It's a Wonderful Wife By John Wood Special to The Washington Post Sunday, December 28, 1997; Page E01

"Yeah, use mosquito repellent, stay on the trails, and tell everybody you're sorry." Good advice, as it turned out, but the best tip of all was buried in a guidebook. It warned me that the Vietnamese tend to ask very personal questions, and that the most innocent queries are usually loaded. For example: "Almost every Vietnamese will ask if you are married and have children."

True. Every single Vietnamese I met, from cyclo drivers to waiters to shop owners to touts to farmers, asked me that question, usually preceded by "Where are you from?" and "How old are you?" It was as if they'd all been issued a Fodor's on Foreigners government manual.

The guidebook cautioned, however, that "telling the Vietnamese you are single or divorced will disturb them greatly. Not having a family is regarded as bad luck, and such people are to be pitied, not envied."

Fortunately, the book's authors had a solution: "If you are young and single, simply say you are `not yet married' and that will be accepted."

But I was 48. "If you are over 30 and unmarried, it's better to lie."

Ethically, I have a problem with lying, especially to foreign hosts. Realistically, I have a bigger problem: I am a pitiful liar. What reasoning could have prompted such advice?

"Divorce is scandalous," the book concluded. "You'd be better off claiming your former spouse died."

To this day, I don't believe I have ever read a more tawdry, coldhearted and insensitive, not to mention brilliant and satisfying, tip in any travel guidebook. Within hours of landing in the country, that advice was put to the test. As I stepped onto a boat in the tiny river village of Vinh Long, the starting point for a two-day tour up the Mekong Delta, Mr. Hai, our guide, approached me and asked, "Where you from?" Washington, D.C., I said. Mr. Hai nodded, saying he'd seen pictures of our capital. Very beautiful.

"You how old?" was his second question, just as the handbook had predicted.

I told him, and he shook his head forcefully, saying I appeared much younger.

"You married?" came the third and most precarious inquiry.

Carefully reciting what I'd memorized before the trip, I explained that I had been married before, but was no longer. Before my words were barely out of my mouth, a light seemed to go out in Mr. Hai's eyes and he replied, more in the form of a conclusion than a question, "Ah . . . divorce." I took a deep breath, put on my most sorrowful expression, and replied that, no . . . she . . . died.

It was as if the entire boat had been given a jolt of electricity. Mr. Hai sat down, stricken, his eyes boring into mine with disbelief. He started ringing his hands and mumbling, "Pity, pity, pity. I sorry for you. So sorry."

Geez, what kind of advice had that been? This poor man was grieving for someone who, if I knew my ex-wife at all, was probably shopping at Nordstrom at that moment. He leaned forward suddenly, and I thought he was having a seizure. "How she die?" he asked softly.

Excuse me? Apparently, the Vietnamese have no expression for "curiosity killed the cat." (Or maybe that's what killed them; I saw only two cats during the two weeks I was in Vietnam. But that's another story.) I hadn't prepared any other answers, so I blurted out "Accident."

Unwise. If my initial news had saddened Mr. Hai, this put him in near hypoxia. He struggled to find words, failed, and his hands covered his face. I tried to look as tormented as I could, which was becoming less and less difficult under the circumstances. He wanted to say something to me. He was determined to get it out. I bent forward to comfort him. At last, he spoke.

"What kind of accident?"

I made a vow at that moment to write a scathing letter when I got home to the author of the guidebook, its editor, its publisher and every member of their families. I told Mr. Hai my wife perished in a car accident, hoping that would end the conversation. Although he nearly perished at the news, the interrogation continued.

"You have children?"

I have a stepson. Rather than muddy the waters with that, I simply said I had a son. I was gratified to see that was just the antidote Mr. Hai needed. He recovered within seconds and asked if I had a picture. Not thinking, I took it out of my wallet and showed it to him.

He took it carefully in both hands and showed it to his boat driver, and they both beamed. Then he asked, "You have picture of wife?"

I stared at him. For at least 20 or 30 minutes. My body and brain had locked up. "No" was all I could say. Which is true, I no longer carry my ex-wife's picture, although she still carries mine. But that's another story.

"You no have picture of wife?" Mr. Hai was aghast. The boat driver's eyes were as big as saucers. They were also looking at me instead of downriver, which had caused our boat to veer sharply toward an oncoming barge of ducks.

"I used to carry her picture," I sputtered in the most woeful tone I could muster. "But after the tragedy, whenever I looked at it . . . I would cry." Mr. Hai bowed his head and clutched my arm. I bowed my head and clutched my stomach; I think I was having a stress attack.

Thankfully, our boat docked at that moment before my little water-puppet drama and my bowels unraveled any further.

During the next two weeks, this dialogue was repeated verbatim with literally dozens of other Vietnamese. I have no idea whether any of them believed my lamentable story, but each and every one reacted the same way Mr. Hai did. Except for one person.

"You did what?"

"I killed you off," I told my ex-wife when I got back.

"Normally, I resist inquiring about your odd behavior. But this time it seems to have become personal. So amuse me. Why did you kill me off?"

"I didn't want to offend the Vietnamese."

"I see. That sounds perfectly logical and makes absolutely no sense. Just like you. You know, on second thought, I don't really want an explanation."

"Good, because I don't think I could."

"How?"

"Excuse me?"

"How did you kill me off?"

"You really don't want to go there. Look, it's the thought that counted. I'll explain it all someday."

"You'll tell me now or I'll pester you until you do."

"Well, the problem is, the story kept changing each time I told it. You know that old party game where each person repeats the same story to the person next to him but they all end up exaggerating?"

"Out with it."

"Okay. An earthquake knocked your car off the freeway, you landed in the middle of a race riot, and you were beaten up by LAPD officers."

"Cool. That's so L.A."

"Uh, there's more. A forest fire forced them to evacuate you from the hospital, a rainstorm put out the fire, but it caused a mudslide, which washed you away."

"So glad you didn't overdo the cliches. I assume I passed away then?"

"Er, no. You managed to drag yourself onto the 18th green of the Bel Air Country Club and called for help. Unfortunately, your disturbance caused one of the golfers to miss a match-winning three-foot putt."

"That's how I died? How anticlimactic."

"O.J. was putting."

John Wood is the articles editor for Modern Maturity magazine.