Condley did not really care about the French one way or another, but at bottom he did not like this man. “As I recall, they kicked your asses out of here a couple wars ago.”

The young woman laughed again, clearly delighted with the debate that had erupted without warning or even provocation between the two men. “Francois, I think he is quicker than you.”

The colonel cleared his throat, as if half embarrassed yet again. “My daughter,” he said, still speaking Vietnamese. Then he caught himself, becoming almost apologetic. “Actually my youngest daughter, because I have others. And because she is my youngest she is also spoiled. This is Van.”

Daring finally to stare fully at Van, Condley saw that she had a raw and natural beauty. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. Her face glowed from a reflection of the spotlight on the painting above the table. Her hair was pulled straight back from her face and cascaded freely down to the small of her back. She sat still and erect in her chair, her chin high and her hands held together on her lap. She was wearing a blue ao dai dress with white silk slacks. The dress split from ankle to waist along the sides, and through the gauzy translucent fabric he could see splendid firm long legs and hips outlined by the imprint of white bikini underwear. It caused him to marvel once again that a culture so subdued and modest could adopt such a subtly tantalizing traditional dress.

And she had an impish smile, a signal that beneath the demure exterior was a rebel. Her long face with its bright almond eyes and full smile caused her to radiate mischief.

Her English was accented but easily understood. “You’re very funny, Mr. Condley,” she said.

“Actually I was serious.”

“One should never become too serious in Asia,” tweaked Petain. “There is not enough room for it. It would eat away at your emotions.”

“Okay, so tell me a good joke and let’s all drink another bottle of pinot noir.”

“Oh, you know how to pronounce French wine,” goaded Petain. “Quite a surprise, since the waiter saw your costume and immediately brought you a cheap local beer.”

“Yeah, he knew I wasn’t French the minute I had the courtesy to speak to him in Vietnamese.” Even as he said it Condley was surprised at the depth of his reaction to this man he did not know. Van laughed again, and her throaty chuckle spurred him on. “Sell them perfume and let them eat cake, huh? Didn’t somebody French say that?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Petain dismissively. “You have become too aggressive, over nothing.”

“Testosterone does that.”

“He’s winning, Francois,” teased Van delightedly.

“It is not a contest.” Petain was thoroughly piqued.