It may be worth noting that the editor was formerly a well-known Southern businessman.  Moreover, he had spent almost forty years of his life engaged in journalism.  He was a link between the generation of pioneer journalists and this younger generation of today.  He had a zeal for the career, and for an already well-to-do Vietnamese it was feasible for him to indulge his passion.  As a rich man, he valued academic diplomas.  Of course, he was sharp enough to recognize a good newspaper article on its own merits, but if, in addition, it had any connection with high academic achievement, this would please him even more.  For example, a Ph.D. degree in medicine would have no bearing on skill in writing battlefield reports, but to him that was a celebrated mark very worthy of attention.  Regarding myself, since my painting career - or my being a “painter”, to use a more flattering term - was not considered equivalent to an academic diploma, my name was appended to my articles lamentably unadorned.

Routinely, each morning, when the paper had been readied for printing, I left the office and walked downstairs to chat with the girl who was the secretary, or went to the entrance of the alley and ordered a cup of thick coffee.  I then sat talking with whoever was around, usually printing shop workers or typesetters.

Peace and quietude filled the remainder of the day.  Moving from the initial step of the dark spiral staircase up to my office, the air seemed to coldly condense.  Black typewriters lay dormant.  Tables and chairs had their proper places relative to each other.  Sometimes, the familiar was tinted with the strangeness that had marked the first few days following my arrival.  Had I been painting still, perhaps I could have portrayed those first impressions.  Away from a canvass, I could not avoid longing thoughts of it.

Stieng women fishing with hand-traps - Photo by Gerald C. Hickey

After a fire had destroyed most of my work, I completely abandoned the easel.  Even so, in a recent exhibition, I had participated by hanging four large paintings: those remaining, which had been scattered among friends.  That my name was included in the exhibition catalog was no cause for objection.  However, of great surprise was the fact that during the initial day of the exhibition my paintings were the first sold - three out of the four displayed.  The one titled “Black Cat on a Pink Carpet” was bought by a woman named Như Nguyện (the name means "full satisfaction"), and the other two by an American who I later learned was the journalist named Davis.

My paintings were among those difficult to appreciate, and therefore hard to sell.  They were highly priced to make up for the small number sold.  Due to this fact, with the sale of three paintings, I earned enough to pay off some big debts and buy another small typewriter and a very good camera.  I felt like a farmer blessed with a rich harvest off-season.  With this windfall, I decided to give up painting and its truly tardy rewards.

Davis and I were in the highlands.  The air was dusty and insufferably hot.

He turned to me, seemingly sensitive to the vexation I had experienced all morning at various agencies, saying, “Triet, I still want to have you collaborate with me.  After all, being with a foreign paper will facilitate your receiving all the required documents and identification papers.”

Because of the contract with my paper’s office, at this point I could not answer him one way or the other.  I looked at him and said jokingly, “Not counting foreign reporters, only those from the government news agency have that privilege.  Surely a MACV press card represents senior status in the profession.  And one can proudly show it off!” NEXT

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