A well known Viet Kieu restaurateur from the San Francisco Bay Area came to town a few weeks ago to visit family. I’ll call him Lemuel. (That should throw off any clue seekers.) Lem and I quickly became drinking buddies. Several times we’ve gone together to a fancy night club frequented by Communist Party bosses, foreign investors, well heeled tourists and the like. Among the regular entertainers is a sister act whose title translates to something like The Two Hot Babes. And Oh, God, are they hot! Especially the one that does a perfect impression of Cher. Lemuel throws his dong (Vietnamese currency) around like confetti. And so when I told him I’d like to meet Cher he stuffed some of his dong into a waiter’s hand and within moments Cher was sitting beside me. Ah, the power of the mighty dong! She looked even more gorgeous up close. She smelled gorgeous, having just worked up a sweat singing “I Hate Myself for Loving You.” She held a hand to the hem of her mini skirt (yes, miniskirt!) lest she inadvertently flash some one. I spoke in my most dulcet tones, with florid words and a quote from the Bard about how much I enjoyed her performance. She looked at me blankly. Lemuel translated. Arrgh! Despite her perfect English singing, she doesn’t speak a word! I tipped her a tenner, and told her, through Lem, that I hoped to hear her sing that song every time I came to the club.

A few nights later Lem and I returned. The Two Hot Babes were scheduled to sing that night, but at that moment a jazz quintet with a lead sax was worrying out a riff on Summertime. We took Lem’s usual table, and the bottle of cognac with his name written on it and the bottle of gin with mine were soon produced. They were both half empty from previous visits. Charming hostesses brought tonic and soda and plates of fruit. A man whose job is to do nothing but walk from table to table with an ice bucket filled our glasses and moved on. Three charming hostesses, whom Lem calls “my future ex wives,” mixed the drinks. The one who could speak English entertained me while the two others fawned over Lemuel. He was in his element. I was just waiting for Cher to appear. The future ex wives moved on to another table. They are required to rotate, lest the cops conclude that naughty goings on are going on in the presence of party bosses. They were quickly replaced by two other future ex wives. Neither spoke English. I patiently waited for Cher to come out and sing I Hate Myself for Loving You.

That was the moment I saw a woman in a booth across the room. She was not conventionally beautiful. She would never appear on a runway. She would never appear in a bikini. She was a bit overweight by modern western standards. Yet she had such poise. And the look on her face was of such rich enjoyment of the goings on that it was infectious. Her hair was bobbed at chin length. She wore a red tunic and a black knee length skirt. She was just deep enough in her cups that her face was flushed and her inner coquette was out and about. I caught her eye.

Lem saw me nodding and smiling to her. I gave him a quizzitive look as if to say, “Is this situation dongable? Can you do the dong thing here?” He made a discreet inquiry. His family is well connected, on both sides of the political divide. A cousin in the room talked to a cousin who talked to a cousin. Lem was summoned, and introduced to the Lady in Red. They chatted a few moments. They exchanged cards. Some kind of serious conversation went on between them and the cousins, with gestures made to others in the room. I was called over. And I was introduced to the Lady in Red, and invited to sit with her. As Lemuel took his leave to return to his future ex wives he whispered in my ear, “Be discreet. She’s an official of the Communist Party.”

Well damn! I really didn’t want this kind of complication. And I'm no Communist! I'm a Capitalist! And more than anything I just wanted to see The Two Hot Babes. I just wanted to drink a little gin, have a good time. And I certainly was in no mood to be discreet! I wasn’t even sure what discreet would mean in the circumstances. Did it mean that I shouldn’t say, “Neener neener neener, we won the Cold War, ha ha ha!”? Did it mean I should praise the struggles of the masses, talk about Marxist-Lenninist dialectic, comment on class war? I had no idea! So I said, “I like that red tunic. It suits you.”

So, okay, I’m not Mr. Smooth. But Miss Commie giggled and shrugged. She had limited (understandable) spoken English, and I less Vietnamese. But we could “write notes in class.” We clinked glasses now and then. That seemed to break the ice. Vietnamese love to clink and drink. A waiter brought over my gin bottle and I poured her a stiff one. She knocked it back pretty quick and dared me to another. And yet another. We played slap the hand and we laughed a lot as we sank deeper into our cups. Eventually I began to hear that buzzing sound in my ears. Maybe you know it, too. All the other sounds in the world recede to some distant horizon and you’re only dimly aware of them. You just hear the buzzing. I’ll be discreet here and just say that Miss Commie and I were being indiscreet. That’s when a battery of colored lights penetrated my senses. The disco ball was spinning, the floor was thumping with a hard base, the very air was vibrating with the high volume. And I became aware that The Two Hot Babes had taken the stage and were singing I Hate Myself for Loving You. Ah, Irony!

Miss Commie and I have exchanged text messages since then. We’ve arranged to meet a couple of times. But she’s broken it off each time. We had been indiscreet. Party bosses were there. It would be one thing if I were to see one of Lem’s future ex wives. Or even a capitalist running dog of a business woman who brings in more tax revenue than a whole regiment of red brigades. It might even be okay if I were a proclaimed American Socialist. But there are no secrets here. Everywhere I go the folks I meet say, “Ah, I’ve heard a lot about you.” Everybody knows I’m a war vet and a Cold Warrior. The people here don’t hold grudges, but many members of the Party do. Party Poopers.

And that's the news from somewhere in Saigon, where many of the babes are hot, everybody likes to clink and drink, and future ex wives are always there for you.