against the French in the central Annam area. For that perfidy, Ba

was sentenced to death in absentia by the French Protectorate,

which presided over Annam. He eluded the authorities for almost a

year. But with the French closing in and Ba not wanting to create

more problems for his family, he managed to get aboard a Japanese

merchant ship bound for Hong Kong. While his father and brother

were not supportive of Ba’s resistance to the French, they did

reluctantly provide him with enough gold and French currency to

help him get away.