Jim was acutely aware of the fact that he was living in the past. Worse yet, the past was coming closer and closer in his mind. Memories which should be fading were becoming more vivid. This was backwards, aberrant and unnatural. It was a very perverse reverse. Not at all healthy.

"That's it!" he resolved as he stood on his porch. "I'm not going to sit around brooding. There's work to be done around here."

This was an understatement. It was also a rare moment of ambition and domestic pride. Jim was not Mr. Fixit. The fallen shingles gave the roof of his house a pock-marked appearance--the "Noriega" look. The jaundiced once-white walls had not been painted in decades. Holes in the eavestroughing had allowed spring rains to dig holes in the lawn. Yearly thaws had long since destroyed the concrete sidewalk that led to the front of the house. The lawn looked like a dandelion farm. Any distinction between lawn and the surrounding forest was now blurred by the encroachment of saplings and bushes. Termites had reduced his front picket fence to firewood; only the two gateposts remained. The straight one on the left was divoted by dry rot. The curved post on the right had retained more of its protective coat of paint; it still gleamed in the near-noon sun.

Jim's eyes focused on the sign hanging at the other end of the driveway, near the road. Perhaps if he repainted the words "The McGuires" on its face and then applied some varnish...

Paint and varnish. Where had Grandpa kept the paint and varnish? Must be downstairs in the old man's workshop. That had been Grandpa's sanctum sanctorum. Jim hadn't spent much time down there since childhood when he used to watch Grandpa fashion furniture and do leather work.

Jim marched back inside, past the washroom and down the stairs. He went through the laundry room, stepping around the dryer, washer, furnace and freezer. The brown door to the workshop creaked as he opened it. He hit the two switches; one turned on the light, the other an intake fan that sucked the sawdust and dirt outside. Whirrrr! Tic-tic-tic-tic! The fan clattered against its wire frame as it spun. Nothing had ever worked quietly in the room--least of all Grandpa. Above the fan, the electric saws, drills and sanders Jim had always been able to hear his grandfather singing as he toiled.

Jim scanned the workbench for paint and varnish cans. Underneath the router table he spotted some paint cans. Red, blue, yellow, beige. Any black? There! Jim grabbed the container of black paint and inspected it. Perhaps with a lot of stirring he could turn this sludge back into something useful.

Now, how about some varnish? There didn't seem to be any. Maybe in the tool cabinet that hung from the wall above the work bench. Jim opened its opaque plastic doors and began surmising its contents, beginning with the bottom shelf. Drill bits, nails, wrenches and screwdrivers. Middle shelf? Leather stamps, hole punchers, fasteners and glue. Upper shelf?

Light from the bulb in the middle of the room cast shadows over the upper shelf. At first, Jim squinted as he focused. Suddenly, his eyes sprang wide open.

When he was six Jim had moulded a crude clay duck for his grandfather as a birthday gift. Grandpa had thanked him profusely for the gift. Every year for five years Jim had made his grandfather another clay duck. The later versions were progressively more detailed and intricate than the original. Each year the recipient of these gifts accepted them as a treasure. When he was twelve Jim got a weekend job at Bertons' Groceries in town. With a little money in his pocket the boy could afford to buy his grandfather birthday gifts. The procession of clay ducks halted.

In the years since then Jim had assumed that Grandpa had accepted these silly ducks with grace, thanked the child warmly and then disposed of them in due course--probably during spring cleaning.

There, sitting in a line on the top shelf of the old man's tool cabinet, were the five clay ducks. Jim felt each one, as if to confirm its continued existence.

Grandpa was a hard guy to put out of your mind.

The sign restoration project died stillborn. Jim closed the cabinet doors, turned off the fan and light, shut the workshop door and trudged upstairs. What now?

Jim could hear a car along the road. He listened as the automobile stopped by Jim's mailbox. It must be Carla Brandenberg delivering the mail and newspaper. This was the high point of the day at McGuire Manor.

Jim filled up one pail with water and another with dog food. He carried both out to Bernice in the back yard. It was his custom to "kill three birds with one stone": feed and walk Bernice and pick up the newspaper on the way back down the driveway. The dog grabbed a few quick bites before her master called her along for their walk. Bernice would have to wait for her breakfast just as Jim would wait for his newspaper.

Bernice sniffed the air as the two headed up the road towards Horton's farm. What was it, Bernice? Rabbits? Ptarmigan? Another dog? At one point Bernice stopped and growled as she faced upwind into the forest. Jim saw nothing. Bernice's mood improved immediately as she rejoined her master. Ignorant of leash or collar--the McGuires owned neither--Bernice bounded along the side of the road like a puppy. Jim studied this for a moment. How could any creature move from fear to frivolity so quickly? Jim's life had few such ups and downs.

Bernice had not been spayed. Grandpa would never tolerate such a thing. The two men had tried introducing her to some good- looking male St. Bernards. But Bernice would have no part of any arranged marriage.

"Just our luck," Jim had muttered, "a dike dog!"

Grandpa had fixed him with a withering glance. Jim knew better than to use a pejorative such as "dike" around his grandfather. Jim had blushed an apology under his grandfather's glare. A few months later Bernice ran off with a beau of her own choosing--probably that mangy mutt of Horton's--and produced a litter of six. Because the puppies were not purebreds they had to be given away. "Free to a good home", the ad in the Gopher Brook Gazette had said. It took the McGuires three months to find such homes for them.

There was no mail. This was not a great disappointment. After all, who would write him? The bills invariably arrived during the first few days of each month. This was the eighteenth. Sarah never wrote. Jim's income didn't qualify him for many junk mail lists. Oh well, maybe the funnies in the newspaper would spark a chuckle or two. Doonesbury, Shoe, Andy Capp, BC, Tumbleweeds and The Born Loser had always been "must reads" on the McGuire homestead.

Jim didn't get as far as the funny pages. The front page carried a picture of three prisoners of war allegedly being held in Vietnam. He stared intently at the faded photograph until he could be certain that it was not Captain Solem.

Memories of Grandpa's "greatest adventure" forced Jim to take a seat in the wooden lawn chair on the side lawn. Bernice gobbled up her dinner and then curled at his feet, happy to have a few extra moments with her master.

"We're going to Vietnam," Jason had announced one summer morning fourteen years earlier. No discussion. No vote. And precious little money.

"What?" Jim had shrieked. "We're going where?"

"Vietnam. Leaving tomorrow morning."

"Vietnam? I don't suppose you mean some town in Kansas. Like London, Ontario or Moscow, Illinois?"

"Vietnam. The country," pronounced Jason decisively.

"Sorry, no chance. It's one thing hopping in the truck and driving you to Washington, Chicago, Ottawa. But Vietnam? I don't think the truck will make it to Vietnam."

"Our flight leaves from Minneapolis at 10:00 A.M."

Jim knew that arguing would be an exercise in futility. But what the hell, he could use the exercise.

"Why Vietnam? Wouldn't Disneyland make a better holiday? Or the Epcot Center? Jesus! Death Valley makes more sense!"

"We aren't going as tourists," warned the old man.

"And what are we going to do about money? These flights aren't free, you know. I certainly don't have the cash, and you've given away all your money to those..."

Jim stopped himself before saying "silly charities". He recognized that Grandpa could do whatever he wanted to do with his money, but did he have to contribute so damned much of it?

"The trip is already paid for. We'd better leave for Minneapolis now."

Jim never discovered how the trip was financed. The two men packed light. No camera. No traveller's checks. Just a few summer clothes, a light raincoat and a photo album that Jim had never seen before.

On the way to Minneapolis the truck ran out of gas. Why weren't there more gas stations on these interstates? Jim passed the last one without a thought; he still had almost half a tank of gas! Oh, well. No big problem. Jim could see a gas station about a mile up the road. Jim started walking towards it when his grandfather stopped him.

"I'll go, Jim."

No dice. Jim argued that he was younger. The old man could stay in the truck. Jason countered that this trip had been his idea and that he would go for the gas. Eventually the two compromised: they would lock up the truck and go together. Jim would carry the gas back.

Jason positioned himself at the side of the road behind the truck and stuck out his thumb.

"Hitch-hiking? Gramps, the gas station is just over there. We can see it from here."

"We're not going to that one."

"And why the hell not?"

Grandpa didn't explain. A car--the very first car--had stopped to pick them up. The driver was an elderly lady sporting a jaunty wide brimmed blue chapeau with a white hat band.

"I don't usually pick up hikers," she said, surprised by her own largesse, "but I saw that you two were just out of gas."

It was forty miles before they found a second gas station. Neither the lady nor Jim understood Jason's obstinacy. The woman offered to drive them back but Grandpa declined. She had done enough and the McGuires couldn't impose any more on her hospitality. She seemed relieved; driving back would cost her an hour and make her late for her grandaughter's seventh birthday party. The McGuires thanked her profusely as she drove off.

Jason's magic thumb was much less successful on the return trip. Car after car passed them by as they walked along the interstate. Jim whined and complained every step of the way. Having left the gas station at 5:00 P.M. the pair made it back to the truck at 1:00 A.M. Jim poured the gas into the tank, sat in the driver's seat and demanded one last time why the first gas station wouldn't have sufficed. His grandfather said only one word.

"Apartheid."

The McGuires arrived in Minneapolis around 3:00 A.M. The sleaziest motel in the city drew their truck like a magnet. Jim walked into the office, woke up and then harangued the proprietor until he got a room. Jason wanted to "look around" and advised his grandson to get what sleep he could. Jason assured Jim that he wasn't tired and would catch up on his rest on the plane.

At 8:30 A.M. Jason entered the motel room and woke Jim.

"Is it tomorrow already?" asked Jim in a daze.

"Get up! Our flight leaves in an hour and a half!"

"What? You mean it wasn't a nightmare? We're really going to..."

"Vietnam, that's right."

Jim righted himself and began staggering towards the bathroom.

"Hurry up, Jim. No time for a shower."

"What? Twenty-three hours on the road, a night in this shit- pit and no shower? I smell like the basement of an outhouse!"

"Come on, Jim. Vietnam awaits."

"Well, we'd better be approaching her from downwind!"

The service on the airplane was at full arm's length. The stewardess blinked as she first approached the McGuires. Her eyes teared over as she reached across them to serve the old lady occupying the window seat. The old woman seemed to be suffering much worse than the stewardess.

"I'm sorry," apologized the lady. "I wasn't paying attention during the orientation speech. Where did they say the oxygen mask was?"

Kai Tak airport in Hong Kong served as the Asian stopover point. During the two hour wait between flights Jason explained the purpose of their trip. As with most serious conversations between the two men, this one was in LOOP.

"During his last visit Stevens asked me to talk to a woman in Hoboken, New Jersey. A Mrs. Solem. Stevens had told her that I might be able to help her. Why me? I don't know. Her husband had been a pilot in the war. He had been shot down and reported dead but his body had never been found. I talked to Mrs. Solem. She believes that her husband is still alive. She'd heard a few unconfirmed reports of people seeing an American that fits his description. I asked her how she could be so sure that this was her husband. She said that she would feel a great emptiness if he was dead. She didn't feel that void."

"That's it? Some woman doesn't feel a `void' and we're on a plane to Vietnam?" asked Jim.

"This is our kiyata," said the old man.

"Kiyata" doesn't translate into English. It is an intentionally ambiguous root word, like saying "stew" when one does not want to distinguish between "steward" and "stewardess". Grandpa had once defined "kiyata" as "the occupation of one's soul". He had gone on to give an example: if a plumber can smile and say "I am a plumber" then he or she is a plumber. If the plumber cannot smile at this description then he or she is something else. Perhaps a frustrated artist. Maybe a doctor who couldn't afford med school. Maybe just a restless spirit who fixes toilets for a living. But not a plumber.

LOOP nouns have voice: passive (or "polite") and active (or "aggressive"). "Kiyataga", the passive form of kiyata, translates to "destiny". "Kiyatakoi", the active voice, means "duty". Kiyata, then, placed one's identity halfway between one's duty and one's fate.

But what disturbed Jim more was his grandfather's choice of verb tense. LOOP verbs have duration, like "ser" and "estar" in Spanish. Grandpa McGuire had used the permanent rather than the temporary form of "is". He implied that this was, had always been and always would be their kiyata. All of this was too extreme for Jim.

"Who are we to say this is our kiyata?" he asked.

The old one thought for a second.

"None of us would want to outlive our ability to choose our own kiyata."

"I don't remember choosing this as my--", started Jim.

"Perhaps it is our fate to make this choice," suggested the old man. "Perhaps it is our duty. Or perhaps it is just the way we are; perhaps it is our kiyata."

There were no direct flights to Saigon. The itinerary called for flying to Bangkok and then back to Vietnam. Jim settled in for a four hour flight. Halfway through, however, the captain came over the P.A. system.

"In order to check our fuel lines and run some engine tests we will be making an unscheduled stop in Saigon."

Some of the passengers were unsettled by this announcement. This unease grew after the plane landed and a Vietnamese police officer, accompanied by a rifle-toting guard, boarded the plane. The officer carried a passenger manifest and seating plan. He began speaking with the crew. One of the stewardesses understood Vietnamese and was able to help. Officer, guard and stewardess strode down the aisle and stopped by the McGuires' seats.

"Mistah McGuire?" asked the stewardess.

"Yes."

"These men like you follow."

The two McGuire men followed the policemen up the aisle and off the plane. The rest of the passengers stayed aboard and soon continued on to Bangkok.

As Jim followed his grandfather down the ramp, across the landing strip and into the airport. Grandpa turned around, saw Jim with his hands in the air and gestured at him to lower them. This made some sense to Jim. After 12 hours as passengers on an airline that thought "air conditioning" was what Cockneys use after shampooing Jim knew that flashing his armpits like this was no way to make friends.

"We must never be clever enough to surrender," Grandpa explained in LOOP.

The foursome passed Customs without glancing at the officials behind the desk. The long hallway lead them outside and into a four wheel drive truck. The driver gave the two men a perfunctory glance as they climbed into his vehicle. The policemen sat behind the McGuires, whispering to each other in Vietnamese.

Jim felt the moment of his death at hand. If the Vietnamese knew that the McGuires were coming they must also know their purpose. What would these communists do to two interlopers? Would they deport them? This seemed unlikely; it would have been much simpler to tell the McGuires to stay on the plane and not take the flight back to Vietnam.

"With luck they won't torture us before they shoot us," whispered Jim.

"Your belief in luck is most unfortunate," countered Jason. Jim turned to see the expression on his grandfather's face. How could the old man be smiling at a time like this?

"Gramps, they're gonna kill us."

"We must not live like insomniacs, fearing our final sleep," responded Jason flatly.

"But to die alone in this shit-hole..."

"Alone? We've come a long way together to find ourselves alone," said the old man as the truck pulled up in front of a bombed-out office building. Two policemen got out of the vehicle and stood aside as the McGuires climbed out and strode toward the doorway of the edifice. Jim was heartened by the fact that the police officers were not pushing them toward their destination. Perhaps this was a good sign...

"Besides," added Jason, "we're here to help someone."

"Yeah, but we're gonna get killed helping that someone," was Jim's objection.

This response startled the senior McGuire.

"You had a better death in mind?" he wondered aloud.

It had been seven years since Saigon had been captured and officially renamed Ho Chi Minh City. Westerners still indulgently called it "Saigon". The place was unworthy of any such controversy or nostalgia: it looked like a movie set of a bombed out slum. It was now a ghost town populated by more than a million souls. Poverty and fear had finished what war and decay had started. Windows were apertures devoid of glass. Doors fell from hinges. There were no dogs or cats. The excrement on the street was of human origin. The inhabitants stared at the newcomers until the McGuires peered back. Then the denizens would avert their gaze, ashamed of curiosity in a land of such cold certainty.

"Sure doesn't look like Kansas, does it, Toto?" joked Grandpa. Jim's sense of humour had deserted him.

The policemen led Jim and Jason to an office, motioned them in and then stood outside the door. Jim entered first. A studious Vietnamese man sat in an old padded chair, staring blankly out the window. When Jason entered this official swung around in his chair and stood up, motioning Jim to close the door. Grandpa strode up to the wooden desk and offered his hand. The bureaucrat smiled and shook Jason's hand.

"Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Pho Li Thuc. You must be Jason McGuire. I am honoured."

This sounded like a promising start, thought Jim. He liked the way the man had stressed the word "honoured". From experience Jim had learned that bureaucrats, unlike diplomats and politicians, used such emphasis to underline the truth.

"It is I who am honoured," corrected Jason. "We did not expect such a gracious welcome."

"The father of Cory McGuire should expect nothing less!"

What the hell? Cory McGuire? What did Jim's mother have to do with this?

"And who is this?" asked Pho, turning to Jim.

"This," announced Jason, "is my grandson. Jim."

"Ms. McGuire's son?" asked Pho. Jason nodded. Pho leaned across his desk again, this time to shake Jim's hand.

"You must be very proud," guessed Pho.

"Uh...yes, I suppose I must be," stammered Jim.

"My grandson did not know his mother very well," explained Jason. "She died when he was very young."

Their host nodded sadly. He then removed the round wire frame glasses that were cutting into the bridge of his nose and wiped his eyebrows.

"The gods gave us only a taste of her...to whet our appetites," said Pho. Jason exhaled a short, melancholy laugh. Grandpa often laughed at the strangest times! Pho was smiling, too. The two men seemed to be sharing an inside joke.

"I take it you knew my mother?"

Pho stared blankly at Jim, as if the statement had been a total non sequitur. It fell on the elder McGuire to explain.

"My grandson has expressed no interest in such things."

Pho recoiled. He eyed Jim from head to foot. Jim could not tell whether the glance spoke of pity or contempt. Too close to call. But suddenly Pho had a change of heart. The grin returned to his face as an idea struck.

"Oh," he said, ringing his hands gleefully, "this promises to be fun!"

Pho's devilish smile disturbed Jim. Did Pho mean fun as in `ha-ha' or fun as in thumbscrews and cattle prods?

"And now," announced Pho more seriously, "we come to the purpose of your visit to Vietnam."

"We have come in search of a downed American pilot, Captain William Solem," blurted Jason.

Jim had never seen his grandfather tell a lie or avoid a question. This might have been a good place to start, though. Pho's reaction to this candour was, predictably, unpredictable.

"Guard us all from the criminal
And from the wild uncouth--"

Grandpa finished the quotation for him:

"But no one is more dangerous
Than the one who speaks the truth!"

Jim rolled his eyes. Had he travelled three thousand miles just to find someone crazier than Grandpa?

"Oh, my God," he muttered quietly, "there's two of them!"

"We are well aware of the purpose of your trip," preempted Pho with a wave of his hand. "You know our government's position on the subject of Prisoners of War in our country. But our government wishes to establish better relations with western governments. For this reason our Minister of the Interior will afford you complete freedom of movement along with my humble services as your guide."

"And if we'd like to strike out on our own?" Jim was surprised at his own boldness, asking such a question.

"Our Minister of the Interior will afford you complete freedom of movement along with my humble services as your guide," repeated Pho.

"I take it that means `no'," divined Jim in LOOP. Grandpa ignored him.

"Am I correct in assuming," asked Grandpa McGuire, "that you may have influenced the official decision on this matter?"

"I was allowed to give my opinion," allowed Pho, "but my job is to implement policy, not to decide policy."

"Be not at odds
With any gods--"

Now it was Pho's turn to pick up his guest's cue:

"Or any men
Who act like them."

Jim moaned audibly. When would this shtick end?

"Would I be bold in asking where Mr. Solem might be?" inquired Grandpa.

"I am sorry," apologized Pho, "but I am under strict orders from the Ministry not to comment on the whereabouts or existence of U.S. citizens in our country."

All three men recognized that this was a carefully scripted official response. Jason appreciated his host's position.

"I understand," the elder McGuire sympathized. "You cannot tell us whether Mr. Solem is in Vietnam or not. In fact, your hospitality and co-operation exceeds our wildest expectations. For this we are very grateful. In return we would like to give you some assurances. First, while I have been contacted by U.S. government officials--"

Jim raised his eyebrows at this revelation. Pho noticed this surprised reaction.

"--We are acting on behalf of Mrs. Solem and Mrs. Solem alone. We will be reporting our findings to her and to no one else."

Pho looked at his guests before announcing a final decision.

"Let me speak frankly. If I thought that for a moment you had been sent here to embarrass our government--as many others have--I would take steps to ensure that your efforts were thwarted."

Jim knew how that drill worked. He had seen "seek not" in operation back home.

"But I will take no such steps. I trust you. Perhaps I am being naive. If so, I can only admire the judgement of the U.S. government. They will have chosen the only individual that could gain this trust."

"Mr. Thuc, in the language of my family's ancestors there is no word for `naive'", Grandpa explicated. "The word blames victims of deceit and discourages the very trust that we require to get along."

Jim wondered if this was a good time to give Pho lessons on LOOP grammar and syntax.

Again Pho thought for a while. His eyes stared blankly upwards and to his left. And, again, he smiled. Without uttering another word he took a map of the country from a small stack on his desk. He placed it on the work mat in front of him. Leaning forward, Pho grabbed a blue-coloured pencil in his left hand. He drew a circle around a small village near the city of Vinh, just north of the Perfume River. Then he coloured in the remainder of his country.

"I am under strict orders not to disclose where Mr. Solem might be," Pho explained in a whisper. "But that does not prohibit me from telling you where he is not."

With this, he thrust the map in front of Jason, assuring him that Mr. Solem would not be found in any of the shaded areas.

"Thank you for the help you couldn't render," quipped Grandpa McGuire.

After his guests had time to study the map Pho reclaimed it, tore it into pieces, placed it into his ash try and reached for a package of matches. He tried and failed three times to light one.

"Damned Vietnamese matches!" cursed Pho.

"Here," Jim offered some matches he'd picked up in the Minneapolis airport, "try these."

"Yes, thank you," accepted Pho. "These have always worked in my country."

Pho lit the match and set fire to the map. As it burst into flame he tossed it into the empty garbage can beside his desk. When the flame subsided Pho strode past Jim and opened the door.

"Captain Duong will accompany us on our search," he explained. The police captain stepped into the doorway, nodded a greeting to the McGuires and then sniffed the air in the room. He peered into the waste basket, saw the burnt paper and glared suspiciously at Pho. No words were exchanged.

Jim grabbed a map of the country from Pho's desktop. Jason, Pho and Jim then filed past Duong out into the hallway, down the stairs and out of the building. Duong followed and motioned the guard away from the truck. Duong would do the driving.

"We'd like to start our search in a small town near Vinh," announced Jason. "The sightings seem to center around there."

Duong looked at Pho, who translated this direction into Vietnamese. Duong glared suspiciously at his passengers and then headed north.

The suburbs of Saigon stretched on for miles. Reconstruction efforts were much more successful here where the scale was smaller and the task more immediate. Fixing one's home seemed easier than rebuilding office complexes and markets. Outside the city were the farms: black soil and crude irrigation mixed into mud for miles and miles. Each plot was defined by borders of shrubs. On each plot was a farm family whose world undoubtedly ended at these shrubs. After passing hundreds of these Jim began to notice a recurring theme. There were old men, children and women. Where were the younger men? A whole generation of them were missing. Also missing were arms and legs on many of these survivors. Old men and women hobbled on crutches in irrigation ditches, coaxing water bison across the quagmire.

The "road" north was a glorified cowpath--"glorified" in the sense that no self-respecting cow would be caught dead on it. Starting as mudbath, the road deteriorated rapidly. The first half of the trip was spent pushing the truck out of one mud-hole after another. Pho remained in good spirits, telling the McGuires that they were fortunate not to be making this trip during the rainy season. The instant he finished these words the vehicle got bogged down for the umpteenth time in a slew.

"Why don't we just carry this damned truck there?" whined Jim.

After Qui Nhon the truck began ascending the mountains leading to the central highlands. The path narrowed. Steep cliffs edged the road, leading down to a strip of forest and then the shore of the Pacific Ocean.

"This is Hon Vong Phu," announced Pho, pointing at a mountain. Where? There was no city, no town. Was he referring to the mountain? Jim looked quizzical.

"You see that rock formation there?" explained Pho. "The one that looks like a woman, holding a baby, staring out to sea?"

Yeah, if one used a little imagination. After all, some people see hunters and bears in the sky...

"There is a local legend," continued Pho, "of a family split by war and poverty. One of the daughters marries and gives birth to a child. When her husband finds out that she is his sister he goes off to war, never to return. The woman stands waiting with her child for so long that they are turned into stone. Hon Vong Phu, the rock that searches for the husband."

Just before reaching Da-Nang Jim looked to his left and saw some of the vestiges of recent history. Sandbags, rusted cannon shells and "Yankee Go Home" graffitti on the rocks. A tank turret poked out of the ground, taking careful aim at the sun as it spread heat and light across the mountainside. On his right Jim looked out over a shimmering aquamarine ocean. Picturesque wooden fishing boats dotted the horizon. It was one of those scenes you saw at amateur art exhibits on sidewalks and in shopping malls. For one fleeting moment Jim was glad he had made this trip. And for this one instant--a blink of an eye in a forty year lifetime--he was happy to be a McGuire.

Da-Nang was a huge port city. Still the tour guide, Pho explained that this was the site of the first U.S. marine landing. The shore was spoiled by huge old rusted landing craft abandoned there.

Soon the men reached the central highlands. Terrain here was much dryer. But the trail was cratered from war, overuse and undermaintenance. Duong apparently saw this section as an opportunity to make up for lost time. At fifty miles per hour the truck shuddered and bounced with each pot-hole.

"I think I just caught epilepsy," complained Jim. "Perhaps we could slow down?" Pho didn't bother to translate. It didn't seem likely that Duong would have been sympathetic.

"Too late we'll learn how early we are," said Pho cryptically. Grandpa chuckled. Clearly the two of them were enjoying this ongoing inside joke.

"I'm glad to see that at least you two are enjoying yourselves," said Jim. For a moment, at least, he felt some sympathy for Duong. From all appearance, the officer was as miserable as he was.

"Humour is the language of the gods, Jim," replied Pho--to Jason's heightened amusement. These gods left Pho an hour later.

"Is something wrong?" asked Grandpa.

The group had just turned a corner and was now driving along the crest of a high sierra. Pho pointed to a small collection of huts in a valley about a mile off the road.

"This was where I grew up," he explained. Jim thought it odd that Pho did not call it "home".

"Does your family still live there?" asked Jim. Pho looked at him blankly.

"Perhaps we could stop?" asked the elder McGuire. "We could all use a rest..."

Pho managed to convince Duong to detour and stop in the village. Duong seemed more than a little disgusted by this sentimentality and frailty. Upon disembarking Duong began barking orders to a woman as she stood outside her hut. The woman scurried into the structure and started cooking some rice. While the McGuires stretched their legs Pho studied his surroundings.

"Much has changed here," he said.

"Do you know any of these people? Relatives, maybe?" asked Jim. Pho shook his head.

"Much has changed here," he repeated.

Pho trudged off toward one of the fields but stopped halfway. Jim peered over his shoulder at Duong haranguing the locals. Jim decided that Pho would make better company. He caught up to the bureaucrat, finding him staring blankly at the ground. Jim scanned the area for something that might catch one's eye. There didn't seem to be anything of interest here: a few rocks, some excrement, long grass and dirt.

"Almost fifteen years ago now. My brother was a medical student. When the elections were cancelled he organized a protest. The police followed him here. I was over there, working."

Pho pointed to the far end of a rice paddy. He stood pensive for a minute, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small yellow book. Flip, flip. There, this was the right page. Pho read a passage aloud.

"Let us all gather the finest among us
The ones who still think that their dreams will come true
Build a great bonfire and cast them upon it
For only the finest of kindling will do."

Jim couldn't understand how such a poem might be considered appropriate under these circumstances.

"Jesus," he thought to himself, "I hope this guy ain't around to deliver my eulogy!"

Grandpa called the others to dinner. Upon entering the hut Duong sat on a bedding mattress while the others squatted on the mud floor. There was no table. Indeed, there was no furniture. A few pots, bowls and utensils ranging around a stone fireplace were the woman's only visible possessions. Duong devoured his rice with much more enthusiasm than the others. He poured on liberal quantities of fish sauce--"nuoc mam", Pho called it. Their hostess served her guests a crude wine in small cups. Everything in the room smelled of fish. Jim sipped this concoction only once. He wondered how Duong could gulp down this rotgut with such alacrity. He concluded that Duong must have been born without taste or taste buds.

What Jim wouldn't have given for a pizza and cold beer!

Supper finished, Duong strode outside and into the truck. Grandpa asked Pho if there were some way that they could repay the lady's kindness.

"Of course," complied Pho, offering their hostess some money. The woman stared at the men before declining. It seemed that their leaving would be repayment enough. Pho was insistent, pressing two bills into the old woman's hands while thanking her humbly and profusely. But the woman was equally insistent, returning the money with a polite explanation.

"What is she saying?" asked Jim.

Pho translated. The lady was explaining that she was not a businesswoman. This was her home, not a restaurant. There were plenty of restaurant huts along the way. Why had they not stopped at one of them? Pho tried speaking to the woman one more time. To Jim's surprise the woman accepted the money.

Back in the truck Jim inquired of Pho what had changed their hostess' mind.

"I asked her to take the money as a gift, rather than as payment. I told her that it was a matter of pride with us. I told her that there was charity in accepting it."

Jim turned to see his grandfather's reaction. Would that insufferable copraphaegic grin ever leave the old man's face?

Night fell like a palm leaf, with soft tropical winds blowing darkness across the landscape. Duong turned off the main road into a military base fifty miles south of the 17th. As they drove through the compound the McGuires sensed tension among the soldiers there. International opinion had condemned Vietnam's recent invasion of Cambodia and there had been border clashes with China only days earlier. Although far from either border the base was on full alert. There would be no shortage of empty bunks for the four travellers.

Jim and Jason ignored the spartan decor of their cabin as they collapsed on the two beds nearest the door. Pho closed the mosquito netting around the McGuires' bunks before retiring. Having been awake since they left Gopher Brook, Grandpa fell asleep before landing on the bed. Jim was not as fortunate. The sight of cockroaches, the buzzing of flies and the sound of rodents chewing the foundations of the hut kept him on guard all night.

Breakfast was at 5:30 A.M. Jim scuffled like a condemned man towards the shack where the men gathered for the morning meal.

"Now I know why they call this the mess hall," said Jim, denigrating his surroundings. Rotted food caked the floors. Crude handwriting defaced the walls. The benches were sticky. Insects crawled across the tables, finishing what rations had been left behind. Surprisingly, the victuals were not entirely unpalatable. Jim eschewed the fish dish in favour of beef rice soup and cole slaw.

"What is this stuff?" asked Jim, gesturing at the fish dish.

"Mam Nem," replied Pho. "Fish, cured and then cooked in hot spices."

"Jesus," muttered Jim as he turned up his nose at the dish, "if these are cured I'd hate to have seen 'em with they were sick. Anyway, what do you call this cole slaw stuff?" Jim wondered.

"Goi ca."

Jim turned his attention to the soup.

"And what's this?" he queried.

"Pho."

"Alright, what's this, Pho?" Jim repeated, careful to add the man's name to the question.

"Exactly."

It was a who's-on-first scenario. Four attempts later the bureaucrat was able to make it clear that both he and the beef rice soup were called "Pho".

Jim surprised himself, joining his grandfather for seconds. But was he brave enough to try the Mam Nem? Hmm. Jim had not had a bath or shower in three days. The tropical sun had ripened his body odour to the point where flies avoided him. Had he taken a bath in the Perfume River they would have had to rename it.

"No," he said to himself, deciding against the Mam Nem, "I'm not gonna eat anything that smells even worse than I do."

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