Page 47 of Cry Havoc (Tom Reece #1)

The three men each took a glass. A fourth remained on the tray.

“That is for my daughter. She will join us shortly.”

Tom attempted to hide a nervous smile.

“à votre santé!” To your health! Gaston said, holding up his glass.

“à votre santé!” the Americans echoed.

“Well, what do you think, Mr. Smith?” Gaston asked.

“The drink? Perfect way to start the evening.”

“The raspberries were the most difficult to obtain under the present circumstances. They come from Da Lat in the Central Highlands. The City of Eternal Spring. Have you been?”

“I have not,” Tom answered.

“It’s on the shore of a picturesque lake,” Gaston continued. “Maybe after the war.”

“Perhaps,” Tom said.

“Mr. Serrano, I believe you have spent some time there.”

“I have. You know how fond I am of the highlands. It’s exquisite country.”

“When the bullets aren’t flying,” Gaston said.

The door opened and Ella DuBois flowed onto the terrace.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, gentlemen.”

The sun had just hit the horizon, casting an orange glow across the plantation and making Ella’s silk dress even more radiant.

The shimmering, smooth silver fabric covered her shoulders and hugged the curves of her body, cascading almost to the floor.

It appeared weightless, lustrous, as if it were alive.

She wore jade teardrop earrings that matched the green pendant around her neck.

“Bonsoir, my dear,” Gaston said, as he exchanged a light kiss on each of Ella’s cheeks.

“Bonsoir,” she replied, greeting the two Americans with the same traditional la bise.

Tom felt an electric jolt when her cheek touched his. He thought she smelled slightly of lavender.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle DuBois,” Serrano said.

Tom stuttered a bit but managed to articulate a greeting.

She picked up her apéritif, saying merci, to the servant as he stepped away.

“Have we solved the problems plaguing Vietnam yet?” she asked.

“Almost, my dear,” said her father.

“á la tienne,” she said, raising her glass.

“á la tienne,” the three men said in response.

Tom found it hard to avert his eyes but did so as she motioned to the setting sun.

“I love this time of the evening,” she said. “Magical.”

A servant approached with the charcuterie board, and each of them took a piece of cheese, sausage, or olives as they finished their Kir Royales and the sun dipped beneath the horizon.

“We try to celebrate the end of each day together when we can,” Gaston explained. “With the growing business, I am spending more time out here managing the rubber enterprise, while Ella is in Saigon focused on the import/export side of things.”

“Do you commute to Saigon every day?” Tom asked Ella.

“We have holdings in Saigon as well, so I stay near the office for the most part.”

“One day, this plantation will no longer be ours,” Gaston said. “But in a sense, it has never been more than a temporary holding. We are prepared to take our business elsewhere, should it become necessary.”

“Won’t it be hard to leave this?” Serrano asked, gesturing to the view.

“Yes, but life is about change, and business is about adaptability. Ella and I spend a lot of time in Thailand. With the uncertainties that accompany doing business in Vietnam, it is vital that we prepare for a future beyond these borders. Now, what say we retire to the dining room for dinner?”

He led them back downstairs, explaining the history behind certain paintings along the way. Tom did his best to pay attention.

The butler who had met them at the door showed the group into a room with a long, rectangular dining table.

Four heavy curved-backed wood chairs upholstered with leather awaited.

He pulled one out at Ella’s setting. She was seated directly across from Tom.

A collection of various sized candles burned on a tiered stand between them at the table’s center.

Gaston took his position as host at the head, passing his cane to the butler, who placed it against the wall.

Serrano sat at the opposite end. At their feet was an oversized Aubusson flat woven rug.

A sideboard with neatly arranged fine china plates, platters, bowls, and cups was against the wall behind Tom.

A large mirror hung opposite it. Bread had already been placed on the white tablecloth.

Tom noted the absence of butter, remembering that in France bread was an accompaniment to the food and not a starter or appetizer.

Hues of burnt orange radiated through the panes of a window at the far side of the room, the sun’s final warning that darkness would soon be upon them. It caused Ella’s silk dress to glimmer. The light warmed the left side of her face, trapping the other side in shadow.

The butler showed Gaston a bottle of 1966 Maison Leroy Meursault Premier Cru Les Poruzots.

He nodded in approval. The butler opened the bottle and set the cork next to Gaston, who quickly inspected it before nodding again.

The man poured a taste. Gaston held it to the dying light, noting its clarity.

He then brought it to his nose before taking a sip to evaluate its flavor and balance, nodding in satisfaction.

The butler filled the glasses for each guest and then returned to Gaston to finish the pour.

“Please,” Gaston said, holding his glass by its stem and getting to his feet but gesturing that his guests should remain seated.

“If I may propose a toast. To our American friends. I am in your debt. You have given me and my dear daughter the gift of life. It will not be forgotten. May this war soon be behind us, and may we toast again under the most pleasant of skies and circumstances. à la v?tre!”

As was customary, Serrano then stood and raised his glass.

“Monsieur DuBois, Mademoiselle DuBois, we thank you for your support during these trying times. It is an honor to be here with you tonight. Here’s to years of continued friendship, more wine from my organization’s cellar, and to a time we can gather in peace and prosperity. ”

Tom was unsure if he was required to make a toast as well. He looked across the table at Ella for help. She smiled and ever so slightly shook her head, her gaze as intoxicating as any drug.

The meal began with l’entrée of French onion soup.

The soup was followed by sole meunière, pan-fried sole in a lemon-butter-caper sauce topped with fresh herbs and a small side of green beans.

New wineglasses were provided and filled with 1964 William Fevre Les Clos Chablis Grand Cru by four Vietnamese footmen who disappeared behind the closed doors of the kitchen as quickly as they had appeared.

Lemon sorbet to cleanse the pallet was presented as soon as the fish plates were cleared.

The shadows shifted, the sky outside transitioning to indigo, foreshadowing the coming of night.

Le plat principal consisted of canard à l’orange, roast duck with sweet and tangy orange sauce accompanied by a side of steamed carrots. It was paired with the strong red Chateau Latour that Serrano had brought along. Gaston complimented the choice and thanked him for his kindness.

“This particular bottle seems to have escaped the fate to have befallen most Bordeaux that year,” he said.

Simple green salads tossed with a French vinaigrette were delivered next, along with glasses of 1964 Moet & Chandon Grand Vintage Brut for the occasion.

Then came plates with a selection of cheeses. Gaston chose a 1963 Quinta do Noval port to go with them.

“An homage to the Portuguese. They were the first Europeans to arrive in Vietnam in the sixteenth century,” he explained. “I often lunch with the Portuguese ambassador at the Cercle Sportif, which has the side benefit of access to bottles of otherwise difficult to obtain vintage port.”

The finale was dessert: small chocolate profiteroles, a French pastry with sweet cream filling, served with coffee in the smallest coffee cups Tom had ever seen. Two sugar cubes offset the bitter taste.

The meal had taken over three hours.

Ella lit up a long cigarette, so Tom took the opportunity to do the same, the nicotine putting just the right finishing touch to the evening’s meal.

Serrano stirred both his sugar cubes into his small cup.

“Monsieur DuBois,” he said. “I was hoping you might share with us your thoughts on Tet.”

“You know,” Gaston said. “Some used to say the French owned Vietnam because they civilized it. It ended up not working out for the French. Tet gives us a window into the future. America will be next.”

“We hear reports that the NVA lost a generation of fighters,” Serrano said.

“I understand that it was primarily Viet Cong, but the North will just replenish them with NVA. And, yes, they suffered staggering losses, yet you are not any closer to achieving your objectives than you were three years ago when you flooded the country with troops. They hit over one hundred cities and are still fighting in many of them.”

“Do you believe the war is going to become both a conventional battle and an insurgency?”

“Westmoreland wants a conventional war. He told Time magazine that he hoped the communists would try something, because he was looking for a fight. He seems to have gotten his wish. In a speech not long after, he said that the communists were unable to mount a major offensive. He was wrong.”

“Some say that the Viet Cong are about to enter what is called a third phase of the war, transitioning from guerrilla tactics to large-scale conventional engagements.”

“And why would they do that, Mr. Serrano? Why would they suddenly switch to the methods of warfare in which their enemy so obviously excels? Their guerrilla tactics have been successful. Why change a winning strategy? Your generals may hope with all their hearts that they get to fight the NVA and VC in another D-Day, but it is not to be. Not in Vietnam.”

“We are learning tough lessons.”

“Mr. Smith, what did you learn from Tet?”

Tom cleared his throat.