Colonel Pham cleared his throat, regaining control of the conversation. He absently twirled the long hairs that grew out of the mole on his cheek. Condley knew that such hairs were considered a sign of wisdom, and to twirl them was to invoke strange powers. “Mr. Petain has been very kind to invite us to dinner tonight,” said the colonel, still speaking only Vietnamese. The comment was a request that Condley cease his sarcasm.

Van leaned forward, as if taking his instructions. “And we are happy that you might join us, Mister Condley. So let me propose a toast? To friends.”

They raised their glasses, clinking them together above the center of the table, a merriment that, if not false, was certainly forced and uncertain.

“To friends!” They took turns, saying it in three languages.

Condley studied the faces and the smiles as he touched each glass with his own. The colonel’s sudden cheerfulness seemed in part to be a demand that Condley enjoy himself at the risk of losing face. Francois’s cool eyes belied his smile, filled with denigration for the poorly dressed American. Mrs. Pham held her reserve, still studying everyone, and especially studying Condley. And Van was ravishing and aglow, clearly taken with Condley’s whole casual demeanor.

She touched glasses with him, smiling again. “My father has spoken about you before,” she said in Vietnamese, as if wanting a private moment from Francois. “He says many good things about you. That you know Viet Nam. Some others only want to use Viet Nam.”

“So why do you like him?” Condley was surprised at his own bluntness, even though they were speaking a language that Petain could not understand. From the corner of his eye Condley could tell that Van’s mother had heard the question and was watching them.

“The French are so elegant,” Van said obliquely, mixing the French pronunciation of the word in with her Vietnamese. Petain smiled at her when she used the French word, certain that she was complimenting him. She smiled back at Petain for a quick moment and then spoke to Condley as if using code. “And he likes to buy me nice things. What’s the matter with that? Don’t you like nice things?”

“He seems to be an ass,” said Condley, realizing once he spoke that his comment reeked of unnecessary jealousy.

“You’re very reckless with your feelings,” Van answered coyly, still speaking in Vietnamese. “Or at least with your words, no?” Then she looked over at the three waiters who were now descending on the table and switched to English. “Francois ordered the entire meal.”

“So here it is,” said Petain, as if he had created it himself.