On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon

By Jennifer Hatt

Can love bloom in a war zone?
It is winter 1970 and John Jacob Brandugan is in Vietnam, among the thousands of conscripted men who have left behind everyone and everything they knew for a world of mud, mortar shells, and brutal mortality. With just a few months to the end of his tour, he takes leave in Hong Kong. His week planned for pure escape becomes seven days of discovery when he meets Judy, an escort who seems to know him and the world better than anyone he has ever met. In their week together she reveals to him a rainbow of hope, healing darkness long-buried and introducing him to sights and emotions he never thought possible.
As his leave draws to an end, Jack faces a battle greater than anything he witnessed as a soldier: that between his head and his heart. In the end, he has hours to decide: will he stay with her? Can she come with him? Or are the chasm in cultures and colour of money too sharp to survive?
On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon is a view of the Vietnam conflict behind the battlefield, to the experiences, mindset, and cultural divides that were spanned between soldiers and civilians, but that inflicted wounds within deeper than any weapon.
Jack and Judy’s story is also a tribute to love in all its forms and tenacity: blossoming in places unexpected, but thriving where it is needed the most.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Hatt
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780986757662

Jennifer Hatt

Jennifer Hatt was born in Halifax and raised in Liverpool, NS, earning her first writing award in high school for her short story of a family living in coal mining’s shadow. Eight years later, she and fellow editorial staff were awarded the 1992 Thomson Newspapers Award of Excellence, North America, for their coverage of the Westray Mine Disaster. Since 1992 Jennifer’s articles have appeared in trade and general interest magazines in Canada and overseas; she is also an active participant in Writers in the Schools, introducing youth to opportunities held within the written word. She lives in charmed chaos with her husband, three children, and one cat in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Book preview

By the author of Finding Maria

and Orchids for Billie

On the Scent

of a

Mandarin Moon

Jennifer Hatt

Marechal Media Inc.

New Glasgow, Nova Scotia, Canada

http://FindingMaria.com

Marechal Media Inc.

28 Duff St.,

New Glasgow, Nova Scotia B2H 2H7

Canada

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Marechal Media Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon is a work of fiction. Any details resembling actual experiences or persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication


Hatt, Jennifer, 1967-


On the scent of a Mandarin moon / Jennifer Hatt.


Issued also in print format. 
ISBN 978-0-9867576-4-8


1. Vietnam War, 1961-1975--Fiction.  I. Title.


PS8615.A782O5 2012     C813'.6    C2012-906866-7

On the Scent of a Mandarin Moon

is dedicated

to those with the courage to serve when called,

be it by their country,

by their faith,

or by their hearts.

Chapter 1

Sunday, March 22, 1970

She awakens with one thought: Today is different.

The day begins as any other, with the gutteral peal of a city grinding between dark and light, ancient groanings of traditions trampled by new regimes stuffed with dollar bills beneath a thin veneer of honour. Through the tiny window, cracked open as far as it dares, the fetid breath of old Hong Kong slithers through the dank tenement atop puffs of exhaled moisture and wisps of expired perfume to alight upon her, burning her nose and rasping in her ear in its bid for her attention. At first she knows nothing but the cooling embrace of fresh earth and dew-laden orchards released by the pillow of dreamland from childhood memory to reality. Relentless and patient, the city exerts its ownership of her mind and body until she is fully awake, aware, and accepting of her place, the ridges of her sleeping mat stern beneath her, the shadowed pockmarked ceiling frowning above her. She blinks slowly, sweeping away the last memories of her slumber: a man smiling under the broad brim of his hat, the pungent tinge of mud and oranges. She blinks again, rolling slowly to her side, placing firmly into view the huddled forms of her six apartment mates, their alarm clocks and mama sans on different rhythms that permit, or rather require, that they sleep well toward noon. She stretches gingerly, as if to pluck her character gently from the air and reattach it for the day ahead, the cracks of the floorboards under her sleeping mat giving her cause to arise and meet the day gratefully, if not a bit stiffly.

But the thought remains, invisible yet insistent as the air of aftershave carried home on the skin of the girl sleeping next to her. Today is different.

It clings to her, this thought, a veil as delicate as the kiss of a butterfly yet as sturdy as the mobile dangling from the single hook above her mat. A lone ray of sunlight pushes through the grimy windowpane to excite the small silk wings of the mobile’s butterflies. There are two butterflies in each colour of the rainbow, the fabric of their wings coated in beads the size of dust that capture and amplify the weakened light into brilliant hues that flash and leap across the dank walls and the snoozing sullen forms beneath. The mobile was a gift from her mother; she remembers watching silently as the woman hastily tucked the package into a small satchel before turning her back and resuming her task at the fire. It was the last thing she saw, her mother’s back, before the satchel was thrust in her hands and she was taken to the city. Only later, when she unknotted the fraying twine and unfolded the coarse strip of cloth, was the delicate beauty of her mother’s gift revealed along with a small handwritten note: These are the colours of the Chakras. Learn them well. Share them faithfully. We are as one in their energy. Since their parting, many full moons have shone and vanished, taking with them her childhood and the vibrancy of the butterflies’ tiny wings but leaving untouched the mobile and her promise to do her mother’s bidding. Today, as with each morning she awakens in this room, she touches each silken creature, recites the name of each energy and smiles. Muladhara, crimson wings aged now to deep rose but glittering bravely in the weak daylight. Svadhisthana, glowing as a freshly peeled mandarin. Manipura, mirroring the faint golden hue of sun caressing its wings. Anahata. She pauses here, its green wings reminding her of fields and orchards, the memories for a moment weighing rather than balancing her heart. She closes her eyes and thinks ahead to the next colour, willing her fingertips to follow suit. Visuddha, rich in its blue tint, powerful in the words she knows it holds for her. Ajna, once a rich indigo, now a subtle violet. Sahasrara, white dulled to beige by years of fingerprints and city dust, but still proud. She allows the sensation of silk to linger against her fingertips. Why some colours have faded and others remain bright is a mystery. As is life.

Her ritual done, she glides to the table next to her mat and picks up a sturdy satchel of richly-steeped pink except for spots along the seams worn to pale mauve. The table upon which it sat is a plant stand, a gift from a client who, if memory served, was sweet but naïve. No plant could survive in the dark, stuffy conditions of her room. However, the table held all her essentials for work, which allowed her in her life to survive. Perhaps he was not so naïve after all, she scolds herself, focusing now on the important task before her. She loosens the drawstring on the satchel and allows it to feed, swallowing one by one her facial cream, paint, rouge, lipstick, brushes, clips for her hair, perfume for her skin, embroidered slippers for her feet that glide quietly across hotel carpets and the luxurious rugs of the wealthy. Mama San provides all that is needed but each girl must use her supplies wisely and guard them carefully. Those who run out too soon or appear at work with an item missing will face the hunger of an empty stomach and the ire of her master at the loss of payment. These are busy times, with GIs by the planeload fleeing the horrors of Vietnam for days and weeks of respite with the painted ladies of Hong Kong. And so they should. Among the Hong Kong ladies are Chinese ladies, the best trained and most beautiful companions in the world, so Mama San told them, before snarling at them to stand up straight or hurling a paint pot against the wall over makeup applied unevenly or hair askew from its coiffeur.

Her eyes sweep her tiny corner of the room to rest on a small purse, a turquoise clutch with a butterfly embroidered on the corner. Another gift from a customer, her first assignment, the newly adult son of a diplomat who had gently dined her then swiftly ushered her from child to woman and paid her master handsomely for the honour. Her memory of that time is sparse, the physical act passing with as little thought as a lost baby tooth or clipped lock of hair. The memories that remain are the smile on her master’s face and her pride at pleasing both him and her customer. She traces the faded turquoise sea of the fabric to the butterfly, lingering on its stitched outline only briefly before clicking it open and scanning the contents. The clutch, like its provider, served not sentiment but function, holding the documents that would allow her to work today and every day that follows until her master’s debt is repaid. Her signed papers from the personal physician to all of Mama San’s girls, certifying her to be healthy and free of communicable diseases. The small pink card, the size of business cards passed freely at parties and conferences but with duties unique to its owner. This was her licence to work, private except to those who paid for the privilege of seeing it, holding her identity and future in its creased fibres. Judy Leung. Sakura Bar. She had entered service several years ago, as the first American troops were landing in Vietnam. Judy was a name chosen later by Mama San to please the growing number of American soldiers that trickled, then flowed, from the weariness of conflict to the delights of Hong Kong. A movie star was named Judy, with a last name that spoke of a necklace, or lanterns. No, garland. She frowns as the memory slowly takes shape. Judy Garland. At the invitation of an American banker in search of his childhood she had seen the movie of a strange tribe of creatures seeking a wizard, led by a young girl adorned in a checkered dress and shoes of dragon fire. She remembered a song of rainbows and lemon drops, offered by a voice that seemed so lovely yet so anguished, floating from the heavens while trapped in a cage of agony, all the while wondering why anyone would want drops of lemon, so sour and harsh. And where arose the desire to return to a farm upon which poverty and danger seemed imminent? Only when the song of rainbows drew to a halting close could she see. The girl on the screen adored her rainbow the way she - each morning - honoured the Chakras, disparate colours united in a single hope: to be a part of something destined, to be where she belonged.

Judy shakes her head and again focuses on the papers in her hand. It made little difference where the assigned name originated or who shared it. Despite the name on the pink card Judy was often called Bar Girl. Geisha. China Doll. Or from the less civilized, Whore. Prostitute. Poon Tang. The words have never bothered her. Geisha is Japanese; Poon Tang, Vietnamese. She is Chinese. Those too boorish to know the difference matter not. She traces a fingertip over the card and smiles. These words may identify her to the world but they say not who she is, only who and what she needs to be. Her identity remains hers, and hers alone. She tucks the pink card and sheaf of papers into the clutch and neatly stows it, butterfly and all, into her satchel and pulls the drawstring shut. Its meal done, the satchel sits gorged and motionless as a python under a henhouse - sated for the moment, lying in wait for the future.

Through it all the thought remains free, aloof, above and within her head. Today will be different.

Judy tugs opens the door and braces against the tumbling blast of heat, dust and noxious fumes that billow up the stairwell and around her stiffened form. Once in the city’s fevered embrace, however, she relaxes as if reminded of her place and purpose. It is time to go to work.

She heads down the stairs, treading each step delicately one by one as if on parade, even though there is not a soul around but the wizened woman in the crate by the alley. Judy must pass by the cackling toothless hag every day, cringing from the matted hair and flying spittle and odour that seems to ooze from the very depths of hatred embodied to every creature the wretched crone met. Even the packs of wild dogs, known to rip babies from their mothers’ arms and gnaw the bare legs of the few who dare venture out after dark, gave this hateful witch a wide berth while she flailed as a crazed werewolf under the street lamps, their bluish aura turning her hair to silver and the scar across her cheek a fearful pulsing white. A courtesan she was, the story goes, to a wealthy family in Shanghai, first to the son as a wedding present from his father-in-law. As she aged beyond what her master found befitting, she was passed to the father as a distraction to keep his foggy head and creaky bones from the details of family commerce. There, in their mutual discarding by the world, courtesan and new master discovered the sweetest of unions and committed the gravest of sins: openly sharing a love that transcended social status and legal bindings, a love that embraced every crack, wrinkle and flaw of who they were and would be as if it were the most delicate of buds about to blossom. Enraged by the shame brought upon his family, the son in one swift motion drew the sword from his father’s desk and slashed the bud from the vine, then cast the woman out as his father watched blankly, too cowed and befuddled to raise a word in protest. For good measure, a family delivery truck stopped beside the huddled, bleeding figure, muscular arms hefted her to the rear and she was delivered among crates of fruit and bolts of silk to the streets of Kong Kong. Except there was no money exchanged, no papers to sign, or no merchant waiting to put her on the shelf. There was nothing but concrete alleyways, wild dogs and the dank city air.

Judy had shivered when first told the story by a roommate, and gathered a small blanket and two oranges from her meager possessions to share with the pathetic figure. The woman shrieked as a banshee and whipped the oranges back at her with a force that blackened her eye. Judy’s act of kindness cost her two days’ work until the purple hue and swelling eased enough to allow makeup to render them invisible. From then on, Judy avoided the old woman when possible, closing her ears to the rantings about visits to the moon and butterfly wings, forcing her feet to carry her faster than the old woman’s wrinkled carcass could clump over the broken concrete of the alley. Judy could let nothing interfere with her work lest she end up as this forsaken creature, scarred and insane, with not so much as a lucid memory to honour her existence.

But tonight the old woman is too quick and before Judy can latch the downstairs entrance to the tenement a wrinkled claw has grabbed her arm. Judy frowns and pushes the old woman back, not to hurt her but to set her off-balance enough to loosen her grip. Judy hisses for the old woman to leave her alone and crawl back to her cave. The toothless mouth wrenches open in an enraged howl until their eyes meet and in an instant, both women cease their struggle. The buzz of traffic and stench of the midmorning air are erased until all that is left is a gleam in the old woman’s eye and an unmistakable aroma of mandarin blossoms. The claw relaxes its grip on Judy’s arm and each woman takes a step backward, stunned by messages their senses have unleashed but cannot explain. The toothless mouth widens in what Judy assumes is a grin, having never before seen her happy. Without a word, the crone turns and scuttles back to the depths of the alley, leaving Judy surrounded by an aroma she had not inhaled in waking hours since childhood, orange blossoms from her father’s orchard, before the man came to take her and her sisters away. Judy looks skyward until the rattles and fumes and heat of the day draw her back to the present and the task at hand. Smoothing her hair, she turns her glance ahead and with each step forward pushes the moment from her mind, inch by inch, until all that is behind is forgotten.

The clamour of the city gives way to the bustle of the dressing room, smelling of perfume carried aloft on gossamer wings of cinnamon and berries atop an olfactory salad of hot irons and cold cream, fresh laundry and hair spray. Judy relaxes, body and mind now at peace for the hours, perhaps days ahead. She has been trained for this, the pleasuring of men drained by duty, exhausted by bravery. It matters not if they are from boardroom or battlefield; all of the male persuasion who live to adulthood are doomed to die a prolonged and silent death, their souls piece by piece ingested, chewed and swallowed by ancient traditions subjected to the entitled insistence of those who would dictate what is beauty, what is truth, what is love. More clients these days are clad in the olive green of military duty, but ministering to them has been little different than the scores of business suits, uniforms, robes and regalia that have passed, satisfied, through her boudoir in her years of service. American GIs. General Infantry. Not gastro-intestinal, she was told haughtily by a physician client with whom she mistakenly jumbled the acronyms. With the stress and diets to which these soldiers are subjected, perhaps both definitions were applicable, she had mused wryly as she was lectured on the many differences between the well-bred Chinese and the ragtag foreigners. One unique trait the dear doctor could not hope to observe in his profession but she heard often was in their speech: the green uniforms utter their English between hearty swigs of Coca-Cola, Scotch whiskey or both, as if clinging to the words for as long as possible before releasing them, as a parent pushes a child toward his first day of school. Despite their loud guffaws and arrogant bragging, however, these American GIs were often the most childish of men, a quality that would annoy if emotions were allowed to rule, but is a benefit in the cool restraint of logic. These men-children cherish her, even worship her in both private and public as an exotic goddess of pleasure, unlike the city’s colonial elite who relish her offerings in their darkened rooms yet in the light of day regard her as a piece of bruised fruit, awaiting their choice but unworthy of their consumption.

Judy checks her makeup again, frowning at the strange hint of grey creeping into her cheeks despite her numerous attempts at perfection. She worries not if the awaiting customer selects her; there are airplanes full of soldiers landing every day and if she is not chosen this hour quite likely she will be the next. She eyes her robe of rosy silk hanging quietly on the hook by her mirror. This she would not wear until tonight, only if she was selected and only if he wished it. Her makeup, however, had to be flawless, for the customer and avoidance of Mama San’s rages, but especially for her honour. The mask is a tribute to the courtesans of old, an era rich in heritage but now as faded as a blossom out of season, its lush scent of arts and music overgrown by lust and commercial conquest. The only element retained by the mask from its days of past was the invitation to fantasy for the men who view it, wide-eyed if for the first time, lustful if a patron of frequency. Those men occupied little space in her thoughts. It was the blank stares of the shell-shocked, the forced bravado of the timid boys rattling inside adult bodies that she prayed would pass her by. Their needs are too great, their capacities too small, for them to achieve the satisfaction they crave, and their frustration often erupts outward to consume them both. She reaches for her robe and strokes its silken sleeve, the colour and texture of wild rose petals reminding her of the world she admires but rarely sees. Mama San now outfits her girls in the latest of fashion from the Western world. Kimonos of silk and satin are reduced to mere dressing gowns as pantsuits glow in polyester and gabardine, dragons once mighty in their threads of gold now fading as the wings of her butterflies in the face of global commerce and time itself.

Judy waits in her makeup of white and crimson, hair neatly coiled and bound under her bouffant wig of glossy black, face expressionless atop her suit of navy pants, white blouse, and papaya-hued vest draped stylishly at the knee, watching the door that will open when the screening and haggling are complete. If she is selected, Mama San will give word to the courier who, precisely 10 minutes from when the order is placed, will deliver her robe, satchel and small brown suitcase beneath it to the front desk of her client's hotel, where it will be tucked inside the door of the customer’s room, awaiting her arrival. Discretion will end there. The porters will argue over who can offer room service or gifts to the GI’s room, the loudest or quickest will dash with it to the elevator, knock loudly on the door and stand between patron and goods, hand extended for the generous tip that will quickly dispense with them. Meanwhile, the fantasy takes shape within the room. The companion slips into service - makeup still on but now wrapped in her robe, the purchase becomes a China doll. All that follows is up to he who has paid.

Another check to the mirror, a gentle tucking into place of an errant hair only she can see, and at Mama San’s roar Judy falls into line with the others, equally clad in their synthetics and paint. The deal has been struck. Mama San has tested, wooed and milked the customer of his will to resist and is ready to show him the merchandise. Eight painted ladies turn in place to glide delicately from the dressing room, past the bamboo screen and across the length of the bar to stand, side by side, as dolls on a shelf. Their polyestered limbs glow faintly in the patio lights across the ceiling of the bar and the neon grin of the jukebox.

There are two men seated at Mama San’s booth, side by side across from her, backs to the wall, eyes to the merchandise. Judy casts a glance to the right. She knows this man, not as her client but as Linda's, the girl standing coyly at the end of their lineup nearest the bar, barely containing her excitement. This man has been here many times and always for Linda. After each of his visits Linda spent weeks foolishly dreaming of life in America, until time and duty could work their healing powers and rid all but reality from her mind and lips. He had the sad, dangerous look of a man in love, this man who thought Linda was his butterfly, his soulmate. His return will only strengthen Linda’s wish to prove him right and Judy’s resolve to maintain her distance.

This time, in a change of pattern, he has brought a friend. Judy holds her gaze now straight ahead, at a turquoise lantern hanging from the bar, willing her breath to be so calm as to not appear at all, feeling no draught from the door as it draws open with each new visitor, hearing no noise as the bar fills with lunch-hour workers seeking refuge from thirst and the heat. Even the jukebox, its greenish teeth bared at the thrill of the pending match, draws not so much as a bead of perspiration from her carefully painted brow. She stands as a soldier awaiting inspection while expecting fully well she will not be called upon at this hour. The frequent customer is already beaming in anticipation of another week with Linda. Any friend of his will no doubt want a companion of the same height, size and demeanor as Linda, the shy impishness of a schoolgirl with the sexual abandon of a seasoned woman. Judy never considered herself cute even as a child and prided herself in being an adult woman through and through, a professional who bowed, blinked and now even breathed only when appropriate. As for her sexual abandon, Judy learned very quickly in service to never compare clients and never give away secrets, hers or theirs. She let her list of wealthy and frequent customers speak to her prowess and only to Mama San and her master, the two people in the universe she needs to please. Their pleasure means more work for her, more money, and a faster repayment of her debt. For her freedom in the future, Judy quite willingly stays perfectly calm, aloof and disengaged in the present.

Which