Part 74 (1/2)

He replied to Susan, who said to me, ”The plate was taken from a motorcycle that was destroyed in an accident.”

I said to Susan, ”Okay, but if they trace the motorcycle to him, tell him we'll tell the police we stole it from him. Okay? And tell him we'll drop it in a lake or something when we're done with it.”

She told him, and he replied in Vietnamese to Susan, who said to me, ”He says he hates the Communists, and he is willing to become one who suffers... a martyr... for his faith.”

I looked at Mr. Uyen and asked, ”And your family?”

He replied, ”All same.”

It's hard arguing with people who are looking for martyrdom, but at least I tried.

It occurred to me, too, that Mr. Uyen was probably motivated not only by his faith, but also by his hatred for what happened in 1968 and since then. Mr. Anh, too, was not completely motivated by ideals, such as freedom and democracy; he was motivated by the same hate as Mr. Uyen- they'd both had family members murdered. You can forgive battlefield deaths, but you don't forget cold-blooded murder.

I said, ”Okay, as long as everybody here knows the consequences.”

In the dim light, I saw a large tarp draped over what must be the motorcycle.

Mr. Uyen saw me looking at it and walked to it, and tore off the tarp.

Sitting there on the earth floor of the narrow room was a huge black motorcycle of a make that I couldn't identify.

I went over to it and put my hand on the big leather saddle. On the molded fibergla.s.s fairing it said BMW and under that Paris-Dakar. I wasn't going to either of those places, though Paris sounded good. I said to Mr. Uyen, ”I've never seen this model.”

He said, ”Good motorcycle. You go to mountain, to big... road...” He looked at Susan and tried it in Vietnamese.

She listened, then said to me, ”It's a BMW, Paris-Dakar model, probably named after the race of the same name-”

”Dakar is in West Africa. Does this thing float?”

”I don't know, Paul. Listen. It's got a 980cc engine, and it holds forty-five liters of fuel, and it has a two-liter reserve, and the range is about five hundred to five hundred and fifty kilometers. Mr. Uyen says it's excellent for mud, cross-country, and the open road. That's what it's made for.”

I replied, ”I guess so if you can go from Paris to West Africa with it.” I looked at the big tank, which rode high on the frame so it couldn't be punctured from the ground. With a range of over five hundred kilometers, we might only have to refuel once during the 900 kilometer trip to Dien Bien Phu. I knelt and checked out the tires, which were big, about eighteen inches, and they had good tread.

Susan was talking to Mr. Uyen, then said to me, ”He says it's very fast and... I think he means maneuverable... and it has not b.u.mps. I guess that means it's an easy ride. My biker vocabulary is a little thin.”

I turned to Mr. Uyen and asked, ”How much?”

He shook his head. ”Free.”

I hadn't heard that word in any context since I'd stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhat, and I almost fainted. I said to Mr. Uyen, ”We cannot give motorcycle back to you. One way. Bye-bye. Di di.”

He was nodding, but I didn't know if I'd made myself clear.

Susan said, ”I already told him that. He understands.”

”Really? Where and when did you speak to him?”

”During dinner I mentioned I had a problem, and I was invited to breakfast Sunday morning. You were, too, but you had appointments.”

I seemed to recall she'd said she slept until noon. I said, ”So this is a done deal?”

”Only if you want it.”

I thought about that and said to Susan in cryptic English, ”Aside from my concerns that other people might be on to us, and on to these people, it's a thousand klicks to you-know-where. That's a lot of saddle sores and mud. You up for that?”

She said something to Mr. Uyen, and he laughed hard.

”What's so funny?”

She said to me, ”I told Mr. Uyen you wanted to know if he has an elephant instead.”

I wasn't amused.

Mr. Uyen was patting the saddle and said, ”Good motorcycle. Buy from French man. He...” He spoke to Susan.

She said to me, ”There was a cross-country race here last year. Hanoi to Hue.”

”Did the Frenchman win?”

Susan smiled and asked Mr. Uyen. He replied, and she said to me, ”He came in second.”

”Let's find the bike that came in first.”

She was getting impatient with me. ”Paul. Yes or no?”

Well, the price was right, so I jumped on the bike and said, ”Take me through this.”

Mr. Uyen gave Susan and me a quick and confusing lesson on how to drive a BMW Paris-Dakar motorcycle. I had the impression Mr. Uyen didn't really know how to drive this machine, or he drove it like all Vietnamese drive everything-by trial and error, with a lot of horn honking.

I got off the bike. ”Full tank?” I patted the tank.

Mr. Uyen nodded.

”Okay...” I looked at Susan. ”Okay?”

She nodded.

We opened the plastic bag and put on our Montagnard biker costumes: leather jacket for me, quilted jacket for Susan, fur-trimmed leather hats, and Montagnard scarves. Mr. Uyen was amused.

We emptied our backpacks into the big saddlebags and stuffed the collapsed packs on top.

I said to Mr. Uyen, ”You keep suitcase and overnight bag. Okay? Take care of my blue blazers.”

He nodded, then took a map from a zippered leather pouch mounted on the fibergla.s.s fairing and gave it to me. He said, ”Vietnam.”