Saigon at night was communal in a way I had never known, with groups of people eating outside or gathered round improvised tables and the streets still flowing with the incessant flux of life, so to be solitary felt exposed and even vulnerable both physically and emotionally. And yet I didn’t want to return to my apartment where I knew there would be no easy respite and so on impulse I turned and headed in the direction of La Porte Bleue, striding out with a purpose I didn’t feel or understand. I passed ragged ribbons of huckster shops, some with glass cases on tables and their owners sprawled on bamboo furniture behind them; street cafés under striped awnings and above them shadowy people moving on balconies hung with washing; and narrow side streets where the evening heat smouldered undeterred and long rows of parked motorbikes and scooters lazed silently under trees. As I walked along the river the city lights sheened away some of its ugliness and momentarily allowed the possibility of mystery despite the shanty dwellings that laced the bank. But I walked too quickly to linger and, when I strode through the various huddled groups of families eating their evening meals or playing card games, they looked up at me with startled faces. Perhaps just for a second my white face resembled that of a ghost, leaving even the children too confused to follow with outstretched hands. Only a barking dog managed to muster a brief response.

The closer I got to my destination, the more uncertain I was as to my purpose, and when the restaurant eventually came into view I paused for the first time. At that distance the framed yellow square of light betrayed little of what passed inside, while the cigarette ends of those sitting outside hovered languidly in the dusk like fireflies. I was about to go closer when a car pulled up – a Ford Pinto – and Tuyen got out, briefly bowing her head to speak to the driver before she disappeared into the restaurant and the car moved off. There was a tug at my elbow. A young girl about seven or eight years of age was holding her hand out. I remembered the photograph in Donovan’s wallet. The girl tugged my sleeve again and I stuck a dollar in her hand and turned the way I had come, trying to be uncertain of the significance of what I’d seen.

I found Corley sitting on the entrance’s front steps in shorts and listening to Harry Chapin on his transistor radio, one hand flicking at insects, the other trying to angle the aerial to catch the best reception.

‘How was the wedding?’ he asked.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘but thought it would never end. They really go all out. It’ll be your turn next.’

But Corley seemed more subdued than usual and when he didn’t reply I sat down on the steps beside him.

‘She’s not sure about getting married – I’ve kind of vaguely floated the idea. Says she thinks it might be too soon. That she has a career and I need to be settled back home before we go ahead.’