Huynh TanHung
JASMINEIN GUNSMOKE
Ashort story about Rajesh Patel in Saigon 1974, atale of loneliness, desire, andloyalty in acity on the brink of change.
JASMINE IN GUNSMOKE
Ashortstory aboutRajesh PatelinSaigon, 1974 –a tale of loneliness,desire, and loyaltyina city on the brink ofchange.
Written by HuynhTan Hung,April 2025.50years afterthe war'send
Part I: Incenseand RedLanterns
Saigon, April 1973
Saigon layheavy with heatand gasoline fumesashestepped throughthe mother-of-pearl entrance.The chaosofthe street wasmuffled by thickvelvetcurtains, andbeyondthemwaited a differentwar –quieter,seductive.
Theroomsmelled of incense, jasmine,and somethingelse somethingthatcouldn'tbenamed, onlyfelt.
She satinthe half-shadow, on alow divandrapedingoldenbrocade.The lightfromred lanterns dancedacrossher bare shoulders, glittering on thesweat beadsrunning down herneck. Her eyes –darkascoffee andjustasbitter– methis witha calmonlysomeone used to men’sgazes couldpossess
“Mr. Soldier,” shewhispered,her voicecarrying allthe wearinessofthe warand allthe promises of thenight.
He satbeside her,his handstrembling slightly –not from fear,not anymore– butfrom somethingolder,somethinghe thought he hadleftinthe jungle:desire.
Her fingerswanderedacrosshis chest, slowly,almostscientifically, as if sheweremapping the scarsonhis skin andthe stories they carried.
Their bodies metina dancewithoutwords,where each movement wasbothescape and surrender, amoment'speace in alandwherenothing wassacredanymore –exceptthis.
He felt herbreath againsthis collarbone,softand rhythmic,likethe wavesagainst the shorein Da Nang.In theroom, there wasonlythe slow creakofthe fan,the muffled humfromthe courtyard, andtheir breathsweavingtogetherintoa newkindofmusic –low,swaying,almost sacred
She leanedforward,lettingher black hair sweepoverhis chestlikea waterfall—cool andheavy. Her lips movedalong hisneck, not hungrily,but as if eachkisswerea promiseofforgetting. Her handsopenedhim gently,layer by layer, like an incensebox from themarket—eachshirt button anew breath.
“You don’tneed to speak,”she whispered.“They allsay the same things anyway.”
He answered her withhands,withlips.Let hisfingertipstrace thesilkenlinefromher neck to the small of her back,whereher kimono hadslipped aside. Her skin waswarm, alive, like the promiseofsomething he no longerdared believein.
They sank into pillows andlinen sheets that smelledofcedar andsweet tobacco.Outside,distant artilleryrumbled,but in here therewas only her body,her rhythm,her world.
He lost himself in it lether lead,let her sound, lether take—until they were both slickwith sweat, their muffled moansmingling with thethickhazeofincense.
When allwas still again,helay withhis head on her chest, listeningtothe beat of herheart. She strokedhis hair as if he were achild being lulled to sleep.
“What’syourname?” he whispered,despite her words.
She smiled faintlyand kissedhis forehead.
“Tonight,I’m whatever youneedmetobe.”
Her body waswarmand heavy againsthis,asifshe rested with herwholesoul. No masks, no lies—onlybreathand skin.He traced hisfingertips along herback, followingthe soft curveofher spine down to herhip,where her kimono laytiedlikea forgottenpromise.The fabricwhispered at histouch thin, almostweightless—butbetweenthem,there wasnocloth left to hidedesire.
She movedslowly, drawingher thighsagainst his—a gesturemorequestionthan command.He respondedwith hands, with caressesthat no longer fumbledbut searched—recognized.There wasa rhythm between them now,anunderstanding born only whentwo people lettheir guards down at exactlythe same moment
She turned over him, slow as aflame, andstraddled him,eyeslockedwithhis.Noperformance, no pretense.Justcloseness.She took his handsand guided themtoher breasts—lethim feel their weight, their warmth,their life.
“Holdmelikethis,”she said,barelyaudible,asshe lether hips lowerontohim in amotionso slow it felt outsideoftime.
They melted together there, in adance whereevery movement waslikewaves againsta shore they both thought waslost. He no longer knew where he endedand shebegan.Her name remained amystery,but herbodyspoke alanguageheinstinctivelyunderstood—alanguage withoutsyllables,onlysensation,onlyfleshand closeness
She leaneddown, lettingher hair form atentaroundtheir faces, theworld vanishingintoher scent.Jasmine,sweat, anda trace of French perfume.She kissedhim deeply,withtongue,with her wholemouth, as if trying to drinkhim in. Andhelet her.
Their movementsgrewfaster, deeper,the sounds fuller. Theold bedframe creakedinprotest,but neither of themheardit. When climax came,itwas like astorm—silentatfirst, then with an innerroar, arelease that made himholdtighter, breathe deeper,tremble
They stayed like that, still ineach other'sgrasp,wrappedinwarmthand darkness.
“I haven’tfeltthatina long time,”hesaidquietly.
She smiled,kissedhim beneaththe ear andmurmured, “Thisisall we do here.”
It hadgonequiet outside—as if thewholecitywas holding itsbreath. Onlythe fan’swhisper and their breathing filled theroom.She layonher side,backto him, andhesaw how. thesweat had made thesheet sticktoher skin.Slowly, he ranhis hand down herback, alongthe smoothcurve, until her breathing grew heavier
“Again?” shewhispered, as if shealready knew theanswer.
He leanedin, kissedher shoulder, lethis tongue trailalong herspine.She stretchedout like acat, exposing herselftohim without aword. He gently turned herontoher back,spreadher thighs, and loweredhis mouthtoher.This time, it wasn’t tender.Itwasn’tcareful—itwas hungry. As if he wanted to devour her whole.
She clutched the sheets,let her head fallback. Her moansweremuffled butunmistakable, a rhythm that builtwithevery stroke of his tongue,every suck,every deeper pull. Herfingers tangled in hishair, pulling him closer,asifshe neverwanted it to end.
When shecame, it wassilent buther wholebodyspoke what her voicedid not.Tremors, shudders,atautarchofher back that slowly melted again.
He crawledupbehind her, laid ahandonher hip. Sheturnedher head slightly, looked at him over her shoulder with asmile that wasbothinvitingand challenging.Thenshe leanedforward, gotonall fours, hipsraisedlikeaninvitation.
“Dowhatever youwant now,”she whispered.“Iwon’t sayno. ”
He took histime—caressing,teasing,preparing. Shesighedasheentered herfrombehind, slowly,deliberately, andthere wasnomomentofhesitation betweenthem. Hernailstoreintothe sheets, hishands gripped her hips like he washolding on to somethingthatcould be lost at any moment.Every thrust wasa signal,a statement, aproof thattheywerestill alive—in the middle of awar,inthe middle of loss,thismomentofpure, rawintimacy existed
When he came, it waswithaquiet moan, buried deep in herneck, andtheycollapsed together into aheap of heat, sweat, and skin.
Afterward, they layinsilence,entangled in each other’sbodies.The sweat slowly cooledontheir skin,and thefan continuedits eternal lament.She layonher stomach, onearm underthe pillow, the other restingonhis chest, as if tryingtokeephim there—in theroom, in themoment, in her
Butsomethinghad alreadybegun to slip away
He felt it in hischest first—thatfamiliar emptinessthat always came afterward. Like adeep breath that neverquite filledthe lungs. She didn’t move,but he knew shesensedthe shift.They always did.
“That wasnice,”she said softly.Not to comfort, nottoflatter—just to sayit. As if sheneededto hear it herself.
He gotupslowly, pulled on his trousers.Lookeddownather where shelay,naked in the tangle of sheets andsteamingskin. Shesuddenlydidn’tseemsomysterious anymore—justtired
Justa woman.
He reached forhis wallet.Moved toward thetable whereher perfumebottlestood,a lone cigarette resting in acrystal glass. He calculated theamountquickly—not toomuch, nottoo little.Placed the billsbeneath thecigarette,asifthatsomehow refined theact itself.
“Itwasn’tsupposedtofeellikethis,”hesaidquietly.
She satup, pulleda kimono over her shoulders, andlit the cigarettewitha matchbook bearing the logo of the classicHotel Continental.She exhaled thesmoke slowly,without meetinghis gaze
“None of us controls that,”she replied.
He wasn’t sure if it wascomfort or accusation.
As he walked toward thedoor, somethingheldhim at thethreshold—aweightinhis chestthat wouldn’t letgo. He wanted to turn around,tosay somethingmore, somethingreal.But thewords didn’t come.Justa nod, almost apologetic.
She wasalreadybackonthe divan, as if nothinghad happened.The redlanterns flickered across her face, buther gaze wassomewhere else.
When thedoorclicked shut behindhim,itwas as if theworld lost itscolor.The warrumbled on outside, but it wassomething elsegnawing at him now. Something he couldn’t blameonbombs, or death, or hunger.
Maybe it wasjusthimself
Thedoorclosedwitha soft click, andthen—onlysilence.Nokey turning,nochain slidinginto place. Justa door that closed,and with it—another moment lost to time.
She remained on the divan, thecigarette glowing slowly betweenher fingers.The smokecurled upward toward the ceiling,dancing in the redglowofthe lanterns,asiftrying to whisper away somethingshe didn’t dare remember
Thebills layuntouched on thetable.She glancedatthemwithout reaching.Not yet. Therewas a line between abodyand coin, anditwas toosoontocross it
She took adeepdrag, held thesmoke in her lungsuntil it burned.Not becauseitcalmedher butbecauseitwas something to feel. Somethingreal.
Thereweresofew things like that left
AShort story about Rajesh Patel in Saigon 1974, atale of
WrittenbyHuynh TanHung, April 2025. 50 years
after the
It is apersonal and honest story,born from my own life experience.I was adopted from Vietnamduring the war in 1975,inconnection with Operation Babylift, an American rescue mission during which over 3,000 children were flown out of the country.I was on the first plane that arrivedinSan Francisco onApril 5, 1975, received by President Gerald Ford. Iwas namedBjorn (after Björn Borg the Swedish tennisplayer) as the only thing known at thetime was that Iwas headed to Igrew up there without placing much focus on my origins. But after my divorce in my 40s, aneed to understand my past was awakened. Itook aDNA test and traveled back to Vietnam. Thetest revealed that Iamhalf Vietnamese and half Indian. Through DNA matches, Ihaveconnected with relatives of my biological motherwho now liveinthe USA, second cousins and
My short story is away to reach out to them,towrite myself back into something Inevertruly gottobea part of.Tofind threads to my origins, to process and create meaning. It is a form of therapy, butalso astory Ibelieve can touch more
Thank youfor taking the time to read it. Ilook forward to hearingyour thoughtsand hope that my story can find itsway loneliness, desire, and loyalty in acity on the brink ofchange. war's end. Sweden. cousins butnodirect information about my biological parents. people than justmyself.
to awider audience. Warm regards,
HuynhTan Hung