Mr. Hom led them to one of the barracks and up its rough wood steps. Inside, there were Vietnamese people sitting together at long tables. Some wove baskes. Other appeared to be making sandals out of old truck tires. They looked up as the tour group crowded inside, their eyes sad and empty.
"Many of these were criminals and prostitutes before," Mr. Hom explained, turning the sound down because it echoed in the close confines. "Every day, they rise early, attend indoctrination lessons, and work at simple tasks. Soon they will be rehabilitated."
Remo, comparing the intelligent expressions of the Vietnamese captives with the dull faces of the soldiers and Mr. Hom's flabby, stupid expression, couldn't resist making a remark.
"Saigon was overrun in 1975, more than ten years ago. Why are these people still here?"
Mr. Hom turned on the group, searching each face with beady eyes. "Who speaks? You, American?"
"Yes," Remo said levelly. "I am an American."
"Your question is impertinent. But I will answer for the benefit of the others. These are stubborn cases. They are not ready to enter socialist society. Here, they are useful, to the state and to themselves."
"They look like political prisoners-or prisoners of war. "
"They have been liberated. A less-enlightened regime might have had them executed."
"Yeah," Remo said, an edge to his voice. "You're too enlightened to hold POW's. Of any kind."
"Yes, exactly," said Mr. Hom, thinking that Remo was agreeing with him. He turned to the rest of the tour group, satisfied in his mind that the dark-eyed American had been put in his place. He repeated his answer in German. Then again in Russian. The Russians nodded in agreement.
Remo slid around the knot of tourists and edged close to one of the tables. A middle-aged woman with graying hair pulled back in a bun was weaving a basket. Remo whispered to her, "Do you speak English?"
The woman nodded slightly, not taking her eyes off her work.
"What did you do before the war?"
"I was a teacher," she said. Her words were more breath than bite, but Remo understood them.
"And you?" Remo asked a man with tortoiseshell glasses.
"Engineer. "
"Any message you want me to carry back to the world?"
"Yes. Tell the Americans to come back." The woman nodded in agreement. Others did too.
One of the guards noticed Remo and stepped forward. He slapped the old woman. Remo slapped him back. The soldier went in one direction, his rifle in another. His helmet clanged off a wall, sounding like an old gong.
"What is this?" Mr. Hom's cry was shrill.
"This enlightened Communist slapped that old woman without reason," Remo pointed out.
"Lies! Vietnamese only strike women for politically correct reasons. What are you doing there, American? Return to the group. There is no talking to internees here."
"Why don't I wait outside?" Remo suggested.
Mr. Hom stiffened. He looked from Remo to the others in the group, and evidently remembering the image he wished to project of the new Vietnam, nodded sullenly.
"Wait on the steps. We will join you almost at once."
"Don't hurry on my account," Remo said, pointedly stepping on the prostrate soldier's stomach on his way to the door.
Outside, he watched the sun setting over a bushy ridge. He rubbed his eyes. They were caked with dried fluid. He felt tired, and wondered if it was jet lag. But jet lag was something he had banished from his life long ago.
Remo noticed the next barracks were unguarded. He drifted over and put an ear to the door. He heard breathing and low talking. Finding a sealed window, he looked in.
Looking out at him was a man with blue eyes and Caucasian features. His face exploded in shock at the sight of Remo's face.
"American, American!" he shouted in English. "You come to rescue?"
"Damn right," said Remo, taking the wooden frame in his hands. He yanked. The sash came off like a picture frame.
Remo helped the man out. He wore black pajamas, the traditional Vietnamese peasant clothes. His hair was black, like a Vietnamese's. But his face was white.
"Where helicopters?" His accent was pure Vietnamese.
"What helicopters?" Remo asked.
"Liberation helicopters. You American. You come to liberate Vietnam?"
"Not exactly," said Remo, noticing two more faces poking out the window. One was Vietnamese, but his skin was milk chocolate. Another was a girl. Her skin was Asian, but her face was freckled, her large eyes green as an Irish colleen's.
"How many of you are there?" Remo asked.
"Twenty. "
"You're not POW's, I take it," Remo said.
"Yes. Prisoner longtime."
"Not American POW's," Remo said disappointedly, as the others began to climb out the window, chattering excitedly and clinging to one another in fear. Remo looked around. So far, no guards in sight. But that wouldn't last long with the noise they were making.
The first man was talking excitedly and grabbing Remo's T-shirt.
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" Remo demanded.
"Yes, American. Half. "
"Half?" Then the tour group spilled out of the other building. Mr. Hom saw Remo and shouted in Vietnamese. Guards came running raggedly, looking around in confusion.
Hom pointed to Remo and the hole in the barracks, out of which teenage prisoners were now pouring, dressed in rags. The guards, who looked out of practice, got organized.
Mr. Hom waddled up to Remo, flanked by the soldiers. They held their rifles at the ready. Hom flapped his arms like a pelican trying to fly.