They ventured other questions politely about America and my college courses. They were curious too about simple things such as whether I had a car and other countries I had travelled to. Then, when they saw that I was open to their questions, Corrine tentatively asked me the one with which I would come increasingly familiar until it reached a point, further down the line, when I read it in the eyes of every Vietnamese I encountered.

‘Will you stay?’ she asked before turning her gaze away, as if worried that she had been too forward, and I knew that she wasn’t really referring to me but rather was asking about my nation’s future intentions and, a little flattered by the supposed knowledge the question bestowed on me, I paused before replying.

‘We’re here to fulfil our commitments to the Vietnamese people. We will stand shoulder to shoulder with you for as long as we’re needed,’ I said, pleased by my heartfelt sincerity and probably a little regretful that I couldn’t deliver it with the same gravel-throated gravitas of a Kissinger, hopelessly unaware that my priggish naivety did little to reassure them when every day they read of Congress’s increased resistance to funding increased military aid and the intensity of the opposition to the war sweeping across my homeland.

‘They say top people’s wives and all their belongings are being flown out,’ Danh said, smiling a little to hide his obvious embarrassment.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ I answered truthfully, worried that more such questions would expose the obvious fact that I didn’t know very much about anything but, as a codicil, added, ‘We’re here to the end. Never doubt that.’

How easy it is to lie when you want the lie to be true. They simply nodded in reply and Corrine poured me more green tea for which I expressed my genuine gratitude while wishing it was the swirl of a black coffee. Overhead a large butterfly landed on the top of the awning, its silhouette momentarily deprived of its intense colours. Two other of my male Vietnamese colleagues played a languid game of badminton where the aim seemed to be to hit the shuttlecock as high in the air as possible then dreamily watch its fall to earth. Danh gently raised his finger to the awning where the butterfly was resting and watched it flurry reluctantly into flight.

The days were getting hotter and I had finally abandoned my jacket, replacing it with open-necked short-sleeved white shirts and black pants that I felt might pass muster if anyone decided to inspect me. But it was already evident that no one higher up in my organisation was particularly interested in me. In one of our daily encounters Greenberg had made a perfunctory but polite enquiry as to whether I was settling in and rolled his eyes when I told him where I was billeted. Where he himself lived was a mystery but there were rumours he enjoyed a rather tasteful villa complete with cook, maid and a coterie of cats that appeared to be his favoured out-of-work companions.